#and a twist that feels like it was manufactured in a lab for me specifically

[glittergoats]

Schrodinger's Cat is dead to the world.

[braincoins]

“Of course you brought Chinese,” Matt chuckled as he held the door open.

“Someone has to look after you two,” Shiro told him as he walked in.

“We eat! Hell, Katie still lives at home most of the time; she gets Mom’s home cooking.”

“DO NOT CALL ME KATIE, MATTHEW!” 

Shiro laughed at that. “Hi, Pidge!” he called. And before he knew it, she was wrapped around him, hugging him hello.

“Thank you for bringing us food! My brother has been starving me!” she wailed.

“We had pizza last night!” Matt cried out in self-defense. “And cereal this morning, and we walked over to Gino’s for lunch...”

“Starving,” Pidge maintained. Shiro let her grab the bag of Chinese food and make off with it.

“She’s a growing girl,” he reminded Matt. “So, I know we should probably eat first, but...”

“Impatient?” Matt chortled to himself. “Don’t worry about it; you don’t have to be polite with us. Come on in.”

Matt’s living room had the standard equipment: sofa, TV, game consoles, stereo. But it also had two desks pushed together, with back-to-back multi-monitor computer setups. One of the desks also had a laptop on it, which seemed unnecessary to Shiro, but he wasn’t going to press Matt on his methods.

The Holts were two of the best white hat hackers he’d ever known (not that he’d known many), and that they were fun and friendly was a bonus. 

“Haven’t seen you on much lately,” Matt said.

“Been busy,” he replied. 

“Busier than usual. Can I convince you to show up tonight? We could really use you.”

“Sorry, can’t.”

“Damn. Well, I’ll tell the guys I tried.”

“Say hi for me and give them my apologies, will you?” He pulled a chair up to Matt’s station.

“Sure.” Matt sat down as Pidge handed him the carton of General Tso’s. “Thanks, sis.”

“So, I’ve been working on the Galra stuff and Matt was looking up those people in the photos you sent last night,” she said. 

“Yeah, let’s start with my end,” he said. “Entrepreneurs, businesspeople, CEOs. Some old money in there. But no one that’s involved in anything shady, unless you count Maria Villanova’s kickbacks to the hospital to promote their prosthetic. And that’s a pretty new thing, done specifically to counter Galra’s new up-and-coming prosthetic lines.”

“Yeah, I... may have heard about those.” Shiro pulled his sleeve up to show them.

“Oh wow, is that a GalraTech model?” Pidge asked. When he nodded, her eyes lit up. “Take it off, I want to see how it...”

“I can’t,” he told her, pulling his sleeve back down. “It doesn’t detach.”

“Weird,” Matt said. “How does it feel?”

“Weird,” Shiro confirmed. “But... good. Much better than the one I got from the hospital.”

“Huh. So maybe those kickbacks are pretty necessary,” he replied.

“My turn! I have all the cool stuff,” Pidge declared. She was only 15 but she’d already graduated high school. She was technically enrolled in online classes at State, but she’d been taking online courses from colleges all over the country for the last year or so. She split her time between her parents’ home and her brother’s apartment, supposedly so that she could have easier access to the downtown campus when she needed it. In reality, the only reason she wasn’t living with Matt full time was that he had a romantic life he wanted to indulge every now and then. 

Thinking about that just made Shiro realize how long it had been. Adam had broken up with him... a year ago? Year and a half? Had it really been that long since he’d been held, been kissed, been loved? And it made him ache all over again at the feeling of Allura’s betrayal that really wasn’t a betrayal because they weren’t anything but co-workers and crime-fighting partners, but dammit, it had hurt like a betrayal. The main reason I never asked you out was because you were my boss, but you go out with your boss like it’s not a big deal? And that that boss was LOTOR of all people, and...

He shoved all that aside. “What’ve you got for me, Pidge?”

She grinned her crooked grin - a Holt trademark - at him. “Galra got all big and important because of some new energy source they claim to have.”

That got his attention. “Just as clean as solar but 10x as powerful?” 

She nodded. “The very same. They’ve been peddling it to every manufacturer in every industry, doling out sample machines that just seem to run smoothly and cleanly forever. And ever since the, uh... accident,” her eyes jumped to his arm briefly, “they’ve even been talking with the DoD.”

“Department of Defense?”

She nodded. “Not just as an energy source for weapons systems but as a potential weapon itself.”

His stomach churned. “You’re telling me that this energy source - quintessence, I believe Dr. King called it - vaporized Zarkon’s wife and his response is to whip around and try to sell it off to the Pentagon?”

“Oh, it’s weirder than that,” Matt put in. “There hasn’t been a published obituary for Dr. King. Granted there’s no body to bury, but there hasn’t been a wake, a memorial, nothing.”

“He doesn’t even care that she’s dead?”

“Or he doesn’t think she is,” Pidge put in. “He hasn’t spoken much since the accident, but when he does, he refers to his wife in the present tense.”

Shiro shook his head. “She’s gone. She’s gone, gone like my arm is gone. There’s no way... She was standing right by the machine when it blew.”

“Pidge, tell him the good part,” Matt put in before popping some chicken into his mouth.

“A few months before the accident, Galra was doing some construction. They wanted a lab on the city outskirts, for testing slightly more dangerous stuff, I’d bet. I found some chatter - just rumor, mind you - that they found something when they were digging up the land they’d bought for the facility.”

“Like what?” Shiro asked her.

“Well, this is just my theory, but... you know the word ‘quintessential,’ right?”

He nodded. “Yes, I know a lot of big words,” he teased.

Her mouth twisted at him. “For millennia, philosophers and scientists believed that the world we inhabit was entirely made up of four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. Aristotle added a fifth element, the aether: the material that fills the rest of space, mostly invisibly but sometimes taking the form of stars and planets. Many writers described aether as a kind of invisible light or fire - you know, like an energy source? In the Middle Ages, it was referred to as the quinta essentia - the fifth element. Quinta essentia came to stand for anything so perfect that it seemed to surpass the limitations of Earth.

“So, what if - now just hear me out - this thing they found wasn’t terrestrial in origin?”

“Pidge,” he groaned.

“What if they found a piece of alien technology and...”

“Pidge, will you stop with your alien conspiracy theories?”

“It’s not a conspiracy theory! Not this time, anyway. It makes perfect sense! Tech from a super-advanced alien civilization that Dr. King was able to reverse-engineer and...”

“Look, Pidge, I’m sure there are aliens out there, but there’s nothing saying they’ve been coming to Earth. We’re such a tiny planet in an otherwise unremarkable part of a huge galaxy...”

“I’m not even talking about that!” she insisted. “It could be debris or something! I’m not saying aliens landed on Earth - at least, not this time I’m not - just that something extraterrestrial was dug up and that’s why Galra’s tech division suddenly has unlimited clean power out of nowhere!”

Shiro looked to Matt for help.

He just shrugged. “Dr. King was a genius; it’s not outside the realm of possibility that she created it herself. But then again, all geniuses have stood on the shoulders of those who came before them. It’s also worth considering that she found something to use as the basis for her further discoveries.”

“You’re a good brother,” he told Matt, because what else could he say in response to that dissembling bit of nonsense? He was clearly just trying to back his sister up on her crazy theories.

“I’m not crazy,” Pidge told him as if she’d heard his thoughts. “If they’d found something normal, we would have heard about it. But it took me a lot of digging to find out about this. They kept it hush-hush.”

Shiro held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’m willing to concede they found something that they wanted to keep secret. And that it’s possible that they used it as the basis for what became their ‘quintessence’ they’re peddling. But do you really think it’s... I dunno, alien star energy or something?”

She made a thoughtful noise. “I don’t know. I mean, the ancient philosophers also believed in alchemy and astrology and nonsense like that. But I think it’s something... fundamental. Something truly quintessential.”

“Yeah,” Matt put in, “scientists don’t always come up with the best names for things. Like ‘Jupiter’s Red Spot’ - how boring and on the nose can you get?”

“They also come up with names like ‘deoxyribonucleic acid,’” Shiro replied.

“Okay, point. But my point is that maybe she called it quintessence not because it’s some long-lost, non-Bruce Willis-related ‘fifth element’ but because she viewed it as something quintessential to the universe.” He shrugged.

“Whatever it is, that quintessence is powerful enough to be getting them a lot of industry and government attention,” Pidge concluded. “But the weird part is...”

“...why aren’t they announcing it?” Shiro finished for her. “Well, to be fair, they tried, and looked what happened.” He held out his right arm as proof.

“Yeah, but that was a local demonstration for local reporters. They’ve been really cagey with this stuff.”

“Hmm, good point.” He smiled. “Thanks. As usual, you two do amazing work.”

“Naturally,” Pidge said.

“We’ll email it all to you,” Matt said. “As soon as we get our fee?”

“Of course. I’m covering it this time; new owner’s locked down the discretionary funds.” Just as I knew he would.

“Oh yeah - the son of Galra’s CEO?” Pidge asked. “That’s gotta be fun.”

He wasn’t surprised she’d found that out. “Yeah, it’s fantastic. Fortunately he doesn’t know what I’m working on.”

“Yeah, he’d shut that down quick, fast, and in a hurry,” Matt agreed. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, I’ll need it.” He stood. “Enjoy the Chinese. I’ll send the money over when I get home.” He headed for the door.

“If your plans for tonight fall through, log on!” Matt called after him.

“Will do, but don’t expect me!” I’m going to have to talk to Starlight about this. Assuming she shows up tonight. His heartache could wait. Galra - and its CEO - were definitely up to something, and he intended to find out what. His mind raced on the information he’d just received, distracting him from that lingering off-putting thrum from his right arm.

{Previously in The Adventures of Starlight & Paladin…}

[taww]

Review: Wells Audio Commander Preamplifier & Innamorata II Amplifier

With everyone and their extended families wanting to be audio reviewers, we have been inundated with volumes of positive commentary. As a reviewer, you are dependent upon manufacturers to provide you with equipment to audition and write about. If a writer wants to be around after that initial written review, the pressure is great to submit something popular to the publisher, specifically, coverage that will keep the review sample spigot flowing. After all, what manufacturer seeking to gain a foothold in the industry is going to send their precious product to someone they think may disseminate component coverage less than favorable about them? That’s a question I need not answer on your behalf…

The days of writers like Pearson, Holt and Aczel are, unfortunately, gone. And while I may long to once again profit from their pearls of audio wisdom, only their memories exist. From my first published review in January of 1989, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wondered how Harry would describe a particular sonic quality, how Gordon might compare one component to another or in what manner, like Peter, I may employ my use of words so efficiently as say what others could not, but in half the space. What those great writers of the past had, which we see none of today, was the self-assuredness not to fear penning the critical review…after all, they were known as critics.

Wells Audio

Jeff Wells is a kindly gentleman that has been in the business of audio retailing for better than 16 years. Not a classically trained electrical engineer, Jeff has obviously picked up considerably knowledge during his years in the trade, either directly, or by osmosis. He also knows where to go for good advice as he has chosen Scott Franklin as a mentor. Scott is considered a bit of a tube guru, having credited to his name any number of well known and respected tube designs. I expect that the basic tube circuits in the Commander have the Franklin touch, with Jeff choosing the parts list and the overall appearance of the preamp and amp. One thing is for sure, you are not going to mistake the Wells Audio gear for anything else made today, or yesterday for that matter. Warranty for both products is three years, including parts and labor.

Commander Preamplifier (USD $3,999)

The first thing one observes when seeing the Commander for the first time is the large round viewing window smack dab in the middle of the face plate. Behind it is what many call “a magic eye” vacuum tube. It glows green and changes with the adjustment of the volume control (which I did via remote). I could not discern what value the magic eye might be of, but it looked pretty enough.

The young ones, persons not old enough to remember the turn of the century, call it “steampunk.” That’s exactly how I viewed the appearance and operation of the Commander preamp. At a time when smooth operation and silky feel to controls are the key descriptive terms being used with todays’ high-end audio electronics, along comes the Wells Commander preamp that seems to have no end to its unique appearance and odd noises that emanate from it. With every change of volume comes a “clickity” sound that I’ve never heard before as part of a high-end component. Initially I thought that I might have broken it, but everything seemed to continue working, so I didn’t worry about it. Furthermore, @miy-taww assured me that some units simply work that way. (Yup, this is the sound of an attenuator based on conventional mechanical relays. The exact nature of the clicking depends on how the control logic is implemented. @miy-taww)

As far as I know, the acrylic exterior of the Commander is a first. The black reflective surface shines like a polished black mirror, making picture taking a real task. I like the fact that acrylic resonates much less than the standard metal exterior plates found with most amps and preamps. On the other hand, acrylic affords the component no effective RFI/EMI shielding.

Commander Pros: Setting the preamp up was cake, basically plug and play…the remote even came with batteries in it. Another positive was the ability to use a set of balanced inputs in addition to the standard RCA inputs. The unit also had balanced output jacks, coming in handy for use with my balanced Pass XA30.5 power amplifier. 

The Commander is a solid imager with good depth of image, all placed upon a wide and panoramic stage. Tone quality, especially in the mids, is true and natural. And while this is a preamp utilizing tubes, tubes it does not sound like. The softish, melodramatic approach promoted by some tube products is completely missing here, as the Commander, instead of being soft, has an ability to capture, as well as anything I’ve heard, the transient speed of a plucked steel stringed guitar. This leading edge quality is also apparent in percussive strikes and snare hits, yes it can be an exciting experience listening with this preamp. Listening to rock and roll as well as jazz, on more than one occasion the transient speed of this unit compelled me to query if perhaps Wells alone had gotten this aspect to reproduction correct. 

Lastly, when one looks under the hood of the Commander, and then considers the price of it, in light of the unconventional use of parts and construction layout, the obvious question becomes, “How did they do this for the price charged?”  

Commander Cons: I enjoy using remote volume controls, however, this unit’s clunky nature and lack of responsiveness was a turn off to me. Sometimes, when moving the volume up, the actual output would first go down and them up. 

Musically, the frequency extremes were rather odd and not wholly to my liking. These two things, I think, are related: The speed and attack heard in the midrange also resulted in an upper octave that was in many cases more forward than I am attracted to while striking me as grainy. I described the highs with the Commander to one friend as “crunchy.” The bass, it seemed to me, was similarly flawed, but in different ways. Listening to recordings with a healthy amount of bass in them, it was all there, i.e., I felt that I could hear all of the bottom three octaves frequency wise. At the same time, however, the bass lacked deep down energy. 

Initially, I wondered if my choice of power cords was pushing the preamp in the directions just described. I tried cords from Audience, JPS, DH Labs and Twirling Gerbil. Though I heard changes in the performance, none of those cords locked in with the Commander. Finally, I went with the factory supplied cord, which performed as well as any of the above; forming the basis for the comments here and above. 

Lastly, while I had great success using the balanced jacks on the back of the preamp, the standard RCAs didn’t always work consistently. This needs to be looked into by Jeff and in my opinion, simplified internally. The some days the jacks would work, some days, not, drove me crazy.

Conclusion. In my opinion, the Commander preamplifier from Wells Audio is not a finished product, bugs need to be addressed. The potential to be a stunning performer is all there, particularly when the Scott Franklin influence is considered. I consider it a diamond in the rough. I look forward to observing the progress Wells Audio makes with this product. Presently, I cannot recommend it.

Innamorata II Power amplifier (USD $7,000)

Taking the same visual cues as the Commander preamplifier, the Innamorata II is a large, heavy power amp. Rated at 150 wpc into 8 Ohms, the amp is said to put out 210 wpc into 4 Ohms. The amp is a beautiful gloss black, with a single round meter located dead center on the faceplate. Centering the meter is a large gold bezel that you will love or hate, all depending on your fashion sense. Jeff told me of his plans to make the amps’ exterior parts completely out of acrylic materials, everything save the heatsinks. I think Wells may be on to something here as fabricating may be less expensive that way, the product will weight less and the appearance can be pretty stunning in any color you desire. Finally, even though the sibling preamplifier has balanced outputs, the power amplifier cannot accommodate balanced connectors (which struck me as odd).

Innamorata Pros: Lots of power delivered effortlessly. Power cords were not an issue with the amp. Regardless of what I used, this amp forged a straight line forward sounding good under all conditions. I ended up using the Twirling Gerbil amp cord, the combo performing in a positive manner that was in every instance musical. 

What I generally like about a well designed solid state power amp is its unflappable performance with a variety of loudspeaker loads. And so I can report that I listened to this amp with a variety of speaker loads, all the way from 4 Ohms, to a small monitor with a wandering load of 8 to 16 Ohms. As you know, all speakers present an amp with a variety of impedances depending on frequency. With many speakers, things can get a little hairy at resonance, the Innamorata stayed tight and fast in the bass, while never sounding washed out. Pace and bloom were actually strong parts of this design. You know an amp has something going for it when during listening sessions you keep asking yourself. “What’s it going to do with this album? I’ve got to hear it with this other album.” This amp had me anticipating what new positive twist it might put on a recording heard many, many times before. 

Another positive aspect of this amps’ performance was the natural and organic way it handled vocals. Voices at the front of the stage did not jump forward; instead they sounded real, and usually within an aura of natural ambiance. Backup as well as background vocals were similarly tangible and pleasant to listen to.

Innamorata Cons: My biggest complaint with amp is the fact that it quit working after the first listening session. I had been listening to it in one system and enjoyed the results obtained. I then wanted to insert the Wells amp in a second system. I have a tall four wheeled cart that allows me to pick up the amp, put it on the cart and then wheel it off without having to bend over. I moved the amp one day to see how it would perform in a new listening environment. When I sat it down in the new system the right channel refused to come up. I sent it back to Jeff. He told me that an internal cable had come loose and he merely had to put it right and all was well. Solder the connection and the problem does not arise. 

Musically, there’s not a lot to complain about. For more money there are better sounding solid state power amps. I take that position not because the Wells does much wrong, but because some amps are simply exceptional in one regard or another. Those exceptional amps may have slightly more air then the Wells, or a little more bloom upon the stage, but for the money, this is a good amplifier, though not in the same sonic class as the Pass XA30.5 that I compared it to.

Conclusion. I enjoyed using this power amplifier. A no-surprise design, it is quiet when you turn it on, and when you turn it off there are no driver threatening burps or releases of DC. In other words, don’t worry if the power is, for any reason, discontinued. It does concern me that the right channel went down during my auditioning period. A consumer electronics device that retails for $7,000.00 has an obligation to operate in a worry free manner. Audio components are meant to be enjoyed, as they are necessary to the playback of music in the home. A power amplifier situated in the home of an audiophile is not a tool in the manner of a tone generator or scope, it is something more, very much more. And, as the price of a component increases, the obligation of a manufacturer to produce a glitch free product increases in a linear fashion. That said, no one is perfect, making mistakes is human, and the error which lead to the failure of the right channel in this case was nothing other than a contact coming apart – nothing blew, no sparks, no fried resistors, and I have no doubt that that Jeff Wells remedied the situation so as to never have this happen again. 

I, therefore, must conclude that when a person lays down their hard earned dollars for a new Innamorata II, he or she will have an amplifier well worth the outlay, and one capable of bringing home the heart and soul of the music in a way that will bring years and years of musical satisfaction and pride. A power amplifier done well.

[ll-again]

The Sordid Coat Romance

@8minutehooper said: Congrats!! Well…since you specifically mentioned Mycroft’s brolly… how about Molly being jealous of Sherlock’s coat? Kind of a twisted version of CoatLock (cause we know Sherlock loves the thing!) :) I don’t know, I stink at prompts, so I’ll be happy for anything you feel like doing.

This was excellent prompts, I don’t know what you’re talking about. So… you said 'jealous of', and I might have read that as 'madly in love with'. >.> Molly is kind of a madwoman in this and I don't care because I love it. Also Jim was feeling left out so there is bonus sort of Molliarty because we don't want to piss off Jim.

--

First Meeting:

Molly suppressed a moan as she watched the last bit of coattail disappear around the door.

"Huh," Mike Stamford said. "You handled him well."

"Umf?" Molly blinked and ducked her head, busying herself with tidying the equipment scattered over her workbench. She cleared her throat in a belated attempt to make her involuntary noise sound like a cough. "Sorry. Who?"

Where had all this stuff come from? she wondered, picking up a pipette and staring at it. Although it was clearly dirty, Molly had no recollection of using the instrument.

Mike smothered a laugh into his fist. "Sherlock," he said. "Most people are bothered by that whole mind reading bit he does, you know. I think you put him off, actually. Usually he goes on for ages."

"Who's Sherlock?" Molly said, piling dirty lab equipment onto a tray.

"Holmes?" Mike said, eyeing her oddly. "Chap who was just here? Detective. Bit of an arse. Wears that coat?"

Molly nearly dropped her tray. Oh! "Oh, um. Yes. Sherlock Holmes. He's … nice." Very nice… she thought, taking her tray and leaving the lab, visions of heavy tweed wool swirling through her thoughts.

Mike watched her leave with an incredulous twisting of his facial features. "Nice?" he muttered to himself. "Sherlock Holmes?"

…

Coffee:

Molly ducked into the lab, mug of coffee – black, two sugars – in hand. She briefly glanced at the stranger with the cane standing at the end of the worktable, wondering who he was, but quickly put him out of her mind as she sidled up to the coat rack. Out of sight of anyone, Molly reached out and slipped her fingers into the sleeve of the Belstaff, humming under her breath at the silky feel of the lining, contrasted by the rough wool against the pad of her thumb as she stroked it happily.

Pity its owner had misunderstood her invitation for coffee; she so wanted to see the Coat out of the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital. Undoubtedly it looked even lovelier in natural light.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you."

Molly jumped, sloshing hot liquid over her hand and narrowly – horror of horrors – missing the Belstaff. She carefully held back a sigh as she scurried past the newcomer to hand over the mug.

Perhaps not such a pity about the misunderstanding after all, she thought, beating a quick retreat out of the lab. Coffee with Sherlock was bound to be excruciating, no matter how well he filled out the Coat.

…

Jim:

"So you're friends with this Sherlock Holmes, are you?"

Molly made a face, sipped her cafeteria coffee without thought and gagged a little. "Um, not friends exactly," she said. "He comes to the lab sometimes."

Jim leaned towards her, a little too eagerly, his own coffee sitting untouched by his elbow. 'Coffee' was a misnomer; he would more accurately describe it as 'floor sweepings brewed in reject petrol'.

"What's he like then?" he said in his affected 'Jim from IT' lilt, hamming it up a little just for fun. "Tell me everything, Molls."

Her face scrunched up again. For someone who rattled on endlessly in her blog about the man (albeit anonymously), she seemed reluctant to speak about him now, which was … odd. "He's, um, you know, he's very smart."

"Oh, come on now," Jim cajoled. "That's not how you usually talk about him."

Do you believe in love at first sight? There's this man and I'm in love. At least, I think I am. I can't stop thinking about it. It's so brilliant it's like he's burning. And he seems so cool but not really. And the fit. The way he moves makes me flutter inside. I can't stop thinking about it.

Nauseating. Even just recalling the words gave him traumatic flashbacks.

She was such an expressive thing that he could see her go from confusion, to the recall that he had originally contacted her via her blog, to a sudden understanding. "Oh!" the little mouse squeaked, turning a bright red. "No, that's not what I meant." Molly chewed on her lip, looking at him through her lashes as the corner of her mouth tilted upwards in a coy smile. "It's a little daft really, but he wears this coat…"

And then she was off in much the manner Jim had expected from the start, gushing effusively not about the man himself, but this much vaunted coat. He watched, stunned, mouth agape, for nearly fifteen minutes as she detailed it down to every buttonhole (spending a special amount of time on the red one in the lapel). His fingers groped absently for his cup, and Jim took two large swallows of his coffee before the taste registered and he spat it back out, coughing.

"Why don't you just get your own coat?" he asked, wiping at his mouth. "I'll buy you one." Unnoticed by Molly, Jim froze as soon as the offer was made, wondering where the hell it had come from.

Molly sighed wistfully. "It wouldn't be the same." She shook herself and pasted on a smile. "Want to come over tonight and watch Glee?"

"Yeah, sure," Jim said, not minding his words, still caught up trying to figure out why he'd offered to do anything for this obviously daft cow.

Two hours later, he was scrabbling at his phone as soon as Molly disappeared into the kitchen to make more popcorn, intent on texting Moran to manufacture some emergency so he could get away with Molly none the wiser. When she returned with a bowl of hot buttery goodness and a couple of lagers, Jim found himself scrolling through the Belstaff website with no recollection of how he'd come to be there, looking for a ladies coat that matched the one she'd described.

"So what do you think of the show?" Molly asked as she settled back onto the couch.

It is a gross violation of the UN Conventions against Torture, Jim thought. "It's great, I love it!" he said.

…

The Roof:

"And I bequeath," Jim said, twirling his gun absently.

Sherlock eyed it nervously as he typed into his phone.

"The Coat... to Molly Joan Hooper… of blah blah blah…"

"She can get her own coat!" Sherlock sputtered.

Jim pointed the index finger of his free hand at Sherlock, looking down the mock 'barrel'. "Not the same," he said, pulling his 'trigger' thumb down.

…

The Return:

Sherlock let Anthea slide the Coat onto his arms, shrugged his shoulders to settle it, gave it an experimental twirl. His mouth twisted downwards.

"This isn't my coat."

Mycroft rolled his eyes so hard, his entire head went along for the ride. "It's practically an exact replica," he said in that 'don't argue with me I'm the bloody British Government and I ate MI-6 for breakfast' tone of voice.

"Practically," Sherlock pointed out snidely.

"Do contain yourself, brother dear," Mycroft said. He paused, clicking his tongue absently, then consented to add, "The original was … misplaced."

Sherlock stared at his older brother, greatly amused that his stiffness of bearing was even stiffer than usual to compensate for a sudden urge to fidget. "Oh never mind," he said, flicking his hand as he turned away. "I know what happened to it."

But it was three weeks before Sherlock could contrive to confront Molly in her flat, without her dullard of a fiance hanging around. She was vacuuming and didn't notice when he entered. Sherlock stood in the foyer for a long minute, watching her dance around with the vacuum, wearing his coat and a pair of eye wateringly bright, cherry printed socks.

"Christ, Sherlock!" Molly yelped when she noticed him, clutching the lapels of his coat closed around her decolletage.

"I think that's mine," Sherlock said mildly.

Molly narrowed her eyes and bared her teeth like a furious kitten imitating its lion cousins. "You have your own," she said, nodding to the replica that Mycroft had procured.

"Not the same."

"Saved your life."

"Are you even wearing anything under that?" Sherlock asked, unable to counter her last point.

"Wha-? Of course I am," Molly huffed, clutching tighter at the coat.

Sherlock tilted his head, raking his eyes down and then back up her frame. Unfortunately, the thickness of the Belstaff meant he really couldn't deduce if she was lying. Probably she wasn't. "Pity," he murmured.

Molly's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in perfect innocence. "What?"

Molly's eyes moved left, paused, moved to the right. She unpursed her lips finally. "Want to watch some Glee?"

"I've suffered enough torture lately, thanks," Sherlock said, moving to the couch and flopping down onto it elegantly.

"What?" Molly asked flatly, sitting down next to him. Belstaff next to replica Belstaff.

Sherlock's gaze wandered the length of her bared legs as she propped her feet onto the coffee table. "Nothing. Um. Yes, love to. Glee. Yay."

"Excellent," Molly chirped, flipping on the telly and snuggling into her Coat. There was a lot of extra coat for her to snuggle into, as it happened.

The television started singing, and Sherlock couldn't contain himself, "For God's sake, Molly…"

"Mine," she said through gritted teeth, scooting away from him and nearly tripping on the coattails.

"It's six sizes too big-"

"Nonsense. Four at the most."

"-and it is actually my property."

Molly sniffed. "Legally, you died. And quasi-legally, you bequeathed the Coat to me in your Last Will and Testament."

"Under duress," Sherlock felt it vitally important to point out.

Molly Hooper, stone cold Coat thief, shrugged a careless shoulder. "Prove it. Not even your family solicitor questioned that you'd send in your will via text message." Sherlock gaped at her as she wiggled her hand free of the overly long sleeve so she could chew on her thumbnail. "It was nice of Jim to arrange," she commented after a moment. "Especially after the way we broke up."

Sherlock was too busy sputtering to see her sly smile. "You broke up over my coat?"

"Well, the whole psychopath thing was a factor."

"That's it! Give it back." Sherlock lunged; Molly squealed and he backed off with some alarm. "Are you really naked? In my coat?"

Molly valiantly clutched the Coat, slowly sliding unchecked off the couch but unwilling to loosen her grip to right herself. "My Coat," she said, flashing him her teeth.

Sherlock's pupils flared wide just before he pounced. The two perfectly reasonable adults having a perfectly reasonable discussion (cum wrestling match) landed in a pile next to a pair of occupied leather loafers.

"Hi Tom," Molly said, looking up at her upside-down fiance. "Sherlock was just, um…"

"Bolthole," Sherlock said quickly.

"Right!" Molly wiggled a little, realized she was pinned, and gave it up as a bad job. "Sherlock stays here sometimes when he needs the space."

"Space," Tom repeated, a frown furrowing his brow.

"Yes. When he needs to get a handle on a case or something, you know…"

Sherlock discreetly removed his hand from Molly's chest.

Molly beamed innocently at Tom. "We were just watching some Glee. Care to join us?"

A singular look of horror passed over Tom's face. "I thought I'd pop out for take away," he said.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet. "I can help."

Tom opened his mouth, caught sight of Sherlock's face, then nodded. "Yeah, thanks mate."

…

Happy Ending:

Molly dusted herself off as the door shut behind Sherlock and Tom's quick retreat. She made a quick detour to the kitchen for the ice cream carton and a spoon, then settled back onto the couch and flicked the telly over to Jeremy Kyle.

"Just you and me, Coat," Molly said happily, patting the lapel. "That's the way we like it, isn't it?"

[marvelousbirthdays]

Happy Birthday, probablyunnecessary!

July 5 - “Why are you looking at me like that?” Pepper/Claire Temple/Helen Cho for @probablyunnecessary

Okay, so this kind of ended up more pre-slash than anything, so I’m sorry about that :S, but I hope you enjoy anyway!  <3 <3

Written by @cinnaatheart

She applies for the job on a whim.

ON-CALL NURSE. LUCRATIVE PAY, EXCELLENT BENEFITS. MUST HAVE EXPERIENCE WORKING IN HIGH STRESS SITUATIONS.

She doesn’t really know what to expect out of it, truth be told. The ad seems skeezy, really. Just a blip on the endless scroll of employment pages; the kind that doesn’t bother specifying the actual kind of pay involved, nor the hours or hell, even the employer. At best, the advertiser isn’t interested in actually finding someone. At worst, it’s a scam.

Still… money is money, and it’s not as though Claire’s lacking in the experience department. God knows she’s experienced enough high stress situations to last a damn lifetime.

She sends the application away with no small amount of trepidation, and in her mind, that’s that. She doesn’t expect a call back.

She certainly doesn’t expect Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries, to call her about the job eight hours later.

“I’m sorry,” she says dumbly, staring in shock at the end of the diner, where her mother wipes the counter down, very clearly Not Listening. “You what?”

“We’d like to interview you, Ms Temple. You come with some outstanding references.”

Claire bites the inside of her cheek to stop a strange, hysterical giggle from escaping. Her mother has been scrubbing the same section since her call started. “I’m surprised you followed up on the references so fast.”

“Stark Industries likes to work quickly.”

“Right,” she says, feeling dazed. Part of her wonders why she’s even surprised by the fact that Pepper Goddamn Potts is talking to her like it’s perfectly normal for the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company to call someone up to arrange an job interview. This should just be part and parcel of her life by now.

At which point does the extraordinary just become the ordinary? It’s a question to ponder later, Claire imagines.

“Of course, I can’t go in the specifics of the job over the phone. This is something of a… sensitive matter. You’ll be expected to sign our non-disclosure agreements if you’re interested, but I promise you that Stark Industries is not interested in signing your soul away to the devil. Everything will stay strictly above board.”

A giggle slips out. She can’t help it.

There’s only one ‘sensitive matter’ that she can imagine Potts is referring to. The fact that Tony Stark has been funding the Avengers post-SHIELDRA has been SI’s worst kept secret for months now.

The ‘on-call’ part of the job description makes so much more sense now.

Abort, her mind screams. Abort. This is everything she’s sick of being involved with, multiplied by three thousand. ABORT.

“Sure,” Claire’s traitorous mouth says instead. She pulls a face, and her mother doesn’t even bother hiding her interest anymore. “Uh- what time. And where?”

Potts rattles off a time and Claire scrambles to write down her instructions for the interview on a napkin. The rest of the call doesn’t last long, and Claire finds herself saying her goodbyes before she’s truly comprehended exactly what it is she’s agreed to. Her mother descends upon her the moment she hangs up, and it’s all she can do to act like she’s not just been thrown completely off kilter by the call.

This is her life now, she thinks with resignation. Doomed to spend her life healing superheroes who should know better.

--

On the face of it, Avengers Tower nee Stark is nothing remarkable. Its eighty-plus floors spear the sky in an endless stretch of metal and glass, like every other building in Manhattan, and its first floor reception and atrium is filled with the same kind of clean, modernist (and perhaps more important, boring) furnishings that she can find in any other sky scraper. Still, for all its pristine and simplistic trappings, its wealth is evident, and Claire can’t help but feel scrappy and unpolished in comparison to the pristinely dressed men and women that walk with purpose across the white marble floor.

She breathes out slowly through her nose and squares her shoulders. Claire knows- almost unreasonably- that she’s going to get the job. After everything she’s done- everything she’s been through- it feels suspiciously like fate.

This is her life now, she reminds herself. This time, the thought doesn’t feel so… unattractive. She walks with confidence over to the reception desk and pastes on a smile for the friendliest-looking receptionist. The man smiles back, distracted, but warm. “Hi,” he says. “Can I help you?”

“Hi. Claire Temple. I have an appointment with… Happy Hogan?” she asks, still somewhat dubious about the name. Still, it must mean something, because the man- his nametag reads ‘Gibran’- grins with understanding.

“Sure.” He taps away at something on his computer. “He’ll be down soon.”

Claire nods and thanks him, moving away to stand off to the side, out of the way of the constant flow of people that enter and leave the building. Belatedly, she wonders what it is people actually do at SI. She knows the company has thrown itself into green energy and information technologies since its break from weapons manufacturing, but Claire can’t really picture these polished men and women as lab monkeys or researchers.

A broad man with solid and serious face, approaches her, and she finds herself straightening up on instinct. “Mr Hogan?”

“That’s me,” Hogan says, and he shakes her hand firmly. He has the same, distracted look that the receptionists do, his attention clearly directed elsewhere. His badge says ‘Harold Hogan: Head of Security’ and Clair feels inexplicably guilty for calling him ‘Happy’. “This way please.”

Claire does as she’s told, and Hogan waits patiently as she goes through security, clipping the badge that gives her temporary clearance onto the lapel of her blazer. The motion is familiar; it’s something she had to do every day at the hospital, and she finds herself calming ever so slightly as it bounces against her breast, the two of them walking quickly over to what looks like a private elevator. Certainly, no one else seems interested in using it. The doors slide open almost instantly when Hogan presses his hand to the featureless panel of black glass. Biometrics then.

The ride upwards is quiet and a little awkward. Claire wishes she could be more of a conversationalist, but she finds herself unable to think of anything to say to break the silence. It’s a relief when the elevator slows, and the doors open into a long hall, the offices beyond hidden behind opaque glass.

“Down the end of the hall,” Hogan says, his attention already drifting down to the smart device on his wrist. “Take the left door.”

“Thank-you,” she smiles, stepping out, and he sends her a distracted nod, the door already closing between them.

A hush descends upon her and Claire breathes out. Beyond the frosted glass she can make out the indistinct shapes of people, likely as absorbed in their work as Hogan is. Her footsteps on the marble tiles sound strangely muted, and she clutches a little tighter to her portfolio. She hesitates outside the door down the end of the hall. Claire can’t help but feel like she’s about to walk into something big. Something that will have a huge and irreversible effect on her life. She can’t really fault the premonition; if her suspicions are correct, a direct association with the Avengers would leave nobody unscathed.

She knocks.

The door swings open automatically, and Claire walks through; the room is large, but still manages to come off as modest, with a small collection of white leather couches and a tall desk for Miss Potts’ PA. The young woman grins at her entrance and offers her a short, informal wave. There is a large and heavy textbook on her desk and unbound notes strewn over half of it. Claire empathises, thinking back to her own time at college.

“Claire Temple?” she asks. The little plate on her desk says her name is Darcy, and Claire nods, struck by a sudden and unwelcome bout of nerves.

“I’m here for the job interview?”

“Yup,” Darcy says, winking at her. She clicks something on the phone on her desk and says, with a distinct lack of ceremony, “Temple’s here. You want me to show her in?”

Potts must say something, because Darcy nods, hanging up and standing all in the same smooth movement. Claire wonders how the woman managed to snag a job like this. “They’re keen to meet you,” Darcy says, the tone of her voice implying that she is speaking in confidence. “I hear you come with some very good references.”

“Um,” Claire says, wondering exactly who they got those references from. Darcy snickers and opens the door to Potts’ office for her. She’s grateful that she doesn’t trip or make a fool of herself when she steps across the threshold.

“Good luck!” Darcy mouths at Claire, and sends her a pair of thumbs up as the door closes behind her.  

“Ah, Ms Temple,” a familiar voice says and Claire twists. Potts is getting up from her desk, hand outstretched. There is another woman in the room, but Claire doesn’t recognise her. “Welcome. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she says dazedly, taking the other woman’s hand. Her grip is firm and surprisingly warm, as though she’s held her hands beneath hot water.

“I’d like you to meet my associate, Doctor Helen Cho.”

Helen Cho.

Claire’s knees almost buckle beneath her. Pepper Potts and Helen Cho. Cho’s work- though certainly built upon the break-throughs of others- has revolutionised the future of healthcare around the world. She remembers reading an article about Cho’s ‘Cradle’ in one of the magazines in the hospital’s break room and being completely floored by the knowledge of just how much they could do with even one of those things. She feels a little lightheaded to be standing in the same room with her.

“Hi,” Cho says, and she shakes Claire’s hand like everything is perfectly normal. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Doctor Cho,” Claire breathes. “It’s an honour. I… your work with genetics and nanotechnology is a game changer.”

The doctor pinks and Potts smiles in approval. “Thank-you,” Cho says quietly. She seems the reserved sort, and unfairly- rudely- cute. “Alright.” Potts claps her hands together, “I think we should get this interview underway. Although before we begin, I do ask that you sign our NDA’s; as I said over the phone, this is a sensitive matter, and it’s not exactly something I’d like sold to the tabloids. Or worse.” She blinks, as though suddenly realising what she’s just implied, “Not that I think you would do that, Ms Temple,” she amends, “but you have to understand I’m nothing if not thorough.”

“It’s fine,” Claire shrugs, and they sit. “It won’t be the first NDA I’ll have signed.”

Funnily enough, she’s had a newfound appreciation for secrecy this past year or so.

Potts slides the documents over and Claire reads through them carefully whilst the other two women talk quietly between themselves. It seems to be pretty standard stuff, just as Potts had promised her over the phone. She signs it all and pushes the forms back over, and the conversation breaks off.

“Wonderful,” Potts says with a bright smile. “Shall we begin?”

--

Claire seems almost disappointed to learn that her hunch is in fact correct. The job is as an on-call nurse for the Avengers, mostly working with (swoon) Doctor Cho during the more serious cases, and accommodation within the Tower itself during her shifts. She surprised at how attractive the job sounds, all things considered.

The rest of the interview seems strangely ordinary, though the company certainly isn’t. It’s difficult to pin down, but Claire gets the impression Cho and Potts may possibly be together together. There is some kind of… intimate camaraderie in their speech and glances. A familiarity and affection in the way they conduct themselves that speaks of something more than simply colleagues or friends, and she wonders if they even know how much they’re projecting. She feels unreasonably dismayed by the revelation that either woman is taken.

They talk for a good hour, and Claire does her best to impress upon them her suitability for the role. She was made for this job. She was one of the best nurses in the hospital, and a colourful (if not entirely above board) history with emergency first aid and surgery. By the time the interview looks to be wrapping up, she feels confident she’s made a good impression.

“Would you like to see it?” Cho asks suddenly. Claire blinks.

“I’m sorry; see what?”

“The Cradle. Would you like to see it?”

Her mouth falls open unflatteringly. “You mean… you have one in the building?”

Cho’s answering smile is wry and amused. “Of course.”

“And you’d let me see it?”

“I did ask.”

Claire swallows. Nods mutely. Potts looks between the two of them with an indulgent kind of affection and they stand, leaving the office. Darcy sends her another thumbs up and a wink, obvious already clued into the fact that the interview has gone well. Claire smiles at her as they leave.

The walk back down to the elevator is quiet, but not awkward, and Claire is content to the other women talk about the Tower and its medical facilities and the job that’s on offer as they travel skywards; only about ten floors this time. She gets the distinct impression that both are trying to sell her the job, each in their own ways.

The elevator opens into what looks to be a large, open-plan living room and kitchen, and beside it are a set of stairs that lead up to another large glass room. The place is empty, but she doesn’t doubt for a moment that these aren’t the Avengers quarters. She wonders where they are, but doesn’t comment on it.

Cho seems to vibrate with undisguised excitement as she leads her up the stairs and into the med bay (so close to the living quarters… it seems a strange set up until she think about the helipad, just outside the glass door. “This is the newest version,” she tells Claire, earnest and sweet and blindingly smart. “We’ve been working on the synchronisation for months, but I think it’s finally coming together.”

Claire nods, and her attention lands on the sarcophagus that sits in the middle of the room. It seems almost larger than life; an odd thing to think about what is essentially just a really, really fancy piece of machinery.

“Is that…?” she breathes in wonder.

“Yes,” Cho says proudly, and Claire walks over to it quickly, hand hovering reverently over the machine, too afraid to touch. “Of course, it’s not really ready for public consumption yet,” she explains as Claire inspects the gorgeous piece of tech, “it’s still far too expensive for large-scale manufacture, but we’ve been working on optimising the technology with Professor Wood’s aerosol-delivered cell-clusters for burns units.”

Claire nods. She can just imagine the kind of wonders they could manage with a marriage between the Cradle and spray-on skin. Revolutionise the world indeed. “That’s amazing,” she murmurs. “What about organ regeneration? I know there’s been pretty significant advances with 3D bioprinting the last couple of years.”

Cho and Potts share a significant look. “We’ve… made much progress,” Cho says slowly. Claire suspects there’s more to that statement, but she doesn’t press. “But we haven’t perfected the copying process, and it’s far too expensive for public consumption.”

“Shame,” Claire sighs and looks back at the Cradle, thinking of the countless people who come through the hospital’s doors for dialysis. “The number of lives you could save with this… it’s astronomical.”

She turns back and blinks. Both women are staring at her with identical, unreadable expressions. “What?” she asks dumbly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

They share another one of those looks; the one that speaks volumes to those that can hear it. Claire is enviable not one of them.

“It’s nothing,” Potts says eventually. She strides over to her and offers Claire her hand. Again, she is struck by how warm it is. And is it just her, or does her touch seem to linger, fingers trailing down her palm as she lets go. She smiles. “It’s just that you seem the perfect fit. Welcome to the team, Ms Temple.”

[roominthecastle]

Your GSR posts are making me wanna do weird things. Like cuddling. Or confessing I used to love that CSI spinoff… yes, THAT one. Idk what was wrong with teenage me. *comparing my formative years with yours* It’s a miracle I even cross path with you lol. And I had no idea they’re having so much fun in Vegas! Should I watch the show? I’m still in Lizzington hell and I’m afraid of what GSR might do to me…

Anon… this fabulous mess of a message made my week, thank you! now let me repay you in kind with a mess of a reply behind a cut:

I, too, feel a lot of odd things as a result of this CSI trip I’m on rn. Should you watch it? Of course. I will never not recommend this show. Everybody who reached out to me in the past few days is scared of the ep # but worry not, guys. It’s great for sporadic watching, the eps are pretty self-contained and interesting puzzles of science and human nature w/ the best/worst puns ever, and you don’t have to eat it all up in one go.

While - imo - ships can’t really act as replacements of each other, I think GSR can offer some “shelter” for people tired of the insulting triteness being peddled on TBL. It def hints at what Lizzington might have looked like if the creative control at TBL weren’t in the hands of a bunch of manchildren who have 0 clue how to write complex dynamics and seem to think romance is about beating the shit out of each other, then bone and get married bc only bitches hold grudges for being lied to, cheated on, exploited, and gaslighted. Good ppl know those are actually signs of a person learning to love you and you should reward that behavior to support their alleged personal growth at your expense. And if those vile acts are not part of the relationship, if genuine care/interest independent of sex is shown, that can only mean the characters are secretly related but still lie about it for no reason whatsoever and cause pointless pain and suffering. This is the blueprint for relationships on that show and to call it embarrassing is an understatement.

Sara was originally brought in as Griss’ love interest, but that lousy 1D label was soon discarded and they developed her into an independent, intelligent character w/ her own set of demons to battle, which she did consistently and unapologetically. It lead her to some very dark but necessary pit stops, she was sometimes downright abrasive and difficult, but her desperation never felt pathetic, only deeply human and Griss responded to that. Granted, I’m still in the middle of the rewatch and have several blanks to fill, but I honestly can’t remember a time she was short-changed to serve an idiotic fuckboy plot or be a prop in Griss’ own arc, or have any kind of manufactured drama for drama’s sake. This is prob one reason why they struggled so much since neither character was torpedoed to fast-track some flashy-but-empty drama, and there was no need to manufacture problems when staying true to characterization provided all the organic angst fodder necessary to propel the characters forward. Sara carried the torch for Griss until her arm almost fell off, but it didn’t prevent her from whacking him with it when his behavior got hurtful and unacceptable. It didn’t prevent her from walking away when she needed to, either. And Griss had his own deep seated issues to work through, which he was eventually willing to do on his own instead of expecting Sara to put up with them. That is character growth. Stuff like that wasn’t brushed aside by Sara going “aww it’s okay, honey, you never did anything wrong ever and my obscenely tolerant love will wash away all our problems which we never actually address.” GSR is, imo, a pretty accurate, mature portrayal of 2 dysfunctional people falling in love and trying/learning to make it work w/o losing themselves in the process.

The “lab dynamics” are also v curious bc Griss - despite him trying to repeatedly escape the “assignment” - is the “awkward dad” of the team, and several ppl consider him a father figure (he struggles with this a lot but when he finally embraces it, it culminates in at least three of those scenes that triggered the waterworks for me like whoa). Cat is his “work wife” but they also have some bro-sis vibes going on. Brass is like the cool uncle, the brother Griss never had who also looks out for Sara. And so on, and so forth. So there is a complex pseudo-family here, but what the CSI writing team “discovered” is that you can have a meaningful family theme going w/o it taboo-ing a romance within the unit or rendering it automatically pathological or acting like age automatically assigns you a specific role. Many from Sara’s peer group in the lab looked at Griss as a father figure and were mentored by him. Sara was among those mentored yet she looked at him differently. It’s that simple and their relationship still made for a complex story w/o any convoluted plot padding, father figure detour, or baiting or some other form of annoying shadow puppetry.

In short, I think GSR can be the air you come up for after being submerged in that giant nonsensical mess Red/Liz is being turned into for the sake of “shocking” twists and “organic” developments. It can only help you, anon, so don’t be afraid of it. ;)

[madisonsclarks]

Sing About Tragedy

**This didn’t show up in the tag last night, so I’m trying again**

Summary: Abby finds out Marcus’ name wasn’t on Clarke’s list and must deal with the consequences of what it means for her relationship with her daughter and with the man she loves. Set in some alternate S4 future after Abby returns from Becca’s lab and Marcus gets out of whatever mess he’s in with Azgeda. :/

Author’s Note: This is the angsty-est 8,000-word thing I’ve written in a long time, but I just couldn’t let that list plot go without exploring the idea that Abby might find out he wasn’t mentioned. Don’t hate me. Cry with me instead.  

Pairings: Kabby, and hella implied Raveric/Puppy Mechanic because I’m TRASH NOW AND THE TRASH CAN IS WHERE I RESIDE

Abby smiled as she moved through Medical, taking care to keep her steps as quiet as she could. For the moment, her only patient was Octavia Blake – freshly returned from another brush with death, which seemed to be a talent of hers – and two members of their camp had hardly left her side for the day’s duration.

Bellamy had set up a chair next to his sister’s cot, sat down, and proceeded not to move an inch for at least three hours. Octavia had yet to awaken – she’d been bruised pretty badly, and one of her legs had been fractured – this was, of course, factoring out the stab wound she’d sustained from Echo. With her hair fanning out in all directions like a raven waterfall, she appeared the most peaceful Abby had ever seen her. No matter how ardently she reassured her older brother that she was going to be fine, he seemed determined to be there the moment the anesthetic wore off.

“They’re both asleep,” Jackson noted, his gaze drifting from Bellamy to his companion as his lips formed a wry smile. “Didn’t you offer to let them know when she woke up?”

“I did,” she sighed, a slow quirk at the corners of her lips forming a mirror image of Jackson’s expression. Of all the things that had surprised her with the oncoming nuclear meltdown, this wouldn’t have come close to making the list. “They didn’t listen.”

Jackson’s smile widened. “As long as they’re resting,” he said, his focus switching to the test tubes of Nightblood they had managed to manufacture in Becca’s lab. Or rather, the person standing next to them, drumming her fingers absentmindedly against the countertop. Jackson asked permission with a glance, and Abby nodded. There was nothing more he could do for Octavia: now it was a waiting game to see how she felt when she awakened.

Abby watched as Raven met Jackson with a smile, and they began an animated discussion about the contents on the counter in front of them. At one point, she thought she even heard Raven laugh – a welcome change from her demeanor only weeks ago. Jackson, it seemed, had that effect on her. Thank you, Jackson.

Abandoned by her assistant, Abby’s gaze drifted to the man sitting in a chair on the opposite side of Octavia’s cot. Marcus had tried to find things to do in Medical for the past few hours as the sky darkened, for what Abby guessed was a two-pronged reason: to spend time with her and to be there for Octavia. The majority of his day had been spent in meetings; time with Clarke, Jaha, and others. Now, it seemed, the steady flow of duties had slowed to a trickle, and he had time to spare in awaiting Octavia’s recovery.

He hadn’t had time to tell her the specifics of what happened, but it was obvious enough that he and Bellamy had thought she was dead. From the weight in his tone and the regret in his eyes, she guessed their last conversation hadn’t been a pleasant one. It was a sharp, white-hot pain Abby knew all too well; when she had been in space and her daughter on the ground, regret and grief had almost swallowed her whole, sanded down the edges of her will to keep fighting for what was right.

Thankfully, she thought, they managed to salvage their relationship and come to an understanding about what happened to her father. To realize Marcus had gone through a similar stage, all while being captured by Azgeda…it was almost too much for her to bear. Octavia might not have been his daughter, but he certainly loved her like one: his relief at seeing her alive was enough to prove it.

As if her soft stare was enough to wake him, Marcus blearily lifted his head and found Abby looking at him from across the room. Instinctively, they both smiled. In the past she might have been embarrassed for him to find out she’d been watching him sleep. After all, it was an intimate thing – in sleep, he appeared weightless, unburdened, calmness and tranquility having filled in gaps where stress and anxiety vacated – and while she couldn’t say she’d never done it before they were together, it meant something different now. Every touch, every glance, every word was a treasure.

He meant something different now.

Marcus stood slowly, wincing, and Abby gritted her teeth. She wanted to tell him to stay in the chair, but doing so would require her to shout from across the room – a sound that wound undoubtedly wake Bellamy, who hadn’t been roused from his slumber by her gaze. Thankfully the moment passed quickly, and Marcus made his way over to her with no more outward indications of a pain she hoped he no longer felt.

Wordlessly, he opened his arms and she moved into them. Faintly, Abby could hear Jackson and Raven deep in their discussion. They had moved out of view: the potential for embarrassment was low. Not, she thought, that embarrassment was something about which they needed to be worried. Not after their reunion.

She nearly laughed when she remembered how she’d greeted him, half her heart limping and twisting and barely beating since he hadn’t answered his radio a few days earlier. All pretense of decorum evaporated, she’d sprinted toward him and all but thrown herself into his arms, all sounds of hammers on metal and buzzing conversation drowned out by the loudness of his presence.

His arms felt like home, his heartbeat a symphony, and she’d leaned away just enough to kiss him – passionately – in front of an unwilling, clueless audience.

She could still hear John yelling at them to “get a room.”

The memory brought a muted giggle from between her lips as she leaned into his embrace, composed more of a sigh than emotion. But Marcus knew her well enough to know what it meant, his steady hands stilling on her back.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked softly, still holding her close. Honesty, she decided, was the best policy.

“What I’d do if anyone walked in on us now,” she said. “Then I remembered…” she trailed off, and it was his turn to give a sigh of a chuckle.

“I don’t think we need to worry,” he said. “Unless you’d rather we didn’t-“

There was no way in hell she’d let him finish that sentence.

“Don’t you dare,” she murmured, pressing herself more fully to his solid form, and earned a real chuckle for her trouble.

A loud chorus of laughter shattered the intimacy of the moment, and Marcus pulled away to look in the direction of the explosion.

“Raven and Jackson?” he said, his tone asking a question his words hadn’t. Abby shook her head.

“I don’t think so. Not that I know of, at least. But you’re assuming they’d tell me.”

“Jackson would.”

Abby considered for a moment, decided he was right. Spending five years as someone’s assistant gave them an all-access pass into one’s personal affairs, whether or not you wanted them to have it. Jackson had known about the two of them long before the rest of Arkadia, had been aiming knowing smiles in her direction every time Marcus wandered into Medical. It was only fair, she thought, that she could make the same conjecture about him and Raven. If there was a conjecture to be made.

“Probably,” she admitted. “But for now, I’m just happy she’s happy.”

Marcus nodded. “I haven’t heard her laugh in…” he trailed off, the sound of Raven Reyes’ laughter falling outside the parameters of his memory. His sentence was finished by another source: a quiet groan from across the room.

“Octavia,” he said, every muscle in his body stiffening at the sound. Abby removed herself gently from his arms, and he all but sprinted to the cot. Naturally, Bellamy had awakened at the moment a sound came from his sister’s cracked, dry lips.

“O,” the boy said said, leaning over her as her eyelids opened, desperate to be the first thing she saw when she returned to the world of the living. “Octavia. Octavia.”

Marcus approached slowly, placing a hand on Bellamy’s shoulder as the girl before them took a deep breath. His posture revealed his emotions, the stiff line of his back and slump of his shoulders betraying guilt. He truly hadn’t thought he’d see her again.

She mumbled something Abby could barely understand from her position in the room, barely able to make out “was nothing,” and “had worse days.” Her sentence must have been fully formed from where Marcus and Bellamy stood, because she heard them both give low chuckles.

Reluctant to intrude on the moment but knowing her duty required her to do so, Abby slowly made her way toward her patient and her visitors.

“I need to check on her,” she said, her tone conveying the depth of her understanding. Marcus stepped back first, and reluctantly, Bellamy followed.

Octavia regarded her wordlessly, moving to sit up: a motion Abby halted by placing a gentle, but firm hand on her shoulder.

“You need to rest,” she said. “Lie back down, Octavia.”

The girl gave her a glare that said she’d certainly attempt the same maneuver later that night, and Abby wondered if she’d have to spend the night in Medical to keep Octavia Blake from further injuring herself. If she had to, she would.

She asked the girl questions about how she was feeling, each of which were answered with a short, “fine.” She was feeling fine, her head felt fine, she felt fine now that the painkillers had worn off.

As satisfied with her answers as it was possible to be, Abby stepped away. Tempted to aim her words at Marcus – as she was always tempted to do whenever he was in her proximity – she instead turned her head to regard Bellamy.

“Not too late,” she said. “She needs to sleep so she can heal.”

Abby couldn’t be certain, but she thought she heard a snort from the direction of the girl’s cot. Bellamy was less obstinate in his response, giving her a nod before practically sprinting to his sister’s side. Marcus lingered by her side a moment longer, pressed a chaste, quick kiss to her temple.

“I could say the same for you,” he said, reminding her Octavia wasn’t the only one who needed sleep. There was an offer in his gaze, a question in the softness of his touch that made her skin buzz and her stomach flip. She knew where his room was, and sleeping without him after Polis would feel too empty, her old room too dark to let her close her eyes.

She had always needed a little light to fall asleep, and Marcus Kane was that light.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, meaning every word. He beamed, the clouds of guilt and remorse lifting for a moment as his brown eyes shone. For a man who had spent the better part of nine days holding her, exploring her, making love to her in Polis, he still acted as though she were a breakable, fragile thing. As if assuming too much might shatter her and render everything between them useless. Abby knew that no matter the height, no matter how steep the fall, what was between them was unbreakable.

Watching him with Octavia – the gentleness in his voice, the tremor in his apology – it was profoundly private, and she turned away.

***

“Doctor Griffin?”

Abby had been on her way out of Medical for the night, handing control over to Jackson for the next few hours so she could get some sleep. She had asked him if he wanted her to take the late shift, but he vehemently denied – and it was hard to keep her brain from making a connection between Raven’s hours in Engineering and the overlap they shared with the late-night Medical shift. Probably nothing, she decided, but it was nearly impossible not to speculate.

She’d been set to leave, hanging her lab coat on the hook next to the sliding doors, when Monty Green appeared. To her observation, he didn’t look injured: that said, his expression was ashen.

“Monty,” she said, doing her best to hide her chagrin. “Can I help you?”

Marcus was waiting for her, and although they likely wouldn’t do anything but sleep tonight – she thought he was likely too weary from his latest brush with death – she reminded herself she also hadn’t thought he was the type to make her late for meetings by kissing his way down her neck, her stomach, and burying his face between her thighs. The uncertainty made her all the more eager to go to him, and Monty was…well, getting in the way of having her questions answered.

“I, um…” he trailed off, fidgeting a little under her gaze. “I’m not injured or anything.”

“Is it Jasper?” she asked, her brain defaulting to the next most likely alternative. While Monty was careful about avoiding anything that might be affected by radiation, Jasper was…less so.

“No. I’m here to talk to you, actually,” he said.

Abby couldn’t help herself: she frowned. In all their time on the ground, Monty Green had spoken all of perhaps ten sentences to her, many of which involved either Clarke or Jasper. What could he possibly have to tell her, and why did it need to wait until midnight?

He looked so uncomfortable her heart was swayed to pity him, and she invited her young guest to step inside.

“Octavia’s asleep,” she said, regarding the unconscious brother-sister duo at the other side of the room, “so we need to keep our voices down.”

“Right,” Monty said in something that was decidedly not a whisper. “Understood.”

He was nervous, and Abby felt her stomach clench. Had they found a problem with her Nightblood?

“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, waiting for the blow that would send the rest of her perfect night reeling. Would it have been too much, she wondered, for her to go to Marcus and curl up in his arms without drama finding its way back to them? Was one night too much to ask for?

“It’s about Clarke,” he said, then backed up a step, shook his head. “Well, it’s not really about her. It’s about the list.”

The frown that had recently vacated her features returned in full force. “The list?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice down. “What list?”

“Oh. Shit,” Monty breathed. He shoved his hands into his pockets, looked vaguely as though he were considering sprinting out of Medical and abandoning the conversation for good. “She didn’t tell you.”

“I don’t know anything about a list,” Abby said, nausea making her stomach sink lower and lower as the gears of her brain turned.

“You…you might want to sit down, then,” Monty said.

Abby remained standing as he explained what, exactly, “the list” was – a group of 100 people whom Clarke had deemed the Ark would keep safe from the nuclear radiation when the time came. She sensed Monty’s frustration through the tightness in his voice, the stiffness in his posture: for good reason, she thought. Her daughter had no right to play God in that way. To determine who lived and who died. They’d done that in space, and to this day her memories of that time left her weary and exhausted.

He also explained that they’d come up with an alternative. Now, at Jaha’s suggestion, they’d be holding a lottery to determine who stayed on the ship when the time came. It was fairer, he said, and it had gotten everyone working again.

“Clarke put your name down first,” Monty said, conflicting Abby’s emotions even further. “Which makes sense. You’re our best doctor, and her mom. But…”

He trailed off, swallowed hard.

“What is it, Monty?” she asked, already half-enraged with her daughter and half-exhausted by the thought of seeking her out to have this conversation at well-past midnight.

He looked at her with an apology and said the words she hoped she wouldn’t hear.

“Kane wasn’t on it,” he said quickly, as though the sentence burned him as he spoke. “I’m sorry, Doctor Griffin. I just thought you should know, in case you wanted to talk to her about it. I just-I saw you guys today, and-”

The world faded in and out of a blurred haze, her lungs shrinking in her chest as she struggled to breathe. There was a ringing in her ears that came from no specific source.

Marcus wasn’t on it.

Part of her wanted to believe it was a joke – apparently Jasper and Monty had taken to reviving some of their antics now that the world was strapped to a timer – but there was nothing but sincerity to be found in the boy’s gaze. Abby prided herself on her ability to read people, and what she saw in Monty Green told her he was giving her nothing but the truth.

How could Clarke do this to him? Even if that paper was now null and void, if those plans were long-gone, how could she have…after everything Marcus had done for her, for their camp, for their people…

A vision of him stumbling through black rain, choking in the poison fumes, shoved through the jumble of her panicked thoughts and she tasted bile. She hadn’t let Pike execute him, and she sure as hell wouldn’t let her daughter do the same.

“Thank you, Monty,” she said sharply, hoping the boy knew her tone wasn’t directed at him. “I’m happy you told me.”

***

She found Clarke in the Chancellor’s office, sifting through a stack of papers that dwarfed her tiny frame. Under typical circumstances, Abby would have felt a twinge of pity, of sadness: she was only eighteen, but the world wanted her to be so much older. Her people wanted her to be so much older.

Now, she felt only a white-hot ball of rage in her chest, a squirming, pulsing thing that she didn’t know what to do with. Being angry with her daughter was a thing foreign and strange to her – they’d rarely argued on the Ark, and even here their disagreements had always reached a timely and decisive end. But this felt like a betrayal in more ways than one, and Abby reached for words that were well beyond her grasp.

How to ask her daughter why she’d condemned their Chancellor, their former Ambassador, the man she loved with her whole heart, to death? How could her lips even begin to form those words?

The absence of her wedding ring and the ring around her neck felt palpable now, a weight on her being that shortened her steps and slumped her shoulders. Part of her hoped Clarke would deny everything, tell her it was a joke from Monty and Jasper’s twisted imagination, that Marcus had been on the list just below her name.

And part of her knew that would be a lie.

“Clarke,” she said, using all of her willpower to keep her voice even. Her daughter turned to her, the look in her sea-blue eyes – her father’s eyes – expunging her last hope.

Her daughter knew why she was here.

“Mom,” Clarke said, her voice wavering in a way that split the rage in Abby’s heart down the center, gave part of it over to sadness and left the rest to fester. “I can explain.”

Abby took a deep breath. “Can you? Can you tell me why you wouldn’t think our Chancellor is worth saving? The man who saved my life?”

She rose from her chair then, shadows crawling across her youthful face in the dim light. Her eyes were already red-rimmed, and Abby wondered if she’d been crying long before she entered the room. Caught between drawing her into a hug and walking away, she found a middle ground in remaining where she was.

Clarke bit her lip. “You and Jaha were both Chancellor before Kane,” she said. “Jaha has experience in Engineering and could help if anything went wrong before five years was up. You’re a doctor. Kane…” she paused again, looked away as though summoning every last bit of her strength. “Kane’s a guard. We have plenty of guardsmen. I didn’t-“

“Marcus,” Abby said, feeling the need to emphasize his first name, to make him more than just the authority figure her daughter knew by last name and last name only, “is the head of the guard. He knows the position better than anyone else. He’s more than just a guardsman, Clarke.”

“I know,” her daughter said, every word a nail through her heart. “But at his age…I weighted the list toward younger, experienced members. People with his knowledge who could help us for-“

His age? She’d condemn him for his age?

And suddenly, every bubble of anger she’d been keeping intact within her chest burst.

“Enough!” she shouted, far past the point of caring whether anyone else could hear them now. Her voice trembled, a quiver marring her exclamation as her heart shattered. How could the person she loved most have changed into one of the coldest she’d ever known? “Clarke-“

“Mom, please just listen-“

“How could you?” Abby snapped. “After everything Marcus has done for us, all the lives he’s saved, you’d leave him to die because of his age?”

“Mom, I…I didn’t…”

Suddenly, with a sickening click, all the pieces fell into place. There was a reason her excuse felt flimsy, foreign, slipped away when she tried to make it stick to her daughter. Age had nothing to do with Marcus qualifying for her list.

“Clarke,” she said, taking a shuddering breath, “tell me this had nothing to do with your dad.”

Her daughter remained silent, tears slipping down her cheeks. Each drip of water fractured Abby’s limping heart further, but her words were free now. Unbidden, they continued to flow past the dam of restraint she imposed upon herself.

“This is because of us?” she said, hardly daring to believe it. “Because of Marcus and I? Because I took off the rings?”

She stopped, nearly gasping for breath under the weight of her realization. All this time…Clarke had seen them in Polis, seen Marcus stroking her cheek, told her to go to him after the battle in the Throne Room. Could she have really despised their relationship all that time? Could she have been nurturing a hatred so sharp that she’d cut a man’s life short with it?

How could she be so cruel?

Abby was openly crying now, her own tears splashing down to the carpet to accompany her daughter’s. She couldn’t believe it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered, and something inside her daughter broke.

“I can’t talk about this,” she said, turning away and sitting down in her seat with a thud. “Mom, I can’t do this right now. Bellamy and I-“

“You’re not doing anything at one in the morning, Clarke,” Abby snapped. “Tell me why your father’s memory gives you the right to condemn the man I love to die.”

“I know you love him!” Clarke exclaimed, her voice breaking all over again. “I know! I didn’t want to do this!”

“Then you didn’t have to!” Abby said, stressing every syllable, matching her daughter in both emotion and volume. “You didn’t have to play God, Clarke!” She turned away, wiped a few tears from her cheeks with the cuff of her sleeve. When she turned back to her daughter, her voice was shakily measured. “I just wish that if you had a problem with Marcus and I, you would have told me. Then he could have made your list and lived.”

Clarke took a deep, rattling sigh, one that shook her frail shoulders and quelled her sobs for a heartbeat of a moment.

“Mom, I…” she trailed off, wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her stained gray shirt. “This isn’t about you and Marcus. I promise. I just – he made me promise not to tell you-“

Abby felt her pulse quicken, her stomach lurching all over again.

“Who made you promise? Jaha?” she asked.

A few seconds passed, magnified by the roaring of her blood through her veins and the white noise of machinery.

Clarke shook her head. “No.”

A few more seconds of quiet.

“I’m so sorry, mom. I didn’t want to leave him off, but he told me it was better that way…that I should give the spot to someone who deserved it more than him. He made me promise not to tell you…he didn’t want you to worry about him…please believe me.”

Her blood ran cold.

“Marcus,” she breathed with the little air that was left in her lungs. “Marcus told you to leave him off.”

Her daughter nodded vigorously. “I tried to keep it a secret, but you were so upset, and I didn’t want you to think…” she stopped, her voice in danger of breaking again.

“I just…couldn’t stand you thinking I didn’t want you to be happy.”

Abby felt her tears flow anew, and knelt down to be even with her daughter’s chair. Wordlessly, she gathered her into her arms, placed a comforting hand on the back of her head.

I couldn’t stand you thinking I didn’t want you to be happy.

“It’s okay,” Abby reassured her as guilt and anger formed a toxic weight in her stomach. She focused on Clarke as much as she could, rocking her back and forth as best as their position would allow. “It’s okay. I believe you, honey. I believe you.”

But apparently, Marcus could stand her thinking he didn’t want her to be happy. Apparently, Marcus loved her enough to cement her unhappiness for the rest of her days.

***

The knock on her door was hesitant, soft, questioning. It could only belong to one person, and it was for that reason she felt no urge to rise from her bed and face its owner.

“Abby?” he said, his voice as gentle as the rapping of his knuckles against the cold metal. She turned over in bed, grimaced as the linen sheets twisted and clung to her sweaty legs.

“Go away,” she droned, her voice a soulless monotone.

He was quiet for a few moments, his shadow darkening the light beneath her door and evidencing his presence. On some level, she knew he knew what she’d learned.

“Abby,” he said, his voice considerably quieter. “Please let me in.”

She gave a long, soft, drawn-out sigh in a bed that no longer felt like hers.

“Fine.”

The door had been unlocked the entire time, but naturally, Marcus Kane wouldn’t enter until given express permission. He stepped into her room gingerly, closing the door behind him with a barely audible click.

“Can I turn on the light?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Abby snapped, throwing off the covers and moving to sit on the edge of her bed. She couldn’t handle being any closer to him right now. He had a kind of magnetism that would pull her in, his brown eyes rendering her logical thought useless, losing her in a maze that would lift the shroud of anger over her words, her thoughts, her entire being.

She couldn’t be close to him knowing he hadn’t wanted to be close to her in less than two months.

The light shone, revealing a Marcus that looked no better than she felt. His gaze was rife with guilt, his eyes lacking the spark they usually had when he regarded her. They were both empty, she thought, this news having hollowed them out in every way imaginable. And he had to know it was his fault. He had to know that if he valued their relationship more than his ever-present need to sacrifice himself, that she’d be sleeping with him instead of yanking sweaty sheets around her trembling body in a bed too big for one.

“Abby,” he breathed. “I’m so-“

“Don’t bother.”

He sighed. It was three in the morning, her body ached, her head pounded as though she were being hit with a sledgehammer. She wanted him to go away. She wanted to run into his arms. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him.

She wanted everything to stop.

“I can explain,” he said, and she gave a snort the likes of which she hadn’t heard from herself since their days on the Ark. It stung for him to hear, and she knew he recognized it.

“Can you?” she asked. “Tell me, Marcus. Tell me why you would let me believe my daughter didn’t put your name on her list. Tell me why you’d commit suicide instead of-“ her voice had strayed into dangerous territory, and she swallowed hard.

“Clarke and I discussed it together,” he said. “She told me there were only a hundred spots, said Raven insisted she make a list, and…there were people more deserving than me, Abby. People without three hundred lives on their hands. People who I thought should see the future of this planet, when the storm ends.”

He looked small standing by the foot of her bed, shrinking under the weight of his confession.

“So Polis meant nothing to you,” she said, hoping that pouring her pain into her words would get some of it out of her chest. “Everything we did…everything you said to me…it was just a way to pass the time until Roan needed you to get to work.”

Marcus took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It wasn’t, and you know that. Abby, please don’t question whether or not I lov-“

“Stop.”

She couldn’t hear him say it like this. The first time couldn’t be the last, marred forever by his willingness to throw himself into radiation and leave her, the Blakes, everyone who cared about him behind.

“But it’s true,” he said, a note of pleading creeping into his tone. “Please, Abby. Everything I said in Polis, everything we shared…those were the best nine days of my life.”

She felt a tear trickle down her cheek and realized she’d been crying without realizing it. How long had her eyes been betraying her? How long had her heart been breaking loudly enough for him to hear?

“If that’s true,” she said, exhausted and broken in places she hadn’t known were whole until they shattered, “then you wouldn’t have asked my daughter to end your life. I shouldn’t have been surprised. You’ve always been determined to be a martyr, Marcus. Don’t let me stop you.”

He blinked, the harshness of her words taking him aback.

“Abby,” he said, taking another step toward her, reaching out to touch her. She recoiled.

“I need to go to sleep,” she said.

He understood her dismissal without an explicit statement, realized his presence was no longer needed nor wanted. Defeated, he moved toward the door with his shoulders slumped. Even in the darkness after he turned out the light, he appeared a shell of his former self. Of the man who kissed life into her in Polis, the man who electrified her with a thousand feelings she didn’t know she could still have.

“Goodnight, Abby,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

***

Dawn broke coldly over the horizon, yellow light chilling her to the bone. She hadn’t gotten a minute of sleep thanks to the constant buzzing of her thoughts and the weight in her stomach, a kind of pain caused only by a careful mixture of regret and desolation. A glance at the clock told her her alarm would ring in an hour, and she leaned over to switch it off anyway. Sleep wasn’t coming. It had never been invited.

A long, slow sigh brought her into the land of the living and she slid out of bed, wincing as her feet collided with cool metal. The discomfort seemed to shake off the few cobwebs that had formed around the edges of her memory, and her pain returned stronger than ever.

He had really been willing to let himself die. And he had convinced her daughter to go through with it, convinced her it was necessary, remained stubborn in his insistence to keep Abby in the dark. His expression last night – the genuine regret in his eyes, the haunted lull in his voice when he told her goodnight – there was a remorse inside them that couldn’t be faked.

That didn’t mean it was able to be forgiven.

Moving around slowly, as though the memory sapped her of her strength, Abby picked her tank top, henley and jeans up off the floor where she’d tossed them last night and began pulling them on. Her muscles felt sore for no apparent reason, and she winced as she raised her arms above her head to dress. Her breaths were ragged, uneven, and a lump had formed in her throat.

No more of that, she decided as she swallowed forcefully: no matter how she was feeling, she had a duty to her people. There were bigger things at stake than her relationship with Marcus.

A knock on the door startled her as she brushed her hair, and she decided not to acknowledge it. If he thought night would sand down the edges of her fury, he’d thought absolutely wrong. If anything, hours of consideration had sharpened it. What he’d done…it approached a line she thought she’d never see him cross again. And it sickened her to know perhaps he’d never really left it behind.

Another knock, harder, echoing through her tiny quarters. He was determined. But so was she, and of the two of them she wholeheartedly believed her will was stronger. Marcus Kane wouldn’t get a single word out of her this morning. Loudly, so he knew she was inside and in no mood to talk, she slammed her hairbrush down on her dresser and pulled her chair out from her desk for no good reason. There. Good morning, Marcus.

“Mom?” a voice at the door asked, and Abby flushed red with shame. “Are you in there?”

“Clarke,” she said, realizing her assumption couldn’t have been farther from reality. “I’m here.”

She crossed the room in three steps, pulled open the door to reveal her daughter standing in the Ark’s early morning white light. Her fingers curled around a single sheet of worn paper, and Abby could only guess as to what was on it. There was no desire within her to see the document he hadn’t requested to be on. The document that could have – and still very well might, in a different manner – separate them forever.

“Mom,” Clarke said, sounding relieved, “can I talk to you?”

Abby smiled, combatting a wave of self-hatred for the way she’d behaved toward her daughter the night before. Emotion had gotten the better of her, erased her clarity of thought, but she should have known Clarke wouldn’t try to sabotage her happiness.

“Of course,” Abby said, inviting her in and closing the door behind her. The chair came to good use, then, as Clarke seated herself in it and unfolded the document, spreading it and smoothing the creases on the solid wood of Abby’s desk. The yellowed paper did indeed contain a list of a hundred names, starting with her own: just as Monty had said.

Abby Griffin.

Eric Jackson.

Thelonious Jaha.

Raven Reyes.

The list meant as much to the future of her relationship with Marcus as it did nothing to the one between her and her daughter. Although Abby felt it had been wrong of her to create it, it was apparent from the guilt in her eyes that she saw the error of her ways: a lecture wasn’t what she needed. A lesson had been learned.

“I thought about what happened last night,” Clarke started, her voice even and measured. “Jaha had the list, but he gave it back to me. I wanted to show you this.”

Abby followed her pointer finger to the final spot on the list, a name written in capital letters. A name decidedly not printed in her daughter’s hand. CLARKE GRIFFIN.

“I know you’re mad at Marcus,” Clarke started, and Abby interrupted.

“You don’t think I should be?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. Of all the things she thought Clarke might have come to her an hour before her shift in Medical to discuss, her relationship with Marcus Kane hadn’t made the list. “He was going to sacrifice himself, Clarke. He didn’t tell me, and he left that burden to you.”

Clarke shook her head. “Let me explain,” she said.

Her finger still resting on the name that was both hers and foreign, she continued. “I wasn’t going to put myself on the list. That last spot…it was going to go to one of our people. I hadn’t decided yet whether it would be a guardsman, or an engineer, but it wasn’t going to me.”

All the breath drained from Abby’s lungs. Not only could she have lost Marcus, but she could have lost her daughter, too? Why bother putting her on the list, then? Why offer her salvation when her heart had already been destroyed?

“After the things I’d done…the pain I’d caused…I didn’t think I was worthy of a place here,” she continued. “I had every intention of being outside the doors when the end came. Just like Kane.”

Her hands shaking, Abby clung to that name as a reminder her daughter would have been indoors. Somehow, she’d made it onto the list. The image of Clarke trudging through black rain, suffering through ARS, her pale skin marred by lesions and lumps…she couldn’t even consider it.

“You deserved to be on the list,” Abby insisted, all thoughts of Marcus expunged for the time being. “Honey, you’ve saved us all more times than I can count. You should have been first, not me.”

Clarke shook her head. “I didn’t come here to talk about me.”

Abby frowned, tempted to interject, but let her daughter keep going.

“If Bellamy hadn’t been with me, my name wouldn’t be on that list. And it didn’t mean I don’t care about you, or Raven, or him. I do. But I made a choice for my people, and I was determined to see it through. Even if it meant sacrificing myself for them.”

“But Bellamy was there,” Abby said, all the pieces of the puzzle falling together. “And he wrote your name.”

A nod from her daughter’s golden blonde head, painted with streaks of white in the early morning sun. “And if things had been different…if it had been you and Kane making the list…you would have written his name in capital letters, too.”

Understanding washed over her like a ray of sunlight, illuminating her questions about her daughter’s presence.

“You think I should forgive him,” she said.

Clarke was quiet for a few moments, her gaze transfixed on the list of names that meant everything and nothing.

“He made the same choice as I did,” she said. “And I understand why. He didn’t do it to hurt you, mom.”

Abby hadn’t often considered the parallels between her daughter and Marcus, although now they appeared in ink before her eyes on that yellowed piece of paper. Both she and him suffered over their past deeds – things they’d done for the greater good – things that resulted in losses of innocent lives. Neither of them had yet found the strength to fully forgive themselves. And it was her duty, then, to support them until that blossom of self-forgiveness could stand on its own.

“But he had to know,” Abby offered. “He had to know how I would feel.”

“I knew how you would feel, too,” she said. “But I hoped you’d understand. And so did he. If you can forgive me for not writing my name, you should forgive him for telling me not to include his.”

Taken aback, Abby stared at her daughter while she tried to come up with something coherent to say. And to think she’d thought this was because she didn’t approve of Marcus – that she harbored resentment because of Jake. How wrong she’d been, only mere hours ago.

“Of course I forgive you,” she said finally, moving closer as Clarke stood from her chair. “I’ll always forgive you, Clarke. You’re my daughter.”

Clarke smiled, a brief flash of sunshine-infused joy that reminded her of her father. Abby moved forward to enclose her in an embrace, and Clarke held her back just as tightly.

“So you’re going to forgive him, too,” she said, her tone making it sound as though a conclusion had been reached. “You can’t forgive me and not him, mom. Not when we made the same choice.”

Abby’s shoulders rose and fell in an exasperated sigh, knowing she’d been backed into a corner by her daughter’s logic. Yet another thing that reminded her of Jake: their ability to win an argument by sheer, solid, foolproof reasoning. As annoying as it was, it was hard to keep yelling at a damn good point.

Clarke stepped away, a question in her blue eyes.

“We’ll see,” she said. Clarke gave her another short nod, unwilling to push her further. Only once she’d left did Abby notice the list remained on her desk: a reminder of what the two people she loved most had almost done out of another kind of love: a love for their people. It was an aching kind of poignant, one that forced her to fold up the paper and shove it in the crack between her wall and the desk. She had no desire to look at it again.

When all was said and done, she looked at the clock.

We’ll see.

***

Abby stood in the hallway, hesitating as the hum of machinery whirred around her. There was no reason, she told herself, to be this timid. Discussions like this could go one of two ways, and there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

That said, her stomach felt like it was being squeezed in a vise.

Banishing her uncertainty to a dark corner of her head, she raised her knuckles and slammed them against the door. Her heart wouldn’t be able to handle a non-response, so she added her voice for good measure.

“Marcus,” she said, knowing fully well she might not have been the only one who rolled out of bed this morning in no mood to talk. “Are you-“

The door was yanked open before the end of her sentence.

It was as though he’d spent the whole night waiting, she thought. He didn’t appear to have removed any of his clothes or attempted sleep, his bed perfectly made and his jacket zipped. He looked at her with a mixture of hurt and regret, sending shockwaves of emotion through her as she stood before him in the Ark’s snowy light.

“Abby,” he breathed, as though her name pained him. After last night, she couldn’t blame him if it did. “Come in.”

She walked through the door and heard it close behind her, felt his gaze on her as she leaned back against his metal table. They both began talking at the same time, words flying as he made his way toward her.

“I’m so sorry-“

“Clarke told me-“

Then they both stopped, aware of what they were doing.

“You first,” Abby said with an ember of a warming smile, curious as to what was on his mind. Her heart would forgive him, as it always did, but it would do her good to hear him apologize.

“Abby, I’m so sorry about the list,” he said. “About everything. I should have told you from the start what was happening – not only what I was thinking, but what Clarke and Raven were thinking, too. We’re a team, and it wasn’t right of me to leave you out.”

Abby nodded, took a step closer to him. “We work better together,” she said, remembering the long nights when the chancellorship had been a burden shouldered by them both. “But that’s not…” she paused, struggled to find the words that best conveyed the swirl of emotions in her chest. “Marcus, just promise me something.”

“Anything,” he blurted, his brown eyes wide.

“Promise me you won’t do this again,” she said. “I’m not talking about sharing everything with me. You’re the Chancellor. You don’t have to tell me every detail of every negotiation. But the thought of being without you…that you could want that…your penchant for self-sacrifice doesn’t just affect you.”

He nodded so vigorously Abby thought she heard his neck crack. “I won’t,” he said. “I don’t want to be without you, either. I never want to leave your side again, Abby. Those weeks when we were separated…they were hell. And the decision I made regarding that list was wrong. I hope you can forgive me.”

She smiled, a real, full one then, stepping forward to close the distance between them. Their proximity was practically intimate – she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the tension his question wove through the air between them.

“Clarke came to talk to me this morning,” she said. “She told me she wasn’t going to put her own name on the list, either.”

Marcus frowned. “That’s absurd,” he said. “Clarke should have-“

“It doesn’t matter now,” Abby interrupted, firm. “Bellamy was there, and he wrote her name. And she made me realize you two are more similar than I thought. You have the same tendencies. Her name wouldn’t have been on the list, but Bellamy wrote it down. In the hundredth spot.”

Marcus appeared relieved, although they both knew the list was no longer meaningful. “Of course he did,” he said. “Anyone would have. Clarke deserves to survive.”

“Her point was, Bellamy wrote her name,” Abby said, “and I would have written yours. Her choice wasn’t made to hurt the people she loves, and neither was yours. I understand that now.”

He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time, dawn breaking through the gloom of his features. As if he knew, for the first time since she stepped through is door, that there was a chance he’d be forgiven. That everything would be okay.

“Although I do wish you’d given me a little more consideration, Kane,” she said. His surname was accompanied with a wry smirk, a gesture that made it clear she was joking. He breathed a laugh, wrapped his arms around her as she pulled him close and buried her face in his shoulder.

He smelled like home.

“Abby, I…” he whispered, anchoring her to him with his hands pressed against her back. His voice shook, and she felt that all-too-familiar tightness in her chest that threatened sobs. “Thank you. I won’t do it again.”

She pressed her lips to the tiny expanse of his collarbone exposed by the neckline of his shirt, suddenly overwhelmed by how deeply she’d missed him. How empty her life had felt, even for those few hours, knowing there was a fraction of a possibility everything could end between them. How dark things had been then, how light they were now.

She leaned away, reaching up to brush a soft curl of dark hair away from his forehead.

“I missed you,” she whispered, tilting her head to the side as she leaned forward again. He met her in the middle, brushing his lips against hers in a gesture that was half apology, half yearning.

“I missed you, too,” he said when they broke apart, their mouths still only inches from each other’s. “I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

Abby grinned. “Me either. I think we formed a habit in Polis.”

Her laugh was contagious.

“Good or bad?” he asked.

“Good,” she answered. “Except for when you make me late to important meetings.”

She leaned in again, giving him a kiss that was decidedly less gentle. The shape of his mouth betrayed a smile, and when they parted there was a familiar gleam in his eye. A laugh worked its way up her throat before she could stop it. She knew that look.

“Marcus, I’m supposed to be in Medical in ten minutes.”

The look remained, tantalizing and reverent and adoring all at once.

“Then we have ten minutes.”

His fingers found their way beneath the waistband of her pants, teasing her, skimming her sensitive skin and forcing a gasp from between her lips. Already heat had begun coiling low in her stomach, and she realized she’d missed more than just his comforting presence beside her in bed.

By the time he stepped forward to kiss her again, his mouth insistent and hungry, she was already lost.

“You…” she started as they moved in the direction of his bed, shedding clothing in graceless piles as they went. His kiss cut her sentence short, and she felt the smoothness of his comforter brush against the back of her knees.

“Are a terrible influence?” he finished for her as she lay down with her head on his pillows, amazed by how comfortable his bed was. It was smaller than hers but softer, a true threat to the luxury they’d experienced in Polis.

“The worst,” she murmured, sighing as he peppered hot, slow kisses to the pulse point of her neck and worked his way toward her lips again. There was no way she’d be on time to Medical, but as she had the morning before she was called to meet with Roan, she couldn’t quite locate the part of her mind that was responsible for caring. “The absolute worst.”

***

And so that night, right after she’d said goodbye to Jackson and Raven, Abby made a beeline for her quarters. Naturally, she and Marcus would be sharing a room – publically because it created more space, and privately because they found they couldn’t sleep without each other now – and she threw open the door to her room with a sense of urgency.

Tonight was the do-over for last night, a reset button for all the rage and anger that had been shoved in the place of love and tenderness, and she intended to do it right. But she’d still need her clothes in the morning, her things…she had no intention of being taunted by Monty and Jasper when they saw her making her way back to her quarters after spending the night with Marcus Kane.

The simpler solution, then, was to just move in with him. Which was exactly what they intended to happen.

Thankfully, her possessions were meager: a few shirts, a pair or two of pants, the only other tank top in her possession. Things that could fit in a bag, at least for now. For tonight, she’d take what she could carry. This was only the beginning, she thought with a smile.

She reached up to grab her favorite book – a cheesy romance novel with a revealing cover that she knew would earn her a playful ribbing from the man she loved – and threw it in the bag. Clothes, book, toiletries…it was enough for now. The rest she could come back for later, if she felt the need.

In the process of turning away from her desk, Abby’s gaze fell on that familiar space between wall and wood: a space she knew held something more than open air. It was unimportant, and altogether preposterous, and part of her knew it would be better to burn it and put the list to rest once and for all. At some point, she thought, she might ask Marcus what he thought they should do with it – how best to dispose of it.

Fishing around for it in the darkness, her fingers finally closed against the smooth paper. She pulled it out and slammed it on her desk, as if intent on making it feel the pain it had caused her, her daughter, her love. Such an outpouring of emotion for such a small, meaningless, irrelevant thing.

For now, though she was thankful it was no longer their solution to the apocalyptic problem at hand, she had unfinished business where its black-inked page was concerned.

Rummaging through her drawers, her fingers scraped wood and various office trinkets until she landed on what she was looking for: a pen. Pulling it out from the blackness, she slid the drawer closed and uncapped it in one fluid motion.

They might have only planned for a hundred, but Bellamy Blake had been a stowaway.

It was only fair, she thought, that the same rules should have applied on her daughter’s list: intended for a hundred, given an extra one. So, on the bottom of the list beneath her daughter’s name, Abby Griffin wrote one more in bold, swooping letters.

MARCUS KANE.

[tonxstark]

Macho game, on the internet ??

This is actually the 145th original of Xianren JUMP 1 My childhood is a story lingering with toilet literature. You can find traces of my creation in every wall of the school toilet. The protagonist is normally the foreign language teacher I hate the most. He continually taught me some tough English, and I always suspected he tried too hard. When I grew up, I read Mr. Chuan's Twitter to confirm this. Isn't the English of the President of america the same? Top of the limit of the English world reaches this level. Needless to say, I realized later on that the value of learning English lies in finding him grammatical errors. In lots of years of literary creation, I did not encounter any difficulties. The only trouble is that I don't possess time and energy to play games. During the past, when I just knew more easily, I could still have a hardcore stand-alone for 3 hours prior to going to bed. Later, We double-opened Pinterest, and I could only take the time to purchase two pesticides and chicken, and I would occasionally sigh easily viewed my accounts with full pores and skin and inscriptions. Before I started to tinker with station B this past year, I had to cut all the game time. Except on weekends, I could only play idle mobile video games, and the reason is really boring-for a apparently high-producing sow, in fact, there is absolutely no one that can let me play with paper while smashing the liver. People, there is no delay in the game. Yes, I'm discussing swords and expeditions. 2 The sword and the expedition are burning, and the fire is really a little unusual. A new public beta mobile sport has been on the very best 3 of the IOS best-seller listing for just two consecutive months, eating poultry and pesticides makes the chrysanthemum tremble. I am afraid that if I'm not careful, I will give out an intoxicating fragrance. Lots of people were caught away guard by the fire of sword and expedition. Right now when Tencent and NetEase dominate the mobile game market, only the crazy cooking strength of the two-dimensional component to the document man's wife can barely support one or two explosions and struggle against it, or it is a re-enactment of the terminal game IP mobile game a decade ago. Stable gold absorption. Making money is so boring. The complete Chinese mobile online game market has been without interesting waves for too much time. Five or six years ago, the era when thousands of cellular game groups of thousands of heroes in troubled occasions were effective, all publishers had been looking for products and teams. Nobody would have believed that Lilith, who utilized to create her debut with the legendary dark equine of Dota, would usher in her 2nd spring after a few years of dormancy. Lots of people cannot understand the sword and the fire of expedition. 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"Sword and Expedition" was suggested by the homepage of various channels It really is conservatively estimated that the marketing cost of Sword and Expedition inside the initial month is a lot more than 300 million yuan. It has caught up with the yearly turnover of many game companies. Banknote capability is definitely the core competitiveness. After the events at the beginning of the year, everyone's living conditions are specific. The entire online entertainment sector has experienced a spurt of growth, and video games are usually no exception. What the marketplace blowout brings is a mixture of seafood and dragons. Everyone wants to catch a wave. Then why just sword and expedition can perform it. The answer is easy. During the past, no enterprise dared to spend so much cash on advertising. You imagine that throwing money is just throwing coins, and the influencing causes of it are actually very complicated. The technical content of throwing money is quite high, and the difference between the actuary and the Kaizi is 10,000 in the market. Everyone inside the mobile sport industry opens their mouths. DAU ARPU ROI CPI, one by one, is better than anyone else. At first glance, it is a sport item, but behind this is a total data analysis system. Just how much a consumer will probably be worth, and how much money can be paid back are known. It's another issue if the amount of money goes out and not collected. If it were not for 100% confidence in the product, no company may have this type of large budget. The quantity will be more expensive as it sells. Sword and Expedition has already been continuously and intensively screened for just two months. It is really rich. Actually, the reverse also shows that Lilith really has confidence in her own products. Otherwise, no sum of money will make sense. 4 Delivery and product quality participate in the relationship among 0 and 1. Don't think about it. The merchandise can stand, that is, there is 1 ahead. And the placement is the 0 behind. If there is zero 1, how many 0s is a 0, without the real value. When there is zero 0, there is only 1 1, that would be very lonely. Swords and Expeditions isn't just the saturation announcement, the merchandise itself actually has a deep doorway, and the art style of cup painting is a big plus point. Before the national service went live, the overall game had been operating overseas for a year, also it had the highest income from domestic cellular games overseas. Community content and user portraits accumulated overseas also provide precise model guidelines for domestic publicity strategies. The accumulation of overseas operations in advance isn't only this content of the game version, but has actually fully verified the payment style of the complete game and the player's recognition of the gameplay. This is a base for Lilith's daring to saturate domestic investment decision. The gameplay appears to be outdated, but in fact the growth team, because the original team of Dota Legends, based on the six years of experience accumulated in this former national mobile game, it brings a very powerful detailed experience and a very strategic strategy. Solid, is one of the expert shot. After merging and putting the gameplay, a chemical reaction occurs even more. Now there certainly are a lot of people like me who prefer to play video games but don't have fun with games. There are a lot of tales on the Internet, that may satisfy these people's pursuit of entertainment and offer in-depth strategic expertise. , Became the G point that Sword and Expedition precisely hit. 5 Prior to the upgrade of popular cellular phone configurations and the popularization of 4G, probably the most profound feeling of every player from the age of barbaric growth of online flash games should be the immaturity of the entire market. There are, or even a few, excellent functions. 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[endenogatai]

Femtech startup Inne takes the wraps off a hormone tracker and $8.8M in funding

Berlin-based femtech startup Inne is coming out of stealth to announce an €8 million (~$8.8M) Series A and give the first glimpse of a hormone-tracking subscription product for fertility-tracking and natural contraception that’s slated for launch in Q1 next year.

The Series A is led by led by Blossom Capital, with early Inne backer Monkfish Equity also participating, along with a number of angel investors — including Taavet Hinrikus, co-founder of TransferWise; Tom Stafford, managing partner at DST; and Trivago co-founder Rolf Schromgens.

Women’s health apps have been having a tech-fuelled moment in recent years, with the rise of a femtech category. There are now all sorts of apps for tracking periods and the menstrual cycle, such as Clue and Flo.

Some also try to predict which days a women is fertile and which they’re not — offering digital tools to help women track bodily signals if they’re following a natural family planning method of contraception, or indeed trying to conceive a baby.

Others — such as Natural Cycles — have gone further down that path, branding their approach “digital contraception” and claiming greater sophistication vs traditional natural family planning by applying learning algorithms to cycle data augmented with additional information (typically a daily body temperature measurement). Although there has also been some controversy around aggressive and even misleading marketing tactics targeting young women.

A multi-month investigation by the medical device regulator in Natural Cycles’ home market, instigated after a number of women fell pregnant while using its method, found rates of failure were in line with its small-print promises but concluded with the company agreeing to clarify the risk of the product failing.

At issue is that the notion of “digital contraception” may present as simple and effortless — arriving in handy app form, often boosted by a flotilla of seductive social media lifestyle ads. Yet the reality for the user is the opposite of effortless. Because in fact they are personally taking on all of the risk.

For these products to work the user needs a high level of dedication to stick at it, be consistent and pay close attention to key details in order to achieve the promised rate of protection.

Natural contraception is also what Inne is touting, dangling another enticing promise of hormone-free contraception — its website calls the product “a tool of radical self-knowledge” and claims it “protect[s]… from invasive contraceptive methods”. It’s twist is it’s not using temperature to track fertility; its focus is on hormone-tracking as a fertility measure.

Inne says it’s developed a saliva-based test to measure hormone levels, along with an in vitro diagnostic device (pictured above) that allows data to be extracted from the disposable tests at home and wirelessly logged in the companion app.

Founder Eirini Rapti describes the product as a “mini lab” — saying it’s small and portable enough to fit in a pocket. Her team has been doing the R&D on it since 2017, preferring, she says, to focus on getting the biochemistry right rather than shouting about launching the startup. (It took in seed funding prior to this round but isn’t disclosing how much.)

At this stage Inne has applied for and gained European certification as a medical device. Though it’s not yet been formally announced.

The first product, a natural contraception for adult women — billed as best suited for women aged 28-40, i.e. at a steady relationship time-of-life — will be launching in select European markets (starting in Scandinavia) next year, though initially as a closed beta style launch as they work on iterating the product based on user feedback.

“It basically has three parts,” Rapti says of the proposition. “It has a small reader… It has what we call a little mouth opening in the front. It always gives you a smile. That’s the hardware part of it, so it recognizes the intensity of your hormones. And then there’s a disposable saliva test. You basically collect your saliva by putting it in your mouth for 30 seconds. And then you insert it in the reader and then you go about your day.

“The reader is connected to your phone, either via BlueTooth or wifi, depending on where you are taking the test daily… It takes the reading and it sends it over to your phone. In your phone you can do a couple of things. First of all you look at your hormonal data and you look at how those change throughout the menstrual cycle. So you can see how they grow, how they fall. What that means about your ovulation or your overall female health — like we measure progesterone; that tells you a lot about your lining etc. And then you can also track your fluids… We teach you how to track them, how to understand what they mean.”

As well as a contraception use-case, the fertility tracking element naturally means it could also be used by women wanting to get pregnant.

“This product is not a tracker. We’re not looking to gather your data and then tell you next month what you should be feeling — at all,” she adds. “It’s more designed to track your hormones and tell you look this is the most basic change that happens in your body and because of those changes you will feel certain things. So do you feel them or not — and if you don’t, what does it mean? Or if you do what does it mean?

“It builds your own hormonal baseline — so you start measuring your hormones and we go okay so this is your baseline and now let’s look at things that go out of your baseline. And what do they mean?”

Of course the key question is how accurate is a saliva-based test for hormones as a method for predicting fertility? On this Rapti says Inne isn’t ready to share data about the product’s efficacy — but claims it will be publishing details of the various studies it conducted as part of the CE marking process in the next few weeks.

“A couple more weeks and all the hardcore numbers will be out there,” she says.

In terms of how it works in general the hormone measurement is “a combination of a biochemical reaction and the read out of it”, as she puts it — with the test itself being pure chemistry but algorithms then being applied to interpret the hormonal reading, looping in other signals such as the user’s cycle length, age and the time of day of the test.

She claims the biochemical hormone test the product relies on as its baseline for predicting fertility is based on similar principles to standard pregnancy tests — such as those that involve peeing on a stick to get a binary ‘pregnant’ or ‘not pregnant’ result. “We are focused on specifically fertility hormones,” she says.

“Our device is a medical device. It’s CE-certified in Europe and to do that you have to do all kinds of verification and performance evaluation studies. They will be published pretty soon. I cannot tell you too much in detail but to develop something like that we had to do verification studies, performance evaluation studies, so all of that is done.”

While it developed and “validated” the approach in-house, Rapti notes that it also worked with a number of external diagnostic companies to “optimize” the test.

“The science behind it is pretty straightforward,” she adds. “Your hormones behave in a specific way — they go from a low to a high to a low again, and what you’re looking for is building that trend… What we are building is an individual curve per user. The starting and the ending point in terms of values can be different but it is the same across the cycle for one user.”

“When you enter a field like biochemistry as an outsider a lot of the academics will tell you about the incredible things you could do in the future. And there are plenty,” she adds. “But I think what has made a difference to us is we always had this manufacturability in mind. So if you ask me there’s plenty of ways you can detect hormones that are spectacular but need about ten years of development let alone being able to manufacture it at scale. So it was important to me to find a technology that would allow us to do it effectively, repeatedly but also manufacture it at a low cost — so not reinventing the whole wheel.”

Rapti says Inne is controlling for variability in the testing process by controlling when users take the measurement (although that’s clearly not directly within its control, even if it can send an in-app reminder); controlling how much saliva is extracted per test; and controlling how much of the sample is tested — saying “that’s all done mechanically; you don’t do that”.

“The beauty about hormones is they do not get influenced by lack of sleep, they do not get influenced by getting out of your bed — and this is the reason why I wanted to opt to actually measure them,” she adds, saying she came up with the idea for the product as a user of natural contraception searching for a better experience. (Rapti is not herself trained in medical or life sciences.)

“When I started the company I was using the temperature method [of natural contraception] and I thought it cannot be that I have to take this measurement from my bed otherwise my measurement’s invalid,” she adds.

However there are other types of usage restrictions Inne users will need to observe in order to avoid negatively affecting the hormonal measurements.

Firstly they must take the test in the same time window each time — either in the morning or the evening but sticking to one of those choices for good.

They also need to stick to daily testing for at least a full menstrual cycle. Plus there are certain days in the month when testing will always be essential, per Rapti, even as she suggests a “learning element” might allow for the odd missed test day later on, i.e. once enough data has been inputted.

Users also have to avoid drinking and eating for 30 minutes before taking the test. She further specifies this half hour pre-test restriction includes not having oral sex — “because that also affects the measurements”.

“There’s a few indications around it,” she concedes, adding: “The product is super easy to use but it is not for women who want to not think ever about contraception or their bodies. I believe that for these women the IUD would be the perfect solution because they never have to think about it. This product is for women who consciously do not want to take hormones and don’t want invasive devices — either because they’ve been in pain or they’re interested in being natural and not taking hormones.”

At this stage Inne hasn’t performed any comparative studies vs established contraception methods such as the pill. So unless or until it does users won’t be able to assess the relative risk of falling pregnant while using it against more tried and tested contraception methods.

Rapti says the plan is to run more clinical studies in the coming year, helped by the new funding. But these will be more focused on what additional insights can be extracted from the test to feed the product proposition — rather than on further efficacy (or any comparative) tests.

They’ve also started the process of applying for FDA certification to be able to enter the US market in future.

Beyond natural contraception and fertility tracking, Inne is thinking about wider applications for its approach to hormone tracking — such as providing women with information about the menopause, based on longer term tracking of their hormone levels. Or to help manage conditions such as endometriosis, which is one of the areas where it wants to do further research.

The intent is to be the opposite of binary, she suggests, by providing adult women with a versatile tool to help them get closer to and understand changes in their bodies for a range of individual needs and purposes.

“I want to shift the way people perceive our female bodies to be binary,” she adds. “Our bodies are not binary, they change around the month. So maybe this month you want to avoid getting pregnant and maybe next month you actually want to get pregnant. It’s the same body that you need to understand to help you do that.”

Commenting on the Series A in a supporting statement, Louise Samet, partner at Blossom Capital, said: “Inne has a winning combination of scientific validity plus usability that can enable women to better understand their bodies at all stages in their lives. What really impressed us is the team’s meticulous focus on design and easy-of-use together with the scientific validity and clear ambition to impact women all over the world.”

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[theconservativebrief]

3 Musketeers recently announced its first new flavor in six years. It is called “Birthday Cake,” and according to the press release, it features “vanilla-flavored nougat and colorful sprinkles covered in rich milk chocolate.”

This certainly sounds cake-inspired, in that some cakes are vanilla and some vanilla cakes have sprinkles. I agree; I, too, have partaken in such cakes. I have also eaten chocolate cakes, though, that I believed were birthday cakes, and red velvet birthday cakes, and once a rum cake that was also in commemoration of aging.

Is there a type of cake that is for birthdays? Have I been doing birthdays wrong? When did we decide that “birthday cake” had a distinct flavor somehow different than “graduation cake” or “bat mitzvah cake”?

The list of products designed to taste like birthday cake is long. In 2012, for example, Oreo introduced a limited edition birthday cake Oreo to celebrate the brand’s 100th birthday. The Huffington Post described them as having a “strong vanilla aroma” and tasting like “someone slathered an Oreo with vanilla frosting out of a can.” (This is praise.) Like the 3 Musketeers, it featured “flecks of rainbow sprinkles.”

A year later, USA Today reported at least 17 “birthday-cake flavored new products” had recently hit the market, including, but not limited to, Good Humor birthday cake bars, and party cake Peeps. 2014 saw the coming of the short-lived birthday cake M&M, which was billed, cryptically, as “delicious milk chocolate infused with birthday cake flavor.”

As time marches on, birthday cake has continued to proliferate: Airheads, the candy shaped like a slap bracelet, released a birthday cake flavor in celebration of itself in 2016. “Your mouth just pools with saliva the second you bite into this thing,” one poet-reviewer wrote of the experience, “but at least it’s cake-flavored saliva.” That year, the New York Times announced the coming of the “Funfetti Explosion.” Funfetti, to be clear, is basically the same as most interpretations of birthday cake: yellow base, with mixed-in rainbow sprinkles.

Now there are birthday cake Red Vines, which are counterintuitive, in that they are not red (technically they are twistettes), and birthday cake Auntie Anne’s pretzels, which are surprising, because they are pretzels. According to Nielsen, the flavor “birthday cake” has seen sales increase “more than 29 percent since 2017.”

“The Birthday Cake flavor is vanilla cake and sprinkles mixed in,” offers a representative for Halo Top, which makes a birthday flavored frozen dessert. “The flavor profile is basically the texture of eating vanilla cake batter with sprinkles!”

“I think it means box-mix or grocery store yellow cake that tastes mostly like butter, egg yolks, sugar, and lots of artificial vanilla extract,” says Kristen Miglore, creative director at Food52, and author of Genius Desserts. The colorful sprinkles don’t really do anything in terms of flavor, but they “really drive home the birthday vibes visually.”

Annette Warrell-Jones, marketing manager at the Warrell Corporation, a candy manufacturer, which is, at this very moment, working on a “natural birthday cake-flavored” cotton candy, agrees that, in her estimation, the flavor of birthday cake is essentially vanilla batter. Everyone agrees on this: Birthday cake is vanilla. Birthday cake has sprinkles.

I want to know when we all decided this, but nobody will tell me. It is just the natural order of the universe. It is what a birthday is.

“Our mission is to spread small moments of joy with our fans and this latest flavor brings that celebratory feeling to the everyday,” the 3 Musketeers press release patiently explains. It occurs to me at this point that it would be difficult for 3 Musketeers to release a chocolate birthday cake bar, since 3 Musketeers bars are chocolate already. It occurs to me “yellowcake” is also a form of concentrated uranium.

Leah Morrow, executive pastry chef of the Williamsburg Hotel and Brooklyn Bread Lab, suggests the tyranny of yellow cake with sprinkles stems from our collective longing for lost youth. “It is nostalgic to see something cream colored with flecks of color, like a vanilla cake with vanilla icing and sprinkles,” she says. It is not that birthday cake even has to remind you of your childhood in particular, but just a childhood. The concept of childhood.

“It’s a children’s flavor, and children celebrate birthdays with a gusto,” suggests Warrell-Jones. Birthday cake, as a flavor, is the simplest kind of birthday cake, cheerfully uncomplicated, the primary colors of cake. Birthday cake is basic, and it is pretty, and in an ironic twist of anti-aging, it reminds us all of when we were basic and pretty, too.

“I believe that a birthday cake is a cake made specifically for who’s birthday it is!” Morrow tells me. But as we have learned by now, birthday cake (cake) and birthday cake (flavor) are not the same.

Birthday cake is part of a shared mythology. It is the default all-American cake, just like the golden retriever is the default all-American dog. Unlike yellowcake it has no war baggage; unlike wedding cake it comes with no responsibilities. It is gleefully unsophisticated. That’s the point.

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Original Source -> The weird hegemony of “birthday cake” flavor

via The Conservative Brief

[madisonsclarks]

Sing About Tragedy

Summary: Abby finds out Marcus’ name wasn’t on Clarke’s list and must deal with the consequences of what it means for her relationship with her daughter and with the man she loves. Set in some alternate S4 future after Abby returns from Becca’s lab and Marcus gets out of whatever mess he’s in with Azgeda. :/

Author’s Note: This is the angsty-est 8,000-word thing I’ve written in a long time, but I just couldn’t let that list plot go without exploring the idea that Abby might find out he wasn’t mentioned. Don’t hate me. Cry with me instead.  

Pairings: Kabby, and hella implied Raveric/Puppy Mechanic because I’m TRASH NOW AND THE TRASH CAN IS WHERE I RESIDE

Abby smiled as she moved through Medical, taking care to keep her steps as quiet as she could. For the moment, her only patient was Octavia Blake – freshly returned from another brush with death, which seemed to be a talent of hers – and two members of their camp had hardly left her side for the day’s duration.

Bellamy had set up a chair next to his sister’s cot, sat down, and proceeded not to move an inch for at least three hours. Octavia had yet to awaken – she’d been bruised pretty badly, and one of her legs had been fractured – this was, of course, factoring out the stab wound she’d sustained from Echo. With her hair fanning out in all directions like a raven waterfall, she appeared the most peaceful Abby had ever seen her. No matter how ardently she reassured her older brother that she was going to be fine, he seemed determined to be there the moment the anesthetic wore off.

“They’re both asleep,” Jackson noted, his gaze drifting from Bellamy to his companion as his lips formed a wry smile. “Didn’t you offer to let them know when she woke up?”

“I did,” she sighed, a slow quirk at the corners of her lips forming a mirror image of Jackson’s expression. Of all the things that had surprised her with the oncoming nuclear meltdown, this wouldn’t have come close to making the list. “They didn’t listen.”

Jackson’s smile widened. “As long as they’re resting,” he said, his focus switching to the test tubes of Nightblood they had managed to manufacture in Becca’s lab. Or rather, the person standing next to them, drumming her fingers absentmindedly against the countertop. Jackson asked permission with a glance, and Abby nodded. There was nothing more he could do for Octavia: now it was a waiting game to see how she felt when she awakened.

Abby watched as Raven met Jackson with a smile, and they began an animated discussion about the contents on the counter in front of them. At one point, she thought she even heard Raven laugh – a welcome change from her demeanor only weeks ago. Jackson, it seemed, had that effect on her. Thank you, Jackson.

Abandoned by her assistant, Abby’s gaze drifted to the man sitting in a chair on the opposite side of Octavia’s cot. Marcus had tried to find things to do in Medical for the past few hours as the sky darkened, for what Abby guessed was a two-pronged reason: to spend time with her and to be there for Octavia. The majority of his day had been spent in meetings; time with Clarke, Jaha, and others. Now, it seemed, the steady flow of duties had slowed to a trickle, and he had time to spare in awaiting Octavia’s recovery.

He hadn’t had time to tell her the specifics of what happened, but it was obvious enough that he and Bellamy had thought she was dead. From the weight in his tone and the regret in his eyes, she guessed their last conversation hadn’t been a pleasant one. It was a sharp, white-hot pain Abby knew all too well; when she had been in space and her daughter on the ground, regret and grief had almost swallowed her whole, sanded down the edges of her will to keep fighting for what was right.

Thankfully, she thought, they managed to salvage their relationship and come to an understanding about what happened to her father. To realize Marcus had gone through a similar stage, all while being captured by Azgeda…it was almost too much for her to bear. Octavia might not have been his daughter, but he certainly loved her like one: his relief at seeing her alive was enough to prove it.

As if her soft stare was enough to wake him, Marcus blearily lifted his head and found Abby looking at him from across the room. Instinctively, they both smiled. In the past she might have been embarrassed for him to find out she’d been watching him sleep. After all, it was an intimate thing – in sleep, he appeared weightless, unburdened, calmness and tranquility having filled in gaps where stress and anxiety vacated – and while she couldn’t say she’d never done it before they were together, it meant something different now. Every touch, every glance, every word was a treasure.

He meant something different now.

Marcus stood slowly, wincing, and Abby gritted her teeth. She wanted to tell him to stay in the chair, but doing so would require her to shout from across the room – a sound that wound undoubtedly wake Bellamy, who hadn’t been roused from his slumber by her gaze. Thankfully the moment passed quickly, and Marcus made his way over to her with no more outward indications of a pain she hoped he no longer felt.

Wordlessly, he opened his arms and she moved into them. Faintly, Abby could hear Jackson and Raven deep in their discussion. They had moved out of view: the potential for embarrassment was low. Not, she thought, that embarrassment was something about which they needed to be worried. Not after their reunion.

She nearly laughed when she remembered how she’d greeted him, half her heart limping and twisting and barely beating since he hadn’t answered his radio a few days earlier. All pretense of decorum evaporated, she’d sprinted toward him and all but thrown herself into his arms, all sounds of hammers on metal and buzzing conversation drowned out by the loudness of his presence.

His arms felt like home, his heartbeat a symphony, and she’d leaned away just enough to kiss him – passionately – in front of an unwilling, clueless audience.

She could still hear John yelling at them to “get a room.”

The memory brought a muted giggle from between her lips as she leaned into his embrace, composed more of a sigh than emotion. But Marcus knew her well enough to know what it meant, his steady hands stilling on her back.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked softly, still holding her close. Honesty, she decided, was the best policy.

“What I’d do if anyone walked in on us now,” she said. “Then I remembered…” she trailed off, and it was his turn to give a sigh of a chuckle.

“I don’t think we need to worry,” he said. “Unless you’d rather we didn’t-“

There was no way in hell she’d let him finish that sentence.

“Don’t you dare,” she murmured, pressing herself more fully to his solid form, and earned a real chuckle for her trouble.

A loud chorus of laughter shattered the intimacy of the moment, and Marcus pulled away to look in the direction of the explosion.

“Raven and Jackson?” he said, his tone asking a question his words hadn’t. Abby shook her head.

“I don’t think so. Not that I know of, at least. But you’re assuming they’d tell me.”

“Jackson would.”

Abby considered for a moment, decided he was right. Spending five years as someone’s assistant gave them an all-access pass into one’s personal affairs, whether or not you wanted them to have it. Jackson had known about the two of them long before the rest of Arkadia, had been aiming knowing smiles in her direction every time Marcus wandered into Medical. It was only fair, she thought, that she could make the same conjecture about him and Raven. If there was a conjecture to be made.

“Probably,” she admitted. “But for now, I’m just happy she’s happy.”

Marcus nodded. “I haven’t heard her laugh in…” he trailed off, the sound of Raven Reyes’ laughter falling outside the parameters of his memory. His sentence was finished by another source: a quiet groan from across the room.

“Octavia,” he said, every muscle in his body stiffening at the sound. Abby removed herself gently from his arms, and he all but sprinted to the cot. Naturally, Bellamy had awakened at the moment a sound came from his sister’s cracked, dry lips.

“O,” the boy said said, leaning over her as her eyelids opened, desperate to be the first thing she saw when she returned to the world of the living. “Octavia. Octavia.”

Marcus approached slowly, placing a hand on Bellamy’s shoulder as the girl before them took a deep breath. His posture revealed his emotions, the stiff line of his back and slump of his shoulders betraying guilt. He truly hadn’t thought he’d see her again.

She mumbled something Abby could barely understand from her position in the room, barely able to make out “was nothing,” and “had worse days.” Her sentence must have been fully formed from where Marcus and Bellamy stood, because she heard them both give low chuckles.

Reluctant to intrude on the moment but knowing her duty required her to do so, Abby slowly made her way toward her patient and her visitors.

“I need to check on her,” she said, her tone conveying the depth of her understanding. Marcus stepped back first, and reluctantly, Bellamy followed.

Octavia regarded her wordlessly, moving to sit up: a motion Abby halted by placing a gentle, but firm hand on her shoulder.

“You need to rest,” she said. “Lie back down, Octavia.”

The girl gave her a glare that said she’d certainly attempt the same maneuver later that night, and Abby wondered if she’d have to spend the night in Medical to keep Octavia Blake from further injuring herself. If she had to, she would.

She asked the girl questions about how she was feeling, each of which were answered with a short, “fine.” She was feeling fine, her head felt fine, she felt fine now that the painkillers had worn off.

As satisfied with her answers as it was possible to be, Abby stepped away. Tempted to aim her words at Marcus – as she was always tempted to do whenever he was in her proximity – she instead turned her head to regard Bellamy.

“Not too late,” she said. “She needs to sleep so she can heal.”

Abby couldn’t be certain, but she thought she heard a snort from the direction of the girl’s cot. Bellamy was less obstinate in his response, giving her a nod before practically sprinting to his sister’s side. Marcus lingered by her side a moment longer, pressed a chaste, quick kiss to her temple.

“I could say the same for you,” he said, reminding her Octavia wasn’t the only one who needed sleep. There was an offer in his gaze, a question in the softness of his touch that made her skin buzz and her stomach flip. She knew where his room was, and sleeping without him after Polis would feel too empty, her old room too dark to let her close her eyes.

She had always needed a little light to fall asleep, and Marcus Kane was that light.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, meaning every word. He beamed, the clouds of guilt and remorse lifting for a moment as his brown eyes shone. For a man who had spent the better part of nine days holding her, exploring her, making love to her in Polis, he still acted as though she were a breakable, fragile thing. As if assuming too much might shatter her and render everything between them useless. Abby knew that no matter the height, no matter how steep the fall, what was between them was unbreakable.

Watching him with Octavia – the gentleness in his voice, the tremor in his apology – it was profoundly private, and she turned away.

***

“Doctor Griffin?”

Abby had been on her way out of Medical for the night, handing control over to Jackson for the next few hours so she could get some sleep. She had asked him if he wanted her to take the late shift, but he vehemently denied – and it was hard to keep her brain from making a connection between Raven’s hours in Engineering and the overlap they shared with the late-night Medical shift. Probably nothing, she decided, but it was nearly impossible not to speculate.

She’d been set to leave, hanging her lab coat on the hook next to the sliding doors, when Monty Green appeared. To her observation, he didn’t look injured: that said, his expression was ashen.

“Monty,” she said, doing her best to hide her chagrin. “Can I help you?”

Marcus was waiting for her, and although they likely wouldn’t do anything but sleep tonight – she thought he was likely too weary from his latest brush with death – she reminded herself she also hadn’t thought he was the type to make her late for meetings by kissing his way down her neck, her stomach, and burying his face between her thighs. The uncertainty made her all the more eager to go to him, and Monty was…well, getting in the way of having her questions answered.

“I, um…” he trailed off, fidgeting a little under her gaze. “I’m not injured or anything.”

“Is it Jasper?” she asked, her brain defaulting to the next most likely alternative. While Monty was careful about avoiding anything that might be affected by radiation, Jasper was…less so.

“No. I’m here to talk to you, actually,” he said.

Abby couldn’t help herself: she frowned. In all their time on the ground, Monty Green had spoken all of perhaps ten sentences to her, many of which involved either Clarke or Jasper. What could he possibly have to tell her, and why did it need to wait until midnight?

He looked so uncomfortable her heart was swayed to pity him, and she invited her young guest to step inside.

“Octavia’s asleep,” she said, regarding the unconscious brother-sister duo at the other side of the room, “so we need to keep our voices down.”

“Right,” Monty said in something that was decidedly not a whisper. “Understood.”

He was nervous, and Abby felt her stomach clench. Had they found a problem with her Nightblood?

“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, waiting for the blow that would send the rest of her perfect night reeling. Would it have been too much, she wondered, for her to go to Marcus and curl up in his arms without drama finding its way back to them? Was one night too much to ask for?

“It’s about Clarke,” he said, then backed up a step, shook his head. “Well, it’s not really about her. It’s about the list.”

The frown that had recently vacated her features returned in full force. “The list?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice down. “What list?”

“Oh. Shit,” Monty breathed. He shoved his hands into his pockets, looked vaguely as though he were considering sprinting out of Medical and abandoning the conversation for good. “She didn’t tell you.”

“I don’t know anything about a list,” Abby said, nausea making her stomach sink lower and lower as the gears of her brain turned.

“You…you might want to sit down, then,” Monty said.

Abby remained standing as he explained what, exactly, “the list” was – a group of 100 people whom Clarke had deemed the Ark would keep safe from the nuclear radiation when the time came. She sensed Monty’s frustration through the tightness in his voice, the stiffness in his posture: for good reason, she thought. Her daughter had no right to play God in that way. To determine who lived and who died. They’d done that in space, and to this day her memories of that time left her weary and exhausted.

He also explained that they’d come up with an alternative. Now, at Jaha’s suggestion, they’d be holding a lottery to determine who stayed on the ship when the time came. It was fairer, he said, and it had gotten everyone working again.

“Clarke put your name down first,” Monty said, conflicting Abby’s emotions even further. “Which makes sense. You’re our best doctor, and her mom. But…”

He trailed off, swallowed hard.

“What is it, Monty?” she asked, already half-enraged with her daughter and half-exhausted by the thought of seeking her out to have this conversation at well-past midnight.

He looked at her with an apology and said the words she hoped she wouldn’t hear.

“Kane wasn’t on it,” he said quickly, as though the sentence burned him as he spoke. “I’m sorry, Doctor Griffin. I just thought you should know, in case you wanted to talk to her about it. I just-I saw you guys today, and-”

The world faded in and out of a blurred haze, her lungs shrinking in her chest as she struggled to breathe. There was a ringing in her ears that came from no specific source.

Marcus wasn’t on it.

Part of her wanted to believe it was a joke – apparently Jasper and Monty had taken to reviving some of their antics now that the world was strapped to a timer – but there was nothing but sincerity to be found in the boy’s gaze. Abby prided herself on her ability to read people, and what she saw in Monty Green told her he was giving her nothing but the truth.

How could Clarke do this to him? Even if that paper was now null and void, if those plans were long-gone, how could she have…after everything Marcus had done for her, for their camp, for their people…

A vision of him stumbling through black rain, choking in the poison fumes, shoved through the jumble of her panicked thoughts and she tasted bile. She hadn’t let Pike execute him, and she sure as hell wouldn’t let her daughter do the same.

“Thank you, Monty,” she said sharply, hoping the boy knew her tone wasn’t directed at him. “I’m happy you told me.”

***

She found Clarke in the Chancellor’s office, sifting through a stack of papers that dwarfed her tiny frame. Under typical circumstances, Abby would have felt a twinge of pity, of sadness: she was only eighteen, but the world wanted her to be so much older. Her people wanted her to be so much older.

Now, she felt only a white-hot ball of rage in her chest, a squirming, pulsing thing that she didn’t know what to do with. Being angry with her daughter was a thing foreign and strange to her – they’d rarely argued on the Ark, and even here their disagreements had always reached a timely and decisive end. But this felt like a betrayal in more ways than one, and Abby reached for words that were well beyond her grasp.

How to ask her daughter why she’d condemned their Chancellor, their former Ambassador, the man she loved with her whole heart, to death? How could her lips even begin to form those words?

The absence of her wedding ring and the ring around her neck felt palpable now, a weight on her being that shortened her steps and slumped her shoulders. Part of her hoped Clarke would deny everything, tell her it was a joke from Monty and Jasper’s twisted imagination, that Marcus had been on the list just below her name.

And part of her knew that would be a lie.

“Clarke,” she said, using all of her willpower to keep her voice even. Her daughter turned to her, the look in her sea-blue eyes – her father’s eyes – expunging her last hope.

Her daughter knew why she was here.

“Mom,” Clarke said, her voice wavering in a way that split the rage in Abby’s heart down the center, gave part of it over to sadness and left the rest to fester. “I can explain.”

Abby took a deep breath. “Can you? Can you tell me why you wouldn’t think our Chancellor is worth saving? The man who saved my life?”

She rose from her chair then, shadows crawling across her youthful face in the dim light. Her eyes were already red-rimmed, and Abby wondered if she’d been crying long before she entered the room. Caught between drawing her into a hug and walking away, she found a middle ground in remaining where she was.

Clarke bit her lip. “You and Jaha were both Chancellor before Kane,” she said. “Jaha has experience in Engineering and could help if anything went wrong before five years was up. You’re a doctor. Kane…” she paused again, looked away as though summoning every last bit of her strength. “Kane’s a guard. We have plenty of guardsmen. I didn’t-“

“Marcus,” Abby said, feeling the need to emphasize his first name, to make him more than just the authority figure her daughter knew by last name and last name only, “is the head of the guard. He knows the position better than anyone else. He’s more than just a guardsman, Clarke.”

“I know,” her daughter said, every word a nail through her heart. “But at his age…I weighted the list toward younger, experienced members. People with his knowledge who could help us for-“

His age? She’d condemn him for his age?

And suddenly, every bubble of anger she’d been keeping intact within her chest burst.

“Enough!” she shouted, far past the point of caring whether anyone else could hear them now. Her voice trembled, a quiver marring her exclamation as her heart shattered. How could the person she loved most have changed into one of the coldest she’d ever known? “Clarke-“

“Mom, please just listen-“

“How could you?” Abby snapped. “After everything Marcus has done for us, all the lives he’s saved, you’d leave him to die because of his age?”

“Mom, I…I didn’t…”

Suddenly, with a sickening click, all the pieces fell into place. There was a reason her excuse felt flimsy, foreign, slipped away when she tried to make it stick to her daughter. Age had nothing to do with Marcus qualifying for her list.

“Clarke,” she said, taking a shuddering breath, “tell me this had nothing to do with your dad.”

Her daughter remained silent, tears slipping down her cheeks. Each drip of water fractured Abby’s limping heart further, but her words were free now. Unbidden, they continued to flow past the dam of restraint she imposed upon herself.

“This is because of us?” she said, hardly daring to believe it. “Because of Marcus and I? Because I took off the rings?”

She stopped, nearly gasping for breath under the weight of her realization. All this time…Clarke had seen them in Polis, seen Marcus stroking her cheek, told her to go to him after the battle in the Throne Room. Could she have really despised their relationship all that time? Could she have been nurturing a hatred so sharp that she’d cut a man’s life short with it?

How could she be so cruel?

Abby was openly crying now, her own tears splashing down to the carpet to accompany her daughter’s. She couldn’t believe it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered, and something inside her daughter broke.

“I can’t talk about this,” she said, turning away and sitting down in her seat with a thud. “Mom, I can’t do this right now. Bellamy and I-“

“You’re not doing anything at one in the morning, Clarke,” Abby snapped. “Tell me why your father’s memory gives you the right to condemn the man I love to die.”

“I know you love him!” Clarke exclaimed, her voice breaking all over again. “I know! I didn’t want to do this!”

“Then you didn’t have to!” Abby said, stressing every syllable, matching her daughter in both emotion and volume. “You didn’t have to play God, Clarke!” She turned away, wiped a few tears from her cheeks with the cuff of her sleeve. When she turned back to her daughter, her voice was shakily measured. “I just wish that if you had a problem with Marcus and I, you would have told me. Then he could have made your list and lived.”

Clarke took a deep, rattling sigh, one that shook her frail shoulders and quelled her sobs for a heartbeat of a moment.

“Mom, I…” she trailed off, wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her stained gray shirt. “This isn’t about you and Marcus. I promise. I just – he made me promise not to tell you-“

Abby felt her pulse quicken, her stomach lurching all over again.

“Who made you promise? Jaha?” she asked.

A few seconds passed, magnified by the roaring of her blood through her veins and the white noise of machinery.

Clarke shook her head. “No.”

A few more seconds of quiet.

“I’m so sorry, mom. I didn’t want to leave him off, but he told me it was better that way…that I should give the spot to someone who deserved it more than him. He made me promise not to tell you…he didn’t want you to worry about him…please believe me.”

Her blood ran cold.

“Marcus,” she breathed with the little air that was left in her lungs. “Marcus told you to leave him off.”

Her daughter nodded vigorously. “I tried to keep it a secret, but you were so upset, and I didn’t want you to think…” she stopped, her voice in danger of breaking again.

“I just…couldn’t stand you thinking I didn’t want you to be happy.”

Abby felt her tears flow anew, and knelt down to be even with her daughter’s chair. Wordlessly, she gathered her into her arms, placed a comforting hand on the back of her head.

I couldn’t stand you thinking I didn’t want you to be happy.

“It’s okay,” Abby reassured her as guilt and anger formed a toxic weight in her stomach. She focused on Clarke as much as she could, rocking her back and forth as best as their position would allow. “It’s okay. I believe you, honey. I believe you.”

But apparently, Marcus could stand her thinking he didn’t want her to be happy. Apparently, Marcus loved her enough to cement her unhappiness for the rest of her days.

***

The knock on her door was hesitant, soft, questioning. It could only belong to one person, and it was for that reason she felt no urge to rise from her bed and face its owner.

“Abby?” he said, his voice as gentle as the rapping of his knuckles against the cold metal. She turned over in bed, grimaced as the linen sheets twisted and clung to her sweaty legs.

“Go away,” she droned, her voice a soulless monotone.

He was quiet for a few moments, his shadow darkening the light beneath her door and evidencing his presence. On some level, she knew he knew what she’d learned.

“Abby,” he said, his voice considerably quieter. “Please let me in.”

She gave a long, soft, drawn-out sigh in a bed that no longer felt like hers.

“Fine.”

The door had been unlocked the entire time, but naturally, Marcus Kane wouldn’t enter until given express permission. He stepped into her room gingerly, closing the door behind him with a barely audible click.

“Can I turn on the light?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Abby snapped, throwing off the covers and moving to sit on the edge of her bed. She couldn’t handle being any closer to him right now. He had a kind of magnetism that would pull her in, his brown eyes rendering her logical thought useless, losing her in a maze that would lift the shroud of anger over her words, her thoughts, her entire being.

She couldn’t be close to him knowing he hadn’t wanted to be close to her in less than two months.

The light shone, revealing a Marcus that looked no better than she felt. His gaze was rife with guilt, his eyes lacking the spark they usually had when he regarded her. They were both empty, she thought, this news having hollowed them out in every way imaginable. And he had to know it was his fault. He had to know that if he valued their relationship more than his ever-present need to sacrifice himself, that she’d be sleeping with him instead of yanking sweaty sheets around her trembling body in a bed too big for one.

“Abby,” he breathed. “I’m so-“

“Don’t bother.”

He sighed. It was three in the morning, her body ached, her head pounded as though she were being hit with a sledgehammer. She wanted him to go away. She wanted to run into his arms. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him.

She wanted everything to stop.

“I can explain,” he said, and she gave a snort the likes of which she hadn’t heard from herself since their days on the Ark. It stung for him to hear, and she knew he recognized it.

“Can you?” she asked. “Tell me, Marcus. Tell me why you would let me believe my daughter didn’t put your name on her list. Tell me why you’d commit suicide instead of-“ her voice had strayed into dangerous territory, and she swallowed hard.

“Clarke and I discussed it together,” he said. “She told me there were only a hundred spots, said Raven insisted she make a list, and…there were people more deserving than me, Abby. People without three hundred lives on their hands. People who I thought should see the future of this planet, when the storm ends.”

He looked small standing by the foot of her bed, shrinking under the weight of his confession.

“So Polis meant nothing to you,” she said, hoping that pouring her pain into her words would get some of it out of her chest. “Everything we did…everything you said to me…it was just a way to pass the time until Roan needed you to get to work.”

Marcus took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It wasn’t, and you know that. Abby, please don’t question whether or not I lov-“

“Stop.”

She couldn’t hear him say it like this. The first time couldn’t be the last, marred forever by his willingness to throw himself into radiation and leave her, the Blakes, everyone who cared about him behind.

“But it’s true,” he said, a note of pleading creeping into his tone. “Please, Abby. Everything I said in Polis, everything we shared…those were the best nine days of my life.”

She felt a tear trickle down her cheek and realized she’d been crying without realizing it. How long had her eyes been betraying her? How long had her heart been breaking loudly enough for him to hear?

“If that’s true,” she said, exhausted and broken in places she hadn’t known were whole until they shattered, “then you wouldn’t have asked my daughter to end your life. I shouldn’t have been surprised. You’ve always been determined to be a martyr, Marcus. Don’t let me stop you.”

He blinked, the harshness of her words taking him aback.

“Abby,” he said, taking another step toward her, reaching out to touch her. She recoiled.

“I need to go to sleep,” she said.

He understood her dismissal without an explicit statement, realized his presence was no longer needed nor wanted. Defeated, he moved toward the door with his shoulders slumped. Even in the darkness after he turned out the light, he appeared a shell of his former self. Of the man who kissed life into her in Polis, the man who electrified her with a thousand feelings she didn’t know she could still have.

“Goodnight, Abby,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

***

Dawn broke coldly over the horizon, yellow light chilling her to the bone. She hadn’t gotten a minute of sleep thanks to the constant buzzing of her thoughts and the weight in her stomach, a kind of pain caused only by a careful mixture of regret and desolation. A glance at the clock told her her alarm would ring in an hour, and she leaned over to switch it off anyway. Sleep wasn’t coming. It had never been invited.

A long, slow sigh brought her into the land of the living and she slid out of bed, wincing as her feet collided with cool metal. The discomfort seemed to shake off the few cobwebs that had formed around the edges of her memory, and her pain returned stronger than ever.

He had really been willing to let himself die. And he had convinced her daughter to go through with it, convinced her it was necessary, remained stubborn in his insistence to keep Abby in the dark. His expression last night – the genuine regret in his eyes, the haunted lull in his voice when he told her goodnight – there was a remorse inside them that couldn’t be faked.

That didn’t mean it was able to be forgiven.

Moving around slowly, as though the memory sapped her of her strength, Abby picked her tank top, henley and jeans up off the floor where she’d tossed them last night and began pulling them on. Her muscles felt sore for no apparent reason, and she winced as she raised her arms above her head to dress. Her breaths were ragged, uneven, and a lump had formed in her throat.

No more of that, she decided as she swallowed forcefully: no matter how she was feeling, she had a duty to her people. There were bigger things at stake than her relationship with Marcus.

A knock on the door startled her as she brushed her hair, and she decided not to acknowledge it. If he thought night would sand down the edges of her fury, he’d thought absolutely wrong. If anything, hours of consideration had sharpened it. What he’d done…it approached a line she thought she’d never see him cross again. And it sickened her to know perhaps he’d never really left it behind.

Another knock, harder, echoing through her tiny quarters. He was determined. But so was she, and of the two of them she wholeheartedly believed her will was stronger. Marcus Kane wouldn’t get a single word out of her this morning. Loudly, so he knew she was inside and in no mood to talk, she slammed her hairbrush down on her dresser and pulled her chair out from her desk for no good reason. There. Good morning, Marcus.

“Mom?” a voice at the door asked, and Abby flushed red with shame. “Are you in there?”

“Clarke,” she said, realizing her assumption couldn’t have been farther from reality. “I’m here.”

She crossed the room in three steps, pulled open the door to reveal her daughter standing in the Ark’s early morning white light. Her fingers curled around a single sheet of worn paper, and Abby could only guess as to what was on it. There was no desire within her to see the document he hadn’t requested to be on. The document that could have – and still very well might, in a different manner – separate them forever.

“Mom,” Clarke said, sounding relieved, “can I talk to you?”

Abby smiled, combatting a wave of self-hatred for the way she’d behaved toward her daughter the night before. Emotion had gotten the better of her, erased her clarity of thought, but she should have known Clarke wouldn’t try to sabotage her happiness.

“Of course,” Abby said, inviting her in and closing the door behind her. The chair came to good use, then, as Clarke seated herself in it and unfolded the document, spreading it and smoothing the creases on the solid wood of Abby’s desk. The yellowed paper did indeed contain a list of a hundred names, starting with her own: just as Monty had said.

Abby Griffin.

Eric Jackson.

Thelonious Jaha.

Raven Reyes.

The list meant as much to the future of her relationship with Marcus as it did nothing to the one between her and her daughter. Although Abby felt it had been wrong of her to create it, it was apparent from the guilt in her eyes that she saw the error of her ways: a lecture wasn’t what she needed. A lesson had been learned.

“I thought about what happened last night,” Clarke started, her voice even and measured. “Jaha had the list, but he gave it back to me. I wanted to show you this.”

Abby followed her pointer finger to the final spot on the list, a name written in capital letters. A name decidedly not printed in her daughter’s hand. CLARKE GRIFFIN.

“I know you’re mad at Marcus,” Clarke started, and Abby interrupted.

“You don’t think I should be?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. Of all the things she thought Clarke might have come to her an hour before her shift in Medical to discuss, her relationship with Marcus Kane hadn’t made the list. “He was going to sacrifice himself, Clarke. He didn’t tell me, and he left that burden to you.”

Clarke shook her head. “Let me explain,” she said.

Her finger still resting on the name that was both hers and foreign, she continued. “I wasn’t going to put myself on the list. That last spot…it was going to go to one of our people. I hadn’t decided yet whether it would be a guardsman, or an engineer, but it wasn’t going to me.”

All the breath drained from Abby’s lungs. Not only could she have lost Marcus, but she could have lost her daughter, too? Why bother putting her on the list, then? Why offer her salvation when her heart had already been destroyed?

“After the things I’d done…the pain I’d caused…I didn’t think I was worthy of a place here,” she continued. “I had every intention of being outside the doors when the end came. Just like Kane.”

Her hands shaking, Abby clung to that name as a reminder her daughter would have been indoors. Somehow, she’d made it onto the list. The image of Clarke trudging through black rain, suffering through ARS, her pale skin marred by lesions and lumps…she couldn’t even consider it.

“You deserved to be on the list,” Abby insisted, all thoughts of Marcus expunged for the time being. “Honey, you’ve saved us all more times than I can count. You should have been first, not me.”

Clarke shook her head. “I didn’t come here to talk about me.”

Abby frowned, tempted to interject, but let her daughter keep going.

“If Bellamy hadn’t been with me, my name wouldn’t be on that list. And it didn’t mean I don’t care about you, or Raven, or him. I do. But I made a choice for my people, and I was determined to see it through. Even if it meant sacrificing myself for them.”

“But Bellamy was there,” Abby said, all the pieces of the puzzle falling together. “And he wrote your name.”

A nod from her daughter’s golden blonde head, painted with streaks of white in the early morning sun. “And if things had been different…if it had been you and Kane making the list…you would have written his name in capital letters, too.”

Understanding washed over her like a ray of sunlight, illuminating her questions about her daughter’s presence.

“You think I should forgive him,” she said.

Clarke was quiet for a few moments, her gaze transfixed on the list of names that meant everything and nothing.

“He made the same choice as I did,” she said. “And I understand why. He didn’t do it to hurt you, mom.”

Abby hadn’t often considered the parallels between her daughter and Marcus, although now they appeared in ink before her eyes on that yellowed piece of paper. Both she and him suffered over their past deeds – things they’d done for the greater good – things that resulted in losses of innocent lives. Neither of them had yet found the strength to fully forgive themselves. And it was her duty, then, to support them until that blossom of self-forgiveness could stand on its own.

“But he had to know,” Abby offered. “He had to know how I would feel.”

“I knew how you would feel, too,” she said. “But I hoped you’d understand. And so did he. If you can forgive me for not writing my name, you should forgive him for telling me not to include his.”

Taken aback, Abby stared at her daughter while she tried to come up with something coherent to say. And to think she’d thought this was because she didn’t approve of Marcus – that she harbored resentment because of Jake. How wrong she’d been, only mere hours ago.

“Of course I forgive you,” she said finally, moving closer as Clarke stood from her chair. “I’ll always forgive you, Clarke. You’re my daughter.”

Clarke smiled, a brief flash of sunshine-infused joy that reminded her of her father. Abby moved forward to enclose her in an embrace, and Clarke held her back just as tightly.

“So you’re going to forgive him, too,” she said, her tone making it sound as though a conclusion had been reached. “You can’t forgive me and not him, mom. Not when we made the same choice.”

Abby’s shoulders rose and fell in an exasperated sigh, knowing she’d been backed into a corner by her daughter’s logic. Yet another thing that reminded her of Jake: their ability to win an argument by sheer, solid, foolproof reasoning. As annoying as it was, it was hard to keep yelling at a damn good point.

Clarke stepped away, a question in her blue eyes.

“We’ll see,” she said. Clarke gave her another short nod, unwilling to push her further. Only once she’d left did Abby notice the list remained on her desk: a reminder of what the two people she loved most had almost done out of another kind of love: a love for their people. It was an aching kind of poignant, one that forced her to fold up the paper and shove it in the crack between her wall and the desk. She had no desire to look at it again.

When all was said and done, she looked at the clock.

We’ll see.

***

Abby stood in the hallway, hesitating as the hum of machinery whirred around her. There was no reason, she told herself, to be this timid. Discussions like this could go one of two ways, and there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

That said, her stomach felt like it was being squeezed in a vise.

Banishing her uncertainty to a dark corner of her head, she raised her knuckles and slammed them against the door. Her heart wouldn’t be able to handle a non-response, so she added her voice for good measure.

“Marcus,” she said, knowing fully well she might not have been the only one who rolled out of bed this morning in no mood to talk. “Are you-“

The door was yanked open before the end of her sentence.

It was as though he’d spent the whole night waiting, she thought. He didn’t appear to have removed any of his clothes or attempted sleep, his bed perfectly made and his jacket zipped. He looked at her with a mixture of hurt and regret, sending shockwaves of emotion through her as she stood before him in the Ark’s snowy light.

“Abby,” he breathed, as though her name pained him. After last night, she couldn’t blame him if it did. “Come in.”

She walked through the door and heard it close behind her, felt his gaze on her as she leaned back against his metal table. They both began talking at the same time, words flying as he made his way toward her.

“I’m so sorry-“

“Clarke told me-“

Then they both stopped, aware of what they were doing.

“You first,” Abby said with an ember of a warming smile, curious as to what was on his mind. Her heart would forgive him, as it always did, but it would do her good to hear him apologize.

“Abby, I’m so sorry about the list,” he said. “About everything. I should have told you from the start what was happening – not only what I was thinking, but what Clarke and Raven were thinking, too. We’re a team, and it wasn’t right of me to leave you out.”

Abby nodded, took a step closer to him. “We work better together,” she said, remembering the long nights when the chancellorship had been a burden shouldered by them both. “But that’s not…” she paused, struggled to find the words that best conveyed the swirl of emotions in her chest. “Marcus, just promise me something.”

“Anything,” he blurted, his brown eyes wide.

“Promise me you won’t do this again,” she said. “I’m not talking about sharing everything with me. You’re the Chancellor. You don’t have to tell me every detail of every negotiation. But the thought of being without you…that you could want that…your penchant for self-sacrifice doesn’t just affect you.”

He nodded so vigorously Abby thought she heard his neck crack. “I won’t,” he said. “I don’t want to be without you, either. I never want to leave your side again, Abby. Those weeks when we were separated…they were hell. And the decision I made regarding that list was wrong. I hope you can forgive me.”

She smiled, a real, full one then, stepping forward to close the distance between them. Their proximity was practically intimate – she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the tension his question wove through the air between them.

“Clarke came to talk to me this morning,” she said. “She told me she wasn’t going to put her own name on the list, either.”

Marcus frowned. “That’s absurd,” he said. “Clarke should have-“

“It doesn’t matter now,” Abby interrupted, firm. “Bellamy was there, and he wrote her name. And she made me realize you two are more similar than I thought. You have the same tendencies. Her name wouldn’t have been on the list, but Bellamy wrote it down. In the hundredth spot.”

Marcus appeared relieved, although they both knew the list was no longer meaningful. “Of course he did,” he said. “Anyone would have. Clarke deserves to survive.”

“Her point was, Bellamy wrote her name,” Abby said, “and I would have written yours. Her choice wasn’t made to hurt the people she loves, and neither was yours. I understand that now.”

He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time, dawn breaking through the gloom of his features. As if he knew, for the first time since she stepped through is door, that there was a chance he’d be forgiven. That everything would be okay.

“Although I do wish you’d given me a little more consideration, Kane,” she said. His surname was accompanied with a wry smirk, a gesture that made it clear she was joking. He breathed a laugh, wrapped his arms around her as she pulled him close and buried her face in his shoulder.

He smelled like home.

“Abby, I…” he whispered, anchoring her to him with his hands pressed against her back. His voice shook, and she felt that all-too-familiar tightness in her chest that threatened sobs. “Thank you. I won’t do it again.”

She pressed her lips to the tiny expanse of his collarbone exposed by the neckline of his shirt, suddenly overwhelmed by how deeply she’d missed him. How empty her life had felt, even for those few hours, knowing there was a fraction of a possibility everything could end between them. How dark things had been then, how light they were now.

She leaned away, reaching up to brush a soft curl of dark hair away from his forehead.

“I missed you,” she whispered, tilting her head to the side as she leaned forward again. He met her in the middle, brushing his lips against hers in a gesture that was half apology, half yearning.

“I missed you, too,” he said when they broke apart, their mouths still only inches from each other’s. “I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

Abby grinned. “Me either. I think we formed a habit in Polis.”

Her laugh was contagious.

“Good or bad?” he asked.

“Good,” she answered. “Except for when you make me late to important meetings.”

She leaned in again, giving him a kiss that was decidedly less gentle. The shape of his mouth betrayed a smile, and when they parted there was a familiar gleam in his eye. A laugh worked its way up her throat before she could stop it. She knew that look.

“Marcus, I’m supposed to be in Medical in ten minutes.”

The look remained, tantalizing and reverent and adoring all at once.

“Then we have ten minutes.”

His fingers found their way beneath the waistband of her pants, teasing her, skimming her sensitive skin and forcing a gasp from between her lips. Already heat had begun coiling low in her stomach, and she realized she’d missed more than just his comforting presence beside her in bed.

By the time he stepped forward to kiss her again, his mouth insistent and hungry, she was already lost.

“You…” she started as they moved in the direction of his bed, shedding clothing in graceless piles as they went. His kiss cut her sentence short, and she felt the smoothness of his comforter brush against the back of her knees.

“Are a terrible influence?” he finished for her as she lay down with her head on his pillows, amazed by how comfortable his bed was. It was smaller than hers but softer, a true threat to the luxury they’d experienced in Polis.

“The worst,” she murmured, sighing as he peppered hot, slow kisses to the pulse point of her neck and worked his way toward her lips again. There was no way she’d be on time to Medical, but as she had the morning before she was called to meet with Roan, she couldn’t quite locate the part of her mind that was responsible for caring. “The absolute worst.”

***

And so that night, right after she’d said goodbye to Jackson and Raven, Abby made a beeline for her quarters. Naturally, she and Marcus would be sharing a room – publically because it created more space, and privately because they found they couldn’t sleep without each other now – and she threw open the door to her room with a sense of urgency.

Tonight was the do-over for last night, a reset button for all the rage and anger that had been shoved in the place of love and tenderness, and she intended to do it right. But she’d still need her clothes in the morning, her things…she had no intention of being taunted by Monty and Jasper when they saw her making her way back to her quarters after spending the night with Marcus Kane.

The simpler solution, then, was to just move in with him. Which was exactly what they intended to happen.

Thankfully, her possessions were meager: a few shirts, a pair or two of pants, the only other tank top in her possession. Things that could fit in a bag, at least for now. For tonight, she’d take what she could carry. This was only the beginning, she thought with a smile.

She reached up to grab her favorite book – a cheesy romance novel with a revealing cover that she knew would earn her a playful ribbing from the man she loved – and threw it in the bag. Clothes, book, toiletries…it was enough for now. The rest she could come back for later, if she felt the need.

In the process of turning away from her desk, Abby’s gaze fell on that familiar space between wall and wood: a space she knew held something more than open air. It was unimportant, and altogether preposterous, and part of her knew it would be better to burn it and put the list to rest once and for all. At some point, she thought, she might ask Marcus what he thought they should do with it – how best to dispose of it.

Fishing around for it in the darkness, her fingers finally closed against the smooth paper. She pulled it out and slammed it on her desk, as if intent on making it feel the pain it had caused her, her daughter, her love. Such an outpouring of emotion for such a small, meaningless, irrelevant thing.

For now, though she was thankful it was no longer their solution to the apocalyptic problem at hand, she had unfinished business where its black-inked page was concerned.

Rummaging through her drawers, her fingers scraped wood and various office trinkets until she landed on what she was looking for: a pen. Pulling it out from the blackness, she slid the drawer closed and uncapped it in one fluid motion.

They might have only planned for a hundred, but Bellamy Blake had been a stowaway.

It was only fair, she thought, that the same rules should have applied on her daughter’s list: intended for a hundred, given an extra one. So, on the bottom of the list beneath her daughter’s name, Abby Griffin wrote one more in bold, swooping letters.

MARCUS KANE.