#and now at 24 he’s still inherently comforting to me. and it’s both his anger and his paternal nature but also i think it’s his love

[humanveil]

i need someone to spray me with water whenever i start thinking about elliot stabler

[spencers-renaissance]

Rain is a Chance to be Touched Ch.2

hell is empty, and all the devils are here

Chapter One

This is the second chapter in my new ongoing hotchreid fic! Please click here for the fic summary, full tags, trigger warnings, more information etc.

Last Chapter: Spencer's disordered and depressed thoughts were introduced, he was shot, Foyet stabbed Hotch, and Spencer ended up alone in his apartment :(

In This Chapter: we get to see Hotch's view of the events of early season five.

TW: aftermath of violence, recovery, spousal death, grief/mourning

Word Count: 3.4k

RCT Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

AARON

All but mariners plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, then all afire with me: [he] cried, 'Hell is empty and all the devils are here.' — William Shakespeare, The Tempest

The team is working on the case.

Aaron tries desperately to remember this when the fear starts to rise in his chest again, squashing his lungs and pressing violently against his already groaning heart. The team is working on the case, they always solve the case, and he trusts them with his life because, at the end of the day, that’s what’s at stake here, isn’t it? Haley and Jack are all he has in this world; he absolutely cannot lose them.

The team is working on the case.

Frustration builds as he lays in a hospital bed, completely incapacitated during the most important case of his life, and it’s only made worse by the knowledge that Spencer is hurt, too. He was absolutely furious when he eventually found out after asking his whereabouts on his third day of hospitalisation, having realised he hadn’t seen him once at the hospital.

Rossi had deliberately omitted Spencer being shot from his account of the case. Why, he had no idea. Did he not think it important that one of their own was seriously injured? Aaron hopes not. Did he think he was unable to handle the information at that point? Certainly more probable, but still infuriating.

It was all exacerbated by the guilty expression on JJ’s face when he asked who’d been visiting him. She’d told him that there hadn’t been time, that they were working on the case 24/7, that Penelope had heard from him and he was fine, but it wasn't enough to satiate his rising anger. Aaron doesn’t quite understand the blistering fury he still feels when he thinks about Spencer injured and alone, abandoned by his team, but he expects it’s because he still feels protective over the youngest member of the team.

That’s almost definitely it.

He takes a month off from work, but he has no idea what to do with himself, especially once he's discharged from hospital and returns to a lonely apartment in which he was brutally attacked by the FBI’s Most Wanted Serial Killer. He’s miserable without seeing Jack regularly and fearful of the length of time he’ll have to wait until he can see him and Haley again as he tries desperately not to think of the possibility that he may never see them again.

A lot of time is spent touring his DVD and box set collections and passing the time by cooking and exercising as much as his healing body will allow him. Every functional moment, every spare shred of brain power he has to spend, though, is directed at the Foyet case.

Finding Nemo is playing on the TV when there’s a knock at the door a week into his stay at home — admittedly, his collection is not all that large and he’d exhausted the more age-appropriate films far too quickly — so he turns it off and peels his exhausted bones off the couch. Most of the team have dropped by at various points, bringing food and gifts and comfort in the worst time of his life, so he’s expecting Emily or Rossi or JJ, but instead, it’s Spencer standing on his doorstep.

He doesn’t have the time to school his expression so his surprise is written all over his face, and Spencer must see it because he immediately cringes and deflates, as though suddenly doubting whether showing up out of the blue was a good idea after all.

“Hi.” Aaron smiles welcomingly to try and counter the negative thoughts that are almost certainly worming their way into Spencer’s mind. “Come in.” He steps aside and allows him to hobble awkwardly into the living room, his crutches dragging slightly along the carpet, the telltale sign of someone not quite accustomed to them yet.

“I hope it’s alright I came,” Spencer says shyly, almost apologetic. “I should have texted but I dropped my phone under the sofa and I can’t get down on the floor to retrieve it.” He blushes at his admission but gratefully accepts Aaron’s invitation to sit down.

Aaron smiles as warmly as he can manage, joining him on the couch. “You're fine, don't worry; it’s not like I’m up to much. I’m just happy to have some company.” He almost confesses that he was watching a children’s film before Spencer showed up, but decides that’s perhaps revealing just a little too much. “How have you been doing? I did message you, but I suppose your phone gathering dust under a couch explains the lack of a response.”

“You did?” Spencer’s eyes meet his and he looks utterly bewildered for some reason, seemingly surprised that Aaron would do such a thing. “Sorry, I— yes, that would be why, uh.” He looks down, clearly trying to gather himself as he plays with his fingers. “I’m fine, though. Obviously, the leg is a little sore, but. I’ll be back to work on Monday.”

“Good,” he replies, though he knows a gunshot wound will still be more than a little sore only two weeks after the initial injury. “How long do you have that?” He gestures vaguely to the brace around Spencer’s left leg.

“Not really sure,” Spencer says, looking sort of bemused by the contraption. “It’s pretty inconvenient, so I hope it isn’t too long.”

Aaron can’t help but smile at the small grin on Spencer’s face as he looks down at the brace. It looks… genuine. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to contemplate why that’s so endearingly surprising. “Are you looking forward to going back?” he asks, settling back into the couch cushions as he feels his muscles protest against his strained position.

Spencer seems to struggle for a response, unsure how to answer him. If he wasn’t so damn exhausted he might try and figure this slightly odd behaviour out, but the inherently complicated puzzle that is Spencer Reid feels like one too many right now. “I’m looking forward to not being quite so bored,” he eventually replies with a short, self-deprecating laugh. Aaron almost flinches at the sound, so foreign for Spencer’s gentle soul.

He’s fiddling with his crutches and the profiler in Aaron is screaming at him to decode what’s going on, but he forces himself to push it to the side. Spencer is a capable man. He’ll be fine. Aaron, on the other hand, needs to try and save his energy for his family.

“I can understand that,” Aaron says diplomatically, careful to not reply too emphatically one way or another. “The boredom’s crippling sometimes. Thankfully, the team coming round has been saving me from having to watch too many movies.”

Spencer seems to sort of shutter down as the words leave his mouth for reasons he doesn’t know or comprehend, but he does know that the resulting silence is awkward and he feels like he’s stuck his foot in his mouth by saying something totally innocuous. Has he had a falling out with someone or something? Is it something to do with not having many visitors in the hospital? He wouldn't blame him at all if that's still a sore spot.

“I’m going to have a coffee, I think,” he says, getting up carefully from the sofa and heading towards the kitchen despite the pain in his torso begging him to sit down. “Do you need anything?”

Spencer’s head snaps up, suddenly back and engaged. “Uh, no, I’m alright,” he says, and he sounds almost… choked up? “I should probably get going, anyway.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Aaron says, a little surprised. His mind is too foggy with pain and grief to process the microexpressions and endlessly odd behaviours Spencer is exhibiting. He knows how much Spencer appreciates his company usually, so his leaving so soon is just wrong.

He doesn’t want him to go, he loves spending time with the younger man, and even if he is acting a little strangely, he’d much rather Spencer be with him than away from him, especially when the world seems so much more personally dangerous than it was before. At least if Spencer is close to him then he knows he’s safe, and that’s all he deserves, really. To be safe.

“Say hello to the team from me,” he says, fumbling with the door handle and awkwardly making his way out. He briefly turns back, “bye, Hotch,” before he’s closing the door behind him. Aaron can hear the plastic click of the crutches on the linoleum of the corridor as he hurries away from the apartment.

Before he can think much of it, though, he’s drawn to the couch, exhaustion overtaking his body. He’s asleep in seconds.

Eventually, he goes back to work and for a small amount of time, things seem like they’re going to be okay. Emily picks him up and takes him in, Penelope gives him homemade cookies — not that he didn’t already have an ample supply of the fruits of her kitchen waiting to be eaten in his fridge — and sure, he’s a little stressed and abrasive throughout the first case, but no-one holds it against him. It’s a little tricky when he doesn’t manage to stop Darin Call from shooting his father, but he’s calmed down by the time Emily walks him back to his apartment.

“He’s not alone,” she says as they stand in his small living room, talking about Call but looking rather pointedly in his direction. They both know what she means.

Penelope and Sam, the marshall looking after his family, help him see Jack again on his 4th birthday — granted, over one of her many computer screens — and he has to swallow down a sob at the sight of him swinging in the park, looking happy as ever. He tries to be furious at Haley for uprooting Jack again, causing them to move to a halfway house because of a few phone calls to her mother, but there’s nothing left in him. Anger at the inevitable takes energy he simply doesn’t have. It’s why he simply accepted it when the money for the counter-surveillance against Foyet ran out. Fighting seems pointless.

He does manage to get angry, though, when he finds out Spencer lied to him by telling him he was cleared to travel when he wasn’t. He’d put himself at risk for deep vein thrombosis or other complications, so he calls him out as soon as the initial debrief ends. He looks sort of relieved to be staying behind with Penelope, which is a little strange since he’s always so eager to be in the thick of the action, but he brushes it off and they get on with yet another case.

Of course, it’s significantly harder to deal with when the Bureau questions him as Unit Chief of his beloved team. He takes a step back for the sake of the team, and he’s glad he does, but things don’t feel quite so good, quite so positive. He’s suddenly following Morgan’s directions instead of giving them, no longer a leader, and it’s… humiliating.

Still, he trusts Morgan. He trusts the team in general, and they still solve cases, and they still gel together like a well-oiled machine. Things are okay. There’s still hope.

But then.

Then Karl Arnold sends him a message.

Then he agonises, fights, wrestles, swims against the current to try and save his family in time.

Then Haley dies.

🌧

Aaron thanks every god he doesn’t believe in that Jack is too little to really understand what’s happened. He knows Mommy isn’t around anymore, he knows something bad happened, that Daddy is sad, but beyond that, he has no real comprehension of the situation.

In the first days after Haley’s death, he spends a lot of time cuddled up in bed, holding Jack as close to him as he can, hugging close all he has left of his ex-wife, desperately gripping onto the one person he loves more than anything else in this world.

Once he’s cleared by the Bureau, he can at least breathe a little easier in knowing his job is safe; he can provide for his baby boy. What follows, however, is less pleasant than job security.

Watching his team cry at her funeral and seeing Haley’s family in pieces almost does him in. He’s not usually the kind of man to show emotion, but he can’t help swallowing a choked sob as he tells everyone gathered just how incredible Haley was, how lucky he and Jack and everyone who knew her were, and just how much he loved her.

“If Haley were with us today, she would ask us not to mourn her death but to celebrate her life. She would tell us… she would tell us to love our families unconditionally, and to hold them close because, in the end, they’re all that matter.”

As he reads his speech, he can’t help but think of his team. For years, they've been his second family — arguably, as much as it pains him to admit it, the family he prioritised the most — and now, they're all he and Jack have. All of them have reminded him of that over the past few days, between helping with funeral arrangements and making food for them both, constant check-ups and distractions and messages of love and support. Having his back in the moment that mattered most.

“Okay, you can go ahead,” he murmurs to Jack as he lifts him up onto his hip, the last two standing at her coffin. He watches as his son places his white rose on his mother’s coffin before following suit, stomach constricting with grief as he does so. “Blow Mommy a kiss.”

And he walks, his son clutched desperately in his arms, towards the wake.

(The team leaves the funeral, called to a case that — despite everything that’s happened — he can’t help but long to be a part of even if he knows he’d be no use right now, lost in the haze of grief and the massive life change that is suddenly being a single parent, the sole carer for his son.

He uses the time off to pack Jack’s things and move them into his own flat, trying as hard as he can to keep life as normal as possible for a little boy who just lost his mom. Actually having time to be with Jack feels like the only possible good thing to come out of this situation, and he tries to be present in the moment as much as humanly possible, grateful for every second he spends chattering away with him about the dramas and dilemmas of being four-years-old, or playing dinosaurs with him, or stroking his hair while he falls asleep.

Strauss visits, says hello to Jack, and then offers him early retirement. With a heavy heart, he promises he’ll think about it.

Jessica offers to stay with Jack while he’s away. He calls Strauss, and he declines.)

Almost as soon as the team gets back from their case in Tennessee, Spencer shows up again. This time he’s only leaning heavily on a cane instead of awkwardly wrestling against two crutches, and his brace is gone.

“Hi,” he breathes, smiling hesitantly at Hotch. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sorry to show up unannounced again. This time I don’t have a dusty phone to use as an excuse, I just wanted to come as soon as possible and see how you and Jack were doing.”

“It’s fine, Spencer, don’t worry,” he says reassuringly, opening the door wide enough to allow him into the sitting room. Truthfully, he’s glad he’s turned up. Spencer’s a soothing presence; innocent, almost, in his openness and honesty, how trusting he is of everyone around him despite how hurt he’s been in the past. And while the others always scoff and groan at his academic and overly factual rambles, he’s rather fond of them.

“I don’t know if you heard,” he says as he takes a seat on Aaron’s sofa again, “but we solved the case.” His leg is clearly bothering him still: he’s subconsciously rubbing it through the fabric of his trousers and his facial expressions are showing subtle indicators of pain.

“I never doubted it,” Aaron says, face soft and open, happy to have Spencer here. He joins him on the couch. “How is it, working cases with the injury?” He wonders whether asking about work will have the same response as before, but he seems slightly calmer this time around. He hadn’t noticed anything amiss when he’d gone back, though he had, of course, been a little preoccupied; there's plenty he could have missed.

Spencer considers for a moment, looking marginally more subdued than the last time he’d sat on his sofa. “It’s… not easy, but I’m sort of used to it now. I don’t mind sitting out the fieldwork too much; besides, I get to talk to Penelope more.” He looks like he’s not saying something, averting his eyes as he talks but Aaron doesn’t push. He doesn’t want Spencer to bolt, but he makes a mental note to keep an eye on him when he eventually gets back to work again. “I heard through the grapevine that Strauss offered you retirement.”

He looks up at Aaron with wide, hesitant eyes and for a moment, his heart clenches tightly, a rush of some emotion he can’t quite place flooding his chest and squeezing the breath out of him. It’s only for a second: the moment’s over before he can actually process it, but it leaves him floundering for a response.

“I— ah, yes. She did,” he affirms, nodding his head, “but I declined.”

“You did?” Spencer asks, suddenly looking far brighter and another flash of that feeling flares in his chest.

As such, he can’t help the fond, private smile that spreads across his face. “I did.”

Spencer looks like he’s about to say something else but he’s interrupted by Jack dashing into the room, flying his toy plane around the room. As soon as he spots Spencer on the sofa, he dashes over, eager to show off his toy.

“Wow, that’s amazing, buddy,” Spencer says, looking as interested in a wooden replica of an aeroplane as an extremely well-educated adult possibly could. That’s probably because, Aaron thinks with a smile, he actually is.

Before Aaron knows it, he’s watching him be dragged towards his son’s new bedroom to inspect all his other toys. Jack has always loved Spencer and Spencer has always loved Jack, sharing a bond over an interest in all things scientific and mechanical, albeit at vastly different levels.

He hadn’t noticed how dull Spencer’s been looking until he brightens so considerably as soon as Jack is engaging with him, and his brows furrow. Trusting Jack to keep Spencer well entertained for the next few minutes, he fills a glass with water and leans against the counter of the kitchen, sipping it quietly as he thinks it over.

Now that he considers it properly, Spencer has seemed rather downcast and far quieter than usual recently. Not that he’d had the energy to address it, or even really clock it, the last time Spencer had turned up at his apartment, but his weird, abrupt departure was clearly triggered by discussion of the team. He starts to get some food out for lunch as he resolves to keep a much closer eye on things when he gets back to work.

He only thinks it over for a few more minutes before Spencer emerges into the kitchen, one hand clutching his cane and another gently holding Jack’s. He’s still bombarding him with questions about planes and trains and cars, but Spencer fields them expertly, managing to actually get an answer in before another question takes its place, a skill Aaron has yet to master. His chest clenches for the third time in the small period Spencer’s been in his flat as he watches the two together.

“Would you like to stay for lunch?” he offers, taking in Spencer’s small frame and dark eye bags; he can’t help the protective desire to feed him and make sure he’s happy and healthy.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Spencer says, looking pleased with the offer, mouth twisting into a little smile. Aaron probably shouldn’t feel quite so delighted at his acceptance, but he brushes it aside and turns to face his son, who is watching them curiously.

“Hey Jack,” he says, crouching down to face him, “how about we get you some lunch, yeah? You can continue asking Spencer some questions while we eat. How does that sound?”

Watching Jack’s face light up as he nods happily and looking up to see Spencer’s small smile still firmly pasted on his face makes him feel, for the first time since Haley died, like there’s a future for him. A good one.

Chapter Three

If this chapter brought anything up for you, hotlines are in the endnotes of the AO3 version of this fic. Bigger countries are listed and a link is included if you live somewhere else in the world. I love you all, see you next Saturday! <3

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch @marvel-ous-m @oliverbrnch @sbeno22 @aaron-hotchner187 (taglist form)

[obviouslyelementary]

Family - Data & Picard

Summary: After First Contact, Picard goes to check on Data and assure him that they can talk about anything, now that they both share the feelings of being assimilated by the Borg.

Warnings: light angst and heavy hurt comfort; dad and son feels;

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

First contact was successful. The Borg had been destroyed in the past, and would not assimilate the humans until way later in the future. The Borg Queen had been killed, at least the one they had encountered. And now, they were back home, to the 24th century, everything somewhat back to normal.

The main difference was that Picard was now sure he needed way more therapy before he could actually engage in any Borg related missions again. Star Fleet had been right, he was not ready to be face to face with the Borg again. Hadn't it been Lily, he would have destroyed humanity for vengeance, and probably got everyone killed in the process.

But now that everything was back to normal, now that they were home and heading to to base 001 for repairs and a well deserved vacation, he found himself with one more duty to fulfill.

"Will, you have the bridge" he said, standing up from the chair, and Will immediately took his post with a nod. Deanna watched as he moved away, standing up for a moment.

"Sir?" she asked, always concerned, probably feeling how he was feeling, but Picard smiled at her and nodded.

"Don't worry counselor. I will be back shortly."

She gave him an uncertain nod and allowed him to leave the bridge. He took the turbolift, heading down to sickbay, and made his way through the hallways, paying no attention to the officers and civilians walking around him. They had had several casualties, and the medical team was working on the double to get the few crewmembers left out of the Borg machinery.

But that was not why Jean-Luc was heading there.

He made his way inside sickbay and towards the recuperation isle, where he could see some familiar faces. Geordi was there, working double with some nurses, and on the table laid Data, now almost completely fixed. Jean-Luc approached the group, watching as Geordi attached the last patch of skin to Data's face and smiled.

"You're good as new friend" he said, and the nurses were quick to move away and help the other patients. Data slowly sat up again, blinking and touching his own face, with a slight discomforting expression before looking up at Geordi.

"Thank you" he said, and Picard could feel the honesty in his words. Geordi nodded.

"You're welcome. I should go back to work" he turned, and was surprised to see Picard there. "Captain!"

"At ease" he teased, smiling at his chief engineer. "Go back to duty. I came here to see our patient."

"Of course sir. I will leave you two alone" Geordi said, smiling at Data and then heading out of sickbay. Data looked at Picard, seeming confused, and tilted his head.

"I was about to return to the bridge sir" he said, but Picard shook his head.

"Could you accompany me to my quarters? I wish to speak to you in private" he said, and Data gave him a nod, following the captain out of sickbay so they could leave the nurses and doctors alone. The walk towards Picard's room was completely silent, even though he felt as if Data wanted to say something. He didn't indulge it until they were safely inside the captain's quarters, and with a nod, they both sat down on the couches, facing each other.

"Would you like some tea sir?" Data asked, politely, but Jean-Luc shook his head.

"No. And don't address me as sir or captain while in here... this is a very personal conversation, I don't want ranks influencing our talk" he said, sighing and crossing his legs. He did it when he was relaxed or very uncomfortable, and this time it was the latter.

"Of course" Data agreed, and then tilted his head. "May I ask why we are here? What is the subject of our talk?"

"The Borg are the subject of our talk" Jean-Luc said, and Data gave him a nod, accommodating himself on his seat. It could be a sign of discomfort, one Picard knew very well. "As you probably know, you and I had similar experiences with the Borg, and I want to talk to you about... that."

"You mean because both of us were assimilated against our will, and seen by the Borg Queen as more than just pawns?" he asked, unsure, and Picard nodded. "I see."

"Data... I don't know if our experiences were the same, or even as alike as I am thinking them to be" he admitted, and then sighed. "But it is clear that despite years of constant therapy, I still have not fully... gotten over what happened to me while in the Borg collective. I believed I was past it, but I was wrong. And now I want to make sure you don't make the same mistakes I did."

"Captain... I mean, Jean-Luc. Believe me when I say that our experiences were far more different than you imagine" Data said, in a calm manner. "Despite having human feelings, such as fear and happiness, I do not experience the same responses as does human psyche. Individuality, for example, is valued to me, but not inherent, nor maddening. It would be much more difficult for the Borg to integrate me in their collectiveness, and indeed it was, because I was not fully integrated at any moment. The only way they could have me was if I agreed to, the reason why the Borg Queen appealed to my human wishes. So I can assure you that I am not, in any way, traumatized by what transpired."

"Forgive me Data when I say... I find that extremely hard to believe" Jean-Luc said, looking at Data, his bright yellow eyes and his now completely android-like complexity. "I too believed I was fine the moment I was released from the Borg collective, and it took me months to admit that I was not, indeed, fine. I am not here to tell you to feel bad, not in the slightest. But I would like you to know that first, you should seek a therapist, and second, if you ever need someone to talk to, someone to share your thoughts and feelings with, I will always be open to listen. No matter how dark or upsetting they might be."

"I see... I must extend the offer to you as well" Data said, softly. "You are always welcomed to talk to me whenever you need."

"Good" Picard smiled, and Data smiled back. "If there is anything else you wish to talk about, ask... before we return to the bridge, feel free to do so."

"I... do have a few questions about, well, this mission in general" Data admitted, and Picard nodded, holding his knee with his hands. "First of all, the auto destruction sequence. You were not the one that had the idea, were you?"

"No. Worf was the sensible one" Picard admitted, with a dry chuckle. Data gave him a nod.

"Why did you come back for me?"

The question was sincere, quiet but not hesitant, but made Picard freeze on the spot. He looked up at Data again, finding his yellow eyes fixated on his own, with a curiosity that seemed to hide something underneath. The question itself was so offensive to Jean-Luc that he needed a second to process it, to perhaps understand it better.

"What do you mean, why I came back for you?" he asked, still somewhat incredulous, and Data tilted his head.

"For all you knew, I was assimilated. The ship was about to explode, you wouldn't have enough time to get into one of the escape pods. Not only that, but I heard you. You were going to sacrifice your humanity, your individuality, to save me. You were going to assimilate into the Borg collective as the Queen's equal. Why? I was the only one on board, and you could have found another way to stop the Borgs in case the plan failed. Why would you sacrifice your wellbeing for me?"

Jean-Luc stared at Data, waiting for some kind of joke to come out of his mouth, or an apology for such an absurd question, but it never came. His mouth opened and closed several times, a bubbling anger filling up his blood vessels together with a feeling of extreme sadness he never felt before. Empathy was never his strong suit, but seeing Data question his own worth for rescue was a bit too much, even for him.

"You... don't see any value on your own person, do you, Data?" he asked, because he was still baffled, and didn't know how to answer such an absurd question. Data seemed taken aback at the question, leaning away and looking to the floor.

"I... of course I do sir. I know I am the most advanced type of technology humans have ever made, and I know I have a place in this vessel, but-"

"Would you be questioning me if I had sacrificed myself to save Will? Deanna? Beverly? Geordi? Worf?" Picard asked, his voice now showing the signs of anger he was trying to push down, and Data shook his head like a shy boy.

"No sir."

"Then why are you questioning me when I sacrificed myself to save you?" he said, his voice deeper, angry and upset. "Don't you see any value, any worth on your own being, commander?"

Well, back with the ranks. That was how Picard showed he was mad.

"I do sir" Data said, and then slowly looked up at him, looking like a boy who had just made something wrong and was now seeking forgiveness. "I am sorry captain."

"No... stop" Picard said, shaking his head with a sigh and reaching out, taking Data's hands on his own. "Don't apologize, Data, I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get angry. But that question is absurd and even a bit revolting. You are part of the crew, Data. It is obvious I would do anything to save you."

"I saw what you did while I was in the collective. You killed one of the ensigns" Data said, his hands holding onto Picard's firmly. "Should you not have killed me too?"

Oh guilt. What a delicious feeling to have.

"I killed him because I was blind with rage and want for revenge. Because I only saw Borg when there was an ensign. I was wrong to do that to him" Picard admitted, and it was harder than he made it seem. "But I would have never killed you, Data. You are... you are family."

Family.

That was it.

Data was silent for a moment, holding Jean-Luc's hands on his own while he thought, tilting his head until a smile showed up on his face, a shy one, small and gentle but honest and happy. He gave Picard a nod, and a squeeze on his hands.

"I... believe you are my family too, Jean-Luc."

"I'm honored you think of me as such" he whispered, giving Data's hands another squeeze. "And my offer remains. If you ever need to speak to someone about what happened while you were being kept with the Borg, while you were in the collective... don't hesitate to talk to me."

"I will not. In fact... if I may" Data said, and Picard nodded, leaning back and letting go from Data's hands. "I believe that... one thing happened while I was locked up with them that bothered me deeply."

"What was it?"

"Did the Borg Queen try to... copulate with you, sir?" Data asked, shyly but loud enough to hear, and Picard stared at him with his eyes wide in surprise, before narrowing down in anger.

"What did she do to you?"

 The rest of the talk was, well, uncomfortable, and although Jean-Luc knew he was no specialist, he made sure Data was comfortable to talk to him about anything at all, including... that, while also making appointments for them both with Troi, once a week.

Once the talk was finished, and Picard felt himself a little less angry with the Borg for hurting Data, he allowed them both to go back to duty, but not before a very human ritual.

"Mister Data, have you ever had a hug?" he asked while they got ready to leave his quarters, and Data gave him a look.

"I have sir, a few times. Why?"

"Well, I was wondering if you would like another" he said, smiling, and Data looked at him surprised but clearly interested.

"I have never been hugged by a man before. And specially not one I consider do highly as you, sir" he said, and Picard nodded, walking closer to him and chuckling.

"I am awful at this... but you know, I will give it a shot" he admitted, raising his arms and wrapping them around Data's middle. He pulled the android closer, despite his initial hesitation, but soon the android's arms were wrapping around his shoulders, and his head found a comfy spot on Picard's shoulder to lay upon. Jean-Luc felt himself calming down almost immediately, never expecting a hug from his android officer to be so warm and inviting, but finding that he would not mind hugging him more often.

When they finally broke apart, probably after a way longer time than most hugs were kept, Picard looked at Data and smiled upon seeing the relaxed expression on his commander's face.

"Your hugs bring me a high level of happiness and comfort, Jean-Luc" Data said, softly, and Picard gave him a nod.

"I have to agree, Data. We should do it more often. Now let's go back to work."

"Yes sir."

Data walked out of his quarters, and Picard smiled as he walked after him, delighted by his reaction.

Data was precious, and if he could, Picard would never allow anyone to hurt him again.

[pinkandgreenarepurpleandyellow]

Y’all, hear me out.

So we all already know that Crowley and Aziraphale are ready to protect every single LGBT kid/adult/person in London from anything, but consider, BEELZEBUB.

Beelzebub gets chucked onto Earth for a small mission (as punishment for the ‘crowley getting away’ fiasco or whatever) and ze isn’t exactly happy to be here, but then ze sees a little girl. The girl should’t be anything special, but she’s playing with the flies, chattering to some of them, splashing in the mud to get closer to them, and the sight makes Beelzebub uncomfortable enough to finish zeir mission immediately and spend the next ten years (demons and angels have a strange concept of time) drinking.

But ze can’t forget, so ze goes to visit the girl again. She’s older now, and she doesn't play with the flies anymore. Instead she draws and writes about how she is a fly, she screams and cries and breaks down and then gets up and draws and writes and speaks until her voice is hoarse. There’s something strange about this, and Beelzebub doesn’t know what until ze realizes something.

The girl is acting like some of the demons from hell. Not all demons are inherently evil and horrible, and even the ones that are aren't always like that 24/7. There’s plenty of more “soft” demons around, ones that fell for asking things, for not agreeing to seeing their friends fall, for trying to prove the innocence of a banished angel, and all of them do something similar. They all cry and scream and destroy the walls, but they also get up, keep going, keep the gears of Hell churning, and there’s something mildly upsetting about seeing a human girl do the exact same things.

Beelzebub watches as the door to the attic the girl is in opens, watches as the presumable father walks in and starts berating the girl for everything, escalating until he’s screaming in her face. He screams about how disgusting she is and how much of a freak she and her friends all are, how she’d be better off dead, all sorts of things, and then he rips off her bracelet, a pink and orange one, with different shades on it, almost like a flag. The man seems even more engaged whne he sees the bracelet, screaming about sinners and hell and lesbians and sodomy, and then he moves to hit the girl.

Something in Beelzebub snaps at this, and ze moves without thinking, biting the man’s head off and covering his body in a swarm of flies. The girl blinks in shock and seems to be able to do nothing more than stare. Beelzebub spots the bracelet and kneels down to pick it up.

“Here,” ze says and hands it back. She thanks zir and that’s when the shock seems to start wearing off as the scene sinks in and she scrambles away from zir.

That’s what ze gets for doing something Beelz muses as ze flies out. But as ze’s almost out of earshot, ze hears a scream. “Thank you for saving me!” and it’s loaded with so many emotions at once.

Beelzebub decides to stay a little longer on Earth, citing to the superiors that ze believes there might be a new cult based on this strange flag ze saw and ze wants to ensure they are tempted to sin.

Basic research shows the bracelet to have been a lesbian pride flag. More research explains that a lesbian is a woman who is attracted to exclusively other women. Beelzebub is a little behind the times, but ze doesn't fully get the concept of why pride is necessary for this. Or why it’s such a big deal. SHE wouldn't care in the slightest if some of Her flock were like that, but apparently this was something that mattered to humans.

Beelzebub walks down the street and then ze sees a silhouette on a rooftop, a young boy (Ze has the ability to read auras, and some can tell the gender through an aura as well), and he appears to be ready to throw himself off at any moment. Then Ze senses a demonic presence, and Crowley dashes up to the boy like a madman, and starts enigmatically talking to him. Beelzebub strains to hear, and gets snippets of reassurance and doubt and confidence and Crowley’s reassuring and comfort gradually helping the boy step back.

The duo makes their way back onto the street somehow, and as they pass zir, ze overhears Crowley telling the boy that nonsense, gender wasn’t what’s between someone’s legs, he’s all the more a man for being able to survive in a body that feels wrong, he’s trans too, really, let’s go to Crowley’s house, right this way, you’ll love it.

Several days later ze sees the boy walking down the street again, but now it’s with more confidence. But there’s also something brimming deeper inside, some anger, and Beelzebub decides to tempt them just a little. Steal it, ze whispers into his ear, it would make you so happy. And the pharmacy overcharges for hormones anyway, you should strike back against the man, steal it, steal it, steal it, and yet the boy ignores zir. Ze almost feels offended before ze reads the boys thoughts a little more, and the mantra of steal it, steal it seems to be playing on an endless loop in there. The boy’s angry and tired and upset, but he’s also resigned to his own fate. This is somewhat interesting.

Beelzebub does research and finds out about the stigma against LGBT people. Ze searches for them on the streets, and ze speaks to them. The gay kid punching the wall stops hurting himself and goes to beat up the guy who hurt him for so long, revenge and wrath in one. The bisexual girl finally kicks her father below the belt, punches dear ol’ mom in the face, and runs to the nearest shelter after almost a year of abuse. The trans woman steals hormones from the pharmacy for the younger kids, she wants hormones but she’d rather they have what they need before she takes any for herself.

Crowley and Aziraphale find them eventually of course. The boy shows up at the bookstore for their gay cafe event. The girl runs in screaming for sanctuary late at night. The woman is drawn to the shop after seeing the snake in the window, and all of them go in and heal the broken pieces. But it’s only because first they get their anger and brokenness out there in the open, shout until their throats are raw, hit until their fists are bleeding, run until they feel content, and Beelzebub helps them with this part. Ze helps them feel a little more sick anger and pride for a while, if they’re really as sick and depraved as everyone keeps telling them, why not be sick and depraved to the fullest, why not punch homophobes, why not date who they want to and snog whomever they damn well please? But most of them are also good people deep down, so they also help others, and they go to find help for themselves.

Crowley sees Beelzebub walking two teenagers to the shop, invisibly sending them thoughts of how if the owner gave either of them flack for their neo-pronouns or dress style they could always run away or smahs the bookstore windows with a brick. The two demons make eye contact, and Crowley nods a thanks to the Lord of Flies before saying hello the two teens and gently steering them into the bookshop.

There’s a strange form of friendship, or co-workerness, between them after that. Crowley still hates Beelzebub with a passion, and vice-versa, but they’re willing to come together on the idea that morally grey is also acceptable. At a protest Crowley is the one who causes havoc on the homophobic side by setting off sprinklers or turning holy water to vinegar, and Beelzebub tempts the allies and LGBT members to fight and scream with new passion, tempts the bible-banging homophobes to argue with one another until they tear themselves apart in hate. And both demons nod to one another, and part ways.

Crowley and Aziraphale take in the people looking for shelter and hope and healing. Beelzebub finds the ones who want to break and destroy and scream and helps them get the urges out of their system before ze brings them conveniently near the shop.

Crowley and Aziraphale protect the happiness and the healing, Beelzebub protects and supports the angry ones, and ze acts like a guardian demon to them, watching over London with a keen eye and small spies everywhere, the flies.

And even though neither of the ineffable husbands ever mentions it explicitly, they silently thank Beelz for sending the people their way every time another one comes to them. One of the earlier arrivals was a young femme lesbian, pale as death under her dark skin and she tells them the story of a swarm of flies killing her step-father and letting her finally run from home.

That was the proof that Crowley needed to know that there is a guardian demon in London, one that isn’t him, one that still does care about the humans, and it’s a weight off his shoulders when he sees the flies sitting on the windowsill, as though they’re watching too.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, KYLIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of BENVOLIO. Admin Julie: If I could, I’d wax poetry over the intricacies that came from reading your application for Bellamy. From the inherent bravery that comes from being kind in a world that eats kindness whole, to having to learn how to survive in that sort of environment, you’ve enraptured us with Bellamy’s conflict and narrative. Your writing sample captured an emotion note often seen in Verona: panic, terror, and worse, acceptance. The seven stages of grief, compounded into one man? It’s awe-inspiring and heartbreaking on one. We cannot wait to see where you’ll take him.  Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Kylie

Age | 25

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | 5-6, the holidays have been a busy time for me, but now that they are coming to a close my activity should only go up.

Timezone | mst

Triggers | already listed!

How did you find the rp?  | I am a member who loves it dearly.

Current/Past RP Accounts | @ronanivarsson @nickborisov

IN CHARACTER

Character | Bellamy Santo-Domingo, Benvolio

What drew you to this character? |

I was drawn to Bellamy because I was thinking about the idea of heroism in Verona, and came to the conclusion that he must surely be the closest thing that Verona has to a real “hero” or heroic figure–what could possibly be more admirable than advocating for peace in a city where it is universally acknowledged that peace, that goodness, cannot thrive? I began comparing him to classical heroes like Aneas, who was divinely tasked with building a new city from the ashes of an old one, who was able to maintain his epithet of pious even as his city burned and the blood of his people was spilled. Because of his relationships with Marcelo and with Roman, both Achilles figures in their own right, I compared him to Patroclus–in the same way that Patroclus put on the armor of Achilles and went out to fight the Trojans, Bellamy has learned to put on the same armor that Roman and Marcelo wear in order to better protect them.

These comparisons have merit–but I think it would be a mistake to allow Bellamy to be so easily defined. I think a lot of contradictions exist within him–his banner is peace, he has cried and cried for it until he has lost his voice, but I think he also holds a lot of anger in his heart. He is angry that he seems to be the only one who can see where all of the destruction will lead, he is angry that the people he loves are so willing to gamble with their lives, he is angry at the fact that none of this is what he would have chosen for himself. I also think he is both very self sacrificing, as all heroes must be, but also very selfish. He would willingly give his life for Marcelo or Roman, or if he thought his death would mean something in terms of bringing peace to Verona–but at the same time, I think he would also willingly leave it all and go back to wandering, to make that choice for himself and shed the uniform the Montagues handed to him and ordered him into.

I also just enjoyed all the potential that exists within him–what is the difference between the person he would like to be, the person that he sees himself as, and the person he has to be in order to survive in Verona? He is an Atlas, bearing the weight of an entire city on his shoulders, but surely even Atlas cried out in pain, began to curse the gods at some point? How much blood must he shed in his quest for peace? Will there come a point where he has to turn his back on the people that he loves, on the lives that they lead?

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

DEATH DOESN’T DISCRIMINATE BETWEEN THE SINNERS AND THE SAINTS | I’m very interested in Bellamy’s relationship with the violence of the Montagues–he is a character that is defined by his goodness, by his desire for peace over violence, but I don’t think that makes him a soft character necessarily. I would love to investigate how far both he and his convictions could be pushed, where his point of no-return might be. Would he kill for them? Would he be willing to torture someone? If he is willing, how does he justify it in his mind? Is it a case of some blood being necessary in the quest to bring peace to Verona? How would he handle it if Roman or Marcelo specifically asked him to commit an act of violence in their name? Is there a point where he would consider himself too far gone, too far lost, too much of a sinner?  

IF THERE’S A REASON I’M STILL ALIVE | One of the things that really interests me is the relationships that Bellamy has with Roman and Marcelo. He came back to Verona because his mother asked, because he felt a sense of familial obligation, yes—but he also came back because he was worried about his brothers. They are the reason he stays, the reason he wants peace in this city—he wants to see them grow old, see them have faith in something other than the blood. I would love to investigate how far he’s willing to go for them, what kind of situations does he have to bail them out of? Would there ever come a point where he would decide that he’s more dedicated to his cause than to the two of them? Is there any resentment between them because of Bellamy’s dedication to peace, to opposing the organization that brought the three of them together?

THERE ARE THINGS THAT THE HOMILIES AND HYMNS WON’T TEACH YOU | I’m very interested in Bellamy’s job as a police officer, especially since it isn’t a job that he picked for himself—I was very interested in the phrasing in his biography, in the use of the word “posing” when talking about his position as a law enforcement officer. Does he feel like he’s wearing a costume, when he wears that uniform? How dedicated is he to the work? He wants to help people, but can he balance that with doing the bidding of the Montagues? What would he have chosen for himself instead? How does he interact with the other officers who are Capulets?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes, if his death really meant something–but I’m also kind of attached to him suffering the same fate as his namesake, of being the only one left alive with the carnage of the very thing he had fought so hard to prevent.

IN DEPTH

He drops his keys three times before he manages to stop his hands from shaking. It takes another three attempts before he’s able to unlock the door to his apartment, three heavy footed and stumbling steps before he is inside and able to collapse his weight against the wall of the entryway, before he is able to slide to the floor and hide his face behind his hands without the fear of being seen.

Because if anyone saw him right now, there would surely be more questions about Bellamy Santo-Domingo, more doubts about the soft hearted boy who surely doesn’t have the same stomach for blood, the same singular eye fixed on his own divinely appointed destiny, that his friends have. He’s certain that’s why Damiano had asked it of him, had filtered it down through Pandora who had said it as though it was just another task, another meaningless item to be efficiently checked off a list. If Bellamy could kill some no-name dealer who thought himself brave enough to sell on Don Montague’s territory, then there could be no more questioning his loyalty—to his family and to the Montagues as a whole. He would finally be equal to Roman, to Marcelo—an unquestioned part of the future that the two of them would build.

And he had almost done it, hadn’t he? He’d had the man dead to rights in the darkness of an abandoned warehouse, had the cold steel of his standard issue pistol pressed against the man’s temple–he’d even allowed him to say one last prayer to his God, though the words had been half choked out through sobs, and had fallen on ears both unqualified and unworthy to hear them. All that remained was to pull the trigger, to force his fingers into applying the specific amount of pressure that would end the man’s life.

His hands had been suprisingly steady then, the muscles of his jaw had been clenched but unwavering, his eyes had been cold and unfeeling–the very model of a soldato, someone that Damiano Montague could have been proud to call family, something like a son. He could have done it, he could have left the man to bleed out onto the cement and dedicated himself to finding the bottom of as many bottles as it took to render the memory of it nothing but haze and the aftertaste of copper. He would have been fine, in the same way that everyone in Verona is only ever fine–in the same way that anyone who has ever taken another life can never be good again.

In that moment, Bellamy Santo-Domingo made the radical decision to be something other than fine for the rest of his life. He lowered the gun.

He told the man to get out of Verona, that the next person who came for him would not be in possession of the same kindness.

It was then that his hands had started shaking.

Bellamy was certain that Damiano had meant the whole excersise as a test of his loyalty, to the Montague cause, to the actions that would be nessecary if they were going to win the war he was waging against Cosimo Capulet. He had meant to see if Bellamy could be hardened, if the soul of the poet could be worn away by a continually crashing sea of blood and made into a new and more useful shape. It was why he had merely nodded when Pandora had issued the command, instead of challenging her as he normally did. He had wanted answers to the same questions, and tonight he had received them.

On the floor of his apartment, Bellamy Santo-Domingo sobs into his hands. He sobs in a way that is anthetical to the very foundations that Verona is built on–he sobs unashamedly, as a howling prayer of thanks to God, not because he is overcome with tragedy. He sobs because the heart that beats inside of his chest, that stubbornly hopes and cries for something better for the people that he loves, is not so easily vanquished. He sobs because above all else, in spite of the war raging outside of his window, he has remained loyal to that hope, to the idea that peace is possible. He knows the metric by which he will be measured now, and it is not the number of lives that he takes in the name of Montague, it is not the amount of cruelty that he inflicts–it will be the number of lives that he saves, the world that he builds for the people that he loves.

There is no blood to wash off of his hands, to stain the porcelain of the bathroom sink rust colored for weeks on end. There is only sleep to be had, a new day to be lived beginning to be visible over the horizion. There is a war to be waged, and he will need the rest if he is to continue to stand between the two sides underneath his own banner, if his voice and the strength of his words is to fly between bullets and knife blades until both can be set down. He wipes at his eyes and gets to his feet, and Bellamy Santo-Domingo laughs. He cannot wait to begin.

Extras: pinterest board x

[projectmedusarp]

Welcome Bah! We’re pleased to announce your audition for Dante Oren Miller / Supernatural Strength has been accepted! Please send your account into the main within the next 24 hours. We can’t wait to have you join us!

{{ PLAYER INFORMATION }}

NAME: Bah

AGE: 23

TIMEZONE: GMT - 3

PRONOUNS: They/Them

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I can be on a little every day and most on the weekends!

PREVIOUS ROLEPLAY EXPERIENCE: I’ve been around Tumblr since… 2011 I think? But written roleplay ways before that. I joined countless Tumblr groups and ran a few rps myself!I usually recycle character blogs and I’m not really comfortable giving them as reference? Sorry it just makes me super anxious!

PERSONAL TUMBLR CONTACT: Link Removed

TRIGGERS: None

{{ CHARACTER INFORMATION }}

CHARACTER: Dante Oren Miller  (Nicknames: Ren)

PRONOUNS: He/Him

AGE: 22

FACE CLAIM: Bill Skarsgard

POWER: Superior Strength

QUOTE: “All cruelty springs from weakness.” 

PERSONALITY:

(+) Calm – Collected and demure, the end result of a harsh upbringing, abuse and social isolation, from nature as well, it’s very hard to make Ren snap or to pull on his strings. He always responds coldly to situations, not the type to be shaken by anything or upset, he won’t panic most times and is often considered ‘cold’ by some.

(+) Sensitive – Even if he’s calm and collected at all times, he’s a sensitive soul. Harsh words make him cry (in private), loud noises make him jump and he’s always deeply aware of his surroundings and everything. Small acts and gestures that most people consider nothing can either cheer him up or break his heart.

(+) Intelligent –  Booksmart and social smart, Ren was supposed to be the brains not the brawn (and he won’t have anyone tell him otherwise), he’s a studious, quiet kid who doesn’t like the moniker of genius but he does have a MENSA membership.

(-) Sullen – Long, gloomy silences are Ren’s specialty. When left alone to his own devices, though his powers aren’t weather control, he’s practically able to summon his own dark cloud, looming over his head. Most times, as soft and calm as he is, people tend to avoid Ren because of his usually closed-off semblance that is most unfriendly.

(-) Insecure – By the dark semblance always on his face and pulled up shoulders, no one would ever think Ren is remotely insecure, especially being who he is. But inside his mind is a shitstorm where he’s always second-guessing himself, hesitating and while looking cool, he’s going insane. It’s easy to tear away into his self-esteem by saying the right (or wrong) words.

(-) Passive -  Due to his quiet, reserved nature, Ren is most of a loner so people don’t realize how easy it is to push him around or making him a doormat. He’s incapable of fighting for himself or his wishes, he tries but he lacks the self-confidence and courage that takes to stand up to someone. He’d rather avoid confrontation at all times and please others.

BIOGRAPHY:

Golden boy from a golden family – Dante Oren was the cherry on top of the Miller’s perfect picture. Father, mother, older son, older daughter and the newborn baby, eight years younger than their twins. Father a rich politician, mother a famous attorney, all beautiful, healthy kids, a stable family, house in a nice neighbourhood on Georgia, picket fence and all. Dante was their most beloved, spoiled baby boy, a bright child that started talking before he knew how to walk. Smart, genius even they called him. His father was fifty years old, Dante was a mere five, when he was elected President of the United States of America. Needless to say that growing eight years on the public spotlight didn’t do any wonders for a boy whose nature was already shy. Worse so, for a boy whose public life was perfect but behind closed doors it very much resembled something like hell.

His father was an alcoholic with temper issues, his mother a depressed diplomat that kept her perfect façade using pills (her mind lost ways ahead), his brother ever so slowly crumbling under the crippling pressure of being the firstborn and his sister inhering their father’s own anger issues. In the midst of all that, Dante’s spirit slowly started to wither whatever much had bloomed. He dedicated his days to his studies, locked away in the isolation of his room – it was a good thing, he could live up to his parents’ and the country’s expectations. Dante even skipped a few years ahead though not many since his parents didn’t want him to miss the full ‘child experience’, or so they said. Truth be told, they didn’t wanted to be bothered with it – absent parents were better than overbearing, violent ones, as he learned it soon enough.

He was almost fourteen when his father’s second term came to an end and most of the attention died away, it now meant they had to go back to Georgia and get re-used to their former lives, if that was ever possible. Though his siblings were much happier, Dante wasn’t so sure about it, he had grown up in DC, after all. Though in the expensive school he had been enrolled during the past eight years, going back to Atlanta was odd and he had no friends, no one. Going to a new school gave Dante although a small hope, he was thirteen and on his second year of High School, he’d start new, make friends, be happy. He wouldn’t have to be by his father’s side so often either, it all looked up to a brighter future.

His hopes died as soon as the first bully bumped on him in the hallway and sent him toppling against the lockers. He knew exactly what that meant – for the next years of High School, Dante kept to himself. It wasn’t blatant. Never enough to warrant anything. Bumps and bruises, roughhousing and of course, it wouldn’t do a former president’s son whining at the smallest sign of distress or problem. It just wouldn’t. His father was a severe, demanding man who wouldn’t take it – and you didn’t fight for yourself? He’d demand and Dante never gathered the courage to tell anyone. No. He was “popular”, of course, rich and ‘famous’ to a certain extent, but he had no friends. Only those influential, equally rich and smart kids who had realized they could push him around at their will.

He was sixteen when he managed to get out of High School (well, fifteen, almost sixteen) and landed admittances to some of the best Universities in the country, along with a couple ones abroad, in the end to get as far away as possible from his family, to try and finally get a new life, Ren chose Columbia, in the heart of New York city. A big city, with too many people, he’d be just an invisible john in the crowd, no one would care to look at him, no one would bother with him, invisible, this time he could start over on his own terms. While his true wish was to join Juilliard, and follow a career in ballet or Columbia Visual Arts, he knew he couldn’t even dream of it without causing a rift in the family, so Dante accepted going into a double major of PoliSci and Law.

Five years later and ready to reach for a Masters Degree in the very same Law school, Dante finally decided he was going to move in definitely to New York City. It was the summer of his twenty-first year and he had convinced his sister to come stay with him after she had (another) fallout with their parents. It was a simple, one July hot night, Beatrice bought him some fancy new water thing before they were drove down to some famous restaurant when the truck hit Dante’s car full on, sending it right against a electrical post. From there on, Dante could only remember waking up in the hospital – a two week coma later. His sister did not make it. He also couldn’t hear anything, the fact he had survived had been pretty surprising.

At first Dante thought he was imagining the newfound strength – breaking small objects, crushing his cellphone’s screen three times on the same week. He only realized what was happening when a car almost ran him over and his hand ended printed in the car’s hood with a very defined outline. Confused and terrified of his new powers, whatever they may be, Dante started training his body by himself – working out a little harder, reading and watching things on fighting techniques. No idea where it came from but at least he wouldn’t let it hurt anyone, nor let himself show in no one else’s radar.

HEADCANONS:

(Dance Dance) – Dante took many kinds of lessons as a kid, from painting to piano to French to gymnastics and so on. He’s always loved especially gymnastics and dancing, specifically ballet and he did show talent for it from an early age. He was also very passionate towards visual arts in general, practicing over and over drawings and doodles at the corners of his notebooks. Of course, Arts wasn’t a proper or acceptable career for the son of an influential politician in the Twenty-first century so his parents quickly demoted him from anything serious regarding the arts. Still, living in New York he kept taking ballet lessons in a small studio in his off days from School, just for the sake of doing something small for himself.

(Misunderstood) – Though his name ‘Oren’ is from the Jewish side of the family, the nickname ‘Ren’ is indeed meaningful, given to him by the son of the Japanese ambassador in the US when they were both children. In Japanese Ren means Lotus, more specifically the Lotus flower that comes with a series of meanings, such as Patience, Love, Compassion and Loyalty. He never really got attached to those, not believing himself worthy of any name like that but as years went by, Dante decided to live by the name of Ren, or rather, try to live up to it. Being the best he could be, he even tattooed a small lotus flower on his left shoulder as a reminder. 

(What’s in a name?) - Dante was named after the main character and homonymous author of The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri and his siblings were named Virgil and Beatrice, the two other main characters of the book. They were named mostly because their mother loved the names, with no ulterior reasons but Dante does think there might be some irony.

(I Can’t Hear The Music) – The trauma of the car impact, (not to mention his sister’s death that he still refuses to talk about), has caused severe hearing loss of 98% on one ear and 95% on another, mostly rendering Dante completely deaf. In the past year he has been learning how to speak ASL but being raised as a typical southern boy, he’s afraid of showing any signs of weakness or needing others, therefore he always wears hearing aids and tries not to let people know of his disability. Due to the damage being caused by trauma, it’s hard for him to keep the aids on at all times and he hasn’t gotten used to it yet.

(The Best of You) – Dante has been taking weekly fighting lessons for the past three months, though he has to be very careful and most times avoids touching the coach. He’s signed up to an old boxing gym in Harlem and takes boxing lessons every Friday night with an old fighter. The man never asks many questions and pretends not to see every time Ren tears through a punching bag or destroys a wall. He’s not very good at it so far and still too scared, lacking confidence, but at least he did learn how to throw a punch. It’s also been helping him control his powers or the extent they can get.

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: (I have a lot of extras halfway done, I wanted to put in but I fear I won’t have time before the limit of sending the app, I’m sorry! If I get accepted, I’ll post it!)

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, JULIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of VIOLA. Admin Rosey: Valentina is near and dear to my heart. She’s a complex character and it’s difficult for me to trust anyone to nail her down well. Her voice is so distinct and strong, her mannerisms are constructed from a past fraught with tragedy, her logic equally so. And in the para sample you managed to capture all of this and more, Julie! You give her a vitality that brings her to life, and managed to convey her weariness with the world as well. I can’t wait to see what you do with her and how the beautiful plots pan out. I am so very excited! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Julie

Age | 19

Preferred Pronouns | She/her or they/them works fine!

Activity Level | School is finally wrapping up, so I’m gonna give it an 5-7/10. I work on the weekends and might pick up some more shifts here soon, but I’m pretty good at time management and my best friend is the queue. I’m usually more active in the evenings, but I’m always lurking.

Timezone | MST

In Character

Character | Viola / Valentina Gallo, with Phoebe Tonkin as the faceclaim.

What drew you to this character? Twelfth Night is my favorite of Shakespeare’s works specifically because of Viola. I love Orsino (obviously) but Viola has always been in a league of her own for me. She’s witty, she’s resourceful, and she proves herself over and over again.  Obviously she gets Shakespeare’s usual clean-slate wipe at the end of the play like he does with most of his female characters, and her resourcefulness is played for jokes, but when I read the play last year I was astounded by how much I just loved her, so I was super psyched when I saw her bio on the dash.

When I read Valentina’s bio, there was a really strong sense of familiarity that struck me, with what she’s had to do for herself and her brother. I think at more than one point in our lives, we end up having to make hard decisions. There’s always going to be a fork in the road: are we going to take the easy path, or the long and winding one? Is the outcome at the end worth the blood and sweat and tears? Sometimes the decision gets taken away from us and we’re forced one direction or the other. Valentina, at her core, never got to choose for herself how things were going to be. It was snatched away from her before she even realized it. It’s an unfortunate reality that she lived for such a long time, one that’s hardened her into something beautiful and statuesque and powerful. She’s had to rage and make difficult choices for the sake of survival, to allow herself to keep going. To be a person without the sacrifice of her own humanity.

These moments of hardship for most individuals are short-lived, brief. They last for, say, a week, or a month, and then they’re gone. The struggle that Valentina’s been dogged by is so interesting to me. She hasn’t just been fighting for a week, or a month, or even a year. It’s been a constant battle, her entire life, and she still hasn’t let the misery that can come with that crush her. She has her moments, I’m sure, of soul-crushing anger, but the fact she’s been able to dig herself out from the rubble every single time is so fascinating to me. Abandonment is hard, and abandonment by the people who are supposed to love you and protect you until you’re ready to move on and protect yourself is worse. She didn’t start out as a powerhouse by any means. She had to carve that out of her own flesh until she was the shape she needed to be.

And I think it’s difficult, for her, clutching at humanity when it seemed - or in some cases, still seems - pointless in holding onto. I think Valentina’s seen both ends of the spectrum: people who’ve gotten out from the slums, done well for themselves, and people who just keep on digging the hole deeper. I think she sees both ends of the spectrum in herself and her brother, bonded as they are. She has ambition, but it’s an ambition born from grief for what she could have been, not from luxury or privilege. She’s made something out of the shell of her own potential, where so many others have slipped up or faltered or simply given up the ghost. Her undercover operation is just another chance to prove her strength, and at this point, that’s easy.

Joining up with the Montagues is, arguably, the first choice that life has allowed her to make. It’s something she owns, that belongs to her, and God help anyone who tries to take that from her.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

1. I AM NOT WHAT I AM. Living a lie every day is painful. It’s gruesome work. She’d like to say that she’s not losing bits and pieces of herself in her work, but she is. It’s becoming harder and harder to differentiate between Valentina Gallo and the Valentina who dons a uniform every morning. The wall building up between herself and Santino is only really making it worse. Her one resource, the one she could always lean on, is distancing himself, and she worries about who she might become without him. I’d love to dig into these issues of identity and loyalty. Valentina has always been loyal, but she has these split-second moments where she isn’t sure who it should be to: the Montagues, or herself? How does she choose, when she’s only ever chosen herself?

2. PUT YOUR SWORD UP, IF YOU PLEASE. Growing up on the streets is different from the upbringing most Veronans are used to, and it shows in Valentina’s everyday actions and behaviors. Whereas before she was lucky to get to sleep in the same place for a week, she has things of her own now. A home. A job. Work, steady and solid. A chance to prove herself. I’d love to see her exploring the inherent discomfort that comes with getting something she doesn’t feel she necessarily deserves, and the aggression that typically follows afterwards with anyone who shows even a lick of genuine kindness. The war between the Capulets and Montagues has always swept up victims to take advantage of, and I want Valentina to cope with the realization that she might one day become one of them in spite of what she’s doing for them now. I want to see which direction she goes in: cold, unkind cruelty, or a softening of some kind?

3. MY DUTY HUSHES ME. There’s a warmth and familiarity in abandonment that Valentina’s comfortable with. With her relationships - all of them, each and every single one besides Santino’s (and even now that’s coming into question) - she’s ready to jump the gun and leave before she gets left. I want to see the development of these relationships play out and grow. This is more of an overarching plot, admittedly, more of an arc, but I want her to feel what it’s like to be comfortable in her own skin around someone she cares for, someone she can openly admit she cares for.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yeah! Bring me the angst.

In Depth

Self para, word count: 1256. Trigger warning for parental death and mentions of abuse/abandonment.

She’s never seen the inside of a hospital room. Doctor’s offices, sure, but never a hospital, with the sleek sheets and air of sorrow, dark lit halls even with all the curtains open. The nurse leads her down the winding path of the hospice ward to room 403, and then leaves her there to contemplate the door. This feels like the crux of the moment: a risk, brought to fruition in the heaving fervor of a gasping chest. She really shouldn’t be here.

Maria Gallo’s name mocks her in neat, red marker on the whiteboard. She swallows and twists the handle. It clicks, and for a second, there’s the irrational fear. It’s locked. It shouldn’t be locked. Why would it be locked? A beat passes, and then another. She twists the other way, and the door glides open in easy silence. It doesn’t even creak. There’s just the soft sigh of pressurized air being released from under the door jamb. She steps in without invitation or introduction. Her heart isn’t pounding in frantic nervousness like she thought it might have. There’s a dislocated numbness instead, the kind that only comes with moments of pure and unsolicited rage. She rounds the corner past the bathroom and prepares herself for the worst.

Her mother is tucked neatly into the bed, looking worn and weathered for all she’s worth. For a moment, Valentina almost feels sorry for her. And then she’s relieved, because she looks nothing like she’d thought she would. When she’d been young, she’d had a photo of their parents, faded and worn at the edges. Valentina had thought, perhaps naively, that she’d be her mother’s daughter even now. In the picture they have the same sleek hair, same nose, same eyes. The same cut of the jaw and freckles on their neck. Santino looks more like their father.

But this woman - she’s a stranger. It’s not anything new, Valentina thinks, settling down in the chair near the window. She places her bag in her lap, crosses one leg over the other. It has to be the window, not next to the bed. She doesn’t think she can stand as close as two feet without feeling the desire to do something unkind. (And isn’t that a perfect summarization of it? They’ll put it on her tombstone, if she gets one: Valentina Gallo, lovingly remembered, always cruel.) She doesn’t know what she’ll put on her mother’s tombstone. She hardly has the money for a funeral, and with their father buried somewhere in Germany, it’s just going to be them. Santino and Valentina, like always, since the start of it.

Maria’s asleep. Valentina wonders if she’s in pain, if she aches in the way they say cancer tends to. There’s no way she’ll be pulling out of it. She’s got a week. Maybe less, or at least that’s what the doctor had said over the phone. At this point she almost wants to say it’ll be better to be rid of her than anything else. Maria Gallo’s death will be easier than the brief attempt she had made at raising her children. She won’t even know it when she slips into darkness, with the way she’s slumbering now. The clock in the room ticks. She tips her head back against the chair and closes her eyes. She doesn’t know when she slips into a dream but she does. When she’s jolted awake by the sound of the nurse closing the door behind her nearly an hour later, she doesn’t remember entirely what it had been about. Her bag hits the floor. “Fuck.”

She bends to grab for it. When she sits back up, Maria Gallo is staring at her daughter with the same hazel eyes Valentina sees when she looks in the mirror. It’s like being caught in the act of a crime, doing something she’s not supposed to just by being in the room. Maria smiles, and it pulls at the lines on her face. Valentina feels her mouth slip into a frown as she stands. Her mother is only in her late fifties, had barely been twenty when she’d had her children, but she looks eons older, like the life has been sucked out of her. And it has. And Valentina is about to siphon the rest out. She crosses the room to perch on the bed, in the space Maria has made with her legs. It feels… awkward. What is she supposed to do? Pet her hair? Sing her a song? How do you comfort a stranger in their dying moments?

“Sei tu l'angelo della morte?” Maria rasps.

Valentina laughs, or tries to, but it gets caught in her throat. She clenches her fists, digs her nails into her palms. This isn’t the right time, she thinks. Not the right place. There’s never going to be a right time, a right place. This is what she gets. But it’s so… stereotypical. She should say no, should draw the woman who’d given her life into her arms, hold her for the first and last time.

“Yes,” she answers.

A cold and clammy hand reaches up, shaking. Her mother’s hand brushes her cheek, the scar across her brow, and frowns in a surprisingly judgmental manner for a dying woman. Weren’t the sickly supposed to repent, in their final hours? She doesn’t say anything. Just… stares. Her daughter stares back, unsure that she could draw anything else out of her if she tried. There’s so much she wants to say, to ask, but finds herself mute at the worst time. My duty hushes me, she thinks, and nothing else. Valentina stands, and Maria’s arm falls back to her side, as if her presence had given her the willpower to keep it up alone.

“You were supposed to love me.” She’s ashamed in the way her voice trembles, cracking across supposed, embarrassed by the flushing of her cheeks. She can feel the way the heat rises in her face and tries to compose herself. Always an ugly crier. “You were supposed to love me, and you didn’t.”

She looks down. Her mother is already asleep, chest barely rising and falling with her breaths. There’s no sharp reply, or angry comeback. It’s… acceptance, maybe, and that’s worse than anything else could. When she’d came here, she’d been expecting to end it. To ask the doctors to pull the plug, have it over with. But now - now it seems better to drag things out. Let her suffer. She can hardly stand to be in the room a minute longer, suffocating as it feels. It’s too much, too fast. She needs to go.

She leaves the room without a goodbye, upset she can’t slam the door on her way out. It hisses shut, the one last gasp of a dying woman. She fishes her phone out of her purse and dials her brother’s number, hoping, praying, begging for some sort of comforting release from what feels like strangulation. It goes to voicemail, because of course it does. “You’ve reached Santino. Leave a message,” and Christ, he sounds chipper. Unjustifiably so.

“It’s Valentina. Mom’s… mom’s dead.” It’s not entirely true, but at this point, it’s doesn’t matter. Another white lie stacked atop a mountain of them. The phone goes back in the purse, the purse slung over her shoulder, and that’s really the least of it.

Maria Gallo’s burial, held in a rush a week later, is attended by two people, including the priest. Her daughter is not one of them.

Extras: pinterest board, playlist.

Out of Character

Alias | Julie

Age | 19

Preferred Pronouns | She/her or they/them works fine!

Activity Level | School is finally wrapping up, so I’m gonna give it an 6-7/10. I work on the weekends and might pick up some more shifts here soon, but I’m pretty good at time management and my best friend is the queue. I’m usually more active in the evenings, but I’m always lurking.

Timezone | MST

Triggers | Infertility + Miscarriage

In Character

Character | Viola / Valentina Gallo, with Phoebe Tonkin as the faceclaim.

What drew you to this character? Twelfth Night is my favorite of Shakespeare’s works specifically because of Viola. I love Orsino (obviously) but Viola has always been in a league of her own for me. She’s witty, she’s resourceful, and she proves herself over and over again.  Obviously she gets Shakespeare’s usual clean-slate wipe at the end of the play like he does with most of his female characters, and her resourcefulness is played for jokes, but when I read the play last year I was astounded by how much I just loved her, so I was super psyched when I saw her bio on the dash.

When I read Valentina’s bio, there was a really strong sense of familiarity that struck me, with what she’s had to do for herself and her brother. I think at more than one point in our lives, we end up having to make hard decisions. There’s always going to be a fork in the road: are we going to take the easy path, or the long and winding one? Is the outcome at the end worth the blood and sweat and tears? Sometimes the decision gets taken away from us and we’re forced one direction or the other. Valentina, at her core, never got to choose for herself how things were going to be. It was snatched away from her before she even realized it. It’s an unfortunate reality that she lived for such a long time, one that’s hardened her into something beautiful and statuesque and powerful. She’s had to rage and make difficult choices for the sake of survival, to allow herself to keep going. To be a person without the sacrifice of her own humanity.

These moments of hardship for most individuals are short-lived, brief. They last for, say, a week, or a month, and then they’re gone. The struggle that Valentina’s been dogged by is so interesting to me. She hasn’t just been fighting for a week, or a month, or even a year. It’s been a constant battle, her entire life, and she still hasn’t let the misery that can come with that crush her. She has her moments, I’m sure, of soul-crushing anger, but the fact she’s been able to dig herself out from the rubble every single time is so fascinating to me. Abandonment is hard, and abandonment by the people who are supposed to love you and protect you until you’re ready to move on and protect yourself is worse. She didn’t start out as a powerhouse by any means. She had to carve that out of her own flesh until she was the shape she needed to be.

And I think it’s difficult, for her, clutching at humanity when it seemed - or in some cases, still seems - pointless in holding onto. I think Viola’s seen both ends of the spectrum: people who’ve gotten out from the slums, done well for themselves, and people who just keep on digging the hole deeper. I think she sees both ends of the spectrum in herself and her brother, bonded as they are. She has ambition, but it’s an ambition born from grief for what she could have been, not from luxury or privilege. She’s made something out of the shell of her own potential, where so many others have slipped up or faltered or simply given up the ghost. Her undercover operation is just another chance to prove her strength, and at this point, that’s easy.

Joining up with the Montagues is, arguably, the first choice that life has allowed her to make. It’s something she owns, that belongs to her, and God help anyone who tries to take that from her.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

1. I AM NOT WHAT I AM. Living a lie every day is painful. It’s gruesome work. She’d like to say that she’s not losing bits and pieces of herself in her work, but she is. It’s becoming harder and harder to differentiate between Valentina Gallo and the Valentina who dons a uniform every morning. The wall building up between herself and Santino is only really making it worse. Her one resource, the one she could always lean on, is distancing himself, and she worries about who she might become without him. I’d love to dig into these issues of identity and loyalty. Valentina has always been loyal, but she has these split-second moments where she isn’t sure who it should be to: the Montagues, or herself? How does she choose, when she’s only ever chosen herself?

2. PUT YOUR SWORD UP, IF YOU PLEASE. Growing up on the streets is different from the upbringing most Veronans are used to, and it shows in Valentina’s everyday actions and behaviors. Whereas before she was lucky to get to sleep in the same place for a week, she has things of her own now. A home. A job. Work, steady and solid. A chance to prove herself. I’d love to see her exploring the inherent discomfort that comes with getting something she doesn’t feel she necessarily deserves, and the aggression that typically follows afterwards with anyone who shows even a lick of genuine kindness. The war between the Capulets and Montagues has always swept up victims to take advantage of, and I want Valentina to cope with the realization that she might one day become one of them in spite of what she’s doing for them now. I want to see which direction she goes in: cold, unkind cruelty, or a softening of some kind?

3. MY DUTY HUSHES ME. There’s a warmth and familiarity in abandonment that Valentina’s comfortable with. With her relationships - all of them, each and every single one besides Santino’s (and even now that’s coming into question) - she’s ready to jump the gun and leave before she gets left. I want to see the development of these relationships play out and grow. This is more of an overarching plot, admittedly, more of an arc, but I want her to feel what it’s like to be comfortable in her own skin around someone she cares for, someone she can openly admit she cares for.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yeah! Bring me the angst.

In Depth

Self para, word count: 1256. Trigger warning for parental death and mentions of abuse/abandonment.

She’s never seen the inside of a hospital room. Doctor’s offices, sure, but never a hospital, with the sleek sheets and air of sorrow, dark lit halls even with all the curtains open. The nurse leads her down the winding path of the hospice ward to room 403, and then leaves her there to contemplate the door. This feels like the crux of the moment: a risk, brought to fruition in the heaving fervor of a gasping chest. She really shouldn’t be here.

Maria Gallo’s name mocks her in neat, red marker on the whiteboard. She swallows and twists the handle. It clicks, and for a second, there’s the irrational fear. It’s locked. It shouldn’t be locked. Why would it be locked? A beat passes, and then another. She twists the other way, and the door glides open in easy silence. It doesn’t even creak. There’s just the soft sigh of pressurized air being released from under the door jamb. She steps in without invitation or introduction. Her heart isn’t pounding in frantic nervousness like she thought it might have. There’s a dislocated numbness instead, the kind that only comes with moments of pure and unsolicited rage. She rounds the corner past the bathroom and prepares herself for the worst.

Her mother is tucked neatly into the bed, looking worn and weathered for all she’s worth. For a moment, Valentina almost feels sorry for her. And then she’s relieved, because she looks nothing like she’d thought she would. When she’d been young, she’d had a photo of their parents, faded and worn at the edges. Valentina had thought, perhaps naively, that she’d be her mother’s daughter even now. In the picture they have the same sleek hair, same nose, same eyes. The same cut of the jaw and freckles on their neck. Santino looks more like their father.

But this woman - she’s a stranger. It’s not anything new, Valentina thinks, settling down in the chair near the window. She places her bag in her lap, crosses one leg over the other. It has to be the window, not next to the bed. She doesn’t think she can stand as close as two feet without feeling the desire to do something unkind. (And isn’t that a perfect summarization of it? They’ll put it on her tombstone, if she gets one: Valentina Gallo, lovingly remembered, always cruel.) She doesn’t know what she’ll put on her mother’s tombstone. She hardly has the money for a funeral, and with their father buried somewhere in Germany, it’s just going to be them. Santino and Valentina, like always, since the start of it.

Maria’s asleep. Valentina wonders if she’s in pain, if she aches in the way they say cancer tends to. There’s no way she’ll be pulling out of it. She’s got a week. Maybe less, or at least that’s what the doctor had said over the phone. At this point she almost wants to say it’ll be better to be rid of her than anything else. Maria Gallo’s death will be easier than the brief attempt she had made at raising her children. She won’t even know it when she slips into darkness, with the way she’s slumbering now. The clock in the room ticks. She tips her head back against the chair and closes her eyes. She doesn’t know when she slips into a dream but she does. When she’s jolted awake by the sound of the nurse closing the door behind her nearly an hour later, she doesn’t remember entirely what it had been about. Her bag hits the floor. “Fuck.”

She bends to grab for it. When she sits back up, Maria Gallo is staring at her daughter with the same hazel eyes Valentina sees when she looks in the mirror. It’s like being caught in the act of a crime, doing something she’s not supposed to just by being in the room. Maria smiles, and it pulls at the lines on her face. Valentina feels her mouth slip into a frown as she stands. Her mother is only in her late fifties, had barely been twenty when she’d had her children, but she looks eons older, like the life has been sucked out of her. And it has. And Valentina is about to siphon the rest out. She crosses the room to perch on the bed, in the space Maria has made with her legs. It feels… awkward. What is she supposed to do? Pet her hair? Sing her a song? How do you comfort a stranger in their dying moments?

“Sei tu l'angelo della morte?” Maria rasps.

Valentina laughs, or tries to, but it gets caught in her throat. She clenches her fists, digs her nails into her palms. This isn’t the right time, she thinks. Not the right place. There’s never going to be a right time, a right place. This is what she gets. But it’s so… stereotypical. She should say no, should draw the woman who’d given her life into her arms, hold her for the first and last time.

“Yes,” she answers.

A cold and clammy hand reaches up, shaking. Her mother’s hand brushes her cheek, the scar across her brow, and frowns in a surprisingly judgmental manner for a dying woman. Weren’t the sickly supposed to repent, in their final hours? She doesn’t say anything. Just… stares. Her daughter stares back, unsure that she could draw anything else out of her if she tried. There’s so much she wants to say, to ask, but finds herself mute at the worst time. My duty hushes me, she thinks, and nothing else. Valentina stands, and Maria’s arm falls back to her side, as if her presence had given her the willpower to keep it up alone.

“You were supposed to love me.” She’s ashamed in the way her voice trembles, cracking across supposed, embarrassed by the flushing of her cheeks. She can feel the way the heat rises in her face and tries to compose herself. Always an ugly crier. “You were supposed to love me, and you didn’t.”

She looks down. Her mother is already asleep, chest barely rising and falling with her breaths. There’s no sharp reply, or angry comeback. It’s… acceptance, maybe, and that’s worse than anything else could. When she’d came here, she’d been expecting to end it. To ask the doctors to pull the plug, have it over with. But now - now it seems better to drag things out. Let her suffer. She can hardly stand to be in the room a minute longer, suffocating as it feels. It’s too much, too fast. She needs to go.

She leaves the room without a goodbye, upset she can’t slam the door on her way out. It hisses shut, the one last gasp of a dying woman. She fishes her phone out of her purse and dials her brother’s number, hoping, praying, begging for some sort of comforting release from what feels like strangulation. It goes to voicemail, because of course it does. “You’ve reached Santino. Leave a message,” and Christ, he sounds chipper. Unjustifiably so.

“It’s Valentina. Mom’s… mom’s dead.” It’s not entirely true, but at this point, it’s doesn’t matter. Another white lie stacked atop a mountain of them. The phone goes back in the purse, the purse slung over her shoulder, and that’s really the least of it.

Maria Gallo’s burial, held in a rush a week later, is attended by two people, including the priest. Her daughter is not one of them.

Extras: pinterest board, playlist, mock blog.