#as someone who only listened to sunny day real estate and the like in middle school. he did a good job satirizing this zeitgeist

[highfunctioningfleshrule63]

glad to know hes a fellow cranberry juice + bottom shelf cheap vodka drinker

[grimelords]

The hits just don’t stop coming!

My May playlist is finished and it’s only almost one month late! Everything you want and nothing you don’t from Nicki Minaj, the band that did the OC theme song and Italian Adele. What more could you ask for! 

Listen here!

Curious - Amerie: Amerie, who sang the world's greatest song 1 Thing and unfortunately never had any other good songs, surprise released a 22 minute album called 4AM Mulholland and a companion EP that was 20 minutes long called After 4AM last year. I don't know why she didn't just release one normal length album but anyway, because she's Amerie people weren't exactly eagerly awaiting a surprise release album from her so it came and went pretty quickly. This song though is really very good and sets a really nice midnight smoky tone that the whole rest of the album/EP unfortunately fails to really live up to. I also found out in my research that Amerie is also apparently a semi-influential book vlogger 'BookTuber' and last year edited a book of YA short stories where other BookTubers 'reimagined fairy tales from the oft-misunderstood villains' points of view. She's got heaps going on.

Vipers Follow You - Amon Tobin: Amon Tobin has lost his damn mind yet again. His last album was 8 years ago and it sounded like a hardware test for a new kind of million dollar sound system. Every single type of sound and frequency was crammed into it and it felt like a sound sculture that could physically attack you rather than an album that you listened to for fun. Now his new album sounds like the direct opposite. There's no drums on it at all and it's all stripped back thick and smooth acoustic-modelled textures and it's very nice. This song is a good example of the album feel overall: not exactly ambient or laid-back, but definite night music from a guy who has gone all the way from chillout trip-hop to walls of hydraulic noise over his career and it's always such a thrill to hear people pushing forward in their sound 9 albums in.

Do The Panic - Phantom Planet: Phantom Planet who famously did the theme song for The OC have reformed and released their first new song in ten years. This isn't that song but there was a bunch of people in the comments on the Stereogum article about it saying they were and underrated band and their 2008 album Raise The Dead has bangers and guess what: they were right!

Roman Holiday - Nicki Minaj: Roman Holiday reentered the billboard charts last month because it became relevant again via people putting it in memes where they would play a sped up version of the song over sped up videos of.. anything really. It's not a very good meme but I thank god for it because otherwise I would never have learned that it's a very good song. I also think there's a very interesting lesson to be learned here about Nicki Minaj because she premiered this song at the 2012 Grammys before Roman Reloaded came out with an elaborate Exorcist routine and everyone hated this extremely weird song and extremely weird performance so it was scrapped as the first single and they put out Starships instead. Nicki Minaj seem to me like an artist that has always struggled to ride the line between pop marketability and doing their own unique thing in much the same way as Eminem, and just like Eminem she's eventually settled in to a very safe and marketable version of herself. Roman Holiday is a glimpse of the Nicki That Could Have been that just starts singing Come All Ye Faithful in the middle of a song and does the chorus in an extremely dodgy British accent. There's a good bit on the wiki for this song that quotes Jessica Hooper's Spin review that says "the pop tracks are a paying of the piper and the too-perfect, Dr. Luke-produced songs are her penance for sneaking deranged yodeling ode 'Roman Holiday' in there." More deranged yodelling odes please Nicki!

Cousins - Vampire Weekend: I've never gotten into Vampire Weekend for an unknown reason. I like every song I've heard of theirs I've just never properly sat down and listened to an album and appreciated it until Father Of The Bride this year. I have however always loved Cousins. It’s got a completely deranged riff, the drums sound like their going to catch fire and it ends with chiming bells. It’s completely off the rails and I think the video is one of my favourites ever for just simply matching the tone of the song and the performance.

Lost Your Number - Nu Shooz: On the episode of R U Talkin' R.E.M Re: Me? with Ezra Koenig they were talking about grunge and the early 90s and how music that had 'authenticity' suddently became so popular. Scott's reasoning was that by the late 80s pop music had become so incredibly vaccuous and bad that people were yearning for anything with meaning. He said 'pop was so bad, stuff like Nu Shooz' and I immediately remembered how fucking good Nu Shooz are and paused the podcast to listen to them instead. This is an absolutely great song because the lyrics never rise above linear storytelling. 'I lost your number' is not a metaphor for lost contact or leaving someone or anything like that. This whole song is about trying to call someone but you've lost the piece of paper that you wrote their phone number on. She even describes the paper like maybe you the listener have seen it around somewhere, I absolutey love it.

Paper Trail$ - Joey Bada$$: Joey Bada$$ is a goon but he has good songs sometimes. If he wasn't a famous rapper he would be working full time in reddit arguments where people rank members of the Wu-Tang Clan. He's one of these 'real hip hop' 'lyrical miracle' guys and he even goes so far as to rework C.R.E.A.M in this song to say cash RUINS everything around me :O but this beat is nice as hell and I woke up with the bit where says 'shit is really real out here' repeating in my head.

Julien - Carly Rae Jepsen: I'm really loving this new Carly Rae album. It's not as heavy on hits as Emotion obviously but it's more even overall and has a lot more to dig into I think. I just keep listening to it. This song especially is so nice because it's a great example of how you only need two chords to get something extremely funky going.

Rock Non Stop - Cassius: Cassius finally have another great song! The nearly two minute choral intro is such genius because of how suddenly and forcefully it drops you into the middle of the most boneheaded dance song I've heard in a long time. Two different silly voices going back and forth with each other saying 'rock non stop' and 'gimme the good time', who could ask for anything more?

Just as I was about to publish this I saw the news that Phillipe Zdar died which is so sad! Just as they started releasing fantastic new music! So now this song is tinged with that sort of sadness which is unfair because it’s such a fun and silly piece of music, it doesn’t deserve to hold that kind of weight.

DOLO 5 - Dolo Percussion: This Dolo Percussion album absolutely astounded me. No melody! Just drums! For an hour and a half! It's a complete world of its own and you can get totally lost in the depths of it. Every song has a completely unique palette and it never ever feels boring like percussion focused music sometimes can, it's constantly evolving in every track and never settles into anything for too long. Things just come and go so naturally it feels like actually trying to figure out the structure of these songs would be impossible. There's a few moments where there's a hint of a bassline or melody in a some of the later songs and it completely shakes you up, like seeing sunlight again after years of absolutely thriving in the dark.

Song About An Angel - Sunny Day Real Estate: The way he sings 'running behind' in this is maybe one of my favourite pieces of vocal performance ever. He just shouted himself apart. Also the Genius description of this song is one of the best emo sentences I’ve ever seen: "The song is believed to be a conversation between a guy and an angel (possibly a girl)."

This Life - Vampire Weekend: The R U Talkin' R.E.M. Re: Me? episode with Ezra really put this album into a lot more context for me, because he's talking about being influenced by The Grateful Dead - not musically exactly but in the mindset and the idea of being in a guitar band and making guitar music in 2019 which is an interesting thing to think about. Anyway this has such a Dead feel to it and I'm really interested to see what they do live because as I've heard they're really mixing up their reputation of being a band that sounds exactly like the album and really going for it instead and doing absolutely anything which is a lot more fun.

The Past Is A Grotesque Animal - of Montreal: I've been getting heavily into Hissing Fauna Are You The Destroyer? this month and it's just so incredible. This song especially as the centrepiece of this whole album is amazing. The mindset is so intriguing to me: absolutely going though it in the worst way possible, getting divorced and everything like that but also somehow managing to keep it twee. The sorts of things that influenced this album would turn any normal person to heavier or stranger music but somehow he manages to believe so hard in the power of twee indie pop that he pushed it to the limit and create a masterpiece.

The Cascades - Janice Scroggins: You know that tweet about riding the bus and looking out the window and pretending the music you're listening to is the soundtrack to the movie about you riding the bus? That's me except with Scott Joplin rags and pretending i'm in a silent film where I embarrass myself in front of a society lady.

The Governor - Nicolas Jaar: I think i’ve probably already had this song on a playlist like three times so I’m going to stop talking about it but here’s my favourite thing this time: It could have just ended and been fine but instead it goes to saxophone hell and that’s what makes this a 10/10 song.

The Less I Know The Better - Tame Impala: My peabrain moment this month was suddenly developing a huge obsession with this song for some reason. Have you guys heard of this band ‘Tame Impala’? I really feel like they might blow up! One of my favourite things about this song is that the top youtube comment for a long time was ‘this is like the cuck anthem’. They’re right!

New Town - Life Without Buildings: Life Without Buildings feels like indie rock from another dimension. This came out in 2000 and for some reason I can't reconcile that fact with how it sounds. It sounds like it should have come out at least 5 years later. I cannot imagine this style of vocal ever working so effectively but somehow it just does. I'm hanging on absolutely every word and feeling it so intensely when in reality she sounds like something went wrong with the recording. I just love it.

Bang Bang Bang - Mark Ronson And The Business Intl: This is a hugely underrated song and this era of Mark Ronson seems to have been totally forgotten which is unfortunate. This song, Bad Romance by Lady Gaga and OMG by Usher all came out around the same time in my memory and I remember feeling very optimistic for the direction pop seemed to be heading in. Bombastic and unique and unafraid to be structurally different but then it turned out it wasn’t really a trend at all, it was just three great songs. So who knows.

Back To The Trees - Adele H: I suddenly remembered this song I completely fell in love with last year and remembered as a moderate hit only to find that it has <1000 listens on spotify and 300 on youtube. Simply not good enough, please listen to this song! Support my friend and yours Adele H: ‘The Italian Adelian’

Out There - Studio: What’s so good about Studio is it’s technically an electronic duo but it has the feeling of a jam jam band. Their wiki article is obviously written by their management but it also describes them as an ‘afrobeat-dub-disco-indie-pop adventure’ which is very true. It’s an adventure! It just keeps moving on and on through fifty flavours of groove!

Shut Up Kiss Me - Angel Olsen: This really is maybe the best love song ever written! Because it's about standing firm and not giving up on love! Stop pretending I'm not there when it's clear I'm not going anywhere / If I'm out of sight then take another look around!

Through This Town - Mia Dyson: If you ever need an optimistic song to lay down on the floor to then here's one.

Cry Flames - Rustie: I'm on my usual shit about how good Glass Swords was and how that it's a tragedy that this never coalesced into a major movement like it should have. This is such a good sound that just kind of disappeared because vaporwave and everything overlapped with the boring parts of it and the anime chillout version became popular instead. Sad!

Real Truth (feat. Tkay Maidza) - J-E-T-S, Machinedrum and Jimmy Edgar: I love this beat so much. The sort of beat that sounds like it's playing out of a droid that got shot with a lazer and is malfunctioning.

Aute Cuture - Rosalia: me putting these lyrics through google translate: oh my god she’s right this IS on fire

Self-Immolate - King Gizzard And The Lizard Wizard: King Gizz are a metal band now and they're writing the very best kind of metal songs - sci-fi about burning to death in the skies of Venus that's also a climate change parable.

Magic Arrow - Timber Timbre: Timber Timbre feel underrated to me. I never see anyone talking about them but they're one of the most consistently great bands around, I absolutely love them. There's so much space in this song, this whole style of minimal production is underutilised. It feels like if Wicked Game by Chris Isaak was about an 18th century cult leader instead which I think we can all agree is a much improved song.

Kim's Caravan - Courtney Barnett: I love this style of songwriting where you just sit on an extremely heavy bassline the whole time and have no chorus, which affords you the freedom to just get bigger and bigger and smaller as you wish. The Drones cover of River Of Tears works like this too and I think it's just masterful.

When The Movie's Over - Twin Shadow: My belief is Confess is front to back one of the greatest pop albums ever written. Please, please listen to it and be moved.

listen here

[dreamscript]

The Fires Within: Ch. 7

a hellhound au twist on this request

This is seriously taking the concept of “inner demons” to another level. And, in all honesty, it’s a bit too literal for your liking.

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 (M) | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 (final)

8k words, yoongi/reader, hellhound au, action: violence

The sunlight is blinding.

You raise your arm over your eyes in an attempt to shield your face from the rays. A cursory glance around your surroundings tells you--that you have no idea where you are. Perfect.

“You’re in his mind,” comes a voice from--the skies? You look upwards, confused. “Describe your surroundings, by the way. As you go. I need to pinpoint just where exactly you are. You’re fine, right? The jump was kind of rough...”

Ah. Taehyung’s girlfriend. Back in the real world, outside of Yoongi’s mind, you’re strapped to the medical chair, one of her hands on your head, the other on Yoongi’s, and the rest of the squad crammed in room.

“Uh,” you say, tentatively. It feels strange just kind of standing there, talking. At something that isn’t physically there. “It’s--sunny. And--” you turn around in a full circle “--there are a lot of buildings--tall ones. It’s...cool. Clean. I see a few houses down this one alley and they are nice. Also, can other people like--hear me? I feel kind of stupid just standing in the middle of the street mumbling to myself.”

“No,” she laughs. “This is merely a memory. Other people can’t see you.”

“Oh, okay.” And, almost as if to prove her point, a child runs up from a nearby alleyway and, without even a moment’s hesitation, goes straight through you. The moment you had to marvel at the thought of being there but not really is immediately lost when you realize that the child is Yoongi.

Hurriedly, you make to follow after him.

//

He leads you down one of those pathways set with even, flat, white cobblestone, shrubs and small trees artfully planted at the peripheral. Houses rise from the hilltops, sprawling over the bright green grass. You can’t help but eye the luxurious estates enviously. Was this where he lived as a child?

The little boy in front of you continues to run. It makes sense, of course. For a mage as skilled as Yoongi, to have been a part of the League for so long, of course he’d probably have come from a long line of celebrated magic users…

A part of you wonders why you’d never known about this before. Another part of you aches with the realization that, despite all your thoughts, you really didn’t know much about him… at all.

Young Yoongi comes to an abrupt stop and you immediately slow down your steps so as to not run into him--except then you remember it doesn’t matter. With a huff, you run straight through his body. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Status report?”

You shrug, even though she can’t see. “Not much, really. Just a lot of running. I followed a child Yoongi--he’s adorable, by the way--to this affluent neighborhood. And now he’s--oh, he’s going down a path to one of the mansions. Did he come from a wealthy family? I know he used to live in the Capital but no one ever told me about--this.”

“Well, I asked Taehyung and co. about it just now, and yes, it seems that you are indeed approaching his house. Apparently he never really talks much about his past and origins though, so it would make sense that you don’t know.”

Even though she was probably trying to assure you, you can’t help the bitter taste in your mouth. The child approaches the doors to the mansion, only for them to swing open by themselves. A maid greets “the young master” and escorts him in, taking his well-fitted jacket. You almost fall over yourself when you see him smile happily up at her, mutter a cheerful thanks, and then practically skip up one of the sweeping staircases.

If it hadn’t been for the confirmation you received earlier, you would’ve thought you followed the wrong kid. Plus, it wouldn’t make much sense that his memory of some other boy would be this vivid and in-depth. No, this has to be Yoongi.

So then, what happened…? Did he experience trauma of sorts? Probably.

“How is he, by the way? His mind?” you venture. You hope she can hear you.

“He’s doing okay.” Then, after a pause, she adds on, “As fine as anyone in a coma, that is.”

“Can you--are you able to check for any signs of psychological trauma in his mind?” you ask.

“Unfortunately, with the hellhound rampant, and me already conducting this operation with you, I am not able to.”

“Ah, I see.”

Yoongi finally makes it to be what you presume to be his bedroom: a large, spacious area, complete with furniture of gilded gold. A set of large, wide windows outlook the city skyline, framed by fluttering curtains. The entire decor of the area makes you wonder just how rich he was. Or is. Maybe that’s why he told you that one time, in which you two were bickering over the mission, that he didn’t quite care for the money.

Young Yoongi flops down on his King size bed, shuts his eyes, and promptly falls asleep. You chuckle at his chubby cheeks, flushed with exercise, pressed into the plush pillow.

//

He’s awake. Young Yoongi is awake and is getting dressed to “go out and play.” The maid helping him fusses and then gives him a brief lecture on being fair, sharing, taking turns, and treating everyone nicely and with respect.

He nods, but his adult behavior makes you wonder if he ever even bothered to listen to those words. Or if he even heard them.

In any case, the maid finally lets him out of the house with a warning that if he did not return home by curfew, his parents would make sure there would be “severe consequences.” With a nod and flutter of clothes, he is gone, and you are left to chase after him.

//

For someone of such high status and wealth, Yoongi did not seem to let it go to his mind. He played with everyone, people of all social classes and races. The younger ones looked up to him and the older ones took part in playful rivalries. You watch as the race leaf boats down a babbling brook, shouting, yelling, cheering their boats on.

There’s an unsettling feeling in your stomach. Yoongi was so happy and full of life as a child. He seems so drained and closed off as an adult.

“I’m picking up a few disturbances up ahead,” the mind reader warns. “Stay alert. This could be one of the hellhound offshoots.”

“Right.” You grit your teeth and forge on with the memory, casting sideways, tentative glances about. You consider sending out one of your scouts but--if you’re up against a hellhound, you’re going to need as much magic as possible.

Yoongi laughs mirthfully as his own little leaf boat tips and sinks under, skipping over rocks to pull the drenched thing out. He dangles it between his dainty fingers, watching it drip water from its tips.

You sense movement.

And it’s not the other children clambering over rocks and skipping across the grass--it’s fast and dark and menacing. It skirts across the shadows and exists only at your peripheral vision…

Your lance of magic is up and glowing before you even know it, clashing with the beast’s claws and protecting you from harm. Eyes narrowed, you jump backwards, readying yourself for another attack. You note how the children continue to play, seemingly unaffected.

Except… Yoongi seems to flicker, body occasionally dissipating into mere static.

“Looks like you’ve found one. Or rather, it’s found you.”

“Yeah,” you say, staring down at the beast. It snarls. “It’s so formless--its body doesn’t even seem to have a definite shape. It keeps on changing and its eyes are the only thing that doesn’t look like black smoke.”

“That’s just how they look in the subconscious.”

You roll your eyes and dodge another attack. “Attractive.”

//

“So,” Hoseok says, turning to look at Yoongi. “What were you telling us about that beast thing again?”

Yoongi startles out of his thoughts and looks up; everyone is staring at him expectantly. “Um, it’s dangerous, it can change forms, and it doesn’t fucking die. Basically, we’re screwed.”

And also, he notes to himself, he seems unable to die as well… or maybe that was just the beast’s magic.

“Or maybe it can create some pretty damn realistic illusions,” Yoongi adds on, after a moment’s thought. Namjoon muses thoughtfully over his words.

“Um, guys?” Jungkook says. “Don’t you think we should wait for ________ to get back before we launch into our full scale discussion?”

“No need to,” replies someone. “I’m here now.”

Yoongi immediately perks up at the voice--and there you are. The person who he was missing but didn’t realize that he was. Still--he furrows his brows--something, no, everything about his current situation feels bizarre, way-off. He can’t seem to recall how he got here, or what he was doing before then… and for some reason he can’t stop thinking about his childhood days and when he would race leaf-boats down that brook.

And it’s not just him--there’s that weird beast thing out there. And everyone is acting way too nonchalant, way too dismissive about this entire fiasco…

“Hi, ________,” Taehyung says. “How’d it go? Find any leads? We were just talking with Yoongi here, and apparently he had a personal experience with the beast himself…”

You shrug and sling off your coat, draping it over your chair. “Nah, not really. All I ever learned were a few useless facts about the city, nothing much.” You turn to look at Yoongi, hands folded under your chin. “So, tell me again about this experience? What happened?”

Yoongi opens his mouth to speak--only to choke on his own words when suddenly everyone’s faces blur into a nondescript mass. The lights flicker. Somewhere out back the generator dies out.

And then--after a few moments of heart-pounding fear and apprehension--the lights come back on and everyone’s face is back to normal.

“Well?” you prod, completely unfazed. Everyone continues to look at him expectantly, as if nothing happened at all.

Yoongi swallows and thinks he’s going to be sick.

//

“I will admit,” you say, calling back your magic. “Out of all of the things I was expecting, the hellhound running away was not one of them.” You stare at the spot in which it’d disappeared, its shadowy form completely blown away by the vortex of wind that suddenly blew out of nowhere. Yoongi and the children continue to play. It seems the memory is back to normal.

“Well, you’ve definitely weakened it, that’s for sure. From here on it, the other shadows should be less… powerful.”

Panting, you sit down for a second, just to get yourself back together. There are multiple cuts and bruises all over your body, but in the subconscious, physical injuries tend to heal fast. Really fast. You study the cuts that are rapidly closing themselves.

“Reassuring,” you say. And it is, except you’re still not too keen on fighting multiple hellhound-shadow-things. Ones that can’t fucking die and are deathly fast. “Where to next?”

“Hold on,” she says. “I sense a few outcrops in his subconscious, but I need to locate them… God, his mind is all jumbled because of the beast. Ugh, this is going to take me a second. I’ll get back to you.”

“Okay.”

A minute or so later, the world around you warps and you can only hope that she’s found the right place, and it’s not the hellhound coming to exact its revenge on you.

//

Yoongi leans against the bathroom door, panting heavily. Just outside he can hear the dull chattering of voices, of everyone else discussing their findings and planning out what to do next. He envies them, how their minds are clear enough to even think and strategize. He can’t--he doesn’t even know what the hell is going on, why all these visions of the past are suddenly haunting him all over again…

How… How…-- Yoongi curses. He feels a ripping feeling in his chest. His breathing gets heavier even though the only thing he’s done is stumble from the bedroom to the bathroom. Is he going insane? Maybe.

“It’s gotta be him, you know.”

Oh god, he’s hearing voices now. Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut, snaps them wide open. He’s still alive, very much in the same place and certainly not dreaming or whatnot. He’s definitely going insane. As soon as they get back to the League, he’s scheduling himself for a psych eval.

“Really? Why?” Another voice floats in and he can’t help but shudder.

“It’s always the rich ones,” the first voice replies. “They can--”

//

“--grease palms, you see.”

You stare, quizzically, as the trow goblins discuss their theories in a back alleyway. So far, all you’ve managed to gather is that someone killed a group of their kind, and a few are a bit too eager to place the blame on Yoongi.

“Grease palms?”

“Yeah,” one says. “You know, bribing officials? I seen ‘em do it all the time! Happened when my daddy was killed. They didn’t even do an investigation.”

“God, that’s terrible!” a voice squeaks. “And are you saying that’s going to happen to them? That this--Yoongi--is going to grease the palms of the police department? That our friends will have died due to injustice? We--god, what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” another voice grouses. “But we should definitely take this up to the Elders. They’ll know.”

“Alright then. Let’s go--we can’t waste any time now, can we?”

Their footsteps fade off into the distance.

Unbeknownst to them, Yoongi is crouched beside a barrel just outside of the alleyway entrance, frowning and frozen and looking absolutely terrified. You stare down at him with a frown. Did he try to fight back? To justify himself?

You catch sight of the bruises and cuts that peek out from underneath his dirtied clothes. Maybe he had. And maybe they didn’t listen.

Or rather, someone didn’t want him to tell.

//

Back at his home, he proceeds as normal. When the maids ask him what happened, if one of the neighborhood boys got a bit too cocky, Yoongi shrugs and replies that he had a few wrestling matches, here and there. They nod and then laugh about young boys and scuffles. You know it’s all a lie.

He’s always seemed to be an independent person, so the fact that he doesn’t immediately crack and spill the beans makes sense. You purse your lips and study him further. But still--to the point in which he suffers so much physical harm? Is he too scared to tell? Embarrassed? Or maybe, maybe he thinks that if he tells, he’d only be perpetuating the stereotype. That if his parents found out, they’d simply pay the goblins off just to get the whole ordeal over with.

“Careful,” the mind reader warns. “I’m starting to pick up something foul. It’s so close I can practically taste it. Eugh.”

“Got it,” you reply.

At night time, as the wind flutters through his curtains, he sits on top of his bed fit for a king and curls in on himself. He holds his hands over his ears and trembles with a desperate, trapped anxiety.

“I didn’t kill them,” he mutters to himself, over and over again. “I didn’t kill them, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t me--” Slowly, he turns his heads towards you. Your body tenses. He shouldn’t be able to see you. Why is he turning towards here? “--IT WASN’T ME!” He stares at you full on and all of a sudden his voice is morphing, growing deeper, and his mouth is wide open with fangs and saliva.

“I DIDN’T KILL THEM!” He lunges right at you, eyes glowing and body forming into black smoke. You grunt, throwing yourself to the side as the Yoongi-hellhound thing craters the wall with a swipe of its fist.

His words devolve into primal snarls, guttural and low.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, regaining your bearings. There’s a throbbing pain on your side but you pay no attention to it. “Just a little shaken, that’s all.”

//

The lights dim and flicker again. Yoongi groans and slumps down, sitting himself onto the bathroom floor. To hell with this mission. To hell with figuring out this damn beast. He doesn’t think he’s going to leave the bathroom alive.

“Yoongi?”

Your voice is muffled through the door. “Hello? Are you in there?” You knock on it.

“Mmfph.” He can’t manage much else. His chest feels too tight. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me.

“Are you dead?” you laugh. “You’ve been in there for ages.”

Yoongi says nothing.

“Yoongi, if you don’t reply, I’m just going to come in,” you say, knocking again.

He tries to form a reply--he really does. But all he succeeds in is completely falling over, collapsing on his side like a ragdoll. Boneless.

You must’ve heard the thump of his body hitting the floor because the door almost immediately opens, you letting out a surprised gasp.

“Oh my god are you actually dead?”

//

You pant as you run down the darkened streets, eyes flicking from side to side. Nothing. There’s a throbbing pain on your side and you press your hand to it--only for it to come away bloody.

“Damn,” you mutter. “And the thing got away, too. Where the hell did it go?” You’re unsurprised when you receive no response from Taehyung’s girlfriend. Probably some interference or some shit due to the hellhound; that would definitely explain the fast-changing surroundings and random glitches.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a dark shadow moving swiftly against the wall. Without a second thought, you shoot a lance right at it, effectively cratering the stone. Clouds of dust billow from impact. When they clear, the shadow is gone.

And, before you can curse under your breath, the scene changes--again. It must be your injuries, or exhaustion, or whatever, because you immediately collapse from vertigo, mind whirling and limbs feeling numb.

With a grunt, you put a hand to your forehead, trying to grasp onto your surroundings. And when you do, the first thing you realize is that the moon is red.

Blood red.

Red as the moon the night Yoongi turned into a hellhound, which could mean that--

“--lonely! He’s afraid to be lonely!” A wind billows over you and suddenly dark chants from a nearby alleyway catch your ears. You hurry to round an alleyway, stopping short when you come across a small niche, hidden right between two towering, rusted buildings. It looks like you’re in the slums, somewhere in the back alley--

When you finally register what you’re seeing, your heart stops cold. Yoongi, pinned to the ground by a gravity field. Trow goblins, everywhere, screaming and chanting and hooting in a cacophony of noises. You can only watch on as he thrashes under the weight of the world, tears streaming down his face, voice raw and torn with desperation.

There’s a hellhound. Or rather, it is the hellhound, being hauled in. It’s a lot smaller, but the feral look in its eyes, the gleaming sharpness of its teeth--its very snarl haunts you. It looks so feral you keep on thinking it’s the real one, the apparition in his mind. You tense on instinct, forcing your tired limbs to go into action, but none seem any wiser to your presence. It’s a memory. This is where it all started. This is what happened.

You want to look away but you can’t; you tell yourself over and over again that you need to know about his past to understand who he is now, and of all the defining moments in his life, this is probably one of the most prominent. You keep on telling yourself this as he screeches in pain as they begin to chant the sealing ritual, as the hellhound snarls and roars…

But then when the hellhound lunges at you, and now you know that the time for learning and reminiscing is over, and the time once again fight for the future has come. You jump into action against the hellhound: one on one, bright rays of magic and dark, shadow claws, reaching out toward each other.

//

“Ugh.” Yoongi turns over to his side and groans again. “Ugh.”

“Well, it’s a promising start.” He cracks an eye open and sees Hoseok, leaning against a wall. You and Jimin, hovering over him worriedly. “At least he’s not blacked out anymore.”

“Ugh?” His tongue feels thick. His mind feels like it’s somewhere else. He can’t feel his body. Yoongi wants to form words but at the moment all he can do is grunt like a neantherdal. Absolutely thrilling.

“Progress, not perfection,” Namjoon comments. “How are you feeling? Jin just went out to get some medicine for you. He should be back…soon. Are you sure it was a good idea to send him and Jungkook out? I mean, with the beast and all, a three man cell might have been better…”

Taehyung shrugs. “I think they’ll be fine. They’re pretty strong, after all.”

“‘M fine,” Yoongi finally manages. It’s kind of a lie, since he really isn’t fine, but it’s pretty obvious. He simply says it just to let them know he’s actually capable of human speech. “Wh’ ‘append’?”

“Well, I found you passed out on the bathroom floor, and then we got Jungkook and Tae to drag you over onto the couch. Jin did some diagnosis thing on you, was disappointed you weren’t dead or dying, and went out with Kook to get some meds...as Namjoon just said. How are you feeling though, by the way? We were just planning to go monster hunting and everything too…”

“I’m living,” Yoongi says, feeling his body beginning to function. Slowly. Painfully slowly.

“Well that’s good,” Taehyung says, fiddling with something that looks all too suspiciously like a bomb. “How you feelin’ going out tonight, though? Want us to stay behind and--”

“I don’t need to be babysat,” Yoongi mutters. He gets up and holds a hand to his head, as if trying to keep his mind from spinning. It doesn’t really help, as expected. “Ugh.”

Hoseok chuckles. “Well, if that’s what--” He freezes. “Something’s coming. It’s really large and sinister and--” The walls of the room explode and crumble, debris flying everywhere. Someone’s grabs Yoongi and makes a run for it. Hoseok is probably screaming, but Yoongi can’t hear much past the loud ringing in his ears.

“IT’S THE BEAST!” Taehyung yells, his voice somehow miraculously coming through the loudness of everything crashing and the surprised, fearful sounds of people being attacked. “YOU GUYS GET YOONGI TO SAFETY--HOSEOK AND I WILL HOLD IT OFF!”

Yoongi wants to protest, but he finds that he’s still unable to really move himself to be useful. He feels so...useless. His arms are so heavy, as if they weighed him down, wanting to drag him down into the earth…

...the gravity mage lifts their hands up…

There’s so much noise around him it’s hard to follow. Screams, for the most part. The grunt and screech of failing steel. Stones crumbling. A cacophony of chaos.

...they form a ring around him, chanting, screaming, and hooting…

“Stop it,” Yoongi mumbles, wanting the memories to go away. He thought he was over this, done with being haunted.

“What did you say?” The person carrying him--Namjoon, he realizes--asks.

“He said ‘stop it,’” Jimin supplies. “I think.” A chunk of crumbling debris comes flying at him and, without even flinching, shoots it clean through, completely unbothered nor surprised when it implodes after a brief moment of hesitation. He runs a hand through his hair to brush away the dust.

“I can walk by myself,” Yoongi says, forcing his mind to focus on something else. He shakes his head slightly to get dust from his eyes. “You can let me down now.” He doesn’t mention that Namjoon’s scroll is kind of poking his stomach in an uncomfortable manner.

“Honey,” you say, tone a mix of condescension and desperation, “We need you to do more than just walking. Ya gotta run. And fight. And right now, you’re just mumbling to yourself on Namjoon’s back. Chill a minute, okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbles. To prove his point, he shadow flashes off of Namjoon’s back, takes a step forward, and--promptly falls flat on his face. You roll your eyes and drag him up by one arm, hastily shoving him towards Namjoon.

“Right.”

//

“I’m taking you out.”

You immediately stop walking. Teenage Yoongi continues down the path without you. “What? Why? But--”

“You may be feeling fine right now,” she says, “but in the real world, 8 hours have already passed. You need to eat, and we both need rest.”

“But will we--will we lose any progress or--?”

“I can’t really guarantee anything, but I’ve marked the memory so it’s easier to return to.”

“Well,” you say, watching Yoongi’s back fade fast. “Okay, then.”

//

It’s pitch black outside the window. Taehyung’s girlfriend looks exhausted as she stiffly gets up from the chair, moving over to draw the blinds. The room is empty. A styrofoam container of half-eaten food sits haphazardly on the edge of the counter, while an unopened container is right next to it, half-hidden through a plastic bag with a crumpled smiley face on it.

“Did the others leave?”

She nods, tired. “It’s 4 AM in the morning, and they all have jobs to get back to. Also, it’s way too crowded in here, so that’s a definite ward violation. Tae dropped by with food earlier.” She nods towards the bags. “Want some tea while we’re at it?”

“Uh,” you say, as she shoves the container unceremoniously towards you. “Sure.” She smiles and discards her gloves, heads out the room. The scent of greasy noodles and ginger sauce perfumes the air. Your stomach growls.

8 hours. You turn to your side and see Yoongi, lying peacefully on the bed next to you. You’re about to lean over to brush a stray hair away from his face when you feel a sudden, sharp, pain. What the fuck…? You try moving again and--can’t. It feels as if your body is on fire, burning down to your bones. It’s a deep aching, straight to the core and you find yourself powerless, exhausted, tired. Your legs feel like dead weight.

“It’s exhaustion.” Taehyung’s girlfriend pushes off from the doorframe. “Happens to everyone. Seems only your lower half and the side where you took a pretty nasty hit from were affected. It’s okay--you’re not actually in pain. It’s just some coping mechanism from the body. Your brain is making it all up.”

“Fantastic,” you say, sounding terribly unthrilled. “Even sealed away, the hellhound still manages to hurt me.” It’s a really sad attempt at a joke but in your defense, you’re tired. Really tired.

She shrugs and walks over to you. “Shit happens. Welcome to my profession. Mind reading isn’t all that it’s cracked out to be. Inner demons can be a real pain in the ass--which is why we don’t try to pull this shit often, if at all.”

You nod, feeling numb. You swallow your noodles without really registering their taste. “You know, I was thinking,” you muse. “That thing inside of him… Can he not fight it himself? I mean, Yoongi seems to be pretty damn capable so…”

She shakes her head and hands you steaming cup of rejuvenative tea. “No, because it is inside of him. Much as you cannot kill your own soul, he cannot rid this new part of his… subconscious. Only others are able to help him in this. That is why, no matter how hard he fights, he will always lose.”

“Oh.”

The room falls into silence as you mindlessly eat away at your food. Taehyung’s girlfriend finishes hers next to you, checks on Yoongi. Her expression doesn’t change. Finally, you finish, take a huge gulp of tea, and set your container and soiled utensils aside.

“I’m going back.” You announce, pausing to look at her. “Are you fine?”

She looks back at you, slightly bewildered. “Yeah, I’m fine but--already? Are you sure you’re ready?”

“More than ever. Plus, the more time I spend out here, the longer that Yoongi is… well, trapped.”

She nods and gently pushes you back, snapping on a pair of gloves shortly after. “Alright, I’m resuming the operation.”

//

Fully awake and borderline functional, Yoongi leans--heavily--against the sooty concrete wall of the underground tunnel. Breathing. Trying to keep it together when all he wants to do is pass the fuck out. Jimin checks, reloads his guns. You stand to the side, arms crossed. Alert. Namjoon studies the end of the tunnel, jaw clenched.

“What’s wro--”

“Namjoon! Jimin!” Yoongi finally notices it--the shifting silhouette of someone approaching them. Their voice echoes and reverberates inside his head, but he knows it, but he can’t seem to quite put his finger on it...

“Jungkook? That you?” Jimin still doesn’t let down with his guns, however. “What did you see last Tuesday?”

“A pink elephant,” says Jungkook, completing the code phrase and jogging from the shadows. Jimin relaxes. “Jin and I got attacked on the way to the pharmacy--we managed to escape the damned thing, and were just about to send a signal before, well, this happened.”

You nod. “Where’s Jin, then?”

“Up ground, providing backup. We need to split up--the civilians are running around in total chaos up there.”

“What about the beast? What’s its status?” Yoongi prods. Jungkook shakes his head. He doesn’t know.

“Last time I saw, Hoseok, Jin, and Tae were holding it off, but the thing kept on changing forms and shit, just like you said… Anyways, ideas, Joon? You’re the strategist, after all.”

Namjoon presses his lips in a tighter, thinner line. “________, how are you feeling?”

“Fine. Little bit breathless from the running, if that counts as anything.”

“Alright,” he nods. “Okay, so I want you and Jungkook to go up to help with evac--your scouts are going to be critical to this mission. Make sure you leave not a single crevice unturned; someone may be trapped under debris. And Jeon, your heightened senses will also be useful as well. Try to avoid conflict--the civilians are priority for you two.”

“Got it.” You nod. Right as you leave, Yoongi notices you pause, shoot him a worried look. He finds himself hating it. It already hurts enough to see you go and leave him, but that look...god he wish he could wipe it off your face. Let you know that he’s fine. That there’s no reason to worry and hurt over him anymore. Instead, he remains passive.

“You’ll fine, right?”

Yoongi grunts. “Yeah. I’ve got two kids babysitting me, after all.”

“Hey--”

Jimin’s complaint is cut off by your laughter, light and breathless. “Well, I’ll see you later then.”

And with that, you and Jungkook are gone, running off into the shadows of the tunnel. Namjoon turns to him, Jimin offers a shoulder for Yoongi to sling an arm over. He declines.

“Okay, so our job is to get you to safety,” Namjoon informs, as if that much wasn’t already obvious.

“I don’t need two people--”

“Yoongi,” Jimin cuts in, running hand through his tousled hair. “It’s not just you. All of us had agreed--while you were passed the fuck out, mind you--that the thing out there is somehow connected to you. It’s like it’s trying to seek you out, or whatever.”

“What do you mea--”

“I’d like to get a move on, now,” Namjoon says. He grabs Yoongi roughly on the arm, practically dragging him down the tunnel. “If I remember correctly, this used to be an old subway track…”

As Namjoon drones on, Jimin narrows his eyes at Yoongi, a silent warning to just shut up and go along with it because it’s for your sake, dammit. Yoongi simply glares back defiantly. On the bright side, he supposes, at least he’s finally managed to walk/run properly without needing to worry about not falling on his face.

“...careful to not get run over by--LOOK OUT!”

Namjoon’s warning comes too late, however, as the tunnel ceiling spontaneously bursts open, blocks of concrete and dust flying everywhere. Yoongi just barely manages to whip out a blade, slicing a chunk in two right before it can crush his skull. The smoke and debris have just barely settled before a shadowy, fast-moving shape snarls and pounces towards him.

Without even a second thought, Yoongi shadow flashes away, vaguely aware of Namjoon’s shouts and the explosive bangs of Jimin’s gunshots. The beast snarls and jumps towards him again, Namjoon yells something again, Jimin dives to the side and then a wall of glowing runes shoot out of nowhere, blocking the thing’s advance.

“YOONGI, RUN!”

Yoongi wants to protest, yell back that he’s not some coward, but he knows why they’re so desperate to protect him. Even though he feels much better, he’s in no condition to fight. With him so close to the danger and on the verge of insanity, he’d only be dragging Namjoon and Jimin down rather than helping… He grits his teeth.

“HURRY UP YOU ASS!” Namjoon’s perspiring, hard. “I CAN’T HOLD ON FOR MUCH LONGER!”

With one last spiteful glare, Yoongi turns, and runs. He doesn’t even know where the hell he’s going, if it’s the right way, or where the exit is. All he knows is that he’s running away from all his problems just as he’s always done and the voice inside his head is railing against the confines of his mind, yelling at him to go face it. The more rational side of him reminds Yoongi of his exhausted body, the fact that he’s only been running for two minutes and already his lungs are burning.

A wretched, twisted screech echoes from behind him, and Yoongi wills himself to not think about it, don’t think about it, they’re fine, they’ve been through worse, we’ve all been through worse… He takes a turn, mindless, on autopilot. The tunnel is narrower, dimly lit. He doesn’t think this is the right way but it’s too late and there’s no turning back--or so he tells himself.

There’s another shudder from the ground--or was it from above? He doesn’t know anymore. Yoongi pauses, stops to catch his breath--gosh he’s panting so hard--and, to his horror, notices that the shadows of the tunnel aren’t just shadows anymore. They’re turning into beady-eyed, nightmarish creatures, hissing and growling.

“What the fuck are you guys, and what the fuck is happening?”

In response, they fly right at him. Sadly, it was more or less of the response he was expecting--it seems that many things have been preferring actions over words today.

He fights them, slashing endlessly at the shadows--because that’s what they are, right? He has no idea anymore. A part of him is beginning to believe that none of them actually exist, and that this is just some sick hallucination… but who cast the hallucination? Yoongi realizes that he doesn’t quite want to know--the illusion casters are always the craziest, he’s learned--and continues to battle the creatures of darkness.

They disappear, one by one, slash by slash, melding back into the shadows as Yoongi wills himself ever forward.

//

Through fighting the hellhound, you also learn a lot about Yoongi. You learn about the way he looks when he smiles, that he often turns his head to the side or looks down to conceal his grins. He never laughs anymore because he’s constantly haunted, but he tries, really tries, when he’s alone and feels that there’s so much more to live for.

He and Jimin and Hoseok have known each other for a long time; the duo would scheme and play and always make sure to drag a disgruntled Yoongi along. He meets the others through some way or another, either from interactions during missions or run-ins on the way to the mental ward.

You learn he always has a bored look on his face when others speak to him because he wants them to think he doesn’t care when he really actually does. He’s kind and caring and after every supplementary lesson or mission debrief he’s sure to push in the chairs just to make sure others don’t trip and fall. He wanted to take a mission far away not only to conceal his secret but also protect the ones he loves.

“Yoongi,” you say, watching him pour syrup over his pancakes. “You’re so much more than the monster you think you are.”

He doesn’t hear you, of course. He continues to tend to his pancakes, cutting them into small pieces and stuffing them in his mouth. Your stomach clenches and you feel a strong wave of nostalgia and longing wash over you; how you would kill--literally--to return to those days again. In which mornings meant going down to get breakfast and not a visit to the hospital to check on his comatose body.

From the wall, the hellhound emerges and snarls. Your fingers twitch. You continue to look at Yoongi. He looks so calm and collected. Healthy. His cheeks are not sunken, his features are not gaunt. His pale face is pristine and not littered with cuts and bruises.

As the hellhound rushes at you, eyes trained on your beating heart, you resolve to bring him back.

Yoongi…

I’m coming for you.

//

Yoongi whirls around, eyes wide.

I’m coming for you.

“________?” He says, testily. He edges along the narrow corridor, not really sure what he just heard. It was your voice, no doubt, but he was pretty sure you were on the upper levels, working with Jungkook to help out the citizens. Or were you with Hoseok? Yoongi groans. God, it hurts so much: his arm, his side, his brain. He’s almost certain he’s cracked a few ribs--if not broken one--ruptured an organ or something, and did something to his right arm.

There’s no answer to his call and he isn’t surprised; considering the fact that he’s lost all contact with his friends for who knows how long, he’s pretty much resigned to the idea that they’ve all disappeared. He’s experienced much stranger.

Another shadow-thing lunges at him--how many has it been? How far has he made it? Is this even the right way? There are too many questions, and no answers. With a tired swing of his good arm, Yoongi manages to dispel the beast, takes a step forward, and watches the world spin.

It wavers and blurs and turns upside down… He lands on the ground with a thud. Black, black, the world is fading to black, and the only thing that comes to mind is silent gratitude that at least it isn’t red...

//

As usual, you have no idea where you are. But unlike usual, you can’t find Yoongi.

“What the hell?”

Obviously, it doesn’t make sense. You can’t just exist in a memory that he doesn’t seem to have, and yet you are. Standing, confused, on the sidewalk of an eerie, peculiar city. A shudder runs through the ground, something big and loud crumbles in the distance. Commotion and chaos. Eyes wide, you turn towards the source, seeing only smoke and dust rising from an area blocks away.

“Well,” the mind reader cuts in. “Who knew that following the damned thing would lead us straight into his subconscious of all places.”

You furrow your brow, break into a run. You can clearly hear the screams of the anguished, now. “What do you mean? Weren’t we always in his subconscious…?”

“Yeah but like we’ve been in his memories,” she explains. You’re two blocks away. More crumbling, more chaos. Anxious, you charm yourself to run faster. “This is like, his subconscious subconscious. Like, you know, where the mind and soul exist.”

“Um, sure.” You’re pretty sure her words would make more sense if you could actually register them and concentrate on something other than dying civilians, demonic hellhounds, and Yoongi’s safety.

“Like, you know. You know how you’re always talking in your head? Or like, when you’re thinking of all these random situations, and daydreaming? This is where it happens. All the background stuff happens elsewhere.”

“Oh,” you reply, after a pause. “So what does that mean? For me? For him?”

“It means you better find him before the hellhound does.”

“What?”

“If the hellhound gets him right here, then it’s game over. The beast wins. Takes over the mind.” A shudder racks your body.

No fucking pressure.

“Uh,” you say. “Do you know where he is? This place is friggin’ huge.”

“I’m trying,” she tells you. “He feels so faint, though… It’s barely enough to tell me he’s alive. He may be unconscious, but…”

“But what?” You’re in the middle of the chaos right now, but whenever you try to step towards a person, they disappear. Step back. They’re back again, screaming and bleeding out on the pavement. You chalk it up to “weird mind things.”

“The hellhound’s presence is really strong. It’s making it hard to sense him.”

“So,” you say, “where’s the hellhound then? If I just eliminate it before it gets to Yoongi--”

“Under you.”

“Huh?” She doesn’t reply, so you decide to take her directions literally. You hope you’re not making a mistake--especially as you concentrate all your power into a dense ball of energy and beam it straight into the ground… you try to control your shriek as you fall into the wide opening, rocks and dust and darkness everywhere.

You twist and turn and land harshly on your feet. Your ankle doesn’t feel right. It’s probably just sprained--manageable. Inside the tunnel--or whatever it actually is--water and slime run silently down the curved walls. Soot lines streak across the concrete. It’s filthy and smells like mold.

“So,” you say, straightening up, dusting off your clothes. “Where is it now?”

No response.

Fan-fucking-tastic. With a grunt of resignation, a pause, and a nod of your head, you summon forth a scout. Two would be ideal, but unfortunately you’re a bit low on power… And you need to save some for your inevitable clash with the hellhound. For like, the fifth time. By now you’ve got a good idea of its attack patterns--but even that knowledge doesn’t quite mitigate its destructive power.

After a moment’s contemplation, you decide to send the scout into a dark and narrow corridor--like hell you’re going in there alone--and decide to walk down the main tunnel. You search and scheme at the same time. Strategize, lay out your plans. When the thing rears its ugly head, it’s going to pounce and then shapeshift. Or shapeshift and then pounce. Counter by aiming for its exposed neck. If it dodges--which is probably will--then get back. Prepare for next advance.

Light from above shines into your eyes. You blink rapidly...wait. Light. It’s a dark tunnel, so why--oh. You tilt your head up and are met with yet another hole, from which the early morning sky peeks through. The red rays of the sun just barely make it in.

If there’s a hole… You frown. There is no debris. No chunks of concrete. It’s as if someone completely vaporized a hole right into the tunnel… except there are fissures across the ceiling tell of a forced impact…

//

A soft tinkling noise momentarily pulls Yoongi from his stupor. He cracks open an eye and sees--a fairy.

What.

The fairy makes a tinkling noise and doesn’t disappear. He’s done it. He’s gone and crossed the line separating the sane and insane. He’s delirious. Why the fuck is there a fairy here? The thing flutters its sparkly, bright wings. Yoongi blinks. It’s gone.

Yeah, he decides, as his eyes flutter closed. Absolutely delirious.

//

Your scout has found Yoongi, which is good. But that also means the hellhound has also-probably-almost found Yoongi--considering you were told it was supposedly down here--which is, of course, bad.

You curse under your breath at your slowed pace, how the annoying pain in your ankle won’t stop and how the speed charm is starting to wear off. Anxiety gnaws at your stomach as the seconds tick by--will you make it in time? Where is the hellhound? Are you--?

“Are we almost there?” you ask. The scout tinkles. “Almost? You mean we’re almost-almost there?” Another tinkle. Yes. You roll your eyes. The fae always did have a peculiar way of saying things… You push onwards, squinting your eyes in the growing darkness of the corridor.

“How was he? Is he okay? What was he doin--”

You choke on your own words when you feel a ripping pain on your leg, stumbling forward. Blood is gushing from the cut but you haven’t the time to think about it, not when the shadows are turning on you, merging together into a conglomerate mass…

The hellhound makes a terrifying noise that’s a cross between a horrific screech and a guttural growl, its eyes unfocused and searching for a point past you. As it makes to charge you over, you retaliate by shooting open one of its paws.

As it howls, you turn to the scout. “Yoongi--he’s just past me, isn’t he?” It nods. And that’s all the confirmation you need to face the damned thing full on.

“It’s just us two,” you say, lowly, leaning heavily on your good leg. “And we’re going to settle all of this now.”

//

Light fades. All there is the darkness of the corridor--so dark that even fairy dust seems dull and faded. Blood and rubble, concrete smashed into a million pieces, decorate the inside. Smoke perfumes the air.

It takes everything inside you to not collapse; you plaster yourself to the wall in an effort to keep yourself upright, trying to remember what the consequences of dying in someone’s subconscious would be. Alarmed, the scout tries in vain to help. It tinkles frantically.

“Take me…,” you say, gasping, heaving, “Take me to him...we’ve gotta, we’ve gotta go. Home. Gotta go home, together.”

Solemnly, it guides you, pastel wings glowing bright in the darkness of the underground.

//

Yoongi. Yoongi.

He opens his eyes and sees you, hovering over him, which is weird because he could’ve sworn you’d disappeared just like all the others… His day just kept on getting weirder and weirder, didn’t it? Speaking of which, today seems to have gone on forever...would it ever end? Or maybe, just maybe, is this the end?

“Yoongi,” you call again, shaking him. He blinks languidly, dazedly up at you. A million questions swim through his mind but he hasn’t the energy to even begin to speak--hell, even breathing is becoming a labor-intensive activity.

“Yoongi, answer me,” you prod. Numbly he feels you try to pick him up, carefully handling his wounded body. He coughs lightly in response, trying to find his voice.

“Are you okay?” you try. Then, under your breath, you berate yourself. “No, no, of course you aren’t, otherwise you’d be snarking my ass.”

He reaches out to tug on your arm, just to make sure you’re real and he isn’t suffering any delusions. You look up at him, slightly surprised, at the contact. He stares at his hands, the fingertips that graze ever-so-slightly against your skin.

“________?” His voice is a hoarse, dry, cracked excuse of what it once was, but it still gets the message across. Your face softens, expression going from serious to--to relieved, or something.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

He furrows his brows, feeling himself become less numb, limbs thawing out by the second. “W-Why are you here?”

You smile. “I’m here to take you home.”

“Home?”

“Yes,” you say, your voice sounding increasingly distant. His vision is blurring. He feels himself drifting off and he can’t hold on any longer…

We’re going back home together, Yoongi.

UPDATE TAG LIST: @babydanixox

a/n: hi i would just like to say that: if anyone can find a cure to the endless amount of salt i have that would be greatly appreciated

also sorry this took so long. almost done...

[illtalktoyoureyes-blog]

PODCAST BROS. AU

I. Bros being bros and podcasting about nerd shit.

II. The podcast has approximately four listeners, the most dedicated among them being Mike's mom. (Mike has repeatedly told his mother not to listen because it "makes him nervous.") This number fluctuates depending on the time of day, the weather, and the amount of disparaging remarks  Dustin makes about the DC cinematic universe.

III. There is much discussion of comic books, superheroes, table top games, film adaptations, sci-fi and fantasy authors, ethics in journalism, cosplay, the Nintendo switch, what the hell is taking George R. R. Martin so long does he understand his readership will probably be dead before he publishes another book? and other topics salient to college-age nerds under the impression their dedication to their hobbies could someday pay their bills.

IV. Following in the illustrious footsteps of Matt Bessar, they live-stream their Saturday night D&D games. (Dustin: Hey guys, just wanted to give you a quick update. Mike's basement is still disgusting.") The results range from palatable mediocrity to hitherto unseen levels of chaos. The comments page would be a mess...you know, if people left comments.

V. Their first guest is an amazing, unbelievable get. El Ives has written four volumes of the Wizards of Gale series- a staggering, gorgeous epic chronicling the coming of age of a young psychically gifted warrior traversing a galactic wasteland in search of her true purpose-in the last three years. She's gone on national tours, topped sci-fi best-seller lists, and was proposed to roughly thirty-seven times at New York comic-con. Naturally, the dudes freak out, but Mike's is the most memorable melt down. He talks to himself in the mirror in a pre-interview hype session, he drops his note cards, stares for inappropriate lengths of time, and generally makes everyone ridiculously uncomfortable.

VI. After the stress of her tour, the casual atmosphere of the podcast (with the exception of the host who makes tense, terrifying eye contact with her before avoiding her gaze for the rest of the day) is a novelty El is reluctant to relinquish. This explains hanging around Hawkins ("You're welcome to stay at our place." Dustin volunteers before Mike can open his large, endlessly stupid mouth.) despite having deadlines, and interviews and a whole life in Manhattan. They take her to all their lame hang-outs and Mike dies several deaths due to sheer embarrassment (Humiliate Wheeler To Death Tour 2017!)

VII. This is the thing. The thing is this: despite the fact that they've been doing this for like, four months, and no one is even really listening Mike is still absurdly nervous on air? Lucas and Dustin are naturals and Will chimes in when he really wants to make a point (he's often drowned out by the intensity of Dustin\Lucas debates but whenever he manages to incline his chin toward the mic and deliver his statements in the softest, least antagonistic voice ever created, his points are salient and logical and even occasionally border on poignant) but it take s Mike at least fifteen minutes to get comfortable uttering opinions he has no trouble voicing off air. It's disconcerting and weird, and he's envious of the casual way his friends interact on air. They're natural, as if there aren't any disparities between their on air personalities and their real life ones. They're completely comfortable, Mike has to calm down, close his eyes, remember his pre-air inspirational speech, really center himself before he can engage in way that's even close to natural. (Even then, his voice is a touch too high, his sentences come out blunt and semi-intelligible, and his jokes feel more like passive aggressive indictments of other people's moral characters than "ha ha" funnies. These delightful and attractive flaws are only exacerbated by the prolonged presence of one of his literary heroes who, in addition to being funny, clever, sincere, brutally honest, and genuinely down for anything re: appearing on a D&D role-playing channel with four losers, has the audacity to love Ray Bradbury and Farscape as much as he does. It's the fucking rudest.)

VIII. To make matters worse, she loves his friends. Lucas is the most charming mother fucker alive (dude has a certificate!) and Mike hates him for the ease with which he makes El laugh so hard she cries. He then hates himself for hating Lucas, up until the asshole does it again and El looks happier than a ten year old who was just informed she gets to live at Disney Land. Witnessing the vast depths of El's joy is probably the purest experience Mike ever has. Said joy is a product of Lucas recounting any number of stories starring himself as the witty, amazing, bad ass of their high school tenure. So, dilemma. She and Will exchange book recommendations, karaoke Fridays at Lester's is forever altered the moment she and Dustin duet on a gentle, soul-melting rendition of Head Over Heels (they're terrible singers, but the power man, the subtle emotive, power) and Lucas, Lucas is everywhere, buying her drinks, and talking about how there are certain paragraphs in book three he wants to live in, and complimenting her buzz cut, and constantly and at all times making her laugh so long, and hard and with her entire body and it's so fucking unfair Mike can't actually-

IX. In local news, Lucas and Dustin are living in a shoebox across the river from Mike's house. Will is over so often he is repeatedly mistaken for a piece of furniture. He has his own shelf in the fridge (the middle), his own snacks in the cabinet (fig newtons are more than fruit and cake) and coconut shampoo he's neglected to take home and which is become the official property of the estate. Dustin likes to think of his abode as a sovereign nation, wants desperately to draw up a constitution and design a flag. Lucas likes to think of his casa as a Dustin-free zone, and is disappointed upon opening his door and finding reality has very much crushed his hopes and dreams. There is very little sleep, the occupants are lucky to claim several consecutive hours of unconsciousness. Instead, there are twitch marathons, Netflix binges, LOTR re-watches, and intense, lengthy debates over the merits of Zack Snyder being shot into space verses the efficiency of simply setting him ablaze.

X. Will is fond of lying on the couch, or on the window seat or on the floor next to Lucas' mattress and telling him all the ideas that his ridiculous brain ushers forth when he can't sleep. Lucas gently reminds him of the graphic novel he's kind of, sort of, a little bit working on-the thing he starts last year and politely but stubbornly refuses to show him any more pages once Lucas becomes a living, breathing reminder that Will could maybe think about possibly publishing it because It's Good. To be fair, saying the words aloud, letting them take shape in the air is almost like working on it. It's very, very close.

XI. Eventually, Mike realizes that contrary to initial reports, he's actually jealous of two people. Yes Lucas making El laugh is fairly fucking infuriating, but so is the knowledge that Lucas is trying so hard to make someone laugh, and that that someone (for reasons he is painfully, intimately familiar with) is NOT him. Pre-graduation, post-two a.m.  silent, sexuality-specific  realization that takes place in an Arby's parking lot, Mike and Lucas are the most accurate visual representation for best friendship that has ever, or will ever live. Their bond is unshakable, the stuff of Census Bearu legend, the canniest, most argumentative, absurdly affectionate, gleefully contrary pairing so robust and unrelenting it caused even the most patient members of their tight-knit Indiana State study circle to routinely throw up their hands and avert their eyes, yelling, "That's enough! Put it away!" One sunny, late-fall afternoon, they're picking up the thread of an ongoing Alien vs. Aliens debate (Lucas: I'm so glad your mom's not here to listen to her son humiliate himself like this. It would break her heart.") which has ascended to the intensity level that warrants standing very close and screaming as though they are not standing very close, when quite suddenly, they are no longer arguing. The discovery of another item in a long list of things they are hopelessly good at when they combine their talents, takes up the entire afternoon and most of the evening. The surprised, but strong, and ultimately righteous sense of joy\awe is conflated by the subdued, giddy knowledge that what has been in the past for Mike a rare and somewhat lackluster experience, and for Lucas, a little less rare but equally mediocre 'event' currently feels like the wide expanse of potentiality specific to scientific exploration. So there's that.

XII. It doesn't last too long, when he allows himself to think about it Mike abjectly refuses to liken the duration of the event to anything stupid, like a metaphor about supernovas. That would be dumb. And crass. And in poor taste. Plus, he hardly ever thinks about it ever, so there's that. Anyway, Mike dropping out of Indiana state and returning to the cocoon of his mother's basement is a completely unrelated event that never ever needs to be recounted, not even for posterity, except to say that it's unrelated to anything going on in his life at the moment. And it's okay, because he and Lucas are still ridiculously close friends and it's never even awkward except for the few occasions wherein Mike succumbs to jealously, before becoming confused about exactly whom he's jealous off. After he figures it out, he's moody and distant and the podcast gets Weird in only the way Mike can make it. El is confused, 'cause once the dude stops staring and actually says a few words to her, he's kind of cool in this completely doofy way. Lucas eventually plops on the end of Mike's bed, allows Mike to put his dirty, uncivilized sneakers all over his fairly expensive pants and makes a fumbling preamble that might as well be called Intro to Awk Con. It goes okay. Mike's just tired and Lucas co-signs with  a sigh, and a story about his sister, and they talk around it because it's still-they-can't-There's grumbling about the complete absence of something that could even be mistaken for a fan base, and Dustin's rants, and a general consensus on the awesomeness of El and they both feel better after that.

XIII. Lucas might have a supremely underdeveloped thing for Will? It's like, super embryonic, not even worth thinking about much less trying to explain out loud to Will's face while he stands there looking cute and curious and hesitant about the stupid notebook he's been doodling in for like a year, even though what little bits Lucas has seen of the novel that Will's mortified about having written  is so good he'd buy it tomorrow if Will would only deign to finish the damn thing. Yeah. So El hangs around Hawkins, after slaving away in his emotional garden wearing a wide-brim hat and too much sunscreen, Mike manages to grow the courage necessary to ask her to dine at his mom's house (yes, his mom has had El over for dinner roughly a thousand times, and yes her laugsana  with the signature sauce has become one of El's favorite dishes, but owing to the fact that Mike has spent ninety-five percent of those roughly thousands of evenings in his room melting down and wishing he was a person who could handle this shit, they don't actually count.), Will finishes his summer drawing course at the learning annex, because his phone storage is unable to contend with the sheer volume of photos he takes of and with El in the last couple of weeks\months (?) Dustin gets Instagram and instantly gains a thousand followers, and Lucas comes to the conclusion that's actually amazing at this podcast thing? Like honestly, he's very talented. And he's never taken one communication course!

XIV. El heads back to New York, promising to visit when she can. Mike admirably hides his heartbreak, and gallantly takes his frustration out on a pacman machine during their afternoon at the arcade. (Mike Wheeler: Frustrated Bisexual) A couple months later, they all receive signed copies of the next Wizards of Gale book with special messages scribbled on the inside covers. A couple of weeks before that, they post their El interview, and the site it takes Dustin two, painful, sleepless weeks to build experiences a significant amount of traffic for the first time in its uneventful little life. Everyone freaks out and facetimes El who's mid interview on the Teresa Watkins show, and that's how they attain their first television interview. (El: I'm sorry, this is so unprofessional. Do you mind?)

XV. Bros being bros, podcasting about nerd shit. (Dustin: How were you received by the dudebro cheeto dust contingent? I assume they're treating you well? They're super classy individuals.)

XVI. Oh, and Hopper is El's manager\literary agent? Okay? Okay.

[the-writing-kestrel-blog]

An Argonian Adoption

This is a series of vignettes about the life of an Argonian warrior and his unlikely adoption of a small human child. I wrote this as a reaction to the bizarre way Skyrim’s children approach the Dragonborn in the game. It started out as a one-off gag and evolved into a 7500 words story, because I suck at brevity. If you like Skyrim, stories about culture shock, or bipedal talking lizards, read on! Warning: some violence and gore, but mostly humor and fluff. 1. In Which Our Hero Encounters a Most Strange Creature

“Will you be my father?”

The Argonian stopped abruptly at those words. Turning slowly, not willing to believe what he was hearing, he brought his baleful, reptilian gaze to bear upon a small, grimy, wretched human girl-hatchling.

She had the usual human features – bizarrely flat face, protruding nose, gigantic flaps for ears (not unlike the mammoths he encountered out on the plain). Her hair was long, and it was obvious some attempt had been made to keep it in check, but to an Argonian all hair looked strange and slightly repugnant.

“What did you ask me, human child?” The Argonian hissed, incredulous.

“Will you be my father?” The question was more plaintive this time. The little thing dug the toe of her ragged shoe in the dirt as she averted her eyes. “Please?”

The Argonian had a name that could not be pronounced without a prehensile tongue and a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth, but in the common Imperial tongue it was roughly translated as “Runs-On-Water”. Even among his own people he was considered to be independent and aloof, and here in Skyrim among the tiresome Nords he was ever more so.

His answer was as could be expected.

“No.”

He turned abruptly and walked away. A few steps later, he looked back over his shoulder, his gill-slits itching slightly as they did when he was being followed. To his shock, the little girl was following him!

“What do you want, human child?”

“Why are you wearing that armour in town?” The girl asked.

The Argonian stared at her. The mismatch of steel plate and chainmail he currently wore was spattered generously with dried blood and gore, the leather straps dried and brittle from the heat of dragon-fire. “What?”

“Your armour! Why do you wear it in town? Do you not have any clothes?”

The Argonian shrugged (a human movement he had grudgingly grown to like for its expressiveness). “No point in going anywhere without armour in this vile country.” Runs-on-Water muttered.

“...Ok,” the girl replied. “Can I have a septim? I want to buy some bread. I haven't eaten in days. Please?”

The Argonian hissed in annoyance and reached for his purse with a clawed hand. “If I give you five septims, will you go away and leave me alone?”

“Yes, sir!”

Runs-on-Water counted out the septims, placed them in the girl's hand, and leaned his reptilian head towards her until he was inches from her face. “Now. Leave.”

The girl squealed and scampered off. Runs-on-Water snorted and turned away. One of the guards was scowling at him. He made a gesture with his claw that implied the Nord's entire clutch were honourless bastards, but the cultureless human didn't understand.

Runs-on-Water stalked away, in a fouler mood than usual, heading to the armourer to get his armour cleaned and repaired.

* * *

“Will you be my father?”

The Argonian whirled on the small human child. It was the second time she had snuck up on him in three days. This time, he'd just arrived back in town, hauling a huge bag of charred dragon bones over one shoulder. He was in a foul mood again – lugging hundreds of pounds of dragon bone down from the mountains did that to a lizard – and was in no mood for the child's games.

“Listen, tiny human hatchling. Look at me! What do you see?”

The girl looked up at him – Runs-on-Water knew what filled her gaze. A mottled green and brown reptilian face, eyes the colour of old blood, a half open maw filled with teeth, and a frill of spines protruding from the back of his head and neck.

The girl smiled sunnily at him. “The nice Argonian that gives me money for food every time he comes to town, and fights dragons and bandits and trolls to keep us all safe!”

Runs-on-Water was speechless. He fought dragons because the Hist-forsaken things seemed to stalk him wherever he went these days, and he killed bandits mostly for loot and because they were an inconvenience to him as he went from town to town. He didn't remember killing any trolls lately, but he killed a lot of things and it was possible he was just forgetting.

This impudent hatchling seemed to think he was doing this for her benefit!

“I am an Argonian warrior of Black Marsh. I am descended from Wades-through-Blood, who delved into the Oblivion Gates to fight the Daedra in their own lands. He was descended from Steps-In-Excrement, who defeated Dagoth Ur at the heart of Red Mountain in Morrowind. Why do you think I am your father?”

The little girl laughed! She laughed right in his face!

“I don't think you ARE my father, I want you to BE my father!” She said. “That's why I like you. You're so silly.”

Runs-on-Water, smelling strongly of fire, dragon's blood, and the reek of the road, was at a loss.

“My parents are dead,” The girl went on, oblivious. She went on tearfully. “My mama died not too long ago... My uncle and aunt took over our farm, but they said I wasn't good for anything, so they threw me out. So I have nowhere to go. I was able to beg for a while to get by but...people have stopped giving me money, or even food. You're the only one who helps anymore...so I thought....maybe, since you're the only one that cared...”

The girl looked up at him. She'd deflated during her story, going from a sunny child stating her fate matter-of-factly to a desperate, despairing orphan. Her thin, fragile mask had crumpled right in front of his eyes. Even for Runs-on-Water, who had trouble reading human expressions, it was obvious that the girl was barely keeping things together.

“Your Aunt and Uncle...” The Argonian warrior said.

“Yes?”

“They are honourless scum. To turn away a clutch-mate's spawn in need is a vile sin. In Black Marsh we would have gutted them and hung them from the highest branches of the Hist Trees, as atonement for their dishonour.”

The girl shuffled uncomfortably. “That's...nice?”

“Yes,” Runs-on-Water said. “It is an appropriate fate for those of that ilk. You backwards savages do nothing about such behaviour. It makes me want to vent my poison gland.” The Argonian shook his head. “I must deal with some merchants. When I have sold my goods, I will give you some money for food.” “Oh, would you? Thank you so much!”

Runs-on-Water showed his teeth. “Do not thank me. I do only what is just. Perhaps you barbarians can learn how to be truly civilized, if I but set the example.”

Later that evening, he sent the girl on her way with a coin purse filled with 20 septims. He watched the girl go. Her name was Lucia (what strange names these humans had!) and she told him she was nine years old. He thought back to when he was her age. Climbing trees with his brothers and sisters in the Hist swamp, hunting alligators with spears and poison, taunting slaughterfish. Good, clean Argonian fun, watched over by the dozens of Argonians that lived in his village. No Argonian hatchling ever begged, or went hungry. Not while the Hist spoke their guidance in every reptilian ear. Not when the bonds of clutch and nest held strong.

Skyrim was truly a wretched place. He would have to do something about it.

* * *

2. In which Severio Pelagio Receives Many Compliments on his Fine Property

Severio Pelagio awoke to the sound of someone rummaging around downstairs. A thrill of fear went through him – he grabbed the cudgel he kept by his bedside, scrambled out of bed, and crept downstairs to confront the thief. He might get murdered, or worse, robbed, but he couldn't just sleep upstairs while he let some scummy criminal (probably a Khaajit!) take all his hard-won gold!

When he reached the main floor, he shouted into the darkness. “Who's there? I'll have you know I'm armed, and I have no problems killing a man if I need to! Show yourself, thief!”

A deeper shadow loomed out of the darkness. Severio could just make out the gleam of steel armour, and the red glow of demonic eyes.

Severio whimpered.

“This is a lovely house,” hissed a reptilian voice.

“What?” Severio stammered. “...what?”

“This house is lovely,” the voice repeated, with an odd emphasis on the s. “And you also have a lovely farm, yes? Inherited from your sister, who died tragically not so long ago?”

“Uh...” Severio had expected the thief to flee, or strike him, not compliment him on his real estate investments. “Uh, yes. Both...lovely.”

“It would be a great shame if this house were to burn to the ground. It would be a great shame if the farm were to burn to the ground as well. It would be a great shame if the fields were sown with powdered dragon bone so nothing would ever grow there again. Is this not so?”

“Are you threatening me?” Severio asked, incredulous.

“A great shame,” the reptilian continued, looming even closer, “If someone were to break into your house in the middle of the night, gut you, and hang you from a tree to atone for your dishonour. Yes?”

“Yes! No!” Severio gasped. “What do you want?”

“Your niece. When she comes of age, this farm will be hers. You will make writings that tell everyone it will be so, witnessed by the Jarl. You will care for this farm until such time as she takes it over. Then, when she does, you will leave Whiterun and never return. If you do not do this, I believe a great many shameful things will happen here. Yes?”

“Yes!”

“Then we are understanding each other.”

The reptilian shadow seemed to simply melt into the darkness, and Severio was alone.

He wondered if he could rouse a scribe and a lawyer at this time of night.

* * *

3. In Which Whiterun Learns a Lesson in Argonian Manners

A week later, Runs-on-Water wandered into Whiterun. As usual, the residents gave him a wide, respectful berth. He had done a great many odd jobs, bounties, and other tasks involving violence-for-gold around the city, and so while he wasn't loved, he was granted an amount of honour that most Argonians in Skyrim couldn't dream of.

Runs-on-Water was sure that the armour and the massive two-handed sword helped somewhat.

Lucia, as usual, wove her way through the crowds and towards him. “Hello! Kill any dragons today?”

“No, not today. Only a pack of wolves, four bandits, and a troll.” Runs-on-Water hefted the sack over his shoulder, full of bloody trophies.

“Awesome!” She chirped. The girl had lost the waifish, hungry look in just the past week. Runs-on-Water suppressed an uncharacteristic warm feeling at that knowledge – his septims were feeding the girl well, it seemed.

“You are eating well?” He asked.

“Yes, sir! And I still have plenty hidden away, just in case. I think I have enough to eat for a week!”

Runs-on-Water felt a pang of sadness. The poor girl looked on such a meagre existence as a gift. It was not right.

He made a snap decision.

“Come with me,” He said.

“Okay!”

After selling the wolf pelts (for half price – the massive sword-cuts into the hides hadn't helped in that regard) and the weapons and armour of the unfortunate bandits, he turned towards Dragonsreach, occupying the highest pinnacle of Whiterun.

“Are you going to see the Jarl?” Lucia asked excitedly.

“Yes,” Runs-on-Water replied.

“Can I come?”

“Yes. It is necessary.”

The girl squealed in excitement. “I've never been in Dragonsreach before!”

When the Argonian stalked into the main hall at Dragonsreach, the men and women seated at the heavy wooden tables in the torchlit lower hall looked up. It was a diverse group – men and women in armour, some in rich clothes, and a few in the thick robes of mages and wizards. They quickly lost interest, returning to their rich meals and plentiful mead. The dimly-lit stone keep saw it's fair share of the armoured lizard in his comings and goings – he worked often for the Jarl and others in Dragonsreach, and he was nearly a fixture there.

For his part, Runs-on-Water ignored the humans (for the most part, they all looked the same to him) and headed up the steps to the throne to speak to the Jarl.

Jarl Balgruuf was sprawled in his throne, bored, while two of his pin-headed advisors jousted verbally in front of him, as if for his amusement. His head of security, Irileth. fully armoured and hand on her sword, glowered from nearby. She and the Argonian exchanged nods: Runs-on-Water respected the Dunmer woman, but had no use for the rest of Balgruuf's sycophants. For her part, Irileth did not seem to have the usual prejudice Dark Elves had for Argonians. Runs-on-Water returned the favour.

Runs-on-Water stepped unceremoniously between the two arguing advisors and stared down at the idle Jarl.

“Yes, Dragonborn? What do you need?” He asked. This was what Runs-on-Water liked about the Jarl – he didn't stand on ceremony when things needed to be done.

“I wish to buy a house,” he said.

The Jarl frowned. “Oh? I suppose something can be arranged. Speak with my steward-”

“I wish to buy a house now,” Runs-on-Water said, and dropped a heavy sack of gold at the Jarl's feet. “Your steward is a weasel, and I do not like him. He may handle the money, but we will not have words together.”

“Dragonborn, you have done much for Whiterun, but I must demand courtesy-”

“I would also like to make a statement. I would like your scribes to make words that repeat my statement, so that all in Whiterun may read the words of the Dragonborn. Honourable Jarl, you know I do not make many requests, so I ask that you grant this to me.”

The Jarl narrowed his eyes, then summoned a scribe with a flick of his hand. “I will grant this to you, Dragonborn, as a token of my respect. But do not push me further.”

“Thank you, but I promise nothing,” Runs-on-Water said, then turned to the scribe. “Do you speak Argonian?”

“No,” the skinny, robed man squeaked, quaking under the Dragonborn's gaze.

“This will make things difficult. So much lost in translation. No matter. I will get the point across. Make my words here on that paper. I, Runs-on-Water, Dragonborn, descendent of Wades-through-Blood, descendent of Steps-in-Excrement, lay a charge on the people of Whiterun: You are all honourless scum, of the lowest kind imaginable. You reek of vile sin.”

The hall fell silent. The Jarl's mouth hung open in shock.

“You live in plenty while hatchlings roam the street, hungry and without shelter. You break the covenant of the Clutch and the Nest and do not even have the decency to feel shame. Not even the most wretched of my people, in the depths of skooma addiction, would fall to such a level.

“I, Runs-on-Water, must teach you decency. With Jarl Balgruuf as my witness, let it be known that from this day, the young orphan Lucia of Whiterun, who was left to beg and starve on the streets, is my hatchling. She is blood of my blood, clutch of my clutch, and whoever speaks against this will face my wrath. Any harm that comes to her will be repaid tenfold. Any who gainsay me on this will be gutted and hung on the nearest tree in atonement for their dishonour.”

Somewhere in the hall, a spoon fell with a dull thunk. All else was silence.

“Read that back, scribe,”

In a quivering voice, the scribe repeated the proclamation back, word for word. Runs-on-Water nodded. “Thank you, Jarl, for indulging me.”

The Jarl just nodded dumbly.

Runs-on-Water turned to Lucia, who stood stock still, her eyes wide. “Well, hatchling?”

The girl broke into a wide smile and jumped into the air, throwing her arms around the Argonian's neck. “Papa!” She yelled, then, muffled in his shoulder. “Ow. You're spikier than I thought you'd be.”

Runs-on-Water patted her gingerly on the back. “I am sorry, Hatchling. It is my nature.”

Finally, in the silence of the hall, the steward spoke up. “As to the house you wish to purchase...did you, by any chance, want some furnishings with that?”

Runs-on-Water glared at the steward. “I shall furnish it myself, weasel.”

Perhaps predictably, no-one gainsayed him.

4.In Which The Dragonborn Dabbles in Crafting

“Can I come see yet, Papa?”

“Patience, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water hissed in exasperation. “I am nearly done.”

Runs-on-Water found himself seized with a strange giddiness. The house he had purchased was dusty, drafty, and filled with cobwebs and insects. With minimal prodding and a few veiled threats, he had extracted some work from some of the locals, and the place was much cleaner now, if a bit empty of furnishings. In his many years on the road, he had slept in ditches, caves, tents and ruins. Now he had a house, and some deep part of his reptilian soul was nudging him to make it a home.

His hatchling's voice, muffled through the door, was continually pulling him from his reverie.

Finally, he was done. It had been exhausting work – he would sun himself on the roof this afternoon and try and regain his energy. He beamed down at the results of his labours. He felt a welling of surprising feelings – a familial warmth, love, and pride, so different from his usual inveterate grouchiness.

It was disturbingly pleasant.

“Come, hatchling! You may see your room now!”

“Hooray!” she said, and rushed through the door, a wide smile on her face that quickly shifted and turned to confusion. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”

The walls of the room were covered in vines, and long, snaking branches covered in moss and old-man's-beard.  The earthen floor had been covered with almost a full inch of leaf litter and loam, and squished noticeably. Through a window partially obscured by vines, dim yellow sunlight filtered through to splash against a large flat stone in one corner of the room. In the opposite corner was what looked like a massive tangle of branches, grasses and vines, but on closer inspection it was more like a woven mattress, with a large depression in the middle.

Lucia looked up at her Argonian Papa. He was grinning down at her, his forked tongue flickering with pride. “I know it is not a proper nest,” he said, “There are no Hist trees outside of Black Marsh, and the soil here is thin, with no clay, so I could not construct a pond. But the nest is woven in the traditional manner, very comfortable. And the stone soaks up the sun well – you need not worry that your blood will cool with this stone in the room!” He leaned closer. “What do you think?”

Lucia looked around the room, back her Papa, then walked slowly over to sit on the edge of the nest. The intricate weaving was deceiving. What looked thorny and frightening was actually a soft, warm place of safety, a refuge from the world.

She looked back up at her new Papa. He was beginning to look anxious, twiddling his claws nervously.

She sighed and sank back into the nest with a smile. “It's perfect.”

Runs-on-Water's gills flared and the scales around his eyes flushed red. He was suffused with a warm glow. “I am glad you like it, Hatchling!”

5. In Which Lucia Learns to Always Read the Label

Runs-on-Water returned from the smith with a spring in his step. It had been a long day – two dragons had attacked him at once earlier in the day, and while the first one died with an arrow in it's eye, the second had taken much tedious hacking with his greatsword before expiring. He was looking forward to getting home, and seeing the Hatchling.

Much had changed in the past weeks. His nesting instincts had kicked in with a vengeance, and while he still wandered far and wide, he was now anxious to return to Whiterun in a way that he hadn't been before. He felt like he should be worried about going soft, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He opened the door to Breezehome and set his burden down next to the door. “Hatchling, I am back!”

Usually Lucia came running as soon as he was through the door. But today all he could hear was an out of tune humming from the hatchling's nest. “Hatchling? Is something wrong?”

Runs-on-Water approached the door, opening it slowly, and put his head in.

“Hatchling, are you- BY THE HIST!”

Lucia was curled up in her nest, grinning manically with wide eyes, arms wrapped tight around a ball of squirming, hissing brown fur. The giant brown rat – a skeever, the locals called them – was obviously nearly exhausted, but it wasn't giving up anytime soon.

“Papa, you're home!” giggled Lucia. “I caught a Unicorn! It tried to sneak in through the back door but I lassoed it with twisty words and some vines and I caught it and now it's mine! It's mane smells like rainbows!”

Runs-on-Water took one look at her dilated pupils the manic grin, and began casting about the room. His fears were confirmed a moment later – an empty vial lay on the floor. The Argonian picked  it up gingerly – it was completely empty, not a drop left.

He rushed over to Lucia, yanked the raging skeever from her grip, and grabbed her face gently in a clawed hand. The skeever, hissing madly, scurried from the room.

“My unicorn!” Lucia shouted.

“Silence, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water snapped. “What have you done?”

Lucia went from laughing one moment to weeping inconsolably the next. “I slipped on the stairs and hurt myself, so I got a healing potion from the cupboard. I was only going to take a sip, but it tasted so nice, and i felt like I was flying...I'm sorry Papa!”

“Hatchling, that was not a healing potion. That was sap of the Hist! It is for Argonians, so that we may hear the whispers of the the Hist trees when we are far from the Old Country. It is very dangerous for humans! Tell, me quickly, am I your enemy?”

“No! You're my Papa!” she shouted tearfully.

“Good, good. Now, do you feel an overwhelming desire to murder anyone?”

“Of course not! Well, except for Braith. I hate her guts.” Lucia mused.

“Ah, yes. The bully. Those feelings are normal and healthy. But do not murder her. That would bring the attention of the guards.” Runs-on-Water leaned back with a sigh. It appeared the Hist sap was not having a bad effect on the child, though the Argonian couldn't understand why. Hist sap usually drove humans into a blind, murderous, hallucinogenic rage. In Lucia's case, it simply made her wish to cuddle giant rats.

“The effects of the sap will wear off soon,” Runs-on-Water told Lucia. “Until then, I will stay with you. Do not trust your senses. For example, you did not catch a unicorn, that was a skeever.”

“A skeever?”

“Yes. It is now somewhere in the house.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

The Argonian and the human child sat in the nest for some time. After a while, her racing heart calmed, her eyes returned to normal, and her manic smile faded.

“Ugh. Papa, I feel awful,” Lucia moaned.

“This is an important lesson: do not drink your Papa's Hist-sap. It will do strange things to your mind. Humans cannot hear the whispers of the Hist, so there is no point.”

“But I did hear the whispers, Papa!” Lucia insisted from his lap.

Runs-on-Water's breath caught in his throat. His gills slammed shut. This was impossible! “What?” he whispered.

“The whispers! I heard them! At first it just sounded like branches moving in the wind, but later there were words! They spoke to me!” She insisted.

“...what did they say?” Runs-on-Water whispered urgently. He had to know if this was a true Hist-Sending.

“They said to tell you that you had done the right thing coming to Skyrim. That you were fulfilling the will of the Hist, and that your ancestors would be proud of you.”

Runs-on-Water swallowed painfully. “...and?”

“And they said not to be sad, but that you would never see Black Marsh again.”

Runs-on-Water bowed his head, taking deep breaths. He had known it, had felt it from his gills to the tip of his tail, on the day that he left, but he had not allowed himself to believe it. He would never see the marshes of Argonia again. He would never feel the caress of the humid air of the deep swamps. He swallowed a harsh sob, deep in his chest.

“They said that you would have to carry the Marsh with you, in your heart,” Lucia continued. “What does that mean, Papa?”

Runs-on-Water looked down at his hatchling, his blood-red eyes meeting her deep brown ones. This should not be possible. Only an Argonian should be able to hear the whispers. Only an Argonian should be able to drink of the Hist and keep their sanity.

But then, what had he said? Blood of his blood, clutch of his clutch. Was she not his hatchling now? Did that not make her an Argonian in all but flesh?

“I will teach you what it means to carry the Marsh with you, as it was taught to me when I was a hatchling. It will take...many years. A lifetime. It will be very difficult,” he said. “But we will do it together, hatchling, and that will make all the difference.

6. In Which Runs-on-Water Has the Talk with his Hatchling

The question came one night at dinner time, during a simple feast of venison stew and fresh bread (found in a nearby cave, as was usual).

“Papa, what were your parents like?” Runs-on-Water’s chest swelled, and the gill slits on his neck flared with pride. “My mother was a mighty warrior, with scales like steel, teeth like daggers and eyes that burned in the night-swamp. All three of my fathers were near to her equal in combat, and caught her eye with their skill with the spear and their cunning in battle, as well as the iridescence of their neck scales, aha! Their clutch was a bold one, and they are in my mind often.”

“Papa, did you say you have THREE fathers?” The human hatchling’s brow was furrowed – Runs-on-Water had learned that this meant that her brain was overheating. “How…how does that even work?”

Runs-on-Water chuckled. “Aha, I am always forgetting that your human females take only one mate! It is different in the Old Country, of course. In Argonia, our females prove their worthiness to spawn by deeds of might and cunning, and earn the right to choose mates from among the males. When the spawning season is nigh, the female and her males go into the Hist-swamps together…” The small child listened, eyes slowly widening, as Runs-on-Water explained, in unrelenting, graphic detail the breeding rites of the people of Argonia.

When he was done, Runs-on-Water beamed down at his adopted daughter. “It is a process both beautiful and majestic, yes?”

The child had a pale look about her – Runs-on-Water suspected her throat sacs were malfunctioning – he hoped she would grow out of it. “So…that’s where baby Argonians come from?”

“Hatchlings, yes!”

The girl blinked. “Do…do humans, um… make babies in the same way?”

Runs-on-Water waved a clawed hand absently. “I know little of human mating rituals- It is all so dramatic and strange. How can a worthy female be satisfied with a single drake, or worse yet, produce an acceptable brood of eggs if she has not tested his strength in open combat? But I assume that the ‘making babies’ itself is similar. Except that humans do it in the bedroom, under the covers, and they are obliged to feel shame after the fact.” The Argonian hissed his disapproval.

The girl-child took some time to digest this before speaking.

“Papa?”

“Yes, hatchling?”

“I think I want to be a nun.”

The Argonian was puzzled. Human children were strange creatures with strange minds.  Runs-on-Water reached down and patted her on the shoulder. “I am sure you will succeed at whatever you put your mind to, hatchling.”

7. In Which Some Stormcloaks Are Exposed to Argonian Culture

Runs-on-Water stared down at the crudely-scrawled note in his claws, his heart cold with rage, his tail flicking violently in agitation. He read the note again.

The note was as brief as it was infuriating.

DRAGONBORN – WE HAVE RESCUED THE CHILD LUCIA FROM YOUR IMPRISONMENT. NO MORE WILL YOU CORRUPT HER WITH YOUR FILTHY ARGONIAN WAYS. WHEN THE STORMCLOAKS ARE VICTORIOUS ALL YOUR KIND WILL BE CAST OUT FROM SKYRIM OR PUT TO THE SWORD. IF YOU WISH YOUR END TO COME MORE QUICKLY, COME TO BROKENFANG CAVE AND FIND US. LONG LIVE ULFRIC STORMCLOAK, TRUE KING OF SKYRIM!

He crumpled the note viciously in a clawed hand. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his tail thrashed. He turned to his Housecarl where she sat on a chair, breathing raggedly.

“I am sorry, my lord,” Lydia muttered. Her black hair was matted with blood, and her severe features were strained in agony. “There were at least six of them.”

“You did well, Housecarl, to slay two of them” Runs-on-Water said, suppressing his anger. “No one could have done better.”

“You could have,” she whispered. “I should have died before I let them take her.”

“No. You are both still alive, and that is good. And the Stormcloaks are as good as dead,” Runs-on-Water hissed.

“My lord, it is a trap! You cannot go alone! Go to the Jarl, take some guards with you!” Lydia insisted, trying to rise before collapsing back into the chair in agony, her face gone suddenly white as a sheet.

“Yes, it is a trap,” Runs-on-Water agreed. “One that I look forward to springing...on them.”

* * *

“My Papa's going to kiiiillll you, my Papa's going to kiiiilll you!”

Agarmir, the Stormcloak leader growled. “Vilhelm, shut her up!” He snapped to one of his men.

The bearded brute he had spoken to threw up his hands. “Every time I try and gag her, she bites my fingers! I think I might be getting an infection.”

Agarmir spun to where the girl sat, tied securely to a chair. She smiled up at him in an unsettling way. “My father is going to gut you, and hang you from the highest branch of the tallest tree to atone for your dishonour,” She said matter-of-factly.

“You better shut your mouth, girl, or I will do it for you!” He shouted. “When that filthy lizard you call 'Papa' comes here, like the idiot he is, we're going to butcher him like an animal. One day, you'll understand. We're doing this for your own good. For Skyrim's own good!”

Lucia made a show of looking around. “YOU GUYS are going to butcher MY Papa? Have you met him? He's the Dragonborn! He kills dragons and eats their souls! For fun!”

“Even a mighty warrior can be overcome by ambush,” Agarmir said, but he could see Villhelm shifting uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye. “And what are you fidgeting about?”

“Well...the girl has a point, boss.”

Agarmir turned away from the infuriating moron and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Villhelm, relax. The entire cave is a web of interconnected traps. We have sharpened stakes, rock falls, flamethrowers, pressure plates that shoot little darts. And there are four of us, all with enchanted weapons, waiting in ambush!”

“But boss...*sklrch gurgle gurgle*”

“Don't interrupt me Villhelm! This 'Dragonborn' is just a filthy Argonian, and no match for a true Nord, much less four of them!” Agarmir pounded his fist into his open hand. “We will kill the Dragonborn. You'll see. He's not so tough.”

Agarmir braced himself for more of Villhelm's stupidity. But to his surprise, none was forthcoming. “Villhelm?” Slowly, Agarmir turned, a feeling of dread overcoming him.

Two things were immediately clear to Agarmir upon turning around. One: Villhelm would never say anything stupid ever again. A man had to have an intact throat to speak, after all. And two: The Dragonborn was a sneaky bastard, and was apparently a master at evading traps.

He knew this because Runs-on-Water was standing over Villhelm's slowly-cooling corpse, covered in the blood of the other Stormcloaks, holding an Ebony Greatsword in his hands.

His eyes burned with rage.

“I don't suppose you'd be open to negotiating the girl's release?” Agarmir asked hopefully.

To Agarmir's shock, the Argonian appeared to think about it. “I think...no. I have a reputation to uphold. I must show Whiterun that I am a lizard of my word.”

Agarmir raised his battle-axe. In the end, he supposed, the Argonian was being very reasonable. A man's word was his bond, after all.

* * *

When Runs-on-Water climbed down from the Gildergreen Tree at the centre of Whiterun, the Jarl and his entourage were waiting for him. The Jarl was tapping his foot impatiently, and had a thunderous look on his face.

“Yes, Jarl?” Runs-on-Water asked innocently.

“Is this all really necessary?”  Balgruuf ground out.

“I did warn everyone,” Runs-on-Water pointed out. “We even wrote it down. There was a decree.”

The Jarl sputtered. “Yes...but...we're in the middle of town!”

“Yes. Very visible. Now everyone can see that I mean what I say.”

The Jarl's mouth hung open in shock. “The children will see!”

“I had not thought of that,” Runs-on-Water acknowledged. “You are right. It will be very educational.”

Indeed, a small crowd of children had gathered around the Gildergreen tree already. They were starting to throw rocks and rotten fruit at what was hanging from the highest branches.

“This is the Gildergreen! This tree is sacred!”

Runs-on-Water nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Yes! It is very convenient that such a sacred tree was ready to claw. It will have to stand in for the Hist trees of my homeland. The Priestess of Kynareth was very understanding.” The Dragonborn leaned closer to the Jarl. “She owed me a little favour, if you must know.”

The Jarl looked at the blood-spattered Dragonborn, and then up at the hanging bodies of the Stormcloaks that had kidnapped his daughter. One of them was wearing a sign around his neck, written in blood:

I TOLD YOU SO

The Jarl sighed. “Just...take them down before they start to smell, alright?”

Runs-on-Water beamed at the Jarl. “You are a most wise and just ruler, Jarl! Thank you!”

The Jarl turned away, saying nothing, and headed back up to Dragonsreach. When he got there, he was going to drink a whole barrel of mead.

8. In Which Hatchlings Grow Up Too Quickly

Runs-on-Water stood on the hilltop, looking out over the small crowd of people gathered in the small glade below. There were not many people here...it was a mix of mostly Nords and Bretons, with a salting of other humans, khaajit, argonians and elves scattered throughout. There had been much grumbling when Runs-on-Water had insisted that the wedding of his adopted daughter would be a small affair. He had flatly refused to invite the Jarls of Skyrim, with the exception of the long-suffering Jarl Balgruuf, and even his entourage had been limited to a few people.

Runs-on-Water had been in Skyrim for nearly a decade, and at last, a kind of peace had settled over the land. The land was still lousy with bandits, but the civil war was over, the dragons were gone, and people were getting back to their everyday lives. He was famous  throughout the province, throughout the Empire, even, and though it had been years since his most well-known deeds, he was still a popular figure. If his scales had dulled slightly, and his eyes were not so sharp, none of the multitude who knew his face were the wiser.

It would be a strange human ceremony. Lucia had desired a traditional Breton wedding, and Runs-on-Water had yielded gracefully to her request. It was her day, after all, and he had looked at it with a sense of excitement and growing dread.

And now, Runs-on-Water was feeling reflective.

“I have killed many men and mer,” Runs-on-Water spoke into the cool evening.

“Errr...” Lars Battleborn, looking distinctly uncomfortable in his fine, imported silk clothing, stood just behind the Dragonborn. Almost everyone was a little nervous around Runs-on-Water, except Lucia. And if you were summoned to a dark hilltop, an hour before you were to marry his cherished daughter, you would be very nervous indeed.

“Hundreds, probably. Maybe thousands. Who can keep track?” Runs-on-Water continued.

Lars decided that silence was the best course.

Runs-on-Water spun abruptly, causing Lars to startle and make a distressingly unmanly squeaking sound. “I'm sorry, sir!”

“For what?” Runs-on-Water asked, then waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind. I was just trying to explain....I am not...perhaps...a good person.”

Lars found himself nodding before he managed to stop himself.

“I have done my best to raise Lucia. But I have taught her the ways of Black Marsh, and perhaps...perhaps in that, I failed her. This is not Black Marsh...this is Skyrim,” Runs-on-Water shook his head. “If I have done wrong, it is too late to undo. The Hist will judge me, as they judge all Argonians.”

“Lucia is...well, she is very fond of you,” Lars ventured carefully. “I...well I think she's quite happy with how she was raised.”

Runs-on-Water nodded absently.

“And...well, to be quite frank with you, sir, I don't think I've ever seen a Breton woman handle a battle-axe like she can. Why, she puts every Nord woman I know to shame!” He continued. “You should be very proud.”

Runs-on-Water glanced over at Lars. He'd lost the soft cheeks of his youth, and had taken after his father in terms of his height and broad shoulders, but he'd retained his lank brown hair and the eyes of a kicked puppy. No one would guess that the man was a terror on the battlefield. Runs-on-Water wouldn't have believed it, had he not seen Lucia sparring with the boy.

That, at least, had been somewhat in the Argonian tradition. She had challenged (and defeated) Lars in battle, and then immediately afterwords had helped him to his feet and 'asked him out', as the humans called it. She had been mortified when Runs-on-Water had urged her to simply drag the boy out into the nearest swamp and get started on some grandlizards, and insisted on a more conventional courtship.

“I am very proud,” Runs-on-Water said. “Lucia is the only clutch I will ever have. She is no less my daughter than if I had hatched her myself.”

“Yes sir,” Lars answered. “No one doubts that.”

“I have seen to that,” Runs-on-Water said wryly.

“Papa! Papa, are you up here!” Lucia's voice echoed up the hill.

“Here, hatchling!” Runs-on-Water called back. Lars, he noted, looked very relieved to hear his fiance's voice.

Lucia trudged up the hill, holding the green and gold skirt of her wedding dress out of the way as she ascended. The dress was traditional, for the most part, but the pattern had required some modification. For one, Lucia was a little more well-muscled than many young brides, and for another thing, she had needed to be sure she could strap her battle-axe to her back without causing unsightly ruffles. She had grown tall, and strong, but she had kept her sunny smile and laughing eyes.

To Runs-on-Water, she would always be his hatchling.

“Has father been threatening you, Lars my love?” Lucia asked, laughter in her voice.

“No. No! We've just been talking...” Lars replied. “It's been...something.”

“Well, if you're getting along so well, perhaps you would like to marry each other? Or can Lars come down this hill and get married to me after all?”

Lars turned red, and tried to stammer out an apology. Lucia shooed him away. “Go on down, you lump! You have to wait for me at the altar, remember! I'll be down in a moment.”

Lars stuttered out his goodbyes, and headed down the hill at speed, relief evident in every step.

“Humans are strange,” Runs-on-Water mused, when he was out of earshot.

“Yes, they are. We are, I mean,” Lucia replied.

The Dragonborn was silent for a moment, before speaking. “Hatchling, I know things have not been easy for you...”

“Oh, hush, Papa!” Lucia said. “Because of you, I had an unconventional childhood. I was raised by a lizard-man from the darkest swamps on the continent who killed dragons and trolls and Hist knows what else for fun and profit. I've been swinging a battle-axe since I was thirteen. I'm the only human alive who can get by in Argonian, the only one that can hear the whispers of the Hist, and the only daughter of the Dragonborn. I'm not saying it hasn't been...hard, at times. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Would you?”

“No. Well, I could have done with a few less dragons. That became tedious after a while.”

Lucia clapped her father on the shoulder, and then was surprised when he lurched forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. She settled in and hugged him back.

“I worry that I will lose you now,” Runs-on-Water, the Scourge of stormcloaks, Dragon-killer, master of a hundred Shouts, whispered his wretchedness to his only daughter. “You are all that is good in me.”

“Papa,” she whispered back. “No matter what happens, I am blood of your blood, clutch of your clutch, and I will carry the Marsh in my heart.” At this she paused, as if debating whether to continue. “As will my children.” She said meaningfully.

Runs-on-Water drew back, a toothy smile touching his muzzle. “Are you preparing to spawn already?”

Lucia nearly choked at that. “What? No. Well...not immediately. But, maybe...a little sooner than planned. We may have, er, a little bit of a surprise in eight months or so.”

Runs-on-Water beamed. The look on his face reminded Lucia of the day he had built her the little nest in her room. “This is wonderful news!”

“Don't tell anyone else!” she implored, flushing slightly. “The Battle-Borns are a little...traditional about that sort of thing.”

“I will say nothing,” Runs-on-Water agreed.

There was a small, awkward silence. Lucia broke it. “Well, are you ready to escort me down into the glade?”

“It would be my honour, hatchling,” Runs-on-Water said.

As he escorted his daughter, blood of his blood, clutch of his clutch, down to her future husband, Runs-on-Water at last felt at peace. The will of the Hist had been made clear to him at last. He could never return to Black Marsh. But here, with Lucia, he had managed to create a little Black Marsh of his own.

And together, they would carry the Marsh with them in their hearts.

[hellosaltysaladcollectionstuff]

THIS IS PART XII of LARB’s serialization of Seth Greenland’s forthcoming novel The Hazards of Good Fortune. Greenland’s novel follows Jay Gladstone from his basketball-loving youth to his life as a real estate developer, civic leader, philanthropist, and NBA team owner, and then to it all spiraling out of control.

A film and TV writer, playwright, and author of four previous novels, Greenland was the original host of The LARB Radio Hour and serves on LARB’s board of directors. The Hazards of Good Fortune will be published in book form by Europa Editions on August 21, 2018.

To start with installment one, click here.

To pre-order on Indiebound, click here; on Amazon, click here; at Barnes & Noble, click here.

¤

Chapter Thirty-Three

  After Jay fled the courthouse, he went to his Manhattan apartment on East End Avenue. Increasingly frantic about Dag’s condition, the phone calls he made during the drive left him unable to ascertain what it was. The doctors were silent, and nothing had leaked. Why did no one make a statement? Tell the world Dag is sitting up in bed, talking, eating—something! Of course, no statement meant that he, most likely, was not dead and that was cause for celebration.

The uniformed doorman saluted him with a touch of the cap and the usual, “Mr. Gladstone, sir.” In the discreet manner of those who serve the ultra-wealthy, the man did not acknowledge Jay’s battered appearance. At the elevator bank, Jay pressed the button and glanced over his shoulder to check if someone was approaching from behind. He wanted to avoid any interactions. Since it was the middle of the day, most of the tenants—they included a former Secretary of the Treasury, several CEOs, and a Saudi prince—were at offices where they pulled the invisible strings that moved the world, and Jay hoped that when the elevator arrived, it would be empty. An interminable fifteen seconds later the door opened, and a well-dressed older woman emerged. Mrs. Wessel, 16B, the wife of a Wall Street gorilla. Jay offered what he hoped was a smile tight enough to forestall any inquiries about what had occurred last night. She looked up at him with heavily made-up eyes.

“Are you doing all right?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Wessel.”

“Were you wearing a seat belt?”

“I was,” he lied.

Jay got on the elevator and pressed 20. The encounter with Mrs. Wessel had jangled his already frayed nerves. Which details had made it into the news reports? He could only imagine, along with the degree to which the entire metropolitan area was chattering about it. At least she hadn’t asked about Dag.

The Gladstone apartment was the only one on the floor. The elevator opened on to a vestibule decorated with two Currier and Ives prints, an antique side table where the mail appeared, and a copper stand from which several furled umbrellas protruded. Jay stepped off and absently picked up the pile of mail that had accumulated since his last visit. About to insert his key into the lock, he thought: What if Nicole is here? They had not connected since the incident and Jay had no idea where she was. He had not responded to her texts and right now, he realized, she could be waiting for him on the other side of the door. He hesitated while he considered this possibility but his intense desire for a hot shower overrode any discomfort at the idea of confronting her and he warily entered the apartment.

Closing the door quietly behind him, Jay peered around and braced himself for an encounter. Furnished in contemporary style with king-of-the-world views to the south, east, north, and west, the dwelling reflected Jay and Nicole’s taste and, for all of its refinement, looked like actual human beings lived there. On a table in the entry area was a framed photograph of Jay, Nicole, and an unsmiling Aviva at her high school graduation. In front of him the spacious living room where an Anselm Kiefer canvas took up most of a wall. Across from the painting, custom-built bookshelves crammed with hardcovers that looked as if they had been read. To the right was the formal dining room with its Gustav Klimt portrait of a Viennese socialite, and seating for twelve, and beyond that the kitchen area. To his left a den/screening room and a hallway that led to the bedrooms. In all directions, an expanse of unobtrusive rugs.

Jay listened for the sound of the television, a running tap, the click of heels against parquet. He called her name as neutrally as he could, considering the welter of strong emotions he was experiencing, and waited. He wondered how he would react when he heard her voice. When there was no response, he repeated her name. Again, nothing. Satisfied he was alone, Jay entered the master bedroom. He half-expected to see his wife waiting for him demurely in a chair, legs crossed, nonchalantly perusing a magazine, but there was no sign of her. The bed was immaculate.

Jay’s phone rang. It was Boris, who informed him that Dag was alive and now being treated at NYU Medical Center. Jay sat in a chair and gazed toward Central Park. It was sunny, and there were high clouds in the western distance. He gave a loud sob and placed his head in his hands. Jay remained in that position for several minutes.

When he regained control of his emotions, Jay shed his clothes. He stood in the steam-shower, careful to keep the bandage covering his nose dry, and let the scalding water course over his tired body and open his pores until it washed the last vestige of jail from his mottled skin. Although the three-ring circus in his head had prevented any rest, nerves rendered him wide-awake, and as he toweled off, he tried to formulate a plan for the remainder of the day. There were messages from Bebe, Franklin, Church Scott, Mayor Major House, his ex-wife Jude, and a litany of business associates including Renzo Piano, calling from Italy (the story, unfortunately, was international), all of whom expressed concern for his health. Several conveyed sympathies for the legal predicament he was in, although no one seemed to understand quite what it was.

Naked, Jay examined his face in the bathroom mirror. He gently peeled the bandage off his nose. It was not a bad break and, although there was some swelling and it was tender to the touch, the fear that he would look like a proboscis monkey had not come to pass. The bruises under his eyes resembled small mussel shells. It would be possible to appear in public without a bag over his head. He would need sunglasses, though. Where had he left them? He glanced down at his nakedness. For a man in his fifties, he didn’t look terrible. Jay sucked in his modest paunch then let it out. He shaved and dressed. Crisp, pin-striped suit, red patterned tie.

Earlier, Jay informed Boris that he wanted him to familiarize himself with the family’s Asia holdings—he did not say why—and since this might require that Boris travel there, Jay would be breaking in another driver. This had been duly arranged.

Before leaving the apartment, Jay went to the kitchen where he filled a glass with filtered water and swallowed an Oxycontin left over from the previous winter when he had tweaked his knee skiing in France. Sunglasses on, he pulled a Yankee cap low over his forehead. Thus disguised, he took the elevator to the lobby.

In the passenger seat of the SUV, Jay stared through the tinted window as Second Avenue blurred past his bloodshot eyes. The driver was a skinny young man from the mailroom who was the son of one of Bebe’s friends, and he had the presence of mind to not ask questions. The black bodyguard Doomer had produced at the courthouse, Dequan Corbett, kept vigil from the backseat. Jay observed the pedestrians striding purposefully along the sidewalks singly and in pairs, deliverymen, business people, students, all in their worlds, and he wondered how many of them were aware of his plight. He believed that most people who had heard about the story viewed it through the prism of a famous athlete’s bad luck, and that the general public would perceive him, Jay Gladstone, as a supporting player.

Jay had brought Dag to the team hoping to link their names through a championship trophy, the unassailable seal of NBA greatness and the longed-for apotheosis of both of their sporting lives. He could not give into negative thoughts now, much less despair. Despair was for people who did not have enough to do. Jay Gladstone had plenty to do. Plenty! To leap back into his life he had to believe a full recovery was possible for Dag. Yes, it was! Medical science had reached inconceivable heights. Dag was still alive, and because he had survived such a horrific accident, it was evident to Jay he was not going to die. Yes, he had suffered a traumatic brain injury, but the best brain surgeons in the world could be summoned. Just a few years earlier a madman had shot a member of Congress in the head, and she had survived the bullet! A bullet! People said it was a miracle, but that was science. If that brave member of the House of Representatives had recovered, so would Dag. He had to! The idea that Jay could one day be in the situation where he had caused the death of another human being, much less one as prominent as D’Angelo Maxwell, was too unbearable even to contemplate. He had to exile that thought from his consciousness. If his father had bequeathed a single quality to him, it was optimism. He thought of Bingo’s birth date, March 4th, a direct order.

But then Nicole invaded his thoughts and, as the car sailed across 42nd Street, his stomach twisted. Although he knew their marriage was beginning to fray, it hadn’t occurred to him that it could come undone quite so impressively. But had it? Had he not already decided to revisit the question of a child? He had intended to let her know about his change of attitude as he entered the pool house in Bedford less than twenty-four hours earlier. By any objective standard—if it were not for one unfortunate detail—the Gladstone marriage had not disintegrated; rather, it was experiencing some turbulence. But that detail, oh that detail. And how to deal with that detail? There were representations of the wronged husband in the arts from the time of the ancients, and they were nearly always farcical figures, older men with randy young wives who sought the company of more virile partners, in other words, exactly what had happened. Jay could not abide the role into which Nicole’s behavior cast him. But he was a modern man with a high degree of psychological acuity. Could he not see past his emotional response and reach a decision based on careful cogitation? Jay might look his wife in the eye, acknowledge the betrayal, the underlying tensions that had caused it, perhaps even take ownership of his part in what had occurred, and agree to move forward. Or he could let her know he wanted to dissolve the marriage as quickly as the State of New York allowed. Either way, he would have time to formulate a plan before confronting her.

A throng of about a hundred loitered on the sidewalk in front of the hospital. Gawkers with camera phones, media members, and a Senegalese vendor selling T-shirts with Dag’s smiling visage all jostled for space. Church Scott had caused an uproar fifteen minutes earlier when he got out of a cab and entered without answering questions. Several of Dag’s teammates were already there.

The SUV rolled up and Dequan jumped out to open the door for Jay. The sunglasses and Yankee cap threw no one off the scent, and the mob immediately converged, microphones, cell phones, cameras pointed like guns.

WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT, JAY? WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT DAG’S CONDITION? HOW SERIOUS IS IT? WERE YOU AND DAG AT THE OBAMA DINNER? WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? WILL THE CHARGES BE DISMISSED? CAN THE TEAM MAKE THE PLAYOFFS NOW?

Dequan cleared a path into the hospital. To the volley of questions, Jay held his hands up, said, “Nice to see everyone. I hope you’re all having a terrific day,” to which Mayumi Miyata, who had driven down from Northern Westchester Hospital with her Lynx News crew, called out, “It’d be a better day if you answered a couple of questions.” Jay said, “You get around, don’t you?” before entering the revolving door and disappearing into the hospital lobby. Several reporters attempted to follow, but hospital security stopped them.

Three young black men huddled outside the room. Jay recognized one of them as Dag’s brother, who he had just seen at the hospital last night. He assumed the other two were part of the player’s retinue. Neither looked at Jay, unlike Dag’s brother, who stared down at him from his imposing height. Jay nodded at the brother, who blankly returned the greeting.

Jay was visibly upset by what confronted him in the room. Pulleys in casts suspended the long legs above the surface of the bed. The head wrapped in bandages, face obscured by an oxygen mask. Wires ran from the torso to monitors where bright green lines and numbers quantified the misery. A bag containing an inch of urine hung to the side. Afternoon light poured into the room and conferred an almost religious aspect on the broken body. The abstract nature that the situation had assumed for Jay instantly coalesced back into a reality whose sheer awfulness throttled him. He had a vague awareness of enormous figures looming over the bed, but could not look away from what he had wrought.

“Don’t worry, Jay. God only makes happy endings,” a tired-looking Church Scott said from a chair in a corner. “If it’s not happy, it’s not the end.”

The coach rose, and they exchanged comforting pats on the shoulder. Jay looked back toward the bed, and the behemoths revealed themselves to be spindly Odell Tracy and the Lithuanian, Giedrius Kvecevicius. Between them Drew Hill, the point guard. The players respectfully acknowledged Jay and did not mention his physical appearance.

“Thanks for coming,” Jay said as if this were an event he was hosting. The words felt wrong as soon as they emerged from his mouth.

“Praise the Lord, D’Angelo survived,” Church said.

“Praise the Lord,” Jay echoed. He did not as a rule say Praise the Lord but this was Church Scott’s room, and right now Jay was happy to cede power.

“Truth,” Drew Hill said. Giedrius and Odell nodded their assent.

The coach placed a soothing hand on Jay’s back and said, “We all know this must be incredibly hard for you.”

Hard for him? The statement amazed Jay. As the author of this disaster, he had anticipated, at best, a neutral response to his presence. The owner had incapacitated the team’s flamboyant cornerstone in ambiguous circumstances. No one would expect the coach to show sympathy for anyone but the injured party. After the quick calculation that occurred when he realized the coach was present, Jay anticipated matter-of-factness employed to disguise, at the very least, suspicion. But Church was a champion, a motivator, an athletic icon, and he had offered understanding.

“It’s terrible, just terrible,” Jay said. Then, because sometimes even the most composed individuals keep talking when they should not, “but a lot worse for Dag.” The players murmured agreement and looked at their coach. What were they thinking? Jay could only hope they would follow their leader and extend him the benefit of the doubt.

Church had spoken with the surgeon and filled Jay in. The situation had not changed: Medically induced coma, uncertain prognosis, watch and wait. While Church was reporting what he knew, Jay’s eyes roved from the coach to the injured player and back. The universe had shrunk to the three of them. Then his perception narrowed to just Church, a deeply sympathetic individual whose ministerial qualities shone in situations like this one, and Dag, a flawed man whose misery at this moment far exceeded anything he deserved. Jay’s attention pivoted from one to the other, then—

“Hello, Jay,” Nicole said.

Was this an aural hallucination? He wheeled around and—alarm and dismay mingled with a brief resurgence of vulnerability, a spasm of—what the hell? What was his wife doing here? Had she been in the bathroom? Wherever she had materialized from, her sudden and startling arrival was an unwelcome intrusion. In her absence, she was less a person than an idea. Wife distorted into Betrayer. Nicole’s presence obliterated the atmosphere of benevolent healing created by Church Scott, and forced Jay once again to confront the ur-story that had led them all to gather in this hospital room, not the accident but what had preceded it, and the memory of the previous evening burst the thin membrane that held it at bay, momentarily flooding his consciousness.

But success in the business world at Jay’s level does not come to the fragile, and in the startling arrival of Nicole, he was able to draw on deep reserves of mettle.

With calibrated sarcasm, he said, “Nice to see you.”

“You, too.”

Sleep had been a stranger to Nicole as well. Makeup, lightly applied, barely covered the dark circles under her eyes. Although she was putting up a strong front, the nervous tension was evident in the tautness of her jaw.

“How are you feeling?”

She seemed genuinely concerned. Jay noticed her voice was scratchy. Was she getting a cold? And why, why, why had she come to the hospital?

“Terrific,” he said, still searching for his bearings.

Did anyone else in the room have any idea what had happened last night? Might Church have figured it out? Why did the coach think Nicole was here? One of the monarch’s favored warriors was wounded, and the queen wanted to pay her respects? Or did the coach discern a motivation more disconcerting? When not in a vegetative state, Dag exuded an ineffable grace that, combined with his athletic prowess and charm, made women all over the world want to inhale his pheromones. Church might have connected that to Nicole’s presence. Would he speculate that the two of them not only had sex the night of the Obama dinner, but were currently engaged in an ongoing violation of marital vows? And Jay didn’t know? Or, worse, Jay knew. Is that what Church thought? That Jay was aware of their behavior and countenanced it? What did the players think the owner’s wife was doing at Dag’s bedside? They must be aware of what had happened and if they did not know exactly, certainly they had some idea. But did they know? Could they even suspect? Dag’s behavior was so reckless as to be almost incomprehensible. From time immemorial, locker rooms were torn apart by one player dallying with the wife or girlfriend of another, but that kind of conduct, while reprehensible, was a hazard of the modern workplace. What had occurred here was beyond the pale. It was like visiting the White House and having sex with the First Lady. What kind of person would even think of it? Could these young men remotely apprehend the events of last night? Jay glanced at the players positioned at Dag’s bedside with bowed heads. He looked at Church Scott. Who knew what any of them were imagining?

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Nicole said. Jay could barely tolerate being in the same room with her. What was she implying? I’m glad you’re all right after you nearly killed this man for doing what you had no interest in doing. Is that what she meant? Or was she genuinely concerned? She placed a tentative hand on his arm but he tensed at her touch and she removed it. The sizeable diamond she wore on her ring finger in tandem with her gold wedding band glinted impressively even in the dull light of the hospital room. He wondered if she had taken her jewelry off last night before—but his thoughts were interrupted by the voice of Church Scott.

“Let’s pray.”

Although Jay’s belief in a Supreme Being wavered, he was aware of studies about the efficacy of prayer in situations like this one and, while beseeching the Supreme Being might not have occurred to him had he been alone, he was happy to try. A further benefit of prayer was that he would be spared having to make small talk around Nicole for a while longer and so could collect the febrile thoughts ricocheting around his skull.

“Please join hands,” Church said, grasping Jay’s right hand in his left.

Join hands? Jay had not anticipated this. It would be impossible to avoid physical contact with Nicole without making it clear that that was what he was doing. From across the bed, Odell Tracy gave his big left hand to Giedrius Kvecevicius then reached his right across Dag toward Nicole. With her left hand, she took Odell’s right and extended her right hand to Jay. There it was, hovering in the air between them. Waist high. Manicured and ringed, her fingers extending outward. Waiting for his. There was no way he could not take it. Jay moved his hand toward hers but rather than grasp it naturally as he ordinarily would have done, instead he took her fingers lightly in his, taking care not to intertwine them. It was as if he held a brittle autumn leaf, or a fragment of papyrus that might disintegrate on contact. From her response—she mirrored the airiness of his touch—Nicole seemed to understand, and was not going to pretend the circumstances between them were unchanged.

“Dear Lord,” Church intoned. “Our brother Dag needs you today. He needs your love. He needs your tender mercy, and he needs it right now. His body is damaged, but the man is a fighter, Lord, he’s had to fight for everything he’s ever received, and with your help, Dag’s going to fight through this, too, and he’s going to win, Lord! With your love, he’s going to heal. We know the body is a temporary home for our eternal soul, Lord, and for our soul to dwell for eternity in the Kingdom of Heaven we all have to vacate the premises. However painful it is to leave this Earth, in our hearts we understand. But we beseech you to hear our prayers today, Lord. Hear our prayers. Our brother D’Angelo Maxwell is not ready to leave his earthly incarnation. He’s not prepared to vacate the premises. We know you want him, Lord, and you’ll get him one day. But please, Lord, not today. Not today or tomorrow or the next day. He’s a young man, Lord. He’s a young man who tries to live right. His teammates love him, and his coaches love him. Jay and Nicole, they love him, too.” Turning his attention from the Lord to the supine figure on the bed, he said. “I love you, Dag.”

Taking Church Scott’s cue, Drew Hill said, “We love you, Dag.”

Giedrius cleared his throat. “I love you, man,” he said, in his rumbling Lithuanian accent.

“I love you, bruh,” Odell mumbled, tears sliding down his cheeks. The giant rubbed them away with the heel of his massive hand.

The outpouring from the coach and the three players deeply touched Jay, who found himself toggling between paroxysms of guilt about Dag, sympathy for the players and coach, and the desire to murder his wife.

“We love you, Dag,” Nicole whispered as if the situation had knocked the breath from her chest. We love you. At least, Jay thought, she did not have the temerity to say I love you to D’Angelo Maxwell in front of her husband. It was then he realized everyone in the room was looking at him. They were waiting. Why hadn’t Church resumed speaking? Wasn’t the coach leading this service? Then Jay realized. He was supposed to express his love.

Jay again bowed his head as if redoubling his efforts at prayer and gazed at the floor. The squares of oatmeal-colored linoleum gleamed. Somehow the person who had last mopped it had missed a scuff mark. Was it from a shoe? Or had the wheels on one of the machines jammed when an orderly was sliding it into place and left a trace of rubber? A tone was coming from one of the devices Dag was hooked up to. Beedink, beedink, beedink. It emerged at a steady rhythm, and from the bee to the dink there was a climb of several notes on the scale. It was almost musical. Had it been making that sound the entire time? Or had it just begun? No one was doing anything about it, so it had probably been making intermittent noise since Jay had arrived. Bile dripped, acid drizzling his stomach lining. When had he last eaten? Was it on the plane from Africa? He took in Dag’s damaged body, felt the kind eyes of Church. Across the bed, the players formed an imposing wall. He saw Nicole with her head down. Everyone waited. Several more seconds passed.

“All right,” Church said, delivering Jay from having to speak. “Some prayers are silent.”

Odell said, “Amen,” looked at Jay, and winked in approval. The enormous center believed he had been praying. In his way, he was praying. More than anything, Jay wanted Dag to recover. But to profess love? That was going too far.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The lounge down the hall from Dag’s room was unoccupied save for an Indian woman wearing a yellow sari dozing in a chair. A television mounted in the corner showed a news program. At a window overlooking the East River, Jay and Nicole faced each other.

“I came to the hospital because I thought you might be here,” Nicole said.

“So you could confront me in public?”

“This is not public.”

“A hospital room with four team employees there?”

“I haven’t slept,” she said.

“I spent the night in jail. Let’s not play who had it worse.”

“Oh, no. Poor thing.”

“I don’t recommend it.”

“Are you okay?”

“I survived.”

“How’s your nose?”

“It’s broken,” Jay informed her.

“I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

“They gave me painkillers.”

“I’m going to tell you one thing,” Nicole said, “and you have to believe me.”

“After I hear what it is, I’ll decide.”

“It was one time.”

“Was it?”

“Yes! God, of course!”

“Really?”

“One!”

“Does it matter now? D’Angelo’s down the hall and—”

“Do you think he’s going to—”

“Die?” Jay asked. “I don’t know.”

“Fuck.”

“I won’t be able to live with myself,” he said. “I’ll tell you that.”

“I’m ashamed,” Nicole declared. “Utterly ashamed. It’s my fault.”

“Fault isn’t the issue now,” Jay said.

“I think I might have a drinking problem.”

“That’s your excuse? Too much chardonnay?”

“No, no, no, of course not. No. There’s no excuse,” Nicole said. “It was unforgivable. I can be as abject as you want me to be. I will do whatever you want.”

“I hope you’ll get past it.”

“I hope you’ll get past it.”

“Well, I have a mental picture nothing can erase, so I don’t know that I’ll be able to get past it and, honestly, it’s not even the worst mental picture that got burned into my brain last night.”

“I will apologize to my dying day.”

“No one should have to do that.”

“But I will,” Nicole said.

“I’m not certain we’ll be in touch at that point.”

“I love being married to you.”

“Funny way to show it.”

“Everyone’s marriage has problems,” she pointed out. “We’ve both been married before. Mistakes get made. I don’t know if you’ve ever cheated on me. I wouldn’t ask.”

“I haven’t.”

“I love you,” Nicole assured him. “I didn’t do what I did because I don’t love you.”

“You did it because you have a drinking problem.”

“Don’t twist my words.”

Jay regretted his role in this exchange. He did not want to reduce the cataclysmic nature of their situation to the back and forth of a squabble. He glanced at the Indian woman. She was still sleeping.

“You know, Nicole, a hospital lounge is probably not the place to have this conversation. I have a lot to deal with today, like Dag’s medical care. He needs an advocate.”

“And it’s going to be you? I love that.”

Someone was waiting to talk to them. Jay looked over and saw a tall, athletic-looking doctor. “Mr. Gladstone, I’m Dr. Bannister. I performed the surgery on Mr. Maxwell.”

Jay shook the doctor’s hand and said, “This is my wife.” How strange the word “wife” felt to him.

“Nicole Gladstone,” she said.

“Well, I’m glad I have both of you, then,” Dr. Bannister said, turning his attention back to Jay. “I heard you got a little banged up last night, too.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jay said. “Don’t worry about me.”

Dr. Bannister did not press the matter. They listened as he walked them through what had occurred in the operating room, and Dag’s uncertain prognosis.

“Mr. Gladstone,” the doctor intoned, “I don’t have to tell a man like you what’s happened to medical costs over the last couple of decades,” and then began a fundraising appeal for the hospital. Jay and Nicole could have a room named after them, a wing perhaps, or if they liked, because a couple of their means could certainly afford it, a pavilion.

“Imagine that, Mrs. Gladstone,” the doctor said. “The Nicole and Jay Gladstone Pavilion.”

“It has a nice ring to it,” Nicole said.

Jay looked at her. What did she think she was doing?

The doctor said, “For a donation of a hundred million we could make it happen.”

“Only a hundred million?” Jay hoped the mild irony in his tone was apparent.

“And your company could build it,” the doctor reminded him.

The notion of their names linked for eternity, carved into the marble façade of a major hospital was repellent, but the doctor, having no idea, pushed on and inquired whether they would not like to stand in front of a group of dignitaries at the groundbreaking of the Nicole and Harold Jay Gladstone Pavilion.

“That’s an arresting image,” Jay allowed.

“Great families like yours are the backbone of New York.”

“The Gladstones have always been about family,” Jay said, glancing at Nicole, whose attention was focused on the doctor.

“Some generous, family-minded donors choose to honor their parents this way,” the doctor helpfully pointed out. “The Bernard and Helen Gladstone Family Pavilion. How does that sound?”

Dr. Bannister had done his research.

“Your father would have loved that,” Nicole said.

“I understand he was a great New Yorker, Mr. Gladstone.”

“He was,” Nicole said, “a titan.”

“I’m sorry I was never able to meet him.”

Jay wished the doctor would vanish, but he listened politely and nodded. It was torture for him to hear Nicole talk about Bingo. Perhaps he would tell her he wanted a divorce now. Did he want a divorce? He still did not know. But he needed to get Bannister out of here so requested that the doctor call his sister Bebe, who handled solicitations of this scope at the Gladstone Family Foundation.

“Bebe is terrific, the best,” Nicole said, working overtime to curry favor with her husband, who ignored this remark.

Attempting to bring the conversation to a close, Jay said, “You’re doing great work, and I commend you for that.”

“With your help, Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, we can scale new heights,” Bannister replied, taking the hint. Jay asked for the doctor’s private cell phone number so he could call him directly to check on the patient’s condition and Bannister instantly provided it.

“Save D’Angelo,” Jay said.

“Please,” Nicole implored.

Dr. Bannister assured the couple he would do his best and departed.

Nicole said, “I don’t want a divorce, Jay,” as if they had not been interrupted.

“Did you just try to give away a hundred million dollars?” Fatigued and besieged already, the doctor’s request, and Nicole’s response to it, further overloaded his system.

“All I said was that having a hospital named after the family was an idea that your father would have liked. I’ll write the doctor a note and tell him I misspoke if you want.”

“Forget it.”

Jay felt enervated by the conversation with the doctor and Nicole’s ongoing presence was not helping. He craved solitude. To be alone on his horse, in the woods, riding along a quiet path. Nicole was quicksilver, mystification, and needs.

“I don’t want to split up,” she said.

“I haven’t mentioned that.”

“You just implied—”

“A lot of crap has happened. I’m processing it. There’s a legal situation and—” He didn’t want to get into it.

“What is it?”

“I feel like a lobster in a pot and, frankly, I don’t want to deal with your mishegas right now.”

“That’s fair,” she said. “I’m sorry for my behavior. I know you’re tired of hearing it.”

“Not as tired as I am of thinking about it.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Apparently, you can do whatever.”

Here she paused, as if trying to determine whether or not this was something she genuinely wanted to know. Jay waited. Her makeup barely concealed her pallor. She looked spent. He expected her to say never mind, or forget it.

“Did you run him over on purpose?”

“Of course not!”

“It would be understandable on some lizard brain level.”

“I told you—” Jay’s attention had wandered to the television over Nicole’s shoulder. His face darkened. “Oh, for godsakes.”

The reporter Mayumi Miyata was standing in front of the hospital. Footage of Dag nailing a three-point shot appeared on the screen followed by a still photograph of Jay in a business suit and a hard hat. The report cut to a shot of the Gladstones’ Bedford home, then to the site of the accident (Jay’s car no longer there), then to Northern Westchester Hospital. Even absent the sound, Jay could see they were hitting the highlights of the story. Mercifully, there was no footage of the pool house and nothing of Nicole. At least those details had not leaked. An African-American anchorwoman addressed the camera. As far as Jay could tell, she was not excoriating him. When a commercial for a life insurance company that featured two septuagenarians holding hands on a beach appeared, he turned his attention back to Nicole.

“I’m going to be in the apartment for at least the next few days,” he said. “I’m not ready to go back to the house.”

“I’m staying at the Pierre until we decide what we’re doing. I hope you can forgive me.”

There would be no commitment. When Nicole left he turned toward the window and stared at the Queens shore until he was certain his wife was gone. He texted his driver and requested they rendezvous at a side door to escape the attention of the media. A slow circuit of the hospital floor decreased the likelihood he would encounter his wife at the elevator bank. He reflected on his conversation with Dr. Bannister. Perhaps he would build the Gladstone Pavilion and name it after his parents. How had they managed to stay married for so long? As he reached the elevators one of the doors opened, and he saw the player agent Jamal Jones emerge with a striking black woman he recognized as Dag’s wife. Jay froze and waited while they proceeded down the corridor. It did not escape him that Jay Gladstone, this paragon of authority and success, a man admired and feted, was concealing himself from an agent and a reality TV star, skulking like a criminal.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Tightly packed storm clouds gathered over the borough of Queens. A high-pressure front had blown in from Canada causing the barometer to drop, and what started as an early spring day had turned blustery and cold. Winds whipped along the avenues. Scraps of newspaper caroused with discarded parking tickets and plastic bags on the sidewalks. The shiny black limousine stood out like a leopard in a herd of donkeys as it bumped along Astoria Boulevard surrounded by city buses, cabs, and delivery trucks. Nestled in the backseat, Franklin gazed out the window at the kebab shops, unisex salons, liquor stores, Greek diners, and discount furniture emporiums that comprised the neighborhood, relieved he did not have to live in a place like this. If high Manhattan rents kept those who lived here in the outer boroughs, then that was an added benefit to a landlord like Franklin, since Queens played a significant role in the Gladstone real estate portfolio.

The driver was a middle-aged Egyptian whose name Franklin could never remember. Ahmed, Ahmoud? It didn’t matter. He called him “Acky.” Why should someone like that expect to live in Manhattan? A person should live where he could pay his bills on time each month. Franklin couldn’t understand it when he would read articles that reported Manhattan was now “unaffordable.” Unaffordable to whom? It was only unaffordable if you couldn’t afford it. Plenty of wealthy Americans could, along with Europeans, Chinese, and Arabs. And many of the foreigners did not even live in the city. For most of the year, their apartments were empty. They were the best tenants, even the Arabs. To Franklin Gladstone, the ideal building was one where every unit was rented or sold, and no one lived in any of them. In Franklin’s perfect world, tumbleweeds rolled down the deserted hallways of luxury buildings. The proletarians scuttling along the Astoria sidewalks—old-timers, immigrants, hipsters—they belonged here. Queens existed for the Mets and the U.S. Open tennis tournament; as far as Franklin was concerned, there was no other reason to be driving down this street. But the man he was meeting refused to come to the office.

The previous week Franklin and Christine Lupo had dined at a dimly lit restaurant in the east Sixties. Although he would not dream of cheating on Marcy, it felt, at least from his perspective, a lot like a date. He sat across from the glamorous public servant and gazed into her dusky eyes so intently he could see a reflection of flickering candlelight. The button-front blouse she wore was open at the neckline where a diamond pendant glinted. There was a whisper of cleavage, but Franklin forced himself to keep his eyes on deck. For twenty minutes, they discussed various plans to raise campaign funds, but by the time they had finished their cocktails—vodka, rocks for him, dirty martini for the DA—and were decimating the first bottle of wine, she alluded to her personal life. That afternoon she had spoken with her divorce lawyer and learned her husband planned to sue for alimony.

“The scumbag,” Franklin said.

“Tell me about it,” she concurred. “The guy cheats on me, and now I’m supposed to write checks to him?”

Seeing the door open a crack, Franklin wasted no time dashing through. He asked what happened and she told him how she had hired a private investigator. Not only were there incriminating photographs, but the PI was also a denizen of the cyber world and the guy Christine hired retained someone who hacked into her husband’s various devices and produced the texts, emails, and receipts that enabled her to reconstruct the entire sordid mess.

Franklin had subsequently called the DA and asked for the name of the man who could tease secrets from computers and smart phones. “My marriage is fine,” he hastened to add. “It’s business.” Franklin contacted the PI, and this man passed along the name Arun Prakash. Franklin reached out to Prakash and, upon learning the computer specialist would not come to the Gladstone offices, agreed to meet at his Queens apartment. He had considered bringing Ari and Ezra along since this would be a valuable lesson, but thought better of it. The twins did not know what plausible deniability meant. Better to keep it that way.

Ten minutes later the limousine parked in front of a tan brick apartment building in Jackson Heights. Franklin told “Acky” to wait for him in front and scrambled out of the backseat. A cold drizzle was falling. As he turned up the collar of his topcoat, a Korean woman pushing a cart filled with shopping bags eyed the limousine and stared at Franklin. He ignored her and strutted into the building. In the vestibule, he located the name “Prakash”—below “Odigwe” and above “Rabindranath”—and pressed the buzzer.

“Yeah?” said a wary voice emanating from the intercom. Franklin identified himself, and the door clicked open. The deserted lobby was in need of a facelift. The kind of place a crime might be committed. Franklin glanced around nervously while he waited for the elevator and wondered if he should have asked “Acky” to accompany him. The elevator arrived, and an older white woman who smelled of talcum powder got out, a holdover from when a different group of immigrants populated this neighborhood. Grim-faced, she pushed past Franklin, ignoring his presence. Franklin got in and pressed the scuffed button. The elevator chugged to the fourth floor. He got out, and the smell of spicy cooking immediately hit him. It was a cuisine he did not recognize and this added to his general discomfort. He knocked on the dented metal door of apartment 4H.

Arun Prakash was about thirty. Dark skin and a luxuriant head of jet-black hair. Rangy and athletic, he wore jeans and a gray hoodie over a white T-shirt. Blue and gold sneakers on his feet. He did not resemble the gnomish geek Franklin had expected.

“Mr. Gladstone?” His accent was American.

“Guilty.”

Arun stepped aside and gestured toward the apartment. “Sweet coat.”

“Cashmere, from Barney’s.”

“Yeah, I got the same one. Mine’s at the dry cleaner.”

Whether this was meant honestly or not, Franklin didn’t react. “Where are you from?” he asked, as Arun closed the door behind him.

“New Jersey.”

Franklin acted as if this was interesting. He had yet to digest that the Indian immigration had begun four decades earlier and Arun’s generation was born here. While contemplating how someone who looked to him like a worker manning a call center in Bangalore could somehow have been born just across the Hudson River, Franklin took in the apartment with the practiced eye of a lifelong real estate man. The unit was a one bedroom that looked out at the apartment building directly behind it. A fixed wheel bicycle leaned against the wall in the otherwise barren entryway. The living room was sparsely furnished and anchored by a table constructed from a piece of wood the size of a door resting on construction horses, its surface littered with several laptops, two of which were running, one displaying a chart, the other a soccer game. There was a large screen television with an imitation leather lounge chair directly in front of it and several expensive gaming consoles Franklin recognized from the collections of his sons. On the walls were framed posters of obscure martial arts movies, the titles rendered in bold Hindi letters. Several houseplants were displayed, none of them reflecting an owner with horticultural aptitude. “High All the Time” by 50 Cent insinuated at low volume from one of the computers.

“What about your parents? Where are they from?”

“Tamil Nadu,” Arun said. “You know where that is?”

“Should I?”

“If you don’t want to be ignorant.” Arun paused, as if to gauge Franklin’s reaction to his effrontery. Franklin said nothing, not because he was offended but because he did not give a shit what someone like this thought of his geographical expertise. “It’s in southern India.” Arun took a swig from the quart bottle of Mountain Dew he was holding. “What do you want to talk about?”

“How come you wouldn’t come to my office?”

“I don’t like to attract attention. So.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Franklin said, not wanting to be hurried. “But you let a complete stranger come to your apartment.”

“I checked you out, dude. While we were talking on the phone. I’m not worried unless you’re here to evict me and I’m pretty sure this is one of the buildings you don’t own.”

Franklin was flattered by Arun’s acknowledgment of his status, something to which he was unusually susceptible.

“Yeah, but I could have been someone pretending to be me.”

The host regarded his visitor like he was a slow child. “Caller ID?”

“I’m just fooling around.”

“You’re hilarious,” Arun said, drily.

Franklin glanced toward the bedroom door where a beaded curtain hung. “Anybody in there?”

“No.”

“Mind if I look?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one who’s paranoid, Mr. Gladstone? You’re the one in my crib.”

“Why would you be paranoid?”

Arun let his eyes drift to the ceiling.

“Check the bedroom.”

Franklin parted the beaded curtain and peeked in. An unmade bed, clothes strewn on the floor, a bureau with a half-opened drawer. He listened intently, but the only sound was the murmur of the song playing in the other room. Satisfied they were alone, he took off his coat, folded it over the back of a chair, then plopped himself on the living room couch ready to gab.

Arun spun his desk chair around and sat. “Talk to me.”

Franklin put his hands behind his head and leaned back to give the impression that nerves did not consume him. What was about to occur represented the crossing of an invisible boundary and while he liked to believe he had the stones required for this kind of warfare, in quiet moments of self-reflection—because of the pain they engendered, these were exceedingly rare—it was not clear he was so endowed. His stomach gurgled, and he wondered if it was audible. Arun patiently waited, feet together, knees parted, hands on his thighs. He looked Franklin directly in the eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Franklin inauspiciously began. Why did this kid make him nervous? “There’s someone I’m—ahhh—” (You schmuck, he razzed himself, Enough with the hesitating, get to the goddamn point). “There’s a person I’m in business with, and I need to get some information.”

“A person?”

“Yes.” Still wavering.

“Are you going to tell me who that person is?”

An indiscernible sound trickled out of Franklin’s mouth.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“A relative.”

“Which one?”

“Jay Gladstone,” Franklin blurted.

Arun nodded, impressed. People knew that name. Jay’s membership in the family reflected well on all of the relatives, but once again, his less well-known cousin suffered this as belittlement. He suppressed the urge to inquire whether Arun was familiar with the name Franklin Gladstone before their interaction.

“Okay, what about Jay Gladstone?”

“I, umm—”

Could he go through with this? Franklin was tempted just to get up, throw his coat on, and leave without another word. But he remained rooted to the couch.

“You want me to mess with him?”

Franklin did not want to “mess” with Jay. He would have preferred just going about his business. For all of his pugnacity, he did not consider himself underhanded and regarded his current circumstances with ambivalence. But Jay had cornered him. There was no choice.

“I don’t know if I’d put it that way,” Franklin said.

“But you want me to hack him which, to be clear, is not something that I have agreed to do.”

“That’s right.”

“Please take out your phone and let me see you turn it off.”

Franklin complied with the request.

“Now, I’m going to ask you to remove your shirt.”

Franklin reacted as if he were being asked to perform calisthenics. “What?”

“Take your shirt off,” Arun said. “I need to know you’re not wired up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“With a microphone. It’s protocol. If you don’t want to do it, there’s the door.”

Arun leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. He was not going to do anything until his visitor granted the request. Franklin had not counted on this. He had no intention of disrobing. Arun waited.

Mustering all his available hauteur, Franklin said, “You do know who I am, right?”

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re the Queen of England.”

No one had spoken to Franklin this way in decades. Was Arun going to make him remove his clothes? He wished he could have asked the office IT person to help, but that was not an option.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“I’m busy, so if you don’t want to strip down, I get it, but then you should leave ’cause I got stuff to do for paying clients.”

“You’re really going to make me do this?”

“I already said you could go.”

Reluctantly, Franklin heaved off the couch. He removed his suit jacket and placed it next to where he had been sitting. He loosened his tie then unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a white T-shirt beneath it.

“Okay?” This striptease was all he was going to do.

“You’ve seen this in the movies, right? Where one guy makes another guy prove he’s not wearing a wire.”

“Sure.”

“Then you know this is the part where you’re supposed to take the shirt all the way off and lose the T-shirt, too.” Franklin looked at him, incredulous. At least his sons were not here to witness this indignity. “Sorry, man. Gotta do it.”

Franklin reluctantly displayed himself to Arun, naked from the waist up. Pale and flabby, upper body carpeted with hair, breasts nearly female.

“Satisfied?”

Not wanting to meet Arun’s impassive gaze, he looked toward the window. The rain rushed down the panes like it was late to a meeting.

“You should work out more,” Arun observed. Franklin chose not to respond. If this is what it took to get what he wanted, it was a fair price. “Turn around.”

As Franklin pirouetted, the image of a dancing bear popped into his head, further discomfiting him. He completed the circle and said, “Okay?” not bothering to hide his annoyance.

“You’re clean.”

Shaking his head at the humiliation he had been made to endure, Franklin quickly put himself back together. Rather than knotting his tie again, he rolled it up and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He lowered himself back on to the couch and hoped the preliminaries were over.

“We had to do that?”

“Look, Mr. Gladstone, according to the laws of New York State some of the services I perform are a little sketchy, so I take precautions.”

“Didn’t you do work for the DA up in Westchester?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

Franklin had not expected this degree of caginess on the part of someone being offered a temporary spot on the Gladstone payroll, even if it was off the books. Why wasn’t this Arun Prakash person just glad to have the opportunity? Franklin felt the need to reassert his primacy.

“Before we get started, why don’t you tell me some of the things you’ve done?”

Arun exhaled. Franklin was trying his patience. “Look, I could say I’ve penetrated the servers of major corporations, or looked at nude pictures in the private Instagram accounts of half the actresses in Hollywood, or I could claim I hacked the Defense Department for shits and giggles, but I would never admit to any of it. Maybe I did all that; maybe I didn’t. Hacking isn’t a business where a guy has a website. It’s trust-based.”

Franklin thought about this. It occurred to him again that he could just get up and go. The rain had gathered in intensity, and the storm increased his sense of isolation. If he did nothing, Jay would eventually discover everything. Franklin had to take advantage of whatever avenues were available. He knew this was a long shot and the path he was contemplating was not a righteous one. Jay led a life above reproach. Whatever he had done to D’Angelo Maxwell, Franklin suspected his cousin would ultimately swat it away. He told himself to leave. This plan was reckless and foolish. What was he doing in the apartment of some Tamil hacker in Queens?

Even without his topcoat on, the room felt hot. The rain had turned to hail and struck the windows like buckshot. But what was Franklin supposed to do, let the Maxwell situation play out in Jay’s favor (as he feared it invariably would), and then wait for the walls to close in, squeezing him until his nemesis invoked the Gladstone family contract that all of them signed upon entry into the business? The one that formally legislated upright behavior? He would be out on the sidewalk. The prospect was a loss of face he could not bear. He would never have been in this position if he had resisted the temptation to pilfer the accounts. Yes, he needed more than a hundred million to execute the purchase of the hockey franchise, but had he tried to obtain bank financing, he likely could have cobbled it together. Why, then, had he done it? To demonstrate that Franklin Gladstone was free-range, his own man, beholden to no one. Particularly his cousins. And he intended to pay it back. If only Jay hadn’t threatened him, he wouldn’t be in this degrading situation.

“Okay, I get it,” Franklin said. “Let’s do this.”

“Now, your cousin, he’s a public figure.”

“How does that figure in?”

“The price goes, like, way up.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Do you mind if I ask what you’re looking for?”

“His correspondence. Emails, texts, everything. Where he’s been on the Internet, who he’s communicating with. The whole cyber footprint.” Franklin was pleased with his use of the phrase “cyber footprint,” recently encountered in a business journal, and believed it suggested computer literacy. Having already turned him into a dancing bear, Arun was starting to make Franklin feel unintelligent.

“Typically, those kinds of businesses have pretty tight security packages in place.”

“I’m going to give you the passwords,” Franklin said. “Where do you look?”

“More places than you can name.”

That sounded impressive. For a moment, Franklin considered asking Arun for additional details but he stopped himself. If in his sweaty desolation he chose to unleash a malevolent force, it was probably best not to think too much about what was being done on his behalf.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  An African-American man behind the wheel of an expensive car must hew to the speed limit or raise the risk of being pulled over for “driving while black.” It does not matter how accomplished or famous or educated the black man is, the cognitive dissonance this sight causes across a swath of American law enforcement has created a phenomenon with which virtually all black males are familiar. For this reason, Lourawls maintained a steady sixty miles per hour on the Palisades Parkway behind the wheel of the Escalade. It was early evening. He and Babatunde had been at the hospital all day and were drained. They were going home to shower and get some rest before returning for the night shift. The ride uptown and over the bridge was devoid of their typical to and fro. They usually listened to hip-hop in the car, but this evening felt distinctly unmusical.

Running through both of their minds was the future and what it might look like without Dag in the picture. The pair shared an optimistic outlook, so neither wanted to mention it, but they were not comforted by the doctor’s palaver. Coma was a dangerous word. When they were all still living in Houston, a high school friend took a bullet in the head. He was in a coma for two weeks and then expired. If Dag somehow miraculously defied the odds and recovered, what were the chances he would play again? A guy with the chronic physical problems likely to result from this kind of trauma required a staff of nurses, not sidekicks. Where did that leave them? They were both around Dag’s age. Too old for life on the perimeter of someone else’s life.

Lourawls said, “They got hunting season for deer.”

Babatunde’s head swung from right to left. “You see a deer?”

“Naw, man.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“Don’t need a hunting season for black men.”

Babatunde slumped in the seat. “I’m too tired to talk about this shit now.”

“Always open season on the black man.”

“Come on, Lou. Just drive, okay?”

“They’re not gonna put that cop up in Westchester on trial,” Lourawls said.

“If you say so.”

“I’m not predicting, man. Already happened. You gotta keep up with the news.”

“I follow sports,” Babatunde reminded him.

“The cracker motherfucker capped that kid down in Florida, Trayvon? Same thing. He’s gonna walk.”

“That happen already?”

“No, that’s a prediction,” Lourawls said. “But I’ll bet you.”

“I ain’t betting you.”

“You know I’m right.”

“I told you,” Babatunde said. “I’m too tired to talk about this shit now.”

“Same DA in Westchester who didn’t indict that cop? She’s in charge of Dag’s situation.”

Babatunde said, “You feeling McDonald’s?”

“I ain’t hungry. And I’ll tell you something else.”

“I know you will.”

“Jay Gladstone,” Lourawls said.

“What about him?”

“If he committed a crime, if there was some lawbreaking he did?”

“It was a car accident,” Babatunde said.

“That’s all they’re saying so far,” Lourawls said, “but you don’t know. If there was a crime.”

“Say there was.”

“You think that white DA lady is gonna indict Gladstone? He’ll never spend a day incarcerated.”

“They locked the man up already,” Babatunde remarked.

“All right, one night. But that’s it. No more jail for him.”

“Gladstone seems like an okay dude.”

“He cut Trey from the damn team,” Lourawls reminded him.

“Church Scott cut Trey. He’s the coach.”

“He runs everything past Gladstone.”

“How do you know that?”

“He works for him, Babs.”

“I got no problem with Gladstone.”

“The man is white,” Lourawls said.

“So?”

“So, you think he’s gonna be himself around you? Liberal white people be all friendly around black people. But when they’re by themselves.”

“What?”

“Watch out,” Lourawls said.

“You sure you not hungry?” Babatunde asked.

“How’m I supposed to eat, man?” Lourawls shook his head from side to side as if he could not understand how Babatunde could be so obtuse. “You always reading that civil war stuff, slavery stuff, the underground railroad and shit.”

“So?”

“That’s how white people still look at us.”

Babatunde declared: “The president is a black man.”

“Don’t let that deceive you.”

Lourawls took the exit for Alpine. They were on a commercial strip and then on a road lined with tall trees and big homes.

“How many black people do you think live in these houses?” Lourawls asked.

“Chris Rock lives around here.”

“Besides Chris Rock.”

“I don’t know,” Babatunde said “A few.”

“The black population is pretty much you, me, Trey, and Dag, and if Dag ain’t here—”

“Why wouldn’t Dag be here?”

“I don’t know, man. Weird shit happens. If Dag ain’t here, you think these people want us around?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Dag is famous, and he’s rich. His color is money.”

“The man is black, Lourawls!”

“And green.”

“What’s your point?”

A flashing light appeared in the rearview mirror. Babatunde and Lourawls exchanged a resigned glance. It had been nearly two months since they had been pulled over for no reason. The cop must be new. Lourawls guided the car to the shoulder, put it in neutral, rolled down the window. Both men made sure their hands were visible. Then they waited for the routine to begin.

A young police officer appeared at the window on the driver’s side. He couldn’t have been twenty-five years old. Lourawls handed him his license and registration.

“You can put those away, sir,” the cop said. “How’s Dag?” Lourawls and Babatunde looked at each other, confused. “This is his car, isn’t it?”

“He’s in a coma, man,” Babatunde said.

The cop chewed his cheek, unhappy to get confirmation of what he had seen on the Internet. “Everyone at the station is praying for him.”

They mumbled thanks, and the cop told them to have a peaceful night. Lourawls put the car in gear, stepped on the gas, and drove slowly away. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Then, as if nothing had happened, Lourawls said:

“You best be thinking about your future.”

“I got Trey’s back,” Babatunde said.

“I got Trey’s back, too. But Trey goes hard in the paint. He can look after himself.”

“You burying Dag?”

“No, I ain’t burying Dag,” Lourawls said. “I’m praying he’s all right, like those motherfuckin’ cops. Full recovery.”

“Boy gonna bounce back.”

Lourawls guided the Escalade through the gates. The automatic lights were on, illuminating the trees and casting nervous shadows on the lawn. They got out of the car and trudged to the front door, each wondering how long they would continue to live in this house on this street.

¤

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2018 by Seth Greenland First Publication 2018 by Europa Editions

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

¤

Seth Greenland is the author of five novels. His latest, The Hazards of Good Fortune (Europa Editions), will be published in 2018. His play Jungle Rot won the Kennedy Center/American Express Fund For New American Plays Award and the American Theater Critics Association Award. He was a writer-producer on the Emmy-nominated HBO series Big Love.

The post The Hazards of Good Fortune, Part XII appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[fenton-bus]

PODCAST BROS. AU

I. Bros being bros and podcasting about nerd stuff.

II. The podcast has approximately four listeners, the most dedicated among them being Mike's mom. (Mike has repeatedly told his mother not to listen because it "makes him nervous.") This number fluctuates depending on the time of day, the weather, and the amount of disparaging remarks  Dustin makes about the DC cinematic universe.

III. There is much discussion of comic books, superheroes, table top games, film adaptations, sci-fi and fantasy authors, ethics in journalism, cosplay, the Nintendo switch, what the hell is taking George R. R. Martin so long does he understand his readership will probably be dead before he publishes another book? and other topics salient to college-age nerds under the impression their dedication to their hobbies could someday pay their bills.

IV. Following in the illustrious footsteps of Matt Bessar, they live-stream their Saturday night D&D games. (Dustin: Hey guys, just wanted to give you a quick update. Mike's basement is still disgusting.") The results range from palatable mediocrity to hitherto unseen levels of chaos. The comments page would be a mess...you know, if people left comments.

V. Their first guest is an amazing, unbelievable get. El Ives has written four volumes of the Wizards of Gale series- a staggering, gorgeous epic chronicling the coming of age of a young psychically gifted warrior traversing a galactic wasteland in search of her true purpose-in the last three years. She's gone on national tours, topped sci-fi best-seller lists, and was proposed to roughly thirty-seven times at New York comic-con. Naturally, the dudes freak out, but Mike's is the most memorable melt down. He talks to himself in the mirror in a pre-interview hype session, he drops his note cards, stares for inappropriate lengths of time, and generally makes everyone ridiculously uncomfortable.

VI. After the stress of her tour, the casual atmosphere of the podcast (with the exception of the host who makes tense, terrifying eye contact with her before avoiding her gaze for the rest of the day) is a novelty El is reluctant to relinquish. This explains hanging around Hawkins ("You're welcome to stay at our place." Dustin volunteers before Mike can open his large, endlessly stupid mouth.) despite having deadlines, and interviews and a whole life in Manhattan. They take her to all their lame hang-outs and Mike dies several deaths due to sheer embarrassment (Humiliate Wheeler To Death Tour 2017!)

VII. This is the thing. The thing is this: despite the fact that they've been doing this for like, four months, and no one is even really listening Mike is still absurdly nervous on air? Lucas and Dustin are naturals and Will chimes in when he really wants to make a point (he's often drowned out by the intensity of Dustin\Lucas debates but whenever he manages to incline his chin toward the mic and deliver his statements in the softest, least antagonistic voice ever created, his points are salient and logical and even occasionally border on poignant) but it take s Mike at least fifteen minutes to get comfortable uttering opinions he has no trouble voicing off air. It's disconcerting and weird, and he's envious of the casual way his friends interact on air. They're natural, as if there aren't any disparities between their on air personalities and their real life ones. They're completely comfortable, Mike has to calm down, close his eyes, remember his pre-air inspirational speech, really center himself before he can engage in way that's even close to natural. (Even then, his voice is a touch too high, his sentences come out blunt and semi-intelligible, and his jokes feel more like passive aggressive indictments of other people's moral characters than "ha ha" funnies. These delightful and attractive flaws are only exacerbated by the prolonged presence of one of his literary heroes who, in addition to being funny, clever, sincere, brutally honest, and genuinely down for anything re: appearing on a D&D role-playing channel with four losers, has the audacity to love Ray Bradbury and Farscape as much as he does. It's the fucking rudest.)

VIII. To make matters worse, she loves his friends. Lucas is the most charming mother fucker alive (dude has a certificate!) and Mike hates him for the ease with which he makes El laugh so hard she cries. He then hates himself for hating Lucas, up until the asshole does it again and El looks happier than a ten year old who was just informed she gets to live at Disney Land. Witnessing the vast depths of El's joy is probably the purest experience Mike ever has. Said joy is a product of Lucas recounting any number of stories starring himself as the witty, amazing, bad ass of their high school tenure. So, dilemma. She and Will exchange book recommendations, karaoke Fridays at Lester's is forever altered the moment she and Dustin duet on a gentle, soul-melting rendition of Head Over Heels (they're terrible singers, but the power man, the subtle emotive, power) and Lucas, Lucas is everywhere, buying her drinks, and talking about how there are certain paragraphs in book three he wants to live in, and complimenting her buzz cut, and constantly and at all times making her laugh so long, and hard and with her entire body and it's so fucking unfair Mike can't actually-

IX. In local news, Lucas and Dustin are living in a shoebox across the river from Mike's house. Will is over so often he is repeatedly mistaken for a piece of furniture. He has his own shelf in the fridge (the middle), his own snacks in the cabinet (fig newtons are more than fruit and cake) and coconut shampoo he's neglected to take home and which is become the official property of the estate. Dustin likes to think of his abode as a sovereign nation, wants desperately to draw up a constitution and design a flag. Lucas likes to think of his casa as a Dustin-free zone, and is disappointed upon opening his door and finding reality has very much crushed his hopes and dreams. There is very little sleep, the occupants are lucky to claim several consecutive hours of unconsciousness. Instead, there are twitch marathons, Netflix binges, LOTR re-watches, and intense, lengthy debates over the merits of Zack Snyder being shot into space verses the efficiency of simply setting him ablaze.

X. Will is fond of lying on the couch, or on the window seat or on the floor next to Lucas' mattress and telling him all the ideas that his ridiculous brain ushers forth when he can't sleep. Lucas gently reminds him of the graphic novel he's kind of, sort of, a little bit working on-the thing he starts last year and politely but stubbornly refuses to show him any more pages once Lucas becomes a living, breathing reminder that Will could maybe think about possibly publishing it because It's Good. To be fair, saying the words aloud, letting them take shape in the air is almost like working on it. It's very, very close.

XI. Eventually, Mike realizes that contrary to initial reports, he's actually jealous of two people. Yes Lucas making El laugh is fairly fucking infuriating, but so is the knowledge that Lucas is trying so hard to make someone laugh, and that that someone (for reasons he is painfully, intimately familiar with) is NOT him. Pre-graduation, post-two a.m.  silent, sexuality-specific  realization that takes place in an Arby's parking lot, Mike and Lucas are the most accurate visual representation for best friendship that has ever, or will ever live. Their bond is unshakable, the stuff of Census Bearu legend, the canniest, most argumentative, absurdly affectionate, gleefully contrary pairing so robust and unrelenting it caused even the most patient members of their tight-knit Indiana State study circle to routinely throw up their hands and avert their eyes, yelling, "That's enough! Put it away!" One sunny, late-fall afternoon, they're picking up the thread of an ongoing Alien vs. Aliens debate (Lucas: I'm so glad your mom's not here to listen to her son humiliate himself like this. It would break her heart.") which has ascended to the intensity level that warrants standing very close and screaming as though they are not standing very close, when quite suddenly, they are no longer arguing. The discovery of another item in a long list of things they are hopelessly good at when they combine their talents, takes up the entire afternoon and most of the evening. The surprised, but strong, and ultimately righteous sense of joy\awe is conflated by the subdued, giddy knowledge that what has been in the past for Mike a rare and somewhat lackluster experience, and for Lucas, a little less rare but equally mediocre 'event' currently feels like the wide expanse of potentiality specific to scientific exploration. So there's that.

XII. It doesn't last too long, when he allows himself to think about it Mike abjectly refuses to liken the duration of the event to anything stupid, like a metaphor about supernovas. That would be dumb. And crass. And in poor taste. Plus, he hardly ever thinks about it ever, so there's that. Anyway, Mike dropping out of Indiana state and returning to the cocoon of his mother's basement is a completely unrelated event that never ever needs to be recounted, not even for posterity, except to say that it's unrelated to anything going on in his life at the moment. And it's okay, because he and Lucas are still ridiculously close friends and it's never even awkward except for the few occasions wherein Mike succumbs to jealously, before becoming confused about exactly whom he's jealous off. After he figures it out, he's moody and distant and the podcast gets Weird in only the way Mike can make it. El is confused, 'cause once the dude stops staring and actually says a few words to her, he's kind of cool in this completely doofy way. Lucas eventually plops on the end of Mike's bed, allows Mike to put his dirty, uncivilized sneakers all over his fairly expensive pants and makes a fumbling preamble that might as well be called Intro to Awk Con. It goes okay. Mike's just tired and Lucas co-signs with  a sigh, and a story about his sister, and they talk around it because it's still-they-can't-There's grumbling about the complete absence of something that could even be mistaken for a fan base, and Dustin's rants, and a general consensus on the awesomeness of El and they both feel better after that.

XIII. Lucas might have a supremely underdeveloped thing for Will? It's like, super embryonic, not even worth thinking about much less trying to explain out loud to Will's face while he stands there looking cute and curious and hesitant about the stupid notebook he's been doodling in for like a year, even though what little bits Lucas has seen of the novel that Will's mortified about having written  is so good he'd buy it tomorrow if Will would only deign to finish the damn thing. Yeah. So El hangs around Hawkins, after slaving away in his emotional garden wearing a wide-brim hat and too much sunscreen, Mike manages to grow the courage necessary to ask her to dine at his mom's house (yes, his mom has had El over for dinner roughly a thousand times, and yes her laugsana with the signature sauce has become one of El's favorite dishes, but owing to the fact that Mike has spent ninety-five percent of those roughly thousands of evenings in his room melting down and wishing he was a person who could handle this shit, they don't actually count.), Will finishes his summer drawing course at the learning annex, because his phone storage is unable to contend with the sheer volume of photos he takes of and with El in the last couple of weeks\months (?) Dustin gets Instagram and instantly gains a thousand followers, and Lucas comes to the conclusion that's actually amazing at this podcast thing? Like honestly, he's very talented. And he's never taken one communication course!

XIV. El heads back to New York, promising to visit when she can. Mike admirably hides his heartbreak, and gallantly takes his frustration out on a pacman machine during their afternoon at the arcade. (Mike Wheeler: Frustrated Bisexual) A couple months later, they all receive signed copies of the next Wizards of Gale book with special messages scribbled on the inside covers. A couple of weeks before that, they post their El interview, and the site it takes Dustin two, painful, sleepless weeks to build experiences a significant amount of traffic for the first time in its uneventful little life. Everyone freaks out and facetimes El who's mid interview on the Teresa Watkins show, and that's how they attain their first television interview. (El: I'm sorry, this is so unprofessional. Do you mind?)

XV. Bros being bros, podcasting about nerd stuff. (Dustin: How were you received by the dudebro cheeto dust contingent? I assume they're treating you well? They're super classy individuals.)

XVI. Oh, and Hopper is El's manager\literary agent? Okay? Okay.

[magnaturbaestinurbe-blog]

PODCAST BROS. AU

I. Bros being bros and podcasting about nerd stuff.

II. The podcast has approximately four listeners, the most dedicated among them being Mike's mom. (Mike has repeatedly told his mother not to listen because it "makes him nervous.") This number fluctuates depending on the time of day, the weather, and the amount of disparaging remarks  Dustin makes about the DC cinematic universe.

III. There is much discussion of comic books, superheroes, table top games, film adaptations, sci-fi and fantasy authors, ethics in journalism, cosplay, the Nintendo switch, what the hell is taking George R. R. Martin so long does he understand his readership will probably be dead before he publishes another book? and other topics salient to college-age nerds under the impression their dedication to their hobbies could someday pay their bills.

IV. Following in the illustrious footsteps of Matt Bessar, they live-stream their Saturday night D&D games. (Dustin: Hey guys, just wanted to give you a quick update. Mike's basement is still disgusting.") The results range from palatable mediocrity to hitherto unseen levels of chaos. The comments page would be a mess...you know, if people left comments.

V. Their first guest is an amazing, unbelievable get. El Ives has written four volumes of the Wizards of Gale series- a staggering, gorgeous epic chronicling the coming of age of a young psychically gifted warrior traversing a galactic wasteland in search of her true purpose-in the last three years. She's gone on national tours, topped sci-fi best-seller lists, and was proposed to roughly thirty-seven times at New York comic-con. Naturally, the dudes freak out, but Mike's is the most memorable melt down. He talks to himself in the mirror in a pre-interview hype session, he drops his note cards, stares for inappropriate lengths of time, and generally makes everyone ridiculously uncomfortable.

VI. After the stress of her tour, the casual atmosphere of the podcast (with the exception of the host who makes tense, terrifying eye contact with her before avoiding her gaze for the rest of the day) is a novelty El is reluctant to relinquish. This explains hanging around Hawkins ("You're welcome to stay at our place." Dustin volunteers before Mike can open his large, endlessly stupid mouth.) despite having deadlines, and interviews and a whole life in Manhattan. They take her to all their lame hang-outs and Mike dies several deaths due to sheer embarrassment (Humiliate Wheeler To Death Tour 2017!)

VII. This is the thing. The thing is this: despite the fact that they've been doing this for like, four months, and no one is even really listening Mike is still absurdly nervous on air? Lucas and Dustin are naturals and Will chimes in when he really wants to make a point (he's often drowned out by the intensity of Dustin\Lucas debates but whenever he manages to incline his chin toward the mic and deliver his statements in the softest, least antagonistic voice ever created, his points are salient and logical and even occasionally border on poignant) but it take s Mike at least fifteen minutes to get comfortable uttering opinions he has no trouble voicing off air. It's disconcerting and weird, and he's envious of the casual way his friends interact on air. They're natural, as if there aren't any disparities between their on air personalities and their real life ones. They're completely comfortable, Mike has to calm down, close his eyes, remember his pre-air inspirational speech, really center himself before he can engage in way that's even close to natural. (Even then, his voice is a touch too high, his sentences come out blunt and semi-intelligible, and his jokes feel more like passive aggressive indictments of other people's moral characters than "ha ha" funnies. These delightful and attractive flaws are only exacerbated by the prolonged presence of one of his literary heroes who, in addition to being funny, clever, sincere, brutally honest, and genuinely down for anything re: appearing on a D&D role-playing channel with four losers, has the audacity to love Ray Bradbury and Farscape as much as he does. It's the fucking rudest.)

VIII. To make matters worse, she loves his friends. Lucas is the most charming mother fucker alive (dude has a certificate!) and Mike hates him for the ease with which he makes El laugh so hard she cries. He then hates himself for hating Lucas, up until the asshole does it again and El looks happier than a ten year old who was just informed she gets to live at Disney Land. Witnessing the vast depths of El's joy is probably the purest experience Mike ever has. Said joy is a product of Lucas recounting any number of stories starring himself as the witty, amazing, bad ass of their high school tenure. So, dilemma. She and Will exchange book recommendations, karaoke Fridays at Lester's is forever altered the moment she and Dustin duet on a gentle, soul-melting rendition of Head Over Heels (they're terrible singers, but the power man, the subtle emotive, power) and Lucas, Lucas is everywhere, buying her drinks, and talking about how there are certain paragraphs in book three he wants to live in, and complimenting her buzz cut, and constantly and at all times making her laugh so long, and hard and with her entire body and it's so fucking unfair Mike can't actually-

IX. In local news, Lucas and Dustin are living in a shoebox across the river from Mike's house. Will is over so often he is repeatedly mistaken for a piece of furniture. He has his own shelf in the fridge (the middle), his own snacks in the cabinet (fig newtons are more than fruit and cake) and coconut shampoo he's neglected to take home and which is become the official property of the estate. Dustin likes to think of his abode as a sovereign nation, wants desperately to draw up a constitution and design a flag. Lucas likes to think of his casa as a Dustin-free zone, and is disappointed upon opening his door and finding reality has very much crushed his hopes and dreams. There is very little sleep, the occupants are lucky to claim several consecutive hours of unconsciousness. Instead, there are twitch marathons, Netflix binges, LOTR re-watches, and intense, lengthy debates over the merits of Zack Snyder being shot into space verses the efficiency of simply setting him ablaze.

X. Will is fond of lying on the couch, or on the window seat or on the floor next to Lucas' mattress and telling him all the ideas that his ridiculous brain ushers forth when he can't sleep. Lucas gently reminds him of the graphic novel he's kind of, sort of, a little bit working on-the thing he starts last year and politely but stubbornly refuses to show him any more pages once Lucas becomes a living, breathing reminder that Will could maybe think about possibly publishing it because It's Good. To be fair, saying the words aloud, letting them take shape in the air is almost like working on it. It's very, very close.

XI. Eventually, Mike realizes that contrary to initial reports, he's actually jealous of two people. Yes Lucas making El laugh is fairly fucking infuriating, but so is the knowledge that Lucas is trying so hard to make someone laugh, and that that someone (for reasons he is painfully, intimately familiar with) is NOT him. Pre-graduation, post-two a.m.  silent, sexuality-specific  realization that takes place in an Arby's parking lot, Mike and Lucas are the most accurate visual representation for best friendship that has ever, or will ever live. Their bond is unshakable, the stuff of Census Bearu legend, the canniest, most argumentative, absurdly affectionate, gleefully contrary pairing so robust and unrelenting it caused even the most patient members of their tight-knit Indiana State study circle to routinely throw up their hands and avert their eyes, yelling, "That's enough! Put it away!" One sunny, late-fall afternoon, they're picking up the thread of an ongoing Alien vs. Aliens debate (Lucas: I'm so glad your mom's not here to listen to her son humiliate himself like this. It would break her heart.") which has ascended to the intensity level that warrants standing very close and screaming as though they are not standing very close, when quite suddenly, they are no longer arguing. The discovery of another item in a long list of things they are hopelessly good at when they combine their talents, takes up the entire afternoon and most of the evening. The surprised, but strong, and ultimately righteous sense of joy\awe is conflated by the subdued, giddy knowledge that what has been in the past for Mike a rare and somewhat lackluster experience, and for Lucas, a little less rare but equally mediocre 'event' currently feels like the wide expanse of potentiality specific to scientific exploration. So there's that.

XII. It doesn't last too long, when he allows himself to think about it Mike abjectly refuses to liken the duration of the event to anything stupid, like a metaphor about supernovas. That would be dumb. And crass. And in poor taste. Plus, he hardly ever thinks about it ever, so there's that. Anyway, Mike dropping out of Indiana state and returning to the cocoon of his mother's basement is a completely unrelated event that never ever needs to be recounted, not even for posterity, except to say that it's unrelated to anything going on in his life at the moment. And it's okay, because he and Lucas are still ridiculously close friends and it's never even awkward except for the few occasions wherein Mike succumbs to jealously, before becoming confused about exactly whom he's jealous off. After he figures it out, he's moody and distant and the podcast gets Weird in only the way Mike can make it. El is confused, 'cause once the dude stops staring and actually says a few words to her, he's kind of cool in this completely doofy way. Lucas eventually plops on the end of Mike's bed, allows Mike to put his dirty, uncivilized sneakers all over his fairly expensive pants and makes a fumbling preamble that might as well be called Intro to Awk Con. It goes okay. Mike's just tired and Lucas co-signs with  a sigh, and a story about his sister, and they talk around it because it's still-they-can't-There's grumbling about the complete absence of something that could even be mistaken for a fan base, and Dustin's rants, and a general consensus on the awesomeness of El and they both feel better after that.

XIII. Lucas might have a supremely underdeveloped thing for Will? It's like, super embryonic, not even worth thinking about much less trying to explain out loud to Will's face while he stands there looking cute and curious and hesitant about the stupid notebook he's been doodling in for like a year, even though what little bits Lucas has seen of the novel that Will's mortified about having written  is so good he'd buy it tomorrow if Will would only deign to finish the damn thing. Yeah. So El hangs around Hawkins, after slaving away in his emotional garden wearing a wide-brim hat and too much sunscreen, Mike manages to grow the courage necessary to ask her to dine at his mom's house (yes, his mom has had El over for dinner roughly a thousand times, and yes her laugsana  with the signature sauce has become one of El's favorite dishes, but owing to the fact that Mike has spent ninety-five percent of those roughly thousands of evenings in his room melting down and wishing he was a person who could handle this shit, they don't actually count.), Will finishes his summer drawing course at the learning annex, because his phone storage is unable to contend with the sheer volume of photos he takes of and with El in the last couple of weeks\months (?) Dustin gets Instagram and instantly gains a thousand followers, and Lucas comes to the conclusion that's actually amazing at this podcast thing? Like honestly, he's very talented. And he's never taken one communication course!

XIV. El heads back to New York, promising to visit when she can. Mike admirably hides his heartbreak, and gallantly takes his frustration out on a pacman machine during their afternoon at the arcade. (Mike Wheeler: Frustrated Bisexual) A couple months later, they all receive signed copies of the next Wizards of Gale book with special messages scribbled on the inside covers. A couple of weeks before that, they post their El interview, and the site it takes Dustin two, painful, sleepless weeks to build experiences a significant amount of traffic for the first time in its uneventful little life. Everyone freaks out and facetimes El who's mid interview on the Teresa Watkins show, and that's how they attain their first television interview. (El: I'm sorry, this is so unprofessional. Do you mind?)

XV. Bros being bros, podcasting about nerd stuff. (Dustin: How were you received by the dudebro cheeto dust contingent? I assume they're treating you well? They're super classy individuals.)

XVI. Oh, and Hopper is El's manager\literary agent? Okay? Okay.

[excxt]

Scream Smart: Why Hardcore is More than Angry Immature Young People

When I first arrived at music school at the age of 18, I was afraid to tell people what kind of bands I listened to. It felt strange to tell a student body whose alumni included Quincy Jones, Kurt Rosenwinkel, and Howard Shore that I listened to hardcore. My first two semesters felt like a race to learn about the jazz, soul, and obscure indie art bands it seemed everyone else was idolizing, a world of music that had somehow slipped by me. I played Grant Green solos in my private guitar instruction and downloaded Eryka Badu albums. I gave the stuff a fair shake, and I ended up learning a lot. I went into school listening primarily to artists at whose shows a person could reasonably expect to be physically injured, but I came out listening to a little bit of everything. But somewhere in the middle of those four years I also learned to grow a spine and admit what it was that moved me. I went into my third semester guitar lesson and told the same teacher with whom I’d been studying jazz licks and BB King solos that I wanted to play punk music. I was shocked when his eyes lit up and he started making a list of albums for me: The Clash, The Police, U2. I showed him mewithoutYou records and we spent the next two semesters perfecting the power chord and my rhythm. For my final proficiency exams I played Pink Floyd solos. I was excited about my instrument again, and excited to have a teacher I could connect with. When people asked me about the kind of music I listened to, I started answering honestly- At The Drive-In, Converge, Jawbreaker, Refused, and Thursday. Suddenly people started responding differently (“FUCK YEAH AT THE DRIVE-IN”), and I found a whole new population that I didn’t think existed at Berklee. I still went to some shows alone (White Wives, Touche Amore) but others I went to with friends (Thrice, La Dispute, Deftones, Refused), and the more I publically shared my love of these bands, the better I felt.

Since graduating college, I’ve come across the same reaction when using that all-encompassing word; “hardcore” means many different things to people, and sometimes the associations are overgeneralized, misinformed, or simply inaccurate. For a long time when I said the words “punk” or “hardcore” to someone I could see their brains pulling up generic images of meatheads with tattoos screaming about how they hate their parents, or on the other end of the spectrum, kids with leopard print hair and raccoon eyes crying about how much they hate their parents. Loud angry music that was easy to make fun of and even easier to dismiss as teenage angst in an audible form. I’m not saying that the music isn’t frequently emotionally brutal; it is. I’m saying that the people behind it, the musicians, writers, promoters, listeners, fans, are much more than a collection of overdramatic lip pierced youths rebelling for the sake of rebellion. It’s a group of intelligent, passionate, frequently polite and well-spoken people of all ages and backgrounds who find kinship in the music and what it stands for. And what it stands for is another aspect that means different things to different people, even within the scene itself. For some, the music itself is enough. But for many others like myself, the records were what lured us in, but the movement behind them were what kept us.

Hardcore taught me to care. Its average participant rails against apathy by caring about something that needs to be actively cared for- hardcore is not self-sustaining. It will go away if there aren’t people pumping blood to it. It’s not a money maker, it’s not cool, and to many people does not appear to spread anything good or worthwhile into the world. It needs those who need it in return. From putting together shows and tours to self-releasing records and putting together 2,000 limited edition box sets by hand, hardcore was built and continues to run on human work ethic and passion. Gabriel Kuhn describes the DIY lifestyle in his book “Sober Living For the Revolution: Hardcore Punk, Straight Edge, and Radical Politics” as “a principle of independence and of retaining control over one’s work. [DIY] defines original hardcoe punk ethics and, to many, remains the decisive criterion for true hardcore punk; the most tangible aspects of hardcore punk’s DIY culture are self-run record labels, self-organized shows, self-made zines, and non-commercial social networks.” In other words, there are people working at major pop labels who don’t necessarily care about pop music. But no one who doesn’t care about hardcore will work at a hardcore label.

More than any other musical genre, it is a lifestyle, and as varied as the details of the lifestyle can be, it tends to center around being concerned and caring about something- the planet, politics, human and animal rights, the arts, the culture, and the people of hardcore in general. It is different that the relationship I believe people tend to have with other genres of music- pop/top 40, jazz, country, classical- because of its background in activism and alternative lifestyles. I learned about veganism from AFI, straight edge from Minor Threat, and everything from human rights to environmental preservation from Anti-Flag. Because of hardcore I wrote dozens of letters to world leaders as a participant in Amnesty International’s annual Write For Rights project. Because of hardcore I became a vegetarian for seven years. When people think of punk bands as nothing more than a gang of loud mohawked ne’er do wells, they miss the point. United Nations sounds like a rock band thrown into a blender with a handful of nails and a pint of acid, but their songs encourage listeners to become more aware of their government. MewithoutYou run their tour bus on vegetable oil they get leftover from restaurants. Thursday turned me on to Kurt Vonnegut, Cormac McCarthy, David Foster Wallace, and Charles Bukowski. Jake Bannon takes DIY to another level with Converge, Deathwish Inc., and the art he designs for his own band and others. Bands are known to mingle with fans after shows, spending hours discussing music and the scene. When crowds become too rowdy, bands stop playing and remind the crowd to take care of each other and pick each other up. The same people on the stage will be sleeping on the floor of someone in the audience after the show. The musicians are the listeners and the listeners are the musicians. It’s about giving and not taking. It requires work. It’s not for the elite, the privileged, the people who feel as though they are owed something from the world. It is a passion for change and galvanization that keeps hardcore running. The liner notes of Refused’s landmark album The Shape of Punk to Come puts it this way:

“The lack of stimulants within art, politics, and life lowers our standards, which is why we settle for talk shows and MTV. We are not stupid, but if we are treated like ingrates we will start to act like children. The lack of challenging forms of expression and thoughts of fire and self confidence gives us a hollow nature. So reclaim art, take back the fine culture for the people, the working people, the living people… Cause we have nothing to lose and therefore our expression will be the only honest one.”

The desire to make things better through better living, better thinking, and better treatment of others was what kept me enthralled with hardcore. These people are smart, their ideas are good and their music is beautiful.

So onto the music itself. To me, hardcore has widened to encompass many different sounding artists that all sprouted from a similar root. I don’t like to waste time tagging sub-genres because all the bands I listen to evoke the same feelings. I think of everything from Sunny Day Real Estate, Defeater, 7 Seconds, and Murder By Death to Earth Crisis, Moving Mountains. Frank Turner, and Joy Division. Like Israeli hardcore scene veteran Santiago Gomez says, “You could dress like a Jamaican hippie, help old ladies across the road, use non-conventional instruments, sing happy, harmonious songs, or play slower than a herd of snails travelling through peanut butter- and still be punk. Because, in a way, being punk is very much like being in love: there are no rules, no specifics, no rhyme nor reason and no real “definition” except a tautological concept of nearness and identification. And that’s the way we damn well like it.” Still, despite all the shapes and sizes a band can take, it does seem that the emotions conveyed in the great majority of punk/hardcore songs tend to lean heavily on anger, frustration, loss, and a sense of hopelessness. This could be why a lot of people turn away from it. Then what is it that makes some of us lean into it? People turn to hardcore as a haven, myself included. It taught me to look outside my own situation, despite how self-involved the music can seem sometimes. The point isn’t that “I hurt,” “I’m lost,” “I’m angry and I don’t know why,” but that there is a whole world of people out there feeling the same way, and to become involved with them is to somehow heal yourself. People listen to Touche Amore because when Jeremy Bolm shouts the simple lines “I’m losing sleep/I’m losing friends/I’ve got a love-hate-love/With the city I’m in,” they know what that loss and complication feels like. People who feel emotions as desperately as hardcore expresses them place their trust in it because it gives them assurance that they’re not crazy. They are depressed, anxious, confused, frustrated, and lost because they care, and hardcore offers them solace with the promise that there are others who care as well. It is why, as I get older and spend more time doing things that aren’t traditional punk pastimes- I do yoga, I juice raw vegetables, I’m learning to design my own knitting patterns- that I still feel as connected to hardcore as I ever have. I care enough to move to different cities until I find one I love, to switch jobs until I find one fulfilling, to learn and work hard and keep getting up, because hardcore taught me to. I still find it compelling, from Deafheaven’s sprawling black metal soundscapes to La Dispute’s literature-themed lyrical grace. I think there is a lot to be excited about in hardcore right now, as there always has been for those willing to look.

And like any good argument in favor of punk music, this one ends with Ian MacKaye. For the past thirty-five years he has chosen to stick with a scene that has both praised him and pigeonholed him. But his view of hardcore reaches far beyond the realms of any passerby that would quickly deem it immature or self-interested:

 “There was a certain period in my life when I was very angry, when I was really agonizing over things. It made me feel miserable, and I begin to question everything: What is the point of all this punk rock? What is the point of me singing? What am I trying to do? Eventually, I realized that the reason I was so angry was because I want people in the world to be well. And I realized that it was a worthwhile project to pursue in my lifetime… I guess that’s an illustration of putting into action a philosophy of Live as you desire the world to be. It doesn’t mean to be unaware and not to care. It means to love and to be well and to wish for others to be well too.”