#because he was the one contacted by the registrar and *he* sorted everything out for me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

slapshot-to-the-heart · 4 years

Text

Flatbush & Atlantic: part i

Quick note: This is taking place in the 2020-21 season, as if the Islanders still play at Barclays; I know they won’t in actuality. In the story, I’m also going to be taking some liberties with what the duties of a team’s general counsel and legal team would actually be in charge of. My understanding, as a pre-law student, is that it’s more on the corporate angle, dealing with contracts and stuff — in addition to that, Cass will also be dealing with some more immigration and employment law as well.

part i

October 1

“Adiós, mamá. Hablamos pronto. Te amo.” Cassidy hung up, breathing out a tense sigh and rubbing her temples with the heels of her hands. Talking to her mom usually helped to calm her down, bring her back to Earth, but for whatever reason it wasn’t taking. She took a brief glance at the casebook open on her dinged-up Ikea desk. Federal Indian Law. She liked the class, genuinely, but her day had started off bad and gotten worse pretty damn quickly. First she was out of her favorite tea, then her advisor cancelled their meeting, then it started raining as she walked back to her MTA stop, so she had missed the train. Another came fifteen minutes later, but the damage was already done. The only bright spot in the day, aside from calling her mom, had been the cute guy at the Polish deli down the street who had put extra peppers on her Philly cheesesteak. She unwrapped the sandwich, taking a moody bite out of the end. A caramelized onion dropped to the floor. Sighing, she leaned down to pick it up, hurtling it in the direction of the trashcan but only half-looking to see if it reached its target destination. Despite the name, Cass had never had a cheesesteak before she moved to New York, and it wasn’t even because she wasn’t a sandwich person. No, Cass loved a good sandwich, but between her proclivity towards a good BLT and her mom’s homemade Mexican food, she just hadn’t gotten around to it.

Her laptop dinged with an email notification. What now? She swiped over to the mail page, taking another bite as she read the subject line. Experiential learning requirement - unmet. Her brow furrowed. Unmet? Clicking it open, she scanned the email, clearly something automated from the registrar’s office. Yet to complete Columbia’s experiential learning requirement...We suggest you connect with professors...You have until October 8 to submit...Cassidy never finished her sandwich. “Oh my God,” she muttered to herself, feeling her cheeks heat up. “How could you do this? How could you be so stupid, Cass?” She was normally so on top of everything, never missed a date, never forgot an assignment, so how could she have missed one of the only things left to do to graduate? Her law school required all of the graduates to complete some sort of experiential learning requirement — some kind of externship, clinic, summer associate position, anything to get them “out in the real world.” That’s when it hit her. She had coached her high school’s mock trial team the summer after her first year, and interned at the Hartford County DA’s the summer after. But they paid her. Her school had a weird ‘double-dip’ policy, where you weren’t allowed to take a position for class credit and get paid at the same time. It was a confusing rule, convoluted and bizarre and probably a little bit elitist, but it was a rule. As if the day couldn’t get any worse, and then somehow it did.

Turning to her laptop, she started searching for just about anything that could possibly help her. The school’s website, the Manhattan District Attorney’s, state offices, NGOs, federal prosecutors, anyone that might have a lead. Frantically dragging over her resumé and throwing together a cover letter that probably (hopefully) looked way more interesting than it actually was, Cassidy fired off email after email after email. Two hours later, she had sent off some twenty-odd applications, hoping that at least one or two would end up panning out. Glancing at her watch, she let out an exasperated breath. 12:22 A.M. Her classes didn’t start until nine, but it took almost an hour and a subway connection to get to Columbia, and she had to eat and shower before. So, really, it meant getting up at about seven. She needed to go to bed.

Stomach reeling and feeling more resigned than anything, Cass haphazardly brushed her teeth, flossed — it didn’t matter how tired she was, she’d never forget to floss — and clambered into bed, wearing a faded, way-too-big Rangers t-shirt. I’ll be okay. She took a deep breath. It’ll be okay. It has to be. Cassidy Cabrera Shaw was tough as nails and stubborn as hell, and she wasn’t going to let everything she had worked so hard for fall apart so easily.

Whenever Cass was nervous, or anxious, or afraid, she was never able to sleep well. She ended up waking up at ten past six, sitting in her bed for fifteen minutes praying that she’d fall back asleep, and finally accepting her fate that sleep just wasn’t going to come. Rolling over, she grabbed her phone from where she had left it charging on the nightstand. Nightstand was maybe a generous term for it; technically, it was a wooden milk crate that she had spray painted white when she and the other girls had moved into the apartment two years prior. She had a little bit of money set aside from college, but every penny possible was going towards tuition and those ungodly-expensive books that she had to buy every semester. The mattress and frame were from Ikea, and Cass had brought some things like bedding and a desk from her old room. The rest of it — rugs, lighting, and decorations like her six-inch ceramic peacock (his name was Charles) had come from a combination of Goodwill runs and senior citizen yard sales.

Wincing as she did so, Cass pulled up her email, bracing herself for the inevitable barrage of rejection. After scrolling past ten or so automated “no longer hiring” and “position has been filled” messages, one caught her eye. She had sent a few emails to professors of hers, not expecting to hear anything back for a few days. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but there certainly were advantages of going to school in a city as massive as New York. All of her professors knew someone and had some kind of connection from their own education, or days in the practice, or childhood summer trips to the Hamptons with someone who just so happened to be a judge on the Second Circuit Court — that last one was last year’s employment law professor. One particular subject line caught her eye. Thought you might be interested, Professor Murakami had written. David, as he preferred to be called, was her Sports Law professor from last year. She didn’t go into the class expecting to enjoy it all that much, if she was being honest. She had gotten a crappy registration time and most other classes were filled, so it had started out as a placeholder and nothing more. Over the semester, though, it had quickly become one of her favorites, combining pieces of everything else she had studied into one cohesive course. Cass also wasn’t in a position to be turning down any potential offers, so she opened the email and started reading.

I got your email, Cassidy, and think I might be able to help. Okay, so far, so good. I happen to have a contact in the counsel’s office of one of the professional sports teams in the city. That’s exactly what Cass was talking about — where do these people meet each other? Is there some kind of exclusive speakeasy you’re given the password to as soon as you’re admitted to the state bar? Chris Cohen works for the Islanders, and I remember you talking about how interested in hockey you are. Okay, true, but the Islanders? She had practically been born with a Ranger’s jersey on. Beggars can’t be choosers, she thought. I gave him a heads-up that I’d likely be sending a promising candidate his way, so just let me know if this sounds like something you’d be interested in and I’ll send along your contact information.

Cass couldn’t respond fast enough. Yes, please!

---

Wednesdays were her ‘easy’ days, if you could say that. She had Environmental Law and Human Rights back-to-back, but anything after noon was pretty much fair game. That being said, it certainly didn’t mean that she was any less stressed. There were at least a hundred pages to read before class the next day, she had a sample essay due for bar prep, and her mind was still racing about the email. Grabbing a gyro from the cart outside of her last class of the day, Cass stress-ate with one hand while continually refreshing her inbox with the other. Food wasn’t allowed in the library, so she ate the last few bites right outside the doors, throwing away the wrapper and squeezing past the hordes of clearly overwhelmed first-years running to get to class on time.

Popping her Airpods out of their case and into her ears, Cass briskly made her way up the stairs to the third floor, crossing her fingers that her usual spot, a big blue chair over by the research desk, was open. She was in luck, pulling out a water bottle and laptop and getting to work on editing. Four hours later, she had reached some semblance of satisfaction with her work, shutting off her computer and making her way to the subway. There was about half an hour before she had to transfer to the line that would take her to the apartment; squeezing into one of the last free seats, she tugged out a textbook and a highlighter. Why her professor insisted on assigning the entire text of the United Nations charter was a mystery to her, but she’d rather jump off a cliff than be cold called on without an answer. Transferring at Grand Concourse took about ten minutes — it was rush hour, so the first train to come was entirely full — and another twenty or so minutes later, she was letting herself into her shared East Bronx apartment.

Hanging up her denim jacket by the door and toeing off her sneakers, Cass let out a not-so-subtle exasperated sigh.

“One of those days?” Alicia piped in from the kitchen. Alicia also lived in the apartment, one of the four sorority sisters-turned-roommates who had made the move from Connecticut down to New York after graduation. Cass padded into the kitchen, where she was greeted by Alicia in front of a skillet and rice cooker, intensely sautéeing some vegetables.

“You have no idea,” Cass said, hugging her from behind. “Whatcha making?” There were obviously some nights when not everyone was home — most often either Cass or Ryanne, who was in med school — but they always tried to have a few nights a week where someone would cook a meal for the whole house.

“Japchae, it’s my mom’s recipe,” she replied. “I called her and asked how much sesame oil to use, and she just said ‘until it tastes right.’ Like, I love you, Mom, but that doesn’t really help my cause, does it?”

Cass snorted. “Oh for sure, it’s the same way with me. Do you remember the first time I made tamales down here?” Cass had grown up eating and making tamales with her mom and abuela, but she had never been allowed to really take the reins. She had the recipe, though, so the first night after they were moved in, she ventured down to the closest bodega, bought the ingredients, and decided to try her hand making them from scratch. The recipe, however, left out the key piece of exactly how much water to use for steaming — Cass didn’t know, and her mom had always just eyeballed it. So she had ended up putting in way too little and setting the stove way too hot, and to make a long story short, ended up setting off the fire alarm. The one saving grace was the extremely attractive police office that came to double-check the false alarm, but even he couldn’t wipe the mortified expression off of her face.

“How could I forget?” Alicia responded with a grin. “Go put your shit down, it’ll be ready in a few.”

Cass playfully rolled her eyes, heading towards her room in the back. “Yes, mother.” Their apartment was a three bedroom; while obviously it would have been amazing for everyone to have their own, it was still New York City and none of them were exactly rolling in the dough. Cassidy and Ryanne were obviously still students, and while Alicia and Stella had actual jobs — Stella worked international business down by Wall Street and Alicia did something with satellites in Queens — none of them were exactly inclined to set out on their own just yet. So Stella and Alicia shared a room, and she and Ryanne had their own. She shrugged off her jacket, slinging her backpack onto the bed before chugging the rest of her water bottle and checking her phone. Two new emails. A 20% off coupon to Lush, and one from Chris Cohen. Chris Cohen? It took her a minute to remember, but when she did, she couldn’t read it fast enough.

Honestly, Cass didn’t read the whole thing, but got enough information to know that she had an interview Friday afternoon at the office in Brooklyn, that Chris — he had said to call him Chris — said she came with a stellar recommendation from Professor Murakami (an old law school buddy, figures) and that there was no way in hell she was going to fuck this up. She wouldn’t let herself.

---

Cass was lucky her Thursdays were so packed; if she had any extra time to stress over her impending interview, she would have, but she couldn’t. She had two ‘free’ hours in between classes, but after she had scarfed down lunch (Alicia had, mercifully, made plenty of leftovers) it was the only stretch she had to hit the gym. Coupled with the time it took to walk there, change, and shower after, there really wasn’t much in the way of downtime. After classes was her bar prep group, and the day was so exhausting that it was pretty much all she could manage to take the train home, microwave dinosaur chicken nuggets, and stumble into bed. After flossing.

---

If Cassidy lived in any other city, she would have felt wildly out of place on her morning commute. Who shows up to school wearing a suit? She wasn’t an absolute masochist, so her heels were in her bag. But for once in her life she didn’t feel so out of place among the presumably-highbrow, presumably-making-six-figures crowd surrounding her. The suit had been her first big purchase for herself — she had scraped by without one in college, but invested as soon as she had a little saved up from her summer job at a boutique in town. Her mother had always told her that it was the woman who made the clothes, rather than the other way around, and Cass always did what her mom said.

Samaira, one of her friends and another editor on the Columbia Law Review, caught up to her as they both left the twice-weekly morning meeting. “You seem kind of jumpy, Cass. What’s up?”

Cassidy wrung her hands and shrugged her shoulders. “I told you that I missed the internship requirement thing, right?” Samaira nodded. “Well, I have an internship in,” she paused to look at her watch, “two hours, and I’m so nervous I’m going to mess this up. I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t get it. There’s not time to look for something else, there’s no alternative, and I don’t know what to do if my own stupidity and forgetfulness is the only thing standing in between me and something I’ve worked so fucking hard for—”

Samaira cut her off. “I’m going to stop you there. That’s bull, Cass, and you know it. You are the furthest thing from a disappointment. You’re one of the kindest, sharpest, and most creative people I know, and you’re not going to let something as petty as a deadline stand in your way. Time gets away from all of us sometimes, and it’s nothing to beat yourself up over. I want you to be confident and have faith in yourself, because you deserve it, but if you don’t, it’s okay. I get it. I believe in you enough for the both of us.” She squeezed Cass’ hand.

She managed a watery smile. “Thanks, Samaira.”

“Any time,” she replied easily. “I’ve got to run to class now, but I want to hear how it went the second you get out, okay?”

“I will.”

Samaira rolled her eyes. “I mean it. You’re going to crush this, Cass. Love you!” She added, waving goodbye as she turned the corner.

There was half an hour before Cass needed to head over to the interview, and before she knew it her feet had taken her to her favorite spot on the north side of Central Park. Grabbing a bagel, she thankfully found the bench empty. After finishing the bagel — she would have preferred cheese, but they were out, so cinnamon raisin it was — and the better part of her Hozier-dominated acoustic playlist, it was time to catch the train. She jumped on with barely a second to spare, grabbing a strap and trying to avoid bumping into anyone.

A seat opened up about halfway to Brooklyn, and Cass took the opportunity to unceremoniously tug off her much more practical flats and switch into the much more professional ankle-strap heels that had been stuffed in her backpack all day. For a fleeting moment, she was worried what everyone around her would think; she was, after all, technically changing on public transportation. A man got on at the next stop who was dressed head-to-toe in neon orange while carrying a Pomeranian in his purse. Nobody batted an eye. She got over herself pretty quickly.

Getting off at the Barclays Center station, Cass pulled out her phone, opening up the camera to give herself a quick once-over. As much as she hated it, first impressions really were everything. Lipstick? Not smudged. Hair? Minimal flyaways. Teeth? No spinach to be seen. Triple-checking that she had the time right, Cass walked through the doors of the office building, Islanders logo emblazoned on the wall behind the secretary’s desk.

“Hi,” she said tentatively, catching his attention. “I have an interview with Chris Cohen at 2?”

The secretary nodded, smiling warmly at her. “No problem. I’m Josh, you can have a seat over there,” he nodded to the small waiting area off to the side, “and I’ll call you when he’s ready for you to be sent up.”

Cass didn’t wait for more than five minutes before Josh gave her the go-ahead, and she was soon headed up the elevator to Chris’ office. “Fourth door on the left. It should have his name on it,” Josh had added.

She raised her fist, knocking quickly on the frosted glass. It swung open a second later, a kind-looking man with glasses and salt-and-pepper hair answering. “You must be Cassidy. I’m Chris Cohen, so nice to meet you. Come right in,” he said, ushering her through the room, where several other associates sat at desks, and into his office.

“David’s always good at keeping an eye out for me in his courses, and I was happy he passed you along,” Chris said, pulling out her resumé. “And you’re a 3L, correct?” She nodded. “Good. So let’s dive right into it. What courses and work experience do you have that you feel best position you for success in this position?” Much though Cass was loath to admit it, if there was anything she was good at, it was talking herself up. There was a reason her high school superlative was “Most Likely to be Able to Talk Their Way Out of a Ticket.” She launched into a well-rehearsed response, making sure to lace in her love for hockey once or twice. If nothing else, it would hopefully at least get her some brownie points. He had a few questions about her resumé, asked about her work on the law review, a few hypotheticals about contract law. She was batting a thousand until he asked the dreaded final question. “Do you have any questions for me?”

Cass was wracking her brain, trying to come up with some intelligent-sounding thing to ask, but nothing came. “Uh—” she started, but was saved by the bell. Or, rather, saved by a frantic door opening and a panicked-sounding Mat Barzal bursting into the room. “Chris, I’ve got a problem.”

#hockey imagine #hockey #nhl imagine #mat barzal #mat barzal imagine #nhl #hockey writing #nhl writing #hockey imagines #nhl imagines #islanders #mat barzal imagines

92 notes · View notes

doof-doofblog · 4 years

Text

"Tell Her!"

Monday 25th January 2021

Hello everyone! Hope you've all had a good relaxing weekend! `We're back with a fresh new week of drama and anticipation. After what happened during Friday's episode, I'm really excited to see what will be the aftermath of Sharon's attempt on killing Ian. What will the neighbours and community think about Ian disappearing all of a sudden? I genuinely can't wait to see what happens.

As I predicted, after Ian's disappearance, Kathy appears to be hunting high and low for her son. Concerned that no one has seen him since the previous night, and he's not responding to any of her phone calls, Kathy is getting more and more concerned for her son. I'm sure you'll remember that when Ian decided to flee Walford, he chucked his phone into the bin, and without a word to anyone, disappeared into the night after realising that Sharon was behind the attack and wanting to kill him after learning the truth about Dennis's death. Kathy decides to confront Sharon about her son's disappearance, but of course Sharon can't reveal what's really happened and informs Kathy that Ian has probably gone for a walk to get some fresh air. To be fair, Sharon also has no idea where Ian has gone, before she makes her way back to the Vic, she asks Phil whether anything happened between him and Ian the previous night. Phil admits that Ian was no where to be seen, but makes the valid point that if he had seen him, he wouldn't be walking around right now. But it's not just Kathy who is questioning Ian's absence, Max also confronts Sharon later in the Vic. Max eventually got suspicious of Sharon and voiced his concerns to Ian, I do feel that maybe people are going to point the finger and blame Sharon for Ian going AWOL. But in all fairness, Sharon didn't go through with her plan, the last she saw Ian he was alive, she has no idea when or where he has fled. I do feel though that Kathy isn't going to let it lie, she'll be wanting answers from Sharon that's for sure!

The second thing I want to mention briefly, has anyone got any idea what Chelsea is up to? I'm still unsure as to what is happening with her, what her story is. I feel like it's going to be a long time until we learn what "The job" is that she's supposed to be doing. Since her return we've been made to believe that she has built bridges with her Father and decided to give him a second chance, however front of sticking up for her Dad, completely changed when she started getting phone calls from an unknown person. In this episode we see her getting a call from someone named "Caleb" and eventually a face is given to this person's identity. Chelsea seems really stunned to see him, who is this Caleb and what has he got over Chelsea? Is she working for him maybe? As they sit together in the Vic, Caleb seems to compliment on the clothes that she is working, pointing out that it was with his money that she paid for those items. Chelsea informs him that he will be getting the money back, but as soon as he mentions Lucas, Chelsea informs him to let her deal with him. Is Chelsea using her Dad to perhaps pay this Caleb back? Who knows? Either way, I'm looking forward to finding out more of Chelsea's story. What do you think it could be? Do you understand what's happening more than I do? If so, please enlighten me, as I am finding this a little bit confusing and quite difficult to follow. I'm hoping as time goes on, more will be revealed and everything will make sense.

Thirdly, I have to mention Ben and Callum, don't I? I have to! After hearing news that Lexi isn't feeling too well at school and with Ben being busy and Lola being stuck at the salon, Callum appears to be the only person available to help and pick the young girl up. However, as soon as he gets there, Isaac refuses to let Lexi go with him, as his name isn't on the Parental and/or Guardian list for who the school should contact when their child is ill. As far as Isaac is concerned, the only people who are on that list are Lola and Ben, even though Callum fights his corner, informing him that he's not a stranger and Lexi will be safe in his hands if she was to go with him. But, to be fair, Isaac is only doing his job - if he was to let Lexi go with an unknown member of the public (which is how the school will see him) - he could be in huge trouble. This specific event seems to surprise everyone, Ben even pleads to Lola to allow Callum onto the list, but Lola admits that just because Callum is another one of Ben's boyfriends, she can't allow him on the list and strictly informs him that the list is just for family members only! Clearly, this seems to play on Ben's mind. Later, whilst Ben and Callum are discussing the situation together in the Mitchell household ... and in the most unaffectionate, non-romantic way possible, Ben proposes to Callum saying that he can sort the whole thing out if they sign a few papers at the registrars office! As the way proposals go, I have to say that has to be the worst one I have ever seen! Callum is completely and utterly stunned by his boyfriends words, and not in the most happiest way. I mean, fair enough Ben has never really been good with words, but come on!!! Later on, Ben is looking after his daughter as Lola approaches and they once again begin chatting about the day's events. It's then that Ben reveals that he had a way of sorting it and revealing to them both that he proposed to Callum, but when they realise there was no romantic gesture and it literally happened in the Mitchell's kitchen - both Lola and Lexi aren't surprised that Callum walked off. They inform him that if he's truly wanting to get married to Callum, then it needs to be for the right reasons - not just so his name can be put on a list! Plus he needs to show more feeling and romance towards his proposal! Let's hope that the next time Ben proposes to Callum, that he actually does it right!!

The final thing I need to talk about is Frankie and the Carters! The Carter's seemed to have welcomed Frankie into their family after the learning the truth about her identity. In this episode, Frankie is waiting very patiently for Mick and Linda outside of their apartment, as the couple approach her she informs them that today is the anniversary of her little brother's death, (Harry). Before mentioning that she'll be going to the cemetery with her Mum, she also uses this time to once again plead to them to not report her Mum to the police. Mick takes it upon himself to reassure his daughter that they won't mention anything to the police. Interestingly later on, Shirley confronts Linda, informing her that she's been told everything about Mick's past and how he doesn't want to involve the police, however she feels that they need to do something so Katy could never do the things she did to Mick to anyone else. Linda seems to completely understand Shirley's concern, but she also states that they need to stay strong for Mick and go with what he says, as they need to stick by him and do what's best for him. A little bit later, Linda meets Frankie in the Cafe, after a brief discussion Frankie introduces a man named Jed to Linda, informing her that she think he's a type of step-brother to her. (Harry's brother, on their Dad's side!) As Linda looks up this man, she asks Frankie whether she could also attend going to the cemetery, regardless of Katy being there she also wants to pay her respects to the young boy who died so young, Frankie is really touched by her gesture and agrees for her come along. However, later on after they've all returned from the cemetery they decide to go for a drink at Ruby's club. As Linda buys a round of drinks, Stuart is sat as the bar and they begin to discuss Frankie. Stuart is surprised to hear that Frankie is the daughter of Katy Lewis, suddenly Linda begins to question his experience of being in care with Katy, it's then that Stuart reveals that other than Mick, she did have a few favourites that she used to look after. These words seem to really shake Linda to the core, as Frankie dismisses herself to use the lavatory, Linda takes it upon herself to approach Jed. Trying to be as subtle as possible, she begins to dig and find out more information from him, asking about his Dad not being involved with Harry, even though he was, even informing Jed about her and Mick's connection to Frankie. It's the she takes the big step in asking him questions regarding whether Katy kept things secret from him, it looks as if Jed suddenly clicks on to what she's talking about and becomes really uncomfortable. Frankie returns to see Jed leaving the club, Linda being completely apologetic thinking she may have got the wrong end of the stick. But as they venture out in the cold evening, Jed confronts Frankie saying that he's never said anything to anyone about his relationship with Harry, but poor Frankie has no idea what's talking about. Suddenly everything becomes crystal clear to Linda - Jed was Harry's Father! Jed is another victim of Katy's sexual abuse! But he happens to mention "Any of us!" - it looks as if he's claiming that there are other victims of Katy, other young men she's preyed upon!

At this moment I feel so so sorry for Frankie, learning that her Dad was abused by her Mum, and now who she's always believed to be her step-brother, revealed to be her younger brother's Dad! Putting into perspective that her Mother is a sexual predator, a paedophile! Poor Frankie's world has been turned upside down. Surely Linda sees now that Katy needs to be reported to the police, will she reveal to Mick that there are other victims of hers out there? Will she and Shirley maybe bring it upon themselves to search for other victims and begin to build evidence or a case for the police to investigate?! Katy needs to get her comeuppance! As dark as this story is, I think it's one of the best I've seen in a long time. I'm really excited and intrigued to see where this story is going to go!

What do you think is going to happen next? Please feel free to leave me a comment or a message, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you all again so much for reading! I'll be back again very soon! Love you all xXx

3 notes · View notes

eeveevie · 4 years

Text

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (5/18)

Chapter 5: Do It Simply

Nick and Madelyn have a heart-to-heart while on a stakeout in Quincy. After some time apart, Deacon shows up at Madelyn’s apartment encouraging her to give the Railroad another chance. When she agrees, Desdemona sends them to a Bunker Hill contact who needs assistance in smuggling somebody out of the Commonwealth—somebody who may have been witness to Eddie Winter’s crimes. Outside of the Ticonderoga safehouse, a suspicious man catches Deacon’s eye and the entire operation goes up in flames.

“If you're going to kill someone, do it simply.” - Johnnie Aysgarth as played by Cary Grant (Suspicion, 1941)

x - x

[read on Ao3] ~ [chapter masterpost]

February 11th, 1958

“I should’ve warned you this would turn into a stakeout.”

Madelyn shivered as she glanced over to Nick from the passenger seat of his Cadillac, tugging the collar of her coat around her shoulders a little tighter. Of all the times they had decided to follow Eddie Winter across town, it had to be the night when a flurry had delivered nearly three inches of snow. Needless to say, she was freezing, half tempted to bum one of Nick’s cigarettes if only to heat up her body in some way. The smoke from his own wafted in the air above his head as he mumbled incoherently, binoculars glued toward the building a few hundred feet away. They’d been sitting like that for a few hours with no movement.

“Damn Winter, thinking we have all night to sit on him,” he muttered, cigarette bobbing between his lips.

“It’s not like we have much else going for us,” Madelyn replied, sifting through the small stack of case files across her lap, ones she had brought with them in their mad dash to Quincy. Ever since the Earl Sterling case, their primary focus had been on Eddie Winter’s activities, mostly because the agency hadn’t received a new job in weeks. There had been dry spells before, but this time it was obvious they were being punished by the Boston Police Department for their involvement in capturing Doctor Crocker. It wasn’t fair, it never was, but there was little they could do but keep investigating.

“Don’t remind me,” Nick grumbled, lowering the binoculars to look at her. “Are we sure this is the right place?”

She hummed, flicking through the various files. They were all labeled in her neat handwriting—WINTER—filled with various leads and rumors from the street, one of which had led them to the Quincy police department. With a nod, Madelyn flashed a sideways smile. “Maybe they’ve got a secret underground bunker.”

Nick wasn’t about to dismiss anything, eyebrow quirking up. “You might be onto something there.”

She softly chuckled, scribbling the words down, even if she felt foolish—not every organization in town had an underground tunnel system, right? As Nick continued to scope out the building, she flicked through her notebook absentmindedly until a loose-leaf of paper fluttered down to her feet. She had nearly forgotten about it, the instructions Drummer Boy had dropped off nearly two weeks ago, directing her to another meeting with the Railroad. Her conscious reprimanded her for making up an excuse for not attending, but at the time, she wasn’t ready to face the group again.

She hadn’t seen Desdemona—or Deacon—since their little adventure beneath Slocum’s Joe. Foolishly, she believed that space would set her mind straight, that her emotions would level out after introspection and some time alone. What she hadn’t realized was that her life had already been drastically altered: Nick believed the Railroad to be a valuable ally, she had an agent for a neighbor, and despite everything, she couldn’t get that stupid, silly, enigmatic man named Deacon out of her mind.

“Another mysterious note?”

“What?” Madelyn snapped her eyes up and over to where Nick was looking back to her with all the curiosity in the world. She couldn’t lie to him, not when it was his job to find the truth. “More or less of the same, requesting me to visit their headquarters beneath the church again. It’s…outdated though. I didn’t go.”

“You have been spending a lot more time at the agency,” he mentioned, stubbing out his smoke in the tiny metal tray of the Cadillac’s center console. “You ready to tell me what’s going on in that pretty head?”

“Don’t flatter me, Nick,” she playfully chastised, before shifting as her legs became restless. “We don’t have to cut the Railroad out as a point of contact, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He didn’t say anything, but the detective always had a certain look about him, a glimmer to his eyes when he knew there was more to the story being told. She sighed, staring back down at the typewritten note and continued. “I just…needed some time.”

Nick took a moment, glancing out the window to confirm that there had yet to be any movement on the building they were watching. Only then did he divert his full attention to her.

“I’ve been meaning to apologize,” he paused, waving his hand in protest when she went to interject. What did he have to say sorry for? “I overstepped some boundaries a few weeks ago, insinuated something I shouldn’t’ve between you and that Deacon fellow.”

Madelyn wasn’t upset with Nick, but hearing his words was somewhat comforting. Though, she was sure she would’ve been in her head about the situation regardless of the lighthearted teasing from her partner and his fiancé. She should be the one apologizing—for dragging her feet, for being distracted, for being stuck in the past. Nick wasn’t the only one she owed that to, but she didn’t dwell on that thought.

“My only hope is that one day, not tomorrow or even this year,” Nick said, treading lightly. “Is that you will be able to move on. It doesn’t have to be with the first handsome guy you meet that makes you smile, but you don’t deserve to live out the rest of your days alone. I don’t want to pretend to know what Nate would’ve wanted for you,” he hesitated, reaching over to place his hand over hers. The cold material of the prosthetic sent a shiver up her arm, but otherwise, his touch was comforting as always. “But this isn’t it.”

Madelyn knew that Nick was right—almost hated that he was. But she couldn’t be mad at his advice, or the mild-mannered way he delivered it. If she had been paying attention, he’d been gently nudging her towards this for months—the grieving counseling sessions, dinner parties, case work that had her interacting with all sorts of people. Her friend was doing the best he could to ensure she had all the opportunities to break out of the shell she had buried herself in for the past year, and for that she was grateful.

“I know,” she finally admitted, a truth that made her stomach uneasy. It was freeing, but the remorse still lingered. “Its tough Nick, to let people in. Not like before when I could trust everyone and anyone despite years of law school telling me otherwise,” she softly laughed, more to herself. “But now? I have my support group. I have my friends. To let anyone else in is dangerous, and to let anyone too close is foolish.”

She didn’t necessarily mean to think about a specific person—certainly not a certain Railroad agent who had stirred up these emotions within her in the first place—she tried to focus on the broader aspect of what Nick was stating.

“You’re right, but it’s so hard,” she steadied her breath so she wouldn’t break down in a fit of sobs like she had been doing so often in the last few weeks when she thought about her departed husband. Codsworth, her newly activated Mister Handy butler, wasn’t sure what to make of her outbursts. “I think of Nate, and the guilt is overbearing. It isn’t right—not when he’s dead, his killer still out there somewhere. I don’t get to move on like nothing happened.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Nick contended, calmly. He fidgeted, lighting up a new cigarette to calm his nerves, or perhaps get rid of the chill surrounding them from the snow outside the vehicle. “What I’m saying is that you should take one day at a time, just as you’ve been doing. Just—” he paused to exhale a small cloud of smoke, waving it away from her. “Be less afraid, especially when somebody dares to breach the walls around your heart.”

Madelyn let his words resonate with her and really settle in her mind. Ever since Nate’s death she had been taking life slowly, but at the cost of living a half-life. She wasn’t herself—hadn’t been for a long while—and even she knew it was well past a reasonable time to be wallowing in self-pity. Perhaps it would be okay to let her guard down, allow her personality to shine after months of fading to the background. She needed to do right by her husband’s memory and live—she couldn’t do that if she was constantly torturing herself. Finally, she nodded, signaling to her partner that she understood. More than that, she agreed.

“Speaking of the heart,” she deftly changed the subject, flashing a teasing grin. “Valentine’s Day is this Friday. Have any plans with Jenny?”

Nick smirked, anticipating nothing less from her. “If I didn’t have plans, it would be a disservice to the family name, don’t you think? Jenny would have me take her name at the registrar’s office.”

“Mr. Lands,” Madelyn snickered. “Lands’ Detective Agency,” she tested, imagining the flashing neon light that hung above the office door. “God Nick, we’re already suffering enough. We don’t need a name change to put a nail in the coffin.”

“Good thing I’ve got Friday in the bag then,” he smiled, without any indication he planned to indulge any details. “The future Mrs. Valentine won’t be disappointed.”

Rather than be jealous, she could only be happy for Nick and Jenny—two people that were so in love and so impeccably made for each other it was surprising they had waited so long to tie the knot. Madelyn was too close of a friend with both of them to feel anything but joy for their relationship, even when she had nobody to go home to after long nights on the job. Well, nobody except Dogmeat and Codsworth.

Maybe her time for happiness would come sooner, rather than later, if she allowed it.

“It’s late,” Nick spoke, interrupting her thoughts. He lifted the binoculars to take one last glance towards the Quincy police station, confirming there had been no further movement. “Time to call this a bust?”

Madelyn agreed. “Bust.”

February 14th, 1958

Madelyn could hear Bobby Darin playing on the radio from the kitchen as she sat at her vanity that morning, smiling to herself as she listened to Codsworth rummaging around and yammering on while he conversed with Dogmeat in the kitchen. A year ago, she would’ve never assumed she would one day find this aspect of her life normal or comforting, but now, she couldn’t imagine her apartment without the robot butler or German Shepard.

After three weeks, she had finally adjusted to having Codsworth activated, the Mister Handy robot proving to be convenient in more ways than one. At first, it was alarming at how devoted he was to serve her—anticipating her every need and hovering over her every action. Madelyn was appreciative, but being the independent woman that she was, set some ground-rules for the robot to follow so she wouldn’t feel so crowded or coddled in her own home. With some semblance of a routine, she felt her life taking shape once again—even if it seemed more suited for a television sitcom starring Betty White.

She had just finished adjusting her curls when there was a knock at the door, the sound echoing through the hall to her bedroom. Codsworth’s chipper voice resonated from the front room after a few mysterious clanks of her pots and pans. “I shall see who is at the door, mum!”

For a fleeting moment, she figured it must be Nick, there for an early morning visit on his way to the agency. They would typically car-pool to the Fens district throughout the week but as she glanced to her flip calendar on the table, she realized her partner had more important obligations—Valentine’s Day. That’s when her mind switched over and began running through the rather short list of possible visitors who would be at her door before eight on a Friday morning. Piper would’ve called first. Jenny was with Nick. MacCready didn’t know where she lived, neither did Hancock—at least she hoped that was true. Drummer Boy would’ve slipped a note under the door. Madelyn groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose at the possibility it was Deacon.

“Miss Madelyn!” Codsworth sounded confused as he called for her and she was already standing, tightly securing the tie of her silken robe around her body for decency’s sake before striding down the hall towards the living room. The robot was hovering before her open front door. “This man claims to be the milkman, but I do believe we’ve already received our delivery for the week. Is this another alteration to the schedule?”

It was definitely Deacon.

She sighed, rolling her eyes as she approached to stand next to Codsworth, if only to confirm what she already suspected. Bright smile, black hair styled up and of course—it wouldn’t be Deacon without his darkened shades. At least the milkman costume was a nice touch. She had to admit that the effort the man went through for an act was impressive, if not amusing.

“I get the feeling you’ve been avoiding me, Charmer,” he frowned, though she could tell he was bluffing.

Madelyn glanced to her Mister Handy unit, who—if she had gotten any better at reading the machine—appeared bewildered. “Codsworth, honey, what did I say about opening the door to strange men?”

“Oh! Right!” he exclaimed, raising his arms in defense. He moved so the bulk of his frame blocked her from Deacon’s view. “Shall I stick ‘em mum?”

She couldn’t contain her laughter, snapping a hand to cover her mouth at the sight of Codsworth hovering threateningly before Deacon, dressed in all-white with an equally entertained expression. She stepped closer, resting a hand against the robot’s cold metal frame. “That won’t be necessary, dear. I was only joking.”

“Are you to say you know this…milkman?” Codsworth questioned, before spinning his arms frantically as he moved back into the apartment on his way towards the kitchen. “Will he be joining us for breakfast? I will need to prepare another plate!”

Before she could interject or protest, Deacon was crossing the threshold with a beaming grin. He was carrying a metal basket just as a real milk deliveryman would and she wondered where he had managed to find such a convincing getup. Instead of white bottles rattling inside there was a brown packaged box and a small bouquet of flowers wrapped in parchment. Madelyn sidestepped around him to the door and contemplated asking him politely to leave but decided against being rude. She owed him a face-to-face conversation after so many weeks of silence.

“A Mister Handy unit?” Deacon spoke before she could, turning to face her. “I guess everybody needs a three-eyed metal husband.”

Madelyn snickered, glancing over to where Codsworth was balancing several tasks at once—eggs over the stove, coffee on the pot and bread in the toaster—all the while humming along to whatever song was filtering through the nearby radio. “Remind me to look into the legalities of marrying artificial intelligence. He may be flighty, but he knows his way around the kitchen.”

“You just haven’t had me cook you breakfast yet,” Deacon replied matter-of fact. He lifted the basket he carried, changing the subject before she could respond to his remark. “I come bearing gifts.”

She nodded towards the kitchen island, motioning for him to sit on one of the barstools while she circled to the other side. It was a calculated move, wanting to put as much space between them as possible for now. Deacon placed the box on the counter and nudged it towards her. “This is from Irma. Said she couldn’t believe you walked out last time without one.”

Madelyn opened the package to discover a freshly baked blueberry pie, the smell an instant trigger for her mind, sending her back to the brief visit within the Memory Den. At least that all but confirmed what she already suspected—that Irma worked for the Railroad in some capacity. Deacon tapped a few fingers against the empty plate set before him and she sighed before turning to rummage through a drawer for a pie-cutter. Facing away from him, she heard his small chuckle.

“That’s a delicate little number you’ve got on,” he commented. She wasn’t alarmed by his statement, almost expecting it—if anything, she was glad to hear the mirth in his tone as if their quickly formed dynamic hadn’t changed.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, watching as he poured two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice from the pitcher Codsworth had placed. “I wasn’t expecting a visitor.”

Deacon let out a low whistle. “Silk and lace says otherwise, Charmer.”

“Had to look nice for my metal husband on Valentine’s Day,” she joked, sliding up to Codsworth who was none-the-wiser. It was a shame the robot had a difficult time processing sarcasm. “Isn’t that right, honey?”

“Mum, I do hope you aren’t planning on spoiling breakfast by eating that pie,” he responded, ruining her act. The Handy unit returned to preparing their morning meal, crisping the bacon on the griddle pan. Dogmeat whined as he circled around the kitchen island, stopping to sniff at Deacon’s feet. He regarded the dog with a smile before lifting the second item from the metal basket, handing the flowers to her and swapping for the pie cutter.

Madelyn examined the bunch of white daisies mixed with blue forget-me-nots, inhaling their sweet scent as she looked over at him. He was cutting slices, ignoring the way Codsworth was peering at him with one, zoomed in eye. The significance of the flowers wasn’t lost on her—forget-me-nots—it wasn’t entirely subtle, even for Deacon. She searched through her cabinets for a vase, delicately arranging the stems and petals as she poured some water inside.

“Irma insisted I couldn’t show up to your place empty handed, given the holiday,” he explained. “As you can imagine, all the flower shops from North End to Cambridge were out of roses.”

She had a difficult time determining if he was being sincere, or if he had really gone through the effort. For all she knew, he could’ve bummed the bouquet off some unsuspecting fella on the street corner. Madelyn decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, thinking that he had scoured all the floral shops along the Charles River just for her sake.

“I prefer these,” she replied with a soft smile. He regarded her with a softer expression, though she would’ve liked to know what his eyes looked like behind the sunglasses. Madelyn had resigned herself to the simple fact that she likely never would and would have to guess that they were trained on her—it certainly felt that way, with how her skin tickled with goosebumps.

“Good,” he replied, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. Deacon poked at the slice of blueberry pie he had set on the plate before him with a fork, scooping up a generous bite. “One bite won’t hurt.”

It wasn’t until his arm started moving across the counter space that she realized what his intentions were, and she reflexively stepped back, bumping into Codsworth who was ready to serve their food. She scrambled to move out of the way, realizing the only place for her was the empty barstool next to Deacon. Reluctantly, she joined him on the other side, unable to ignore the way he was still holding the utensil out in offering with a ridiculous, expectant smile. Madelyn braced her nerves and reminded herself it could be another exercise in trust—a rather bizarre exercise—and leaned over the short distance, wrapping her lips around the fork to take the bite. To his credit, the blueberry pie was delicious and so was his momentarily shocked appearance—he hadn’t expected her to comply.

“Breakfast is served!” Codsworth interrupted their strange encounter with his announcement, metal arms whizzing around as he placed the steaming piles of food on the center counter.

The two served themselves, eating in a comfortable silence with the occasional sideways glance and shared smile. The robot continued to whirr as he floated around looking for a new task to attend to while Dogmeat successfully begged for bacon scraps at their feet. Madelyn quickly noticed how domestic the scene looked and felt, even with Deacon dressed up as some imposter milkman. Just like having the dog and the Mister Handy unit was abnormally normal, she felt a strange sense of calm with having the Railroad spy next to her. She wasn’t ready to confront what deeper emotions she possibly had whispering beneath the surface, but intuition told her it was time to stop running and let fate do its job.

“I’ll be honest,” she started, clearing her throat as she set her napkin down. “I may have been avoiding the Railroad.”

“So, it wasn’t just me?” Deacon teasingly asked. “Listen, I know our organization can be a handful, intimidating even. You haven’t even met the rest of the gang yet. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted out,” he paused, head turned towards her. “It’d be a damn shame though.”

“I participated in one job,” she replied. “If you could call me following you around underground in a sewer participation. How is that impressive in any way?”

“I’m easy that way,” he shrugged. “Dez calls the shots, not me. Even if I told her you were dead weight, which I wouldn’t dream of describing you as, she doesn’t seem ready to let you go so soon.”

Madelyn had to wonder just what Deacon had described her as to the Railroad leader. Probably something with too many adjectives while being overzealous and dramatic with hand-movements, if she had to guess. She focused on the important part—despite her radio silence, Desdemona wanted her to stay aboard.

“Is that why you’re here now?” she asked. “To check up on Agent Charmer? Bring me back into the fold?”

He waved a piece of crispy bacon at her, frowning. “Don’t sell my social calls so short. You won’t see me buying flowers for Drummer Boy.”

“Maybe he should invest in silk nightgowns,” she joked, snatching half the piece of meat from his hand.

He let out an airy chuckle while she chewed, eating the rest that he had before shaking his head. “Dez doesn’t know I’m here. She thinks I’m at Bunker Hill, working on setting up a meeting with one of our old contacts. I thought I’d see if my partner wanted to join in on the fun before I go.”

The fact he still considered her his partner after one Railroad outing was endearing. Madelyn still had her reservations, but she knew the organization deserved more than to be written off after one excursion. She softly laughed to herself. “What is with you guys and tourist traps?”

Deacon’s smile gradually increased. “What can I say? We’re a quirky, history loving bunch.”

“What’s the job this time?” she asked, curiously.

“Carrington asked me to find out if one our old Bunker Hill contacts, Old Man Stockton, was still in operation,” he began. “He was a big player back when we were moving people regularly in and out of the city. Now that we’re down on our luck, he’s gone back to his old line of work.”

“Under our current circumstances, we wouldn’t accept an escort job, but the Doc made it sound imperative the subject be moved as soon as possible,” Deacon explained further. “If Dez cleared it, then we’re in the green to proceed.”

Madelyn was astounded by the notion that they could and would help a person willingly disappear but figured an individual must be desperate to turn to an underground organization instead of vanishing on their own. She wanted to know more and the only way to do that was to go along with Deacon again.

“What do you say, Charmer?” he asked, one eyebrow arced high above his shades.

She nodded, flashing a tiny grin. “You’ve got yourself a partner, Deacon.”

He laughed, reaching over to clasp his hand on her shoulder as he brought her in for a quick, sideways hug. Madelyn was startled by the show of friendliness but didn’t express it, swiftly channeling her alarm into ease—she didn’t mind the warmth and feel of his hand on her at all—she actually liked it. He leaned away, fingers trailing across her back before withdrawing fully.

“You know,” he said in a sing-song way. “I noticed you don’t flinch away from physical contact. You aren’t shy. Unlike most people.”

“Most people are uncomfortable with the notion of physical touch, sure,” Madelyn agreed. It figured he had been studying her behavior. “I—I find it comforting.”

Deacon turned to her and she could feel his stare through the reflective shades. Heat spread through her chest the longer the silence stretched between them until his lips pulled up into a sideways smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

February 16th, 1958

On Sunday, Deacon returned to Madelyn’s apartment with a dead drop from Old Man Stockton, confirming the rendezvous point in which a face-to-face meeting would occur. They were to meet the Bunker Hill contact at the Cambridge Catholic Assembly church after dark, long after the parishioners had gone home for the day. The two had been sitting in the empty church for what felt like hours, occupying one of the last few pews while they waited for Stockton to arrive. Madelyn found herself distracted by the moonlight pouring in through the picture frame windows of the towering steeple, dumbfounded that once again she found herself in a place of worship. Just as she began reminiscing about Nate’s funeral service and the hymns the priest sung, she shut her eyes tight, blocking the memory from overpowering her thoughts.

Deacon’s gloved hand bumped against hers. “Charmer?”

“Tourist traps, churches,” she mused. “Why can’t it be amusement parks?”

“You don’t want to know who runs Nuka World,” he mumbled, fingers idly trailing along her wrist where her watch rested until she opened her eyes. “I didn’t expect it to take this long. If we’ve been had…”

“I hope not,” she replied, glancing down to confirm it was midnight. “At this rate, you’ll owe me breakfast.”

He grinned and nudged his shoulder against hers. “I did promise you I, didn’t I?”

The church’s front door squeaked open, interrupting the two from their banter and they stood to meet the approaching visitors. Two men, an older one dressed in a business suit and coat, the younger one dressed in shabbier denim with a winter jacket and cap. The older gentleman approached as the other stood back, looking anxious.

“Do you have a Geiger counter?” he asked, signaling the Railroad key phrase.

“Mine is in the shop,” Deacon replied in kind. “Stockton, good to see you. Carrington sends his regards.”

Stockton nodded, though he didn’t seem concerned with pleasantries as he observed their surroundings before gesturing to the younger man. “I won’t be long. This is Henry. Henry, these are the people I talked to you about,” he shifted towards the back window where a lantern was. “I’ll fire up the signal.”

Madelyn extended her arm to Henry. “Nice to meet you,” she offered politely. “You can call me…Charmer.”

The man nervously gripped her hand and shook it meekly. “Thank you.”

“Time for me to go,” Stockton stated, still scanning the church as if he was waiting for someone or something to jump out and discover them. “Keep Henry safe. Someone will be here shortly.”

He regarded Deacon with one last steely look before making a swift exit. Madelyn glanced to her partner in confusion, wondering if the Old Man’s departure was all part of the plan. He shrugged but didn’t appear nervous about the change—she’d never seen Deacon anything but calm and collected, anything to the contrary would be alarming. The three stood quietly, Henry continuing to keep his distance as the lantern burned in the window. At twelve-thirty, footsteps echoed outside the church, but the doors didn’t open right away. Madelyn and Deacon exchanged a quick glance and at the sound of more rustling, she withdrew her pistol from her handbag—she figured he might be carrying as well but insisted if either of them was going to brandish a weapon it was going to be the one with connections to the District Attorney’s office.

The two blocked Henry from sight as the large oak door finally creaked open and a figure shadowed by the night creeped in. Unable to determine if they were friend or foe, Madelyn trained her weapon, even if she wasn’t entirely convinced that she would be able to shoot. Upon noticing the group standing near the pews the intruder stopped dead in his tracks, raising his hands defensively.

“Don’t shoot!” he exclaimed before hesitantly taking a few steps closer. Under the dim lighting, she observed the man’s appearance closely—dark skin, warm brown eyes and a black hair shaved down to the stubble. Even though it was still blistering cold out, he seemed unbothered, wearing only jeans, a white t-shirt and a leather jacket with some laced-up Chucks. Even with a gun pointed at him, the man smiled. “Charmer, right?”

He flicked his gaze to her side but didn’t dare to move his arms. “And my man, Deacon. Still wearing sunglasses at night?”

Before her partner could react, she intervened. “Do you have a Geiger counter?”

“Right you are,” he responded, impressed. “Mine is in the shop. All good?”

Madelyn looked to Deacon who nodded, flashing a grin. “High Rise, it’s been a while.”

“Three months since I’ve seen your ugly mug,” High Rise laughed as they exchanged a firm but friendly handshake. He glanced over to Madelyn with cheeky smile as she made to place her pistol back into her purse. “So, this is Charmer? The one who helped with the Switchboard, while you sat on the sidelines.”

She shot a raised eyebrow in Deacon’s direction, but he only offered a sheepish shrug in return. She could only imagine the kind of fanatical stories he had been spreading about her while she had been away. High Rise continued, reaching his hand out to her. “Glad you joined the team.”

Madelyn reciprocated his handshake. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Honor’s all mine,” he replied before tilting his head to get a better look at Henry who had hunkered down in one of the pews. “How’s our friend doing?”

With all the attention suddenly focused on him, Henry slouched further back into the wooden seat. Madelyn took a few cautious steps closer, not wanting to startle him any further. “Are you alright?”

“Mister Stockton…he said I shouldn’t talk too much,” he replied in a shaky voice, eyes darting between the group of people standing. She sat down next to him, deciding to take a softer approach.

“Would you like to tell me what brought you here?” she asked, carefully. At his silence, she nodded, encouraging him. “You can trust us, Henry. We’ll protect you.”

He still seemed skeptical—lips twisted to the side as he avoided looking at any of them. “I—I need to get as far away from Boston as possible,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m afraid for my life.”

“What’s got you so spooked?” Deacon questioned.

Henry shook his head, remaining tightlipped. “If I say, you’d be in danger too.”

“We’re already helping you get out of the city,” High Rise pointed out the flaw in Henry’s resistance. “Might as well double down and let us know of any potential threats coming our way.”

Another moment of silence passed as Henry contemplated answering, fidgeting in the church pew. Finally, he breathed out, looking to Madelyn like a safe haven. “I witnessed a murder. Not just any murder. Last month, I was working as a dockhand on the Harbor when I saw the car pull up—”

Madelyn started adding up the details in her head and interrupted, nearly blurting out the words. “Johnny Montrano Junior?”

Henry’s eyes widened in shock and realization. “Y—yes, how do you know?”

“Some of us have day jobs,” Deacon assured, raising his eyebrows at Madelyn, silently reminding her to reel it in. “Nothing to worry about, we’re still the good guys.”

She nodded in agreement, desperately hoping he would believe them and continue. Henry took a deep breath before resuming his story. “It was late, and I was the last to leave the warehouse but when I saw the men and the guns I ran and hid behind some crates.”

“What did you see?” Madelyn asked.

What she wouldn’t give to have a tape deck to record his statements—she wondered if she’d ever be able to compel him to speak again, if she could ever track him down after he disappeared. Even with Deacon and High Rise as bystanders, a court would likely dismiss it as hearsay unless they heard it directly from the witness himself—probably why Henry wanted to leave Boston in the first place.

Henry shivered, eyes glossed over in memory. “Everything.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” High Rise spoke, signaling to the dwindling flame in the lantern. “But we shouldn’t hang around here. We can talk more once we get Henry to the safehouse.”

Madelyn’s wanted to argue but she instinctively knew that staying in the church wasn’t the safest choice. She stood, straightening the lines of her dark coat—Deacon had insisted she wear it so they could not only blend into the shadows but coordinate.

“Safe to assume Ticonderoga has been moved, right?” he asked, looking towards High Rise for the answer.

He nodded in answer. “If you drive, I can show you the way. It’s not far.”

Madelyn chose to sit in the backseat of Deacon’s Volkswagen with Henry, wanting to gleam more information about the night he witnessed Johnny Montrano’s murder. Deacon held the door open for her, closing it even though High Rise had yet to climb into the passenger seat and the two exchanged a laugh about it while she retrieved a notebook from her purse. The engine roared to life and slowly they drove away from the Cambridge church.

“So, you having fun yet, Charmer?” High Rise’s lighthearted tone caught her off guard. Beside her, Henry shifted uncomfortably. “With Deacon, I mean. Of all the people Dez could’ve paired a rookie with, you got stuck with—”

“Excuse me,” Deacon interrupted, turning down a street when High Rise directed him to. “We already have a group codename. The Big Sleep.”

High Rise chuckled. “You’re no Bogart.”

“That’s what I thought,” Madelyn announced, suppressing her laughter at Deacon’s offended gasp. At the next stop sign, he took a moment to glance over his shoulder at her, eyebrows raised. To her surprise, even Henry seemed momentarily amused by the group’s antics.

“Maybe James Dean,” High Rise offered with a hum. “I’m being generous with your age. And if you take the fake pompadour wig into play.”

Deacon grumbled, turning towards the other man with his lips in a straight line. Madelyn thought she would’ve been more surprised, but considering who High Rise was talking about, the revelation wasn’t all the shocking. It also explained why curiously, his eyebrows appeared too fair in color and why his hats never sat straight upon his head. A spy had his secrets, she supposed. Noting the stretch of silence, High Rise shifted, turning as much as possible to face Madelyn.

“Deacon may be a terrible liar, but it pays to have him on your side,” he stated.

Madelyn wondered about that, glancing up at the rearview mirror to catch a glance of Deacon’s reflection. Her own face was mirrored back in the flicker of his shades as he offered a tiny smirk. In the short time she had known him, he had offered up plenty of little white lies—nothing extravagant or harmful—and was evasive enough that she still considered him one giant mystery. Nonetheless, she trusted him, and the stunning realization sent a shockwave through her system.

“Another right up here,” High Rise announced.

Before she had a chance to collect her thoughts, Deacon had pulled the car along the curbside outside a tall, unlit building. She looked to Henry and the notepad in her lap, sighing in resignation—she’d have to ask her questions inside just as it was recommended earlier—there would be time, even if it took all night. High Rise exited the vehicle first, delight in his voice as he pointed up at the skyscraper.

“Home sweet home,” he announced before turning back to lean against the roof, looking in at Deacon and Madelyn. “All in a night’s work for you agent types, huh?”

She smiled. “Just part of the service.”

“I think I’m going to like you even more than Glory,” High Rise responded, cheekily.

Deacon twisted his body, arm slung over the seat to face her and Henry and seemed poised to say something when the car was flooded with light from an advancing vehicle. It parked on the curb behind them and a few moments later, the headlamps went dark as the engine died. Immediately, Madelyn was on edge.

“We were followed,” Henry was quick to assume, scrambling to try and remove himself from the car.

Even though she had difficulty seeing through his glasses, she could tell Deacon had his eyes trained on the other vehicle and the person behind the wheel. From her angle, she couldn’t tell what the immediate danger was. In the quiet, they heard a car door open and close. Minutes passed before the echo of footsteps followed in the opposite direction of where they were. Instead of relief, Deacon tensed, his arm reaching out for her before waving towards High Rise.

“Get Charmer out of here.”

Madelyn didn’t have time to be afraid as High Rise hauled her out of the backseat with little decorum, encouraging her to run in the other direction as he rushed to help Henry. She ran as fast as her heels would allow through the soft blanket of snow, panic building in her chest at the fear of the unknown. For a split second she hesitated, looking back over her shoulder to see how much distance she had made when a faint click echoed across the quiet plaza. At the same time, Deacon was in front of her, his body meeting hers in a swift collision as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, toppling them both to the ground. They were propelled forward by a large explosion—though Madelyn wasn’t sure what had happened until she was flat on the icy gravel, her head pounding and ears ringing from the lingering sound.

Deacon was still perched over her, resting half his body weight atop her as he shielded her from the distant smoke and flames. Madelyn blinked hard, adjusting her vision before realizing that his sunglasses were askew. Even in the dark of night she could see the faintest hint of what was underneath, and her heart skipped a beat. Blue. With trembling hands, she reached up, pushing them back into place.

His lips twisted into a small, sideways smirk. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Reality sunk in as he rolled away, the two slowly leaning up to survey the damage. It was clear that the second vehicle had been planted with a bomb, set with a remote trigger and detonated by the mysterious driver. Deacon’s car was practically destroyed, and from where Madelyn was, she couldn’t see Henry or High Rise. But the devastation and intent was evident—they had been followed. The Railroad had been targeted again.

Ticonderoga Safehouse had just gone up in flames.

#fallout 4 #fallout au #deacon x f!solesurvivor #madelyn hardy #deacon #nick valentine #codsworth #this chapter has some of my favorite codsworth lines ever #more banter and EXPLOSIONS #also more slow burn #some canon dialogue is used here #boston after dark questline but noir

20 notes · View notes

trivialqueen · 5 years

Text

Here’s the next section of that original story.

As always, I’m neither a doctor, nor British. I’m just a girl who fancies herself a writer and likes slow burns, smart women, and tall men.

St. Sebastian’s was a world class hospital with some of the worst aesthetics he’d ever seen. The exterior was in an uninspired brutalist style. The interior had been remolded several times since the early 1960s, but only ever with an eye toward function and technology, never design or comfort. The cardiothoracic ward, known as Harvey, was as bland as the rest of the hospital, but with the extra unattractive feature of ghastly aqua accents throughout. As if that was a substitute for style. Felix leaned against the nurses’ station, feigning interest in a chart. It had been over a week since his introduction as Director of Surgery. In the subsequent ten days his true role in the hospital had spread like, well, gossip in a hospital. He’s the Dread Pirate Roberts here for your jjjoooobbb!! The rumors were absolutely true, but he didn’t want to let that on. To make an accurate assessment of viability and redundancies he needed to see the hospital in action, not performance. Changes were only as good as their usefulness and longevity. So whenever possible he preferred to observe as inconspicuously as a man of his height could. This tended to involve a lot of pretending to read and “sneaking”.

Even if he wasn’t half secretly overseeing a major shakeup in the hospital, being the Director of Surgery meant he bounced from ward to ward far more than his colleagues did. Which was how he found himself on Harvey that afternoon. He appreciated the challenges that this brought, it tested and stretched diagnostic muscles he’d not used since deciding a specialty, but it also ate into his time as a surgeon. He’d accepted a more administrative position as it was the next logical career move, but in his heart, he was a doctor first and foremost, a bureaucrat a distant second. His pantomime reading of one of Paul Elliot’s old transplant cases was interrupted by a sandy haired teen with a strong Belfast accent.

“It’s ma Dad, he needs help.” A quick survey of the room told him two things: one, no one was collapsed on the floor, meaning the Dad in question was already a patient in a bed, and two, none of the CT consultants, or even a registrar, were in the immediate vicinity. The boy was talking to him.

“Who’s his consultant?”

“Ms. Hale.” The boy fairly spat.

“Then I suggest you wait for her.” She was likely doing something maverick and self-righteous, but he had no doubts she’d be back.

“She doesn’t know a damn thing what she’s doing! She’s done like fifteen tests on ma Dad and all she says is ‘wait and see’. Now you tell me to wait! I’m sick of waiting. He’s in pain, real pain.”

“Alright.” He could at least do something about the pain, if nothing else.

Sofia Grace Hale had a scrivener’s hand, surprising for a doctor. It was large, round, looping, and very legible, unlike his own tight, scratchy scrawl. ‘Abdominal pain’ jumped out from the meticulous notes. Most of Mr. Patrick Baxter’s ailments were CT related and not necessarily caused by his MS– the dilated aorta first among them. Ms. Hale was undoubtable chasing all of their causes and symptoms, but the abdominal pain… well he could check on that. It would also make the teen happy, hopefully, if he could even answer one question.

“Mr. Baxter, my name is Felix Magnusson, and I’d like to do a few tests regarding your abdominal pain, I’ll be arranging for your transfer to our general surgery ward, St. Irene’s.”

Ms. Hale’s red tassel earrings matched her lipstick and made her double take particularly dramatic as she passed Mr. Baxter, his son Kevin, and the porter taking them to the third floor.

“Where are you taking Mr. Baxter?”

“Down to Irene.” Her coffee colored eyes widened and that fire he’d seen during their first meeting began to smolder. She had eyes that could lead a man to hell. Perhaps one day she might look at him without an indignant flame in her gaze. But until then he would warm himself by the fire in her eyes.

“What?”

“He needs an ultrasound.”

“Why isn’t he having one here?” She crossed her arms under her breast as she glared up at him. Even in her high heels her head only came to about his shoulders. To keep eye contact she was forced to crane her neck slightly. Which she did, pale throat exposed, creating a lovely long line down her neck to her décolletage, where he resolutely refused to look, no matter how tempting.

“There seems little point in taking up a CT bed when his problem is clearly GS related.”

“Clearly GS related? The worst pain is in his chest, and the echo shows a dilated aorta.”

“I’ve read your notes. He also has severe abdominal pain. So, what’s your diagnosis?”

She wanted to scream. That arrogant bastard. That absolute arschloch. ‘What’s your diagnosis?’ like she was a bloody F1. God, his tone. ‘Was ist deine diagnose?’ It was that same clipped, ‘I don’t think you have this in you’ tone her clinical skills lead at Tübingen had taken with her. Except he was speaking English. And she wasn’t a F1 anymore. She was a consultant, goddamnit.

(The worst part was, of course, the fact she didn’t have a diagnosis. Not yet anyway, and that uncertainty made her feel even more like a bloody first year all over again. ‘Was ist deine diagnose?’ ‘Keine Ahnung.’)

“I’ve ruled out ischemic heart disease but I’m still waiting on his blood pressure.”

“That is not a diagnosis.” Her eyes flamed beautifully. Her temper was quick and exquisite.

“I’m well aware! As I said, I’m waiting on his test results.”

“The patient was admitted thirty-six hours ago, and you don’t have a diagnosis yet. Surly a change of tact can only assist in figuring this out.” He cocked a brow, his supreme confidence in his own ability shining in his eyes, the quirk of his lips. He took a step closer to her, forcing her head back further, as if he wanted to force her to look away. She wouldn’t. She’d hold her ground and his gaze, even if meant he put her in Anuvittasana to do it. She could catch a whiff of his aftershave, something with sandalwood in it. He smelled of it, hospital, fresh laundry, and perhaps faintly, of old books.

“Is it common elsewhere to steal other consultants’ patients? Or is this because you think you know everything?” He stared at her a moment, tongue moistening his thin lips before he spoke.

“We are both consultants, are we not?” He could see her hands flexing at her side, as if she was thinking about strangling him, and he could taste her anger, capsaicin hot.

“Yes.” She spat out from between cayenne colored lips.

“then surly Mr. Baxter can be our patient. Now let me see what I can learn about the GS part of our current problem, hm?” And with that patronizing hum in his throat he left. Left her in the hallway struggling to keep from screaming, her breath coming in choppy, short burst.

She really did not like that man.

He heard her before he saw her, the determined click of spike heels on linoleum making the announcement: Gird your loins. The moment Mr. Baxter was back from his ultrasound she was at his bedside, chart in hand.

“Your blood pressure is constantly going from high to normal-”

“Of course, it is Love, you keep bothering me. Now, I don’t wanna be rude…” His tone suggested otherwise as his gaze raked down her body, coming to rest on her legs with appreciation. “I’ve lived with this condition for fifteen years; you’re not going to tell me anything I don’t already know.” She did have stunning legs, but that did not give the man the right to stare like that. Felix could feel his jaw tighten as he watched patient and consultant converse.

“Right, Jeyne, I’d like to do a blood culture and another echo, please.”

“Love, you’re not listening to me. You’re wasting your time running these bloody tests.” Ms. Hale was very clearly listening to the man, her back was visibly tense from across the room, spine straight and hard as steel. She gave him a curt nod and walked away, his eyes following her with a lascivious grin spreading across his face. He caught her eye as she brushed past him down the hall, for once that burning anger wasn’t directed at him. Once the click-click of her heels was out of earshot he released the breath he’d not realized he’d been holding. The glower he knew he wore, however, remained.

The ward was mostly dark as he made his final rounds for the evening. Meetings had taken up most of his afternoon, bowel resection aside, and had pushed any patient follow ups or paperwork into late in the evening. Most of the residents on the ward were asleep, with a few readings or playing on their devices, providing patches of light throughout the otherwise dim floor. Mr. Baxter was asleep, looking almost peaceful. He snagged the man’s file and retreated to the better lighting of the nurses’ station.

“She said I could sit here.” The voice almost startled him, if he was the sort to be startled. Kevin Baxter sat at the nursing station, text book and papers spread about him in messy piles. Felix felt his fingers twitch, itch to straighten them up, keep them from jumbling together or with anything important still on the desk.

“Who did?”

“Sister Jacobs. Gotta do my homework somewhere.” He held up a battered German language primer.

“Ah! Sprichst du Deutsch?”

“Ich verstehe nur Bahnhof.” He could only smile at his response. There was always something deliciously ironic about complaining that one did not speak the language in idioms of the language.

He’d learned Latin at his father’s knee, and learned it perfectly, for his father would not have settled for anything less. It was both his personality and his profession, as a professor of classics and philologist. English had come quickly in school and become his primary language when at ten he’d been sent to boarding school. He’d learned French first, having tested out of the Latin classes, followed shortly by German. At the time French had been the easier language to pick up, but after quickly realizing that speaking it frequently would require interacting with the French, he’d not pursued it beyond conversational. His mastery of German had been improved tremendously the year he spent in Heidelberg but since his return to the UK it had fallen by the wayside, reading skills aside. He still enjoyed keeping up with his former colleagues’ research. He now also had a stack of publications by S.G. Hale sitting on his desk to peruse.

“Deutsche Sprache, Schwere Sprache.”

“Ja, und ich mag es nicht. Es ist eine mean, hateful Sprache.”

“If you need help, Ms. Hale is a fluent German speaker, she went to school there.” The boy pulled a face. “Do you always work at night?” He was not interested in hearing the boy complain about one of the hospital’s more talented surgeons because his father had a particularly difficult case to diagnose; sifting out preexisting MS symptoms from the new ones, causes still unknown.

“It’s the only time we get any peace, when he’s asleep. Then it’s like everything’s… dunno, normal, I guess, whatever that means.” He sounded so old for one so young. Felix followed the boy’s eyes as they rested on his father, who was still resting as peacefully as one could in a hospital bed. I could not be easy for either of them, as far as he could tell there was no one else in the Baxter household at the moment except Patrick and Kevin. Being primary caretaker and a teenager was no easy task. “It’s become secondary progressive, hasn’t it?” His jaw clenched.

“What makes you say that?”

“Cuz it’s obvious,” The boy said in that way that only teenagers could. “The migraines, the flashing before his eyes, the coughing like he’s got consumption, the going crazy mad for no reasons.” Felix felt his body tense. This was new information. Important and new. Given how consistently condescending and rude he’d been to Ms. Hale while simultaneously ogling her admittedly very fine legs and even better backside, he’d assumed the man had always had a bad temper. That it was a personality trait, not a symptom.

“He’s not always had a temper?” His mind buzzed with new connections.

“Just lately. Why?”

“Do your homework.” The Baxters might complain about excessive tests but he was fairly confident the next two would provide all the answers they needed.

She was too old for this shit. Sofia Grace did her best to stifle a yawn before going to speak to Mr. Baxter. She’d been up entirely too late trying to figure out his diagnosis, but she’d finally made one. It was a pity that as her vice of choice, she’d developed a tolerance to caffeine so high that the amount necessary to actually keep her awake would also, quite possibly, kill her. But given how Mr. Baxter rankled her with his distain and condescension she knew that her blood would undoubtedly be pumping in now time. Straightening her blouse, she approached his bed, Kevin had already left for school it seemed.

“Good morning, Mr. Baxter. My sincerest apologies for it taking so long, but I think I’ve come up with an explanation for your symptoms.”

“No need, Love, really.” It was a dismissal but not nearly as rude as his usual attitude.

“Sorry?” In fact, he looked rather resigned.

“Catecholamine.” A baritone voice in her ear supplied. Sofia Grace felt herself jump out of her skin. She wheeled around. There, standing in her personal space was Felix Magnusson. Tall as ever, as immovable as a brick wall, and radiating a warmth from his chest that made the rest of the room feel chilly. She’d had no idea he was on the ward, let alone able to stand directly behind her.

“What?”

“I’ve explained it all to Mr. Baxter already,” He continued on, as efficient as ever, pulling out a CT scan from its large brown envelope with flourish. “It accounts for all the symptoms and really, it’s blindingly obvious when you really think about it. I feel a little ashamed for not realizing sooner.” He held the scan out in front of her, he was so close to her back and his arms were so long that she only needed to lean back slightly into his chest to see what he was looking at. “Textbook Pheochromocytoma.” There was indeed a tumor on the adrenal gland and up into the chest cavity, partially around the diaphragm. The pain, headaches, palpitations, elevated heartrate and blood pressure… all the signs and symptoms. The dilated aorta was a problem, but not related to the other symptoms. It really was a general surgery problem, Hurensohn! He lowered his arm but didn’t step back from her.

“So, what do we do now?” It was the first time the man in the bed had looked up at her with anything other than contempt.

“Well,” his MS did complicate things, he wasn’t wrong when he’d asserted that. They’d have to determine if he was fit for surgery, speak with the neuro and physio specialists, get a theatre slot if he was determined fit or wait longer if he wasn’t.

“There’s a procedure. We have a slot in theatre this morning.” She did step away from him then. They needed to have a discussion, now. And it couldn’t be in front of Patrick Baxter. Her fingers itched to grab him by the tie (burgundy silk against a pale blue shirt and navy suit) and tow him away from the bed.

“Mr. Magnusson, could I have a word?” Keeping her tone light and professional was a challenge. They’d only worked together for two weeks and Sofia Grace wasn’t entirely certain she hadn’t developed a twitch in that time.

“Just a moment, Ms. Hale.” He didn’t quite hand wave her away, but it was close. God grant me the strength to deal with condescending men. “There’s a theatre slot this morning; would you like us to call your son?” Magnusson was hard to read, but this look was particularly inscrutable.

“No, not till after. If that’s possible. He’s got a maths test today and doesn’t need more worry than he’s already got.” Ever so slightly the lines around his eyes and mouth relaxed as he studied the man in the bed.

“Mr. Magnusson, if you don’t mind?” It took some effort to steer him away, mostly with herself to keep from grabbing him by the tie to do it. Instead a firm hand on his elbow did the trick, only making her feel slightly like a tiny tugboat, although instead of bringing a Nordic cruise ship out to sea, she was dragging a Swedish surgeon over to the light box.

“You’re just assuming he’s fit for surgery!” She hissed.

“The Neuro and Physio specialists seem to agree with me.” He hung the scan on the viewer, turned it on, and then reached into his breast pocket for his glasses. Resolutely not looking at her.

“So, let me get this straight,” Sabrina had suggested that he wasn't awful, but she’d just let him get under her skin. And then he did shit like this. “You talked to Stewart and Noah before you talked to me about our patient?” He ignored her. Outright.

“If you’re still concerned, let’s get a second opinion.” He turned and spotted Griffin Richards walking across the ward, cup of coffee in one hand, a stack of files in the other. Sofia liked Griffin; he was an excellent GS surgeon with a flair for the upper GI. He was committed to helping people and passionate about the NHS. Patients came first and she’d only ever seen him play politics to that end. He was a good colleague, even if his personal life was a bit of a shambles. Discreetly she peeked at his hands, no wedding band this morning. So, he was on the outs with his wife this week.

“Ah, Mr. Richards, would you be so kind as to act as arbitrator?” He waved Griffin over politely.

“For what?” He asked, giving Magnusson a wary look but gifting her with a warm smile. He was a handsome and charming man; it was easy to see how he got his wife. It was only a shame that it didn’t seem like he was able to keep her.

“Pheochromocytoma on the adrenal gland that has attached itself to the diaphragm.” Magnusson used the ear piece of his glasses to point to the tumor.

“Mr. Magnusson seems keen to slice and dice, despite the fact the patient has MS.”

“And you would do what exactly, Ms. Hale? Key hole through the chest?” It was a valid option, but he said it as if he might have said, “Try crystal healing?” Griffin put on his own glasses and studied the scan quietly for a moment, sipping his coffee.

“Well if it were my patient, given the position of the tumor, I would suggest you and I operate together.” Another smile, this one less charming as he’d just sold her out. Magnusson was smiling as well, thin lipped and smug as hell.

“And there’s our answer,” he tapped the scan with his glasses, “a CT/GS collaboration, as I was saying. Thank you, Mr. Richards. I’ll see you on the ice, Ms. Hale.” And with that he walked off. Just like that. Sofia knew she was gawping, but she couldn’t help it, the arrogance of the man left her speechless.

Dieser Arschgesicht!

Well, perhaps not entirely…

Ms. Hale was already at the sink when he arrived for surgery. She was in pale blue scrubs today, unlike the wine-colored ones he’d first met her in, her dark curls covered by her floral cap. She didn’t look up at him as she scrubbed her hands but gave him a slight nod as he took the faucet next to her to begin his own cleansing ritual.

“I have reasons for wanting to do a keyhole procedure on Mr. Baxter, it’s not just a ‘CT’ thing or whatever you seem to think. If we do keyhole-”

“We’re doing this open procedure, Ms. Hale.”

“But there’s a risk of-”

“The theatre is set up.” Her cayenne lips pursed into a stubborn line. Her face was already so expressive, but with her mouth painted bright red it was impossible not to look at her lips. They were full, with a cupid’s bow, and clearly holding back several things she’d like to say. Her eyes said them for her, sparking as she gave him a last look before heading off to get her gown and gloves on. If she was half as dynamic of a surgeon as she was as a woman this was going to be quite the operation.

Perhaps it was because she had a scalpel in her hands, but Magnusson was at least inclined to follow her instructions while they were in theatre. He retracted when asked, clamped where she needed him to clamp and generally stayed out of her way as she dealt with Mr. Baxter’s diaphragm. She also didn’t need to look up from her work to know that he was watching her every move with a critical eye.

“Enjoying your foray into Cardiothoracics?” He’d declined the suggestion of background music, leaving nothing to fill the silence except for either one’s thoughts or small talk. And Sofia Grace never much liked being alone with her own thoughts.

“Believe it or not, I was not considering my life lacking in any way for not spending time playing with people’s hearts. What is it about CT surgeons thinking the heart is the only organ in the body?” She’d meant it as small talk, a reference to the fact he was currently assisting her. But nope, he was gunna be an ass about this too. Jesus H. Christ and a windmill full of corpses what is his problem?!

“To be fair, it is kinda important.” He didn’t look up and neither did she as she finished off the last stitch she needed, and they could transition from the more CT oriented to GS oriented surgery.

“It likes to think that, certainly.” He said, picking up a scalpel. “Whereas the kidneys just get on with their job, filtering toxins out and letting the body function. Efficient, beautiful, and secure enough in themselves that they don’t need to shout about it.” Normally she would argue that picking a favorite or most important body part was a stupid endeavor. Most of the organs in the body were necessary and linked together in ways that pulling one out of the system without compensating for it would lead to problems in a variety of other areas. There was no one organ that was better than any other body part, there was only what needed to be dealt with immediately or later to ensure quality of life.

This being said, if he was just going to talk shit because he had some weird hang-up about CT surgeons, she’d double down for the heart. (It was her favorite organ, even if picking favorites was stupid).

“So indispensable you can lose one and still survive.”

“Hack a piece of kidney off and it’ll just grow back,” He picked up a scalpel, “the minute the heart breaks it becomes a useless piece of tissue. And then of course there’s the fact we can now replace a faulty heart with a machine the size of a cigarette packet.” He shot her a look over the top of his glasses before he started cutting, she could almost see the smug smirk behind his surgical mask.

“And in some cases, Mr. Magnusson, it seems as if people can survive without any heart at all.” She met his eye steadily, arching one brow defiantly. He stared at her for a moment. Somewhere behind her, someone sounding a lot like Dan Flannery whispered, “Ooo burn.”

“We need to keep moving.” He muttered awkwardly, getting back to the task at hand.

A hit, a very palpable hit.

They worked in silence after that, only the beeps and pings of the machines and occasional request breaking up the quiet.

“BP is plummeting.” Magnusson reported calmly. This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to do open surgery in the first place.

“If we had gone with the keyhole procedure-”

Which we did not so I fail to see the usefulness of that comment.” He snapped, voice cold and quick and sharp. Brooking no retort.

“We did not go with the keyhole procedure because you decided that we shouldn’t, not because we mutually agreed this method. You decided what was best for this procedure, without listening to my reasons, I might add.”

“I am trying to concentrate, Ms. Hale, if you don’t mind?” Out of respect for Mr. Baxter she bit back the rest of what she wanted to say. At least for the moment.

“It’s funny that of all the words to get lost in translation, partners, seems to mean nothing to you.” Mr. Baxter was now Pheochromocytoma free and on his way back to bed for his recovery.

“What?” Magnusson looked at her sideways as she began washing her hands beside him at the sink. Thoroughly washing her hands gave her something to focus on while she tried to find the right words. There were so many things she wanted to say. Most of them rude. But as therapeutic she’d find it to smash his face in and curse him out, it wouldn’t change what she needed to have changed. Word on the street was he would be staying at Saint Seb’s for the foreseeable future, she needed to play the long game, not for immediate gratification.

“In addition to unilaterally deciding on the method of today’s surgery without consulting me, your CT specialist for this surgery and Co-consultant. You also figured out some significant information about our shared patient and did not tell me.” He stopped washing his hands to stare at her, hands raised slightly, allowing the soap and water to drip down his long forearms to the floor. “No, instead, you went straight to the patient himself and explained everything, leaving me in the dark, and then looking like a complete ass with my dick in the wind trying to discuss his condition without the full picture. To compound this, you swoop in and make me look even more stupid in front of our patient. A patient who already had limited regard for my expertise and position as a Doctor.” She turned the faucet off with her elbow and flicked the excess water from her hands into the sink with a flourish before turning to face him. He was staring at her intently, square jaw working but his mouth wisely closed.

“You complain that I make arrogant, rash decisions and that surgeons who make decisions for their own ends are a menace. Next time you work with me, you either keep me in the loop and treat me as an equal or find someone else to handle your heart.” She didn’t wait for his response, instead she grabbed a towel from beside him and brushed past, leaving him alone in the scrub room.

#Cait writes #Hospital Romance Drama #original fiction #Sofia Grace is Chaotic Good chaffing under Lawful Good Rules

1 note · View note

deadlydagger · 6 years

Text

TWO CRAZY STORIES

THE CHECKPOINT OF DOOM

The first item has to do with my daughter, Kate. At the time of this story, she was old enough to drive but not old enough to own a car. So I had purchased a car for her to have transportation but we had to put the car in my name due to her age. I don't remember exactly how old she was at this time. Nevertheless, her driver license had expired and she kept putting off getting it renewed. So she was about 90 days or more past her birth date, which required her to renew her license. She continued to drive without a license and kept putting off getting it renewed.

I was concerned that, because she was driving effectively without a license, her insurance might become invalid because she was unlicensed at the time that some negative occurrence would take place. So finally, I put my foot down and told her that she had something like 48 hours to renew her license or I was going to pull the keys to her car, depriving her of the ability to get around. She followed up on this right away and did have her license renewed. Necessity is the mother of invention, definitely in this case.

I was having some difficulty with my business at this time. Kate suggested that we get out of town and go up to Lake Erie where we can stay at Kate's mother's house as her mother was out of town. I was reluctant at first but finally realized that Kate was correct; that I really needed to get away and this would be a nice respite. So we left for the weekend and had a very nice relaxing few days.

On Saturday night, we went out to have a nice dinner. There is a famous ice cream store in Sandusky where we all tried to go anytime we were there. So we decided after dinner that we would go there for a treat. As we traveled towards the ice cream store, we saw that a sobriety checkpoint was beginning to be set up along the route.

A sobriety checkpoint has two purposes: publicize its existence in an attempt to alert the community that it was in danger of being arrested if they drove their cars while under the influence; second, arrest those who were ensnared in the checkpoint if they appeared to be under the influence. In my law practice, I litigated many cases in which we attacked the constitutional compliance with sobriety checkpoints. The court system had laid out specific requirements to be complied with in order to meet constitutional muster. Therefore, I was quite familiar with the process and recognized it immediately when I saw the checkpoint was preparing to be put in place.

Even with my prior experience litigating these checkpoint issues, every time I went through a checkpoint, I found it to be quite intimidating. Since I am a teetotaler, I never had any concern about my sobriety level but, when I had entered a checkpoint at any time, I started to be concerned about having some defect in my car that would result in its impoundment or something similar. In addition, my advice to clients, should they find themselves in a checkpoint, to be extremely polite and compliant with anything the law enforcement people wanted them to do. In other words, "yes sir" or "no sir" was the plan of the day in a checkpoint.

As we saw that a checkpoint was being set up, I told Kate that we would use a different route to get back home after we got our ice cream. That way we would not be caught up in the checkpoint. I then asked her if she had ever gone through a sobriety checkpoint. After she advised me that she had not, I suggested that we go through it just so she will be prepared to deal with it if she should ever be faced with one in the future.

After finishing our ice cream, driving back home, we decided to go through the checkpoint. As I previously indicated, there are certain requirements that must be complied with in order for a checkpoint to be valid. As we got closer to the checkpoint and entered into it, I noticed some major deficiencies in the way it was constructed. I advised Kate what some of these problems were although we assumed that its legality was a nonstarter since neither one of us had anything to drink.

As we proceeded through the checkpoint, it was still light but the local police, County Sheriff's, state highway patrolman, and other law enforcement personnel were lined up in jackboots fashion, body armor, helmets, and flashlights. Traffic was moving quite slowly and we finally were sitting dead stop in the checkpoint. A deputy sheriff approached the car and asked us if we had been drinking. We both indicated that we had not. Of course, he was flashing his light in the car to illuminate the inside to see if there appeared to be any contraband inside. Everything was fine so the deputy authorized us to proceed.

We said thanks but still could not move until some of the traffic ahead of us got going. So while we were still sitting there, I advised the deputy that I was a lawyer, knew all about checkpoints, and advised him that this checkpoint had failed miserably with respect to constitutional compliance. He responded that he did not have anything to do with setting it up, he was simply a checker. I acknowledge that he was not at fault and got ready to move when he said that since we were still sitting there, he would like to take a look at my license. I knew he was going to check my record which was a legitimate inquiry; so I gave him the license and then told him that he was going to get a report of the most perfect record anywhere.

He contacted a dispatcher and then gave my license back to me and told me that we could proceed. At this point, the traffic ahead of us had moved out so we had clear sailing through the rest of the checkpoint. As we got to the end point of the checkpoint, an officer jumped in front of my car, ordering me to stop. I rolled down my window and told him that we had already been checked and we were authorized to go. He responded by saying that now the deputy that I had previously dealt with was calling the other police to tell me to stop. He then told me to pull over into a shopping center parking lot. As I did so, I tried to figure out how I could respond to whatever attack awaited me after I got parked.

I typically advised clients to refuse to take a breath test because I did not trust their validity. However, in this situation, any breath test should come up with a perfect zero in my case. On the other hand, did the deputy have some way of tampering with the machine so that it would show a positive result? But if I refused to take the test to protect myself against a faulty result, I would automatically have a suspended license right on the spot. Before I really had a chance to think this through thoroughly, the deputy that I had initially dealt with approached my window.

I rolled down the window and prepared myself to face the music, whatever it may be. He had a shoulder microphone, which he spoke into, asking a dispatcher to repeat what she had told him earlier. A female voice responded stating very clearly that my driver’s license had expired two months earlier on my birthday. In other words, I am driving without a license, a 1stdegree misdemeanor, punishable by six months in jail and/or a $1000 fine. Of course, with my otherwise very clean record, neither of those penalties would be that severe. The most critical issue was that I was out of town and could not continue to drive my car. The deputy then asked Kate whether she had a license. She, of course, answered in the affirmative and the deputy, after verifying her license, said that she would have to drive.

By this time, I was sweating bullets. Because, had I not demanded that Kate renew her license a few days before, both of us would be out of town in Sandusky without license to drive a car. This would mean that my car would be impounded and I would not be able to retrieve it until I somehow got to a Bureau of Motor Vehicles registrar to renew my license. I would have to wait until Monday to do that, and then retrieve my car, before I could drive home to Columbus. Needless to say, a nice weekend would have been shot down big time.

So Kate took over, we had a nice weekend, and she drove me very nicely back home on Sunday afternoon. The reason this turned out to be kind of a crazy situation was because I had demanded legal compliance of her while I did not please the same imprimatur on myself and, further, I violated each and every rule that I had instructed all of my clients for many, many years to comply.

The aftermath is that, when they set the case down for hearing in Sandusky, I contacted the prosecutor by phone, pled my case, told her nicely that I thought the checkpoint was defective, she agreed with me and dismissed the case. Apparently, some other lawyers had complained so she was aware that she would have some difficulty making the case.

A RUMBLE IN HONG KONG

Roy Henley and John Stack were two sailors that worked for me on my ship, the USS Taussig, DD 746. They were third class gunner’s mates but their most important role was to handle the helm when we were going in and out of port and when we were refueling at sea. The reason being that the movement of the ship in those situations was critical, staying exactly on course and also maintaining a specific speed. These two men were the best I had in that position.

Unfortunately, as great as these guys were in carrying out their responsibilities, they were a couple of roughnecks who were always getting in fights when they went ashore. Time and again, they ended up in the brig and we were lucky to get them out in time for us to set sail for our next mission. At one point, they didn't make it and we lost them permanently. The fact that I did not have them for helm duty almost resulted in a catastrophe when we had a close call, just missing crashing into a carrier.

When Henley and Stack would get arrested, they would be on some sort of report and would be called to a "Captains Mast" which was like a kind of trial before the captain of the ship. Countless times I had to accompany them to the Capt.'s quarters, vouching for their exceptional abilities. At each one of these times, I would give them a serious dressing down, inquiring why they always had to get in fights when they were ashore. They would always have an explanation as to why they really could not resist getting into a fight. I would always tell them to save it for someone who was sympathetic to their cause. I would tell them that they could always walk away and that's what they needed to learn to do.

As a naval officer on a destroyer, I had two trips to the Western Pacific, one in April to December, 1963 and the second one in December, 1964 to June, 1965. Many ships were tied up in the Hong Kong harbor when the several opportunities that we had to go there for what we called rest and recreation. In some ports, our ship would tie up to a dock but in Hong Kong, we would tie up to a buoy out in the harbor and then would be transported from the ship to the shore and back by small boats or water taxis.

In 1963, our visits to Hong Kong were somewhat uneventful. Not so much when we were there again in 1965. When we arrived there in 1965, we received a security briefing, which indicated that there were a number of bars or saloons that should be avoided. A few years before this, a movie had come out that was quite popular: its title was "The World of Susie Wong" starring William Holden and Nancy Kwan.

There were two bars that contained the name Susie Wong. One bar was actually entitled The World of Susie Wong. The second one was simply entitled Susie Wong's Bar. One of these bars, which one I do not remember, was off-limits. My friends and I had dinner somewhere in Hong Kong and then ended up in the off-limits Susie Wong bar.

I was with two other officers, my roommate, David Kuzmich, and the guy that had taken over my position with the second division, Ned Parker. There was also an enlisted man, a second-class boatswain mate named Hixson who came there on his own but then joined us at our table. This was quite a large establishment with a great big bar, a large number of tables and chairs, and a sizable dance floor. There was also a jukebox playing a lot of popular music.

We had settled in and were just drinking beer and enjoying the activity, especially on the dance floor. Almost all of the men dancing were sailors and the women were typical bar girls. Ned Parker was a diminutive guy who was a typical little guy with a big mouth. He was always shooting his mouth off, telling everybody how to do this and that when most of the time he should be listening instead of speaking. We all know people like this.

We were in civilian clothes, sport coats and ties. Officers were not required to wear uniforms ashore. Hixon was in uniform. At some point, Parker went out to the dance floor and started dancing with one of the girls. So we were focusing on him to see how he was measuring up to the other people that were dancing. There was a sailor out there dancing who bumped into Parker once or twice which kind of alerted me to something that we needed to keep an eye on. At first, it did not seem much like anything other than an inadvertent bumping to each other. But it started getting a little rougher, Parker apparently not realizing that this was actually an intentional contact. The guy that was bumping into Parker was a good-sized sailor who would clearly dominate a fight if there were one.

Suddenly, the sailor made an intentional lunge at Parker, pushing him across the floor and bending him over backwards on a table. I jumped up, ran across the floor and grabbed the sailor, not aggressively but just to get his attention, telling him that Parker was a naval officer and striking him would be a court-martial offense. No sooner had I spoken than I felt a hard thump along my right forehead. I saw no one who could have delivered this blow, realizing that it must have come from behind. The right side of my face started feeling warm and as I reached up to touch my cheek, I had a handful of blood. The most significant emotion that I remember was that I was royally aggravated because this meant one-way or the other my night was ruined

I turned around and saw a sailor a couple of feet away from me in an athletic position, feet shoulder width, knees bent, arms and fists raised up like a boxer. Throughout the course of my life, one thing that I had learned and that was, once there is a fight, you had to deliver as many blows as possible and as hard and fast as you could. That is what I did on this occasion.

This actual fight went on for quite a while with the two of us slugging it out. It was kind of like the movies in a way: overturned tables, bottles of beer flying through the air and girls screaming. The next thing that happened was kind of ironic: the sailors’ friends and my friends, instead of backing each of us up, each of our friends were pulling us away from the opponent. I remember distinctly that Hixson continued to pull me off the other guy. We went round and round for a while and the last thing I remember was pounding his head into the jukebox, after which someone pulled me off him and he bailed out the back door.

The next thing I knew was that the shore patrol showed up and wanted to know what was going on. I explained that I was simply trying to stop a fight and some third-party who had no business being involved struck me with some kind of a hard object which caused the bleeding all over my face and then left the scene after a short scuffle. The cut above my right eye was apparently severe enough that they needed to take me to some sort of a first aid clinic down on the waterfront.

I was happy that I did not get arrested and complied with whatever the shore patrol people wanted to do. When we arrived at the clinic, a Chinese medical person went to work stitching up my forhead. I think there were about 8 to 10 stitches, which were administered without Novocain. As a result, I was feeling a lot of pain and I kept yelling about it and calling the medical person names, which I will not permanently record in this essay. After the stitching was concluded, the medical person dressed up the wound and then wrapped my head in some kind of bandaging material. So from the standpoint of the public on the waterfront in Hong Kong, I was clearly some sort of a palooka.

Between the time of the fight and my medical treatment, two or three hours had elapsed before I got back to my ship. Hixson had already arrived and it was clear that he had spread the word that the old peacemaker, Mr. Connor, had torn up Susie Wong's bar while fighting another sailor. So the worst part of the whole night was my embarrassment, after lecturing Stack and Henley time after time as well as others, that I was just like they were. And I was greeted every time one of the sailors walked by: “Well Mr. Connor, what happened to you, wink, wink”?

The moral of the story is: I guess sometimes you just can't walk away!

Daniel D. Connor

July 19, 2018

#us navy #sailor #sea #fight #checkpoint #license

4 notes · View notes

bedlamsbard · 7 years

Text

Organizing (Grad) School Applications

Applying to college or graduate school has a lot of steps, some of which need to be done in advance of the deadline. I’m not the most organized person alive, and in the past that’s definitely come back to bite me insofar as apps go, mostly because I won’t get everything lined up and end up missing the deadline as a result.

This is the method I used last year when I was applying to graduate schools. It requires a fair amount of advance planning, because I knew going in (this was my fifth round of applications and the first round of entirely PhD apps) that that was mostly likely to be where I was going to fall down, so I needed to bite-size it as much as possible. This is aimed at grad school apps, but the same method should work fine for college as well; there are just a couple extra grad steps.

I really recommend doing this on your computer, because I ended up hyperlinking a lot of stuff so I didn’t have to google it and dig around the department website every time. I actually just did it in my Tumblr drafts, but something like Google Docs or even Microsoft Word or Excel would work just as well.

KEY POINT: You can do all of this in five minutes a day if you start early enough. You don’t have to dedicate six hours a day to it or do every step in a single day; in fact, I recommend only doing about 5-15 minutes a day, then putting it aside and doing literally anything else. If that’s one e-mail? Good! If that’s looking up one school’s website? Great! If it’s filling in ticky boxes for five minutes? Hurrah!

Whatever works, works.

Step 1

Narrow down your schools by whatever metric you’re using: my initial list was 13, I narrowed that down to 8 and ended up applying to 6. Write down the school, the department (your area of specialty if applicable), at least one professor in the department that you want to work with, and the application deadline(s). Hyperlink the program page on the department website.

Example:

Boston College - History (medieval)

Robin Fleming (medieval/Late Antique)

January 2, 2017

Louisiana State University - History (Late Antique/medieval)

Maribel Dietz (ancient/Late Antique)

January 15, 2017

University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill - Classics with Historical Emphasis

Jennifer Gates-Foster (ethnicity & identity)

December 13, 2016

December 21, 2016 (letters of rec)

Step 2

Go through each program and write down every requirement for the application. Not all of these will be on the department website, so you’ll probably have to go to the graduate school’s website as well. Every requirement. Double and triple-check.

Things to check for:

Digital vs. hard copy transcripts

Also, which schools. If you’ve taken summer courses at another institution, they may be required; they may only be required from degree-granting institutions.

No graduate schools require high school transcripts as far as I know.

Number of letters of recommendation (the standard number is three, some schools will accept four)

Deadlines -- does your program have different deadlines for the application and for letters of rec? does your program have a different deadline than the main graduate school?

Program-specific requirements -- writing samples are standard; some schools also require a book review, a portfolio, or something else.

Does the program require or recommend contacting the professor within the department whom you’re interested in working with?

GRE scores -- if you’re in the States just assume you have to take the GRE, though not all programs require it.

Personal statement vs. statement of purpose (or both)

Resume vs. CV (curriculum vitae)

COST. Almost everywhere in the U.S. has an application fee; make sure you know what it is. Some schools will have a fee waiver deadline; in many cases you can also apply for a fee waiver if it’s financially difficult for you.

Organize everything by application date; I divided them up by month and put every requirement on there, as well as a hyperlink to the APPLICATION page (not the department page). I didn’t go through each application

Example

DECEMBER

Dec 13 – University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill - Classics

Application

transcripts (scanned)

letters of recommendation (3)

GRE scores

note: separate requirements for classical archaeology

writing sample (20-30 pages)

personal statement (1-2 pages double-spaced)

professional goals?

why a PhD in classics?

particular interests UNC program and faculty?

any special circumstances?

application fee ($85)

JANUARY

Jan 2 – Boston College - History

Application

statement of purpose (1-2 pages, intellectual interests, why BC?)

official transcripts (scanned)

hard copy only required after matriculation

GRE scores

letters of recommendation (3)

writing sample (10-15 pages)

application fee ($75)

Jan 15 – Louisiana State University - History

Application

GRE scores

official transcripts (hard copy)

statement of purpose

letters of recommendation (3)

writing sample (10-20 pages – excerpt from MA thesis)

application fee ($50)

Step 3

Make your applications. Write down your username (or e-mail address used) and password -- I kept these handwritten in the same notebook I used for a few other things. Make sure your hyperlinks from the previous step lead directly to the application itself.

Step 4

I took the GRE several years ago, so I didn’t have to do it again, but if you haven’t taken the GRE yet I would advise you do so as soon as possible in order to get your scores in on time. (I’m not sure if it’s too late or not for people wanting to apply in this round of applications.)

Step 5

Ask your recommenders. I asked five professors; most schools only require three recommenders but I’m an untrusting sort so I lined up four (one said no because he had only had me for languages), three from my most recent graduate program and one from my previous postgrad program. Since I wasn’t in town with any of them, I e-mailed them and said, essentially, “Dear Dr. So-and-So, I am applying to graduate school this year, would you be willing to write me a letter of recommendation? I am planning on applying to programs in ancient and medieval history and classical studies; the deadlines are in December and early January. Thank you, K.”

Generally professors will say yes! They may ask for your statement of purpose and sometimes your most recent paper; I sent them all a draft of my statement of purpose (more on this coming soon), my CV, and for the two who hadn’t been on my thesis committee, a copy of my MA thesis. (There’s a pretty good guide here, as well.)

Do this as early as possible. Now, I have asked professors for letters of recs at the last minute before, but I don’t recommend it. Try to give them at least a month’s lead time to write it.

Step 6

Order your transcripts. Many institutions are now granting digital transcripts, which is great! None of mine did. If you’re a current student, you can usually just order them online and pick them up in a few days from the Registrar’s Office; if you’re no longer a current student you’ll want to have them sent to you. Yes, you. Most universities require you, the applicant, to upload a PDF file of your transcript to their application, so you’ll want to have one. I manually scanned my transcripts and keep PDFs of them.

A few universities require transcripts to come directly from the degree granting institutions in hard copy, which means you’ll have to order them from your university and have them sent to the graduate school you’re applying to. The receipt information will be on that grad school application’s webpage. This unfortunately generally costs more money.

If you went abroad for university or graduate school, note that you’ll want more lead time because a hard copy will take longer to get there (and sometimes more processing time). Since I did my postgrad in England, for the one graduate program that required hard copy transcripts I had to order them about a month in advance. This also cost more than ordering them from my undergraduate university in the States.

Step 7

Sit down with your transcript and write out every one of your major and minor classes. Every single one. Make sure you also note down the grade you got and the number of credits it was worth. If you did a double major or a double minor, as I did, do this for all of them.

Many graduate programs require your major GPA, which isn’t noted on your transcript. This is pretty easy to figure out -- just plug it into something like GPA Calculator -- but it’s a time-consuming hassle. Since I had a double major and a double minor, I calculated my GPA for each one separately, then together, and put down whichever of those three turned out the highest. I only had one school ask for my minor GPA; same process.

Writing everything down will also mean you have a list to refer back to if a school asks for all relevant courses you’ve taken, thanks, Boston College, that was really annoying to do.

Step 8

At this point if you like -- and I would recommend it, since I didn’t do this and it came back to bite me -- you can go through each application and note individual requirements: major and minor GPA, relevant courses, work history, languages, etc.

Step 9

Start drafting your statement of purpose. It can be very very rough at this point; you’ll refine it later. This is the thing where you give your academic history, your areas of interest, and why you want to go to that particular school.

Note that most universities won’t have the same word- or page- length requirement. I would recommend writing one general statement of purpose -- in my case I wrote one for classics/ancient history and one that differed slightly for medieval history -- and leaving the last paragraph to revise for each university. In that paragraph you want to make it very clearly that you’re familiar with the program and the professors you want to work with; make it as specific as possible. I sent the cleanest early draft of my statement of purpose to my recommenders (making it sure they knew it was a draft).

Step 10

Start actually working on your applications! In whatever order you feel like; this is mostly a case of filling in boxes. It’s time-consuming but generally brainless.

As many of you know, I’m a big fan of using timers and doing five to fifteen minutes of work a day, which is how I did my apps. At least five minutes a day, aiming for at least five days a week. I put stickers on my calendar every time I did something on my apps because (a) I like stickers and (b) it shows me that I’ve been working.

I think I started working on them in about mid-October, lost about a week in November because I wasn’t functional due to the election, finished the first half my apps in December, lost another two weeks because I wasn’t functional for personal reasons, and finished the second half of my apps in January.

Step 11

Figure out what you’re using for your writing sample. In my case, I used a chunk of my MA thesis -- actually, several different chunks, because I tailored each excerpt to the program I was applying to. Many of them had different word- and page- count requirements.

Here’s a “do what I say, not what I do” note: make sure you write down somewhere which writing sample you sent to which university, if you’re using different excerpts or different papers for them. I still have no idea which chunk of my thesis I sent to which university and I wish I knew.

Step 12

Make sure you actually hit the “submit application” button once you’ve finished. This is also generally the point at which you will have to give whatever university you’re applying to a large amount of money.

Step 13

Congratulations, you’ve applied to graduate school! Your applications are in and finally you can know peace! Actually that’s not true, you’ll be very stressed. Response time varies a lot. I got a rejection letter from one university less than a week after I submitted the application, but in general longer is better; you may not hear anything for a few months.

MAKE SURE YOU KEEP CHECKING YOUR E-MAIL.

I used my .edu address instead of my personal e-mail address because it looked more professional, and after I finished my last application I didn’t check it for a week because I figured it was early enough that no one would be contacting me yet. Three days after this I got a frantic e-mail on my personal account from a professor at one of my applying universities saying she had been trying to get in touch with me, but couldn’t because I wasn’t checking the address I had used to apply. (She contacted one of my recommenders, who was actually the only person at my previous university who had my personal e-mail address.)

I also got an e-mail from one university telling me that I had been waitlisted, did I want to stay on the waitlist or had I gotten a better offer? Another e-mail told me I’d been offered acceptance into the MA program, but not the PhD program; did I want that? Another wanted clarification on my GRE scores (they were right on the expiry line). You never know what people will ask, so make sure you can stay in contact.

Step 14

You may have an interview, which I did. I prepared some things to talk about -- my academic background and areas of interest, both of which were on my statement of purpose, as well as some other academic interests I hadn’t put in my statement of purpose. I also prepared some questions to talk about -- what kind of teaching training the program supplied, how much teaching I would be required to do, if the department got along with other departments in the university (because I’m interdisciplinary), questions about field work and internships, and also, what the professors interviewing me liked about the university and the city it was in. You want to seem engaged and knowledgeable about the program you’re interested in.

These can be phone or Skype interviews; in my case it was supposed to be a Skype interview but ended up being a phone one because my Skype didn’t end up working. (To this end, make sure they have your phone number as well.)

I did end up getting asked in my interview about the fact that I took a year off where I had no work history; I was upfront and said that because I had finished my program late, I had decided to concentrate on my applications and my health rather than trying to get into the job market, since it was financially possible for me. Admitting I took a year off did not hurt my applications.

Step 15

Wait and cry. You honestly can’t do anything about your applications at this point, so be gentle with yourself. If you’re still in classes, concentrate on them; you don’t want your grades to slip in your last term. If you’re not -- well, at the time I was busy being completely miserable about something else, which occupied about 90% of my thoughts at any given point in time, but other than that, it does sometimes help to come up with ideas of what you can do if you don’t get in. Wait for the next round of applications? Apply overseas? (Different deadlines, many of them rolling.) Put yourself on the job market? Take a year off to lie on the floor? There are options.

Good luck, and feel free to ask me further questions or clarifications. I can’t promise I’ll know the answer, but I will try.

#bedlam on school #how to survive in academia when you're the dictionary definition of a hot mess

77 notes · View notes

hellostarlight20 · 7 years

Text

I will...3/10

Ten x Rose Rated T Telepathy (telepathic marriage bond) Angst Fluffy laughter Not exactly a rewrite Dimension Hopping Rose JE fixit Happy ending! Beta’d by the ever fabulous MrsBertucci AO3 and TSP and on Tumblr Chapter 1 and (the corrected!) 2 Part of the The Adventures of Bad Wolf and the TARDIS…and their Doctor series

**This is the correct chapter 3...I accidently posted chapter 3 last week (tells you the sort of week I had!) instead of 2. It's all fixed now! So if you want to read chapter 2, which is the Bad Wolf Bay scene, it’s properly linked now!**

…promise you forever

“Oh, Doctor,” Rose sighed. She looked down at him, dressed only in his trousers, and lying, rumpled, in their bed, and didn’t know whether to be exasperated—or hit him. Again.

He eyed her, tired and strained, his hand grasping hers as if afraid to let go; his dimples dug into his cheeks and his freckles stood out starkly on his pale face. He looked haunted, and Rose, wearing only his dress shirt, resettled herself on their bed and stroked her fingertips over his face, along his forehead, down his cheeks, over and over.

“I didn’t mean to, Rose,” he promised. “It wasn’t like that, I swear! It was a genetic transfer, that’s all!”

“I know.” Rose sighed and cupped his cheek, pressing her lips to his as if to erase the other woman’s touch. “But does Martha?”

“I told her,” he insisted.

“What about your ring?” She lifted his left hand where he wore the ring she’d given him when they exchanged Earth vows in front of the judge and her mum. (And the TARDIS, sitting innocuously in the registrar’s office.)

“When I was in hospital, they asked if I was married.” His voice hollowed and his fingers tightened around hers. “Wanted to call my wife. I said I was—that I was—” his voice smashed into shards around them.

“Oh.” Widowed.

He said he was widowed. Martha thought she, Rose, was dead. Her chest felt like it was going to cave into itself, but Rose tried to understand. Really, she did. Martha only knew what the Doctor told her, she didn’t know he lied.

No doubt she thought he kissed her either on the rebound or—well, it didn’t matter did it.

“I miss you, Rose. My hearts. So much.”

“I miss you, too.” Rose settled back on his chest, letting his double heartbeat calm her.

Even if her physical head wasn’t physically on his chest, they’d shared a telepathic link for long enough that her body believed it real. That was enough. For now. It had to be.

“You have to tell Martha, though. If not about us, then at least that you’re not interested. You have to make it clear, no more mixed signals.”

The Doctor sighed again and wrapped his arms around her, holding her to his chest as if his life depended on it. “I will.”

“But she’s good, yeah?” Rose asked, fishing for more about this Martha and maybe—just maybe—trying not to compare herself with the newbie. The newbie who was going to be a doctor.

“She is.” His smile came clear through. “Very observant, she’s a star.”

Rose laughed and raised her head to kiss him. “Where are you now?”

“Hmm? Oh, we’re in bed.”

“Doctor!” She jerked out of his arms and sat up.

“What? I didn’t mean it like that!”

Rose laughed again and poked his chest. “You’re lying in bed with a woman you kissed not 24 hours ago and you don’t think she’ll get the wrong impression?”

“Ah. Well…” He tugged his ear and looked sheepish. “I never thought about it.” He sobered and looked at her. “I only ever really think about you.”

Well that certainly melted her.

“You’re all I think about, too.” She kissed him, soft and gentle and pushed all her love for her amazing husband through their link. Sitting up, she smirked and added mischievously, “Well, not all the time. Sometimes I think about Mickey’s theory on the rift.”

The Doctor laughed, as he was meant to. “Yeah, but that’s to find your way back here.” He smirked and preened. “To me.”

“Course it’s not,” Rose scoffed. “It’s really to be with the TARDIS again.” Even in their telepathic bedroom, the TARDIS hummed delightedly. Rose grinned up at the ship and sent a wave of love to Her. “See? She knows, too.”

He grabbed her around the waist and tugged her back onto bed, wrapping his body around hers. Nuzzling her hair, he cupped her breast through his shirt and sighed contentedly against her neck, a cool puff of air. “What are you doing?”

“I’m in the lab office,” she admitted. Rose covered his hands with hers, nestling closer to him. It was never close enough. “Trying to study for tomorrow’s test.”

“I could help with that.”

“Help?” She giggled and turned her head to look at him. “Or distract?”

“Hmm.” His hands glided down her sides then up again, beneath the shirt. “Both?”

“How long has it been for you?” Rose whispered.

“Too long.”

“Doctor—how long?”

“Since we last—since Norway?” He didn’t pull back but pulled her closer. “177 days and 15 hours.”

“It’s been longer for me,” Rose admitted but then he probably already knew that. “How is it we keep in sync when our universes aren’t?”

“Oh, well, that’s because we’re bonded, a telepathic bond doesn’t really—oops, gotta go! Screaming in the middle of the night is never a good sign.”

Rose opened her eyes and stared at the lab. She really did have studying to do, but with the Doctor’s phantom touch still tinging through her, hadn’t the focus to do much of anything. Still, she did have a test tomorrow and she did plan to pass it. Spectacularly.

Unfortunately, later when the Doctor shut out all telepathic contact, her head throbbed too hard to concentrate.

“Oh, big mistake. Because that name keeps me fighting!”

He’d screamed those words to the Carrionites, his hearts pounding wildly as he tried to keep Rose safe. The Doctor had no idea if it were possible for the other species to tap into his mind and follow the telepathic thread to Rose, but he sure as hell wasn’t taking any chances.

Now, as he and Martha walked back to the TARDIS, he slowly opened himself back to Rose and offered an apology to her for hurting her so badly. Her mind slept, but, as always, accepted his presence. Grinning slightly, he kissed her goodnight and promised to be there when she woke.

Forever.

The Doctor brought Martha to New New York. He had a vague plan to tell her about Rose. To be fair, the constant ache between his hearts for missing his wife might’ve influenced his choice of locales, he was feeling nostalgic, and frankly didn’t want to tell Martha on the TARDIS where everything reminded him of Rose.

The Old Girl missed Rose, too. And it wasn’t that the TARDIS didn’t like Martha, far as the Doctor could tell She did, but talking about Rose while in their home didn’t sit well. As if he talked of a (dead) wife and not one very much alive and still with him. Just not physically.

Of course that was before kidnappers and choking smog and the Face of Boe.

“I lied.” He tried to tell Martha about Gallifrey, did his best, and wondered how his home world might segue into Rose. Because he’d lied to Martha about so much in such a short time. And Rose was right, he had to tell Martha the truth about his wife, at least.

“I’m sorry,” Martha said and sounded sad for him. Not angry he lied, but…understanding, the Doctor supposed. “Was your wife from Gallifrey?”

“Rose?” He shook his head and looked at his ring, turning the band round and round. “No. She’s Human.” He took a deep breath, though technically speaking he didn’t need to, and met Martha’s gaze. “Rose isn’t dead, Martha. She’s…lost.”

He paused and felt Rose telepathically take his hand, kiss the back of it, and hold tight between hers. She was involved in other things, he could tell by the slight distance in her presence. It didn’t matter, her touch helped, soothed, gave him strength.

Always had.

“The—Canary Wharf. She—we were there, and we tried—we tried to close the void, she—her lever was—anyway.” He swallowed and sat up, dragging his hands down his face. “She’s not dead. But she is in a parallel world. Trapped there. I can’t—I can’t reach her.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor.” It started to rain again, but neither moved from their impromptu circle. “Why did you—” she shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat but before he could even begin to think of how to tell Martha about their telepathic connection—or if he should—she continued.

“Is that why you sometimes stare into space? You’re—you’re…searching for her?”

The Doctor opened his mouth. Snapped it closed. Martha Jones, hadn’t he told Rose she was observant? He grinned slightly and pushed back his anger and loss. He hadn’t lost everything. He still had his beloved ship and he still had Rose, despite her current physical distance.

“We—we’re connected, Martha. Telepathically.” The word cut his hearts and scraped his throat, but he admitted the truth to his new friend. “And even though the walls between universes have sealed tight, there are still pinpricks. Little spaces that allow our bond to slip through. We can still communicate with each other.”

She looked shocked, and he couldn’t blame her. Telepathy for Humans was one of those things seen on telly or read about in stories. A great idea, fun to speculate about, maybe even wish for, but no one could ever truly comprehend the scope of it.

The intimacy.

Until they shared their minds, their thoughts, their essence with another.

“You can still talk to her?”

“Yes.”

Martha opened and closed her mouth a few times then nodded. “That explains so much,” she muttered. “Well. I’m glad.” She offered a smile, a faint curl of her lips. “I’m glad she’s alive and I’m very happy to hear you can still communicate with her.”

“Me, too, Martha.” He stood and turned for the TARDIS. “Me, too.”

“What do you think he meant?” Rose asked him later when Martha was showering from her smoggy adventure. “You are not alone. They will return.”

“I don’t know.”

She snorted and he craned his neck to look down at her, but didn’t—couldn’t—release her. “Let’s presume—or hope—one of the ‘they’ at least means me, yeah? We both know one way or another I’m coming back to you.”

He pulled her tighter and kissed the top of her head. “Yes. You are.”

“Do you think he—is the Face of Boe male?” Rose turned her head to kiss the underside of his jaw, fingers toying with his. “Do you think he meant the Time Lords?”

The Doctor shuddered. “I hope not,” he fervently whispered.

“Yeah.” Rose turned in his arms and as much as he didn’t want her to see him just now—or to ever discuss the return of the Time Lords—she left him no choice. She never had, not even at the beginning of their relationship.

Then again, their first date had been the end of the world and him telling her he was alone. She hadn’t been confident in her questioning, and of course he’d ignored her at first, but she’d asked over chips and soda. In the end, as they walked back to the TARDIS hand-in-hand, the Doctor had admitted his search for his people.

How, after the Time War, he’d looked for anyone. Even his—Susan. Even Susan hadn’t been spared; she’d fought for the life of the universe alongside Romana in the end. But they’d both, Susan and Romana, had given their blessing to end that damnable war.

It hadn’t been until they meet the Dalek in Utah that he admitted his role in the war. As she had when he first told her about his people and the war, Rose held him when he admitted he—ended it.

Now, wrapped tight in Rose’s arms, he sniffed back choking, oppressive grief and tears. No, he didn’t want Rose to know about his past or about his actions.

The again, he knew what he was getting into when they bonded. Sharing every part of himself hadn’t terrified the Doctor as he always expected it to.

“I’ll be here, Doctor,” Rose promised. “I promised you forever and I mean it.”

#ficandchips #Ten x Rose #telepathy #Doomsday fix-it #JE fix it #romance #angst

9 notes · View notes

manywhyearnonline-blog · 5 years

Text

18 ways that to Earn money online from Home without Investment

Are you searching for the ways that to earn cash online then click?

Did you are trying to create cash on-line before however didn't get success? Then no got to worry anymore!

Because we've got already trained quite seven,00,000 folks across the planet with success creating $300 to $2000 (INR twenty,000+) per month.

We square measure showing you below a number of the most effective ways that to earn cash on-line. you'll be able to conjointly transfer our coaching package which is able to assist you to grow your financial gain in no time.

And yes, everything during this web site is completely Free Investment.

18 ways that to Earn cash on-line

1. build cash with on-line Surveys Here you'll be able to build cash by finishing little surveys that takes five minutes to twenty minutes counting on the necessity of a specific company.

You need to jot down your feedback & opinion in a very survey. you only have to be compelled to choose your selection from the question no got to write something.

You can build $1 to $20 counting on the length of the survey, your profile & the country you're living in. you'll be able to realize additional regarding paid surveys and be part of twenty best survey sites.

2. Earn cash with Blogging I have been creating cash with blogging from the last 7-8 years. I actually have created quite one million greenback (almost Rs. seven Crore+) with blogging. i used to be therefore confused after I started blogging.

I had completely no plan regarding blogging after I started in 2010. I worked terribly exhausting however created no cash with blogging for nearly one year.

But I ne'er gave up! i used to be doing my analysis on topics like, ‘how to form a blog’, ‘how to jot down on your blog’ and ‘how to push your blog’.

And things started in my favor once one year. I created my initial $100 from blogging in 2011. Then there was no trying back. these days i'm earning $25,000 (Rs fifteen Lacs+) per month from blogging.

You can grasp additional regarding my blogging journey, my financial gain proofs and a whole orient the way to begin a journal on MoneyConnexion.

3. Earn from PTC sites If you would like {to build|to form|to create} some further financial gain however don’t have abundant time then you'll be able to make cash by change of integrity some trusty PTC sites.

Here you would like to click the ads for ten to 3o seconds & get bought every advertisement you read.

There square measure several sites wherever you'll be able to register cash by reading ads.

All sites square measure free no investment in any respect.

I will show you simply those sites that pay often to their member and provides higher rates for clicking ads.

Click to affix list of five best PTC sites, earning.

4. Become a Captcha problem solver If you have got additional free time (2 hours a day) then you'll be able to add additional financial gain in your pocket by operating as a captcha problem solver.

This is one amongst the simplest thanks to earn cash on-line. As a captcha problem solver, you would like to browse the captcha pictures the precise characters.

You need to be in no time so as to earn higher financial gain. you'll be able to get paid up to $2 for each a thousand captchas you solve.

If you're inquisitive about this then you'll be able to check this list of ten best Captcha work sites.

5. Earn with Affiliate promoting If you're serious regarding earning cash on-line a tough operating guy UN agency needs to create huge financial gain then affiliate promoting is for you.

There is additional scope for affiliate promoting than before due to the high growth of on-line searching.

There square measure many on-line merchants like Amazon, Flipkart, eBay, Clickbank, CJ etc. wherever you'll be able to signup & promote their merchandise.

In affiliate promoting, you're merely serving to customers to shop for the correct product by making an easy web site you'll be able to earn four-dimensional to twenty commission.

You can signup for complimentary coaching in order that we are able to send you one amongst the most effective orient affiliate promoting that may assist you to earn nice financial gain.

6. Become a freelancer Freelancing is another in style thanks to build cash once blogging & affiliate promoting. As a freelancer, you'll be able to work with little or huge firms on a brief basis them your services.

Freelancers will build $500 to $2000+ per month counting on the kind of freelance jobs you'll do for your consumer.

You can work as a content author, internet designer, graphics designer or give services like SEO, data entry, video testimonials, digital promoting etc.

There square measure dozens of in style websites like UpWork, Freelancer.in, WorkNHire, and lots of additional freelance sites that may provide you with the prepared platform with prepared shoppers.

7. Virtual Assistant A virtual assistant is sort of a personal assistant UN agency will earn cash by operating on-line for somebody while not being physically gift.

He will do sort of tasks like taking care of internet sites, counseling, writing & proofreading, commercial enterprise content, marketing, coding, web site & app development, analysis etc.

There square measure dozens of firms like HireMyMom, MyTasker, Zirtual, uAssistMe, 123Employee wherever you'll be able to signup for virtual assistant work.

8. Writing Job Writing is another higher thanks to earn cash on net through writing differing kinds of content.

You can write for blogs, companies, establishments, individual folks etc. differing kinds of writers get paid otherwise.

Normally folks get paid $5 to $20+ for writing five hundred words content.

If you don’t have writing skills then you'll be able to browse this post and become a contract author.

You can visit the sites like UpWork, iWriter, WriterBay, FreelanceWriting, TextBroker, ExpressWriters.com, FreelanceWritingGigs.com to search out the content writing jobs.

9. Micro-working There square measure additional ways in which will assist you to create further financial gain by operating partly time. you'll be able to simply build $200-$300 per month by doing easy tasks on completely different sites.

Here you'll be able to work on sort of completely different tasks like characteristic associate object, rating & commenting on completely different sites, visiting some websites, finding contact details, doing little analysis, writing little articles etc.

There square measure several websites like mTurk, MicroWorker, SEOClerk, ClickWorker, GigWalk wherever you'll be able to work as a small employee & earn further financial gain. once signup, we'll show you ways to figure as Micro-worker and build cash.

10. Become a YouTuber YouTube is one amongst the most well liked trend in earning cash on-line. you'll be able to begin your YouTube channel, transfer some quality videos and so become a YouTube partner to create cash on-line on YouTube.

You can produce completely different quite videos like prank videos, comedy videos, room recipes, how-to-do videos, travel tips, or something you're thinking that, is helpful for folks.

Once you get the videos views and subscribers for your channel then you'll be able to apply for YouTube partner program.

Once you get the approval, folks can see the ads along side ads in your videos. you'll build cash for every views your video receive.

You can shoot videos from your smartphone or any DSLR camera.

You can browse this final guide to create cash on YouTube.

11. Become a web marketer Online mercantilism isn't like ancient mercantilism. You don’t have abundant scope of mercantilism your things outside your native market however in on-line mercantilism, you'll be able to sell your product everywhere the country.

There square measure a pair of ways that to sell something on-line.

Either, you'll be able to produce your own web site and sell your merchandise from your web site OR become a marketer on any illustrious searching portal like Amazon, Flipkart, eBay, Snapdeal etc.

Second possibility is way higher you'll get existing customers of those in style portals.

Now you want to be thinking that what am i able to sell after I don’t have any product?

I have seen several Amazon and Flipkart sellers UN agency don’t have any product however still they're mercantilism range of merchandise on these sites.

What you'll be able to do is, drift around your town & check for the most effective merchandise you'll be able to sell on these sites. {you will|you'll|you'll be able to} realize the UN agencylesalers and distributors who can sell you these merchandise at a extremely discounted rates.

You can list these merchandise on Amazon, eBay etc. and build cash by mercantilism at a better worth.

You need to undertake the most effective merchandise that you just will sell at below market value. Trust me, its easier than your thought. solely issue you would like to try to to is take action.

12. Domain merchant Domain mercantilism is another high profit business you'll be able to do on-line. however here you would like some investment for purchasing the domain.’

You must be associate knowledgeable otherwise you ought to get elaborated information before you begin this business.

You can purchase domains from GoDaddy or different domain registrar for fewer than $10 & sell in future to the impoverished person for many bucks. Your talent here is to spot nice domains that don't seem to be reserved however in future will attempt to purchase that domain.

When firms don’t realize the domain of their selection, they contact the domain owner for the deal & it’s in your management to mend the value. you'll be able to even place your domains on auction in order that folks should buy directly at your required worth.

13. web site flipping Like domain mercantilism, web site flipping is additionally a hot business to earn cash on-line. Here you don’t wear down domains however websites.

You have to form a web site, work on that for 3-6 months or additional in order that you'll be able to begin creating cash from the websites.

After earning for 2-3 months, you'll be able to place that web site on auction on Flippa , EmpireFlippers etc. you'll be able to simply get 15-20 times worth of your monthly earning from that web site.

It’s abundant easier to grow associate previous {site|website|web web site}s than making a replacement site and therefore the grow this new site.

Many skilled folks purchase websites from Flippa, work for 3-4 months on these sites and build double or triple financial gain.

14. give coaching There is an enormous scope of earning cash on-line if you have got some sensible skills that individuals would like. such as you will give coaching on spoken English, laptop courses, any technical course, Feng shui, medical treatment and the other things.

You can promote your business through a web site or a Facebook business page.

You need to push your web site or Facebook page so as to induce the potential leads.

You can get many purchasers through a decent follow ups.

15. Stock & Forex mercantilism Stock mercantilism & forex mercantilism could be a terribly moneymaking thanks to build cash for those that has sensible plan of the market.

There square measure range of free or paid courses obtainable on net that may train you for on-line mercantilism.

You can even browse newspaper like Economic times or watch TV channels like CNBC to become additional knowledgeable within the field. Its risky to enter into this market while not sufficient information.

16. Earn cash from your smartphone There square measure varied smartphone apps that may pay you some further financial gain by finishing some easy tasks on your Smartphone.

There square measure a minimum of twenty cash creating apps that if you put in in your smartphone, will offer an additional financial gain of $200-$300.

You have to require easy surveys, complete offers by signup on different websites, play games, watch videos etc.

You don’t got to take any overtime to earn from this as you'll be able to build cash on the go.

17. Sell photos on-line This is another use of your smartphone. you'll be able to take top quality pictures of nature, places, people, things, dishes, homes etc. & sell them on-line.

There square measure range of massive sites like ShutterStock, Fotolia, , iStockPhoto, Photobucket wherever you'll be able to submit your photos. Whenever some client needs to get your photos, you'll get paid as per the value you fix.

You can get paid multiple time for identical photos. browse this MoneyConnexion post for additional details.

18. Sell previous stuff on OLX or Quikr I am certain there is also range of things in your home that square measure lying unused for months & if you are taking very little efforts, you'll be able to earn some sensible cash.

You just got to do a pair of things, i.e. verify all the things that you just are not any longer victimization, take top quality photos of those things from completely different angles & list this stuff on OLX & Quikr purchasable.

Not solely this, you'll be able to conjointly raise your friends & relatives for mercantilism their previous stuff. you'll be able to facilitate them mercantilism this stuff some commission.

So these eighteen ways that will give an ideal account your question ‘how to earn cash online” , you'll be able to shoot associate email to North American country just in case of help.

#make money #online make moneye #earn without investment

0 notes

rebeccahpedersen · 6 years

Text

Bird Dog Fees & Referral Fees

TorontoRealtyBlog

Here’s an interesting tidbit: I rarely answer the office phone line.

In my experience, clients and agents always call my cell phone, and I’d estimate that at least half of all calls that come into the office are from salespeople. Everything from duct-cleaning to search engine optimization – I get multiple calls every day from people looking to sell me something I don’t want or need.

I hate it. And that’s why I have never cold-called in real estate.

Last week, I got a call from a mortgage broker who I think might have been reading off a script. Either that, or he couldn’t take a polite hint.

He continued to bring up points, literally ordered (“The third point I would make is that…”), continuing to the inevitable salesperson conclusion: saying, “I’ll send you my contact information” after it was clear that our phone call was going nowhere.

But before he got to the end, he dropped a bomb on me:

“We give referrals to real estate agents. Up to fifty basis points on every deal.”

Say what?

“That means if somebody takes on a million-dollar mortgage, you’d get a $5,000 referral fee from us.”

He went on to give me a mathematical breakdown, suggesting that if I were to provide him with thirty clients per year, I’d take home an extra $150,000.

So what did I say?

How did I respond to the offer?

Was I about to get rich?

No.

Completely the opposite, in fact.

“I don’t take referral fees on mortgages,” I told him, to which he responded, “But this is approved by both RECO and OREA; it’s legal!”

A lot of things are legal that I don’t do, or don’t like, or don’t agree with. “It’s legal” is not the start, or the end for me.

I explained to him that I run a very tight ship, and that my reputation and good-standing are everything to me. My business is made up of repeat and referral buyers, and people who come to me after reading Toronto Realty Blog. The latter folks respect what I have to say, and choose me to represent their interests during the biggest purchase or sale of their lives, presumably, because they trust me.

So why would I throw all of that away for a few extra bucks?

I know that a lot of agents are going to disagree with me here, but I really, really don’t like the idea of taking a referral fee when recommending a home inspector, mortgage broker, or lawyer to a buyer or seller client.

It just stinks, and it’s really difficult to do without some bias and conflict of interest.

The moment you look to secure $1 more for yourself, by having that influence who you would recommend to your buyer or seller client, you’re putting your own interests ahead of your clients’.

The mortgage broker on the phone went on to say, “I only deal with ABC Bank,” which simply hammered home just uneasy I felt about this situation. After all, the entire purpose of hiring a mortgage broker is to have he or she shop fifty or sixty different lenders for the best rate, terms, and service. Why would a broker work with only one bank, exclusively?

That stinks.

And the broker is looking to pay real estate agents for referrals?

I didn’t like it.

The mortgage broker continued to ply me with, “This is all legal! The real estate boards are fine with it, people are doing it, people are happy,” but me thinks he doth protest too much.

Perhaps you’re wondering why I don’t like this? Well it’s simple. Buyers and sellers need choice in the decision-making process, be it a lawyer, mortgage broker, or home inspector. For me to shove one person down their throat is an issue. But for me to do so, AND profit from it, is a complete and utter conflict of interest.

To be fair to myself, I will say that I do have exactly one mortgage broker that I recommend to my clients, and I don’t give them three names just to say I did. But I have two lawyers I refer, and two home inspectors. I have all sorts of tradespeople in my Rolodex, but none of them pay me for introductions.

I believe that a good real estate agent surrounds him or herself with the best of the best in all related fields, and part of a good real estate agent’s service is ensuring the client has access to an experienced and capable mortgage broker, or lawyer, or home inspector.

That’s part of the job.

We already get paid to buy and sell real estate with our clients. There’s absolutely no reason to look for yet another handout.

But just to entertain the idea, let’s go through the motions and I’ll describe exactly how an agent can “legally” receive a bird-dog fee, er, I mean “referral fee,” from a mortgage broker.

The RECO website has a section dealing with exactly this, which you can read HERE.

It comes complete with this snazzy graphic too:

REGISTRANT RECEIVING REFERRAL COMPENSATION FROM AN UNREGISTERED THIRD-PARTY

Permitted with written disclosure

Registrants may receive compensation for referring a client to other professionals or businesses, such as a lawyer, mortgage broker or contractor. However, section 18(4) of the Code of Ethics requires registrants to make written disclosure to their client at the earliest practicable opportunity, and before they receive any compensation or benefit. The obligation for written disclosure is the same no matter what form the compensation takes: cash, a gift or any other form of direct or indirect financial benefit.

In keeping with section 18(4) and (5) of the Code of Ethics, the disclosure must explain:

that compensation may or will be received,

the conditions under which the payment will be received,

the amount or range of compensation the registrant will receive and where it is a range, the exact amount when it becomes known, and

if a person related to the registrant receives the compensation, the disclosure obligations still apply. For greater clarity, if the registrant benefits from a third party receiving compensation, the disclosure obligations still apply.

In addition, any referral fees must be received through the employing brokerage. The brokerage is responsible for ensuring compliance with the legal requirements arising from receipt of referral fees, including REBBA 2002, tax laws, and any other applicable legislation.

Further, brokerages may establish their own additional policies and rules for their employees regarding the receipt of referral fees.

So now let’s continue with my example.

I have clients, Jane and John. They’ve read my blog for three years, and were finally ready to jump into the real estate market.

When I first met them, I told them they should speak to my mortgage broker, and trusting my guidance, they did.

They obtained a mortgage for $800,000, and were ready to go out and start shopping.

The next time we met, however, I explained a little something-something to them.

You see, my mortgage broker was in the habit of paying me for referrals. And I love money, so that’s why I use him! In fact, I specifically asked them to contact him so I could get paid. Then, I take out a homemade disclosure form, with their names already filled in, and asked them to sign it so that I could receive a referral of $4,000.

In who’s best interest am I working?

These folks trusted me to represent their best interests, and yet here I am, asking them to help me get paid?

It stinks!

It absolutely stinks!

I can’t imagine anybody out there willingly, gleefully, and knowingly agreeing to this.

I know that my critics will pile on here and say, “Well you’re already paid too much to do your job,” or something to that effect. And so too are teachers, and doctors, and lawyers, and baseball players, and everybody else that gets criticized when it’s their turn. But take the fee for service out of the discussion just for a moment, and return to the notion of referral fees. Because in case you couldn’t already tell, I don’t like them.

And I never did, as my blog history will attest.

Wow, here’s a throwback! Have I really been blogging for this long?

December 5th, 2008: “Referral Fees”

I actually remember the conversation I described in my blog.

A gentleman sitting in my office telling me, “An envelope full of green is prettier than the Christmas tree in Time Square.”

Who talks like that, seriously? It’s like something out of a movie.

Now I mentioned in the title of today’s blog something called “Bird Dog Fees,” and this is something a little different.

Again, many people out there, be it agents, or the general public, may not have a problem with this. And it does exist, even though it’s prohibited.

I recall the first time I was introduced to this topic, back in a 2006 RECO bulletin:

March 31st, 2006 Registrar’s Bulletin: Bird Dog Fees

The takeaway from that bulletin is simple:

Paying any form of compensation to an unregistered person for activities that would be defined as “in furtherance of a trade” is prohibited.

Essentially this means that if Bob introduces you to Jim, and you sell Jim a house or a condo, you can’t give money to Bob unless he is registered as a salesperson or broker under RECO.

How does this differ from the referral fee?

It depends on who is giving and who is getting.

Referral Fee: The licensed Realtor receives a referral from a mortgage broker, provided the Realtor discloses this to the client at the earliest opportunity.

Bird Dog Fee: The licensed Realtor pays an unlicensed individual “in furtherance of a trade.”

As you can see, RECO believes it is okay for the real estate agent to get money, but not okay for them to give it.

And this is where the public turns on us, as they should.

On their own, each of those scenarios make sense.

But together? Held up against one another in the light of day? It looks as though RECO wants agents to receive, but not give.

In the end, I don’t like ANY of it.

A good real estate agent doesn’t “need” a referral fee from their mortgage broker, lawyer, or home inspector. They don’t even want it. They care about the client, and the client’s best interests. And I’m sorry if this all sounds so damn cheezy, but on a long enough time horizon, the good agents who really, truly work for the clients, will last. And the agents who are pushing their buyers to use a particular individual, solely because the agent gets paid, will not be around for very long.

Perhaps that’s a bit too theoretical, because these agents do find people to work with them. But every day I see these agents out there – the same ones who list properties with no photos, spelling mistakes in the description, and mistakes in the listings that go without updates for weeks, and I wonder, “Who the hell hires these people?”

For both the buyers and sellers out there, I’ll leave you with this: it is absolutely okay for you to ask your Realtor if he or she is being compensated for an introduction to a mortgage broker, lawyer, or home inspector.

The question is, if the Realtor says “yes,” what do you do?

Is it a problem that the Realtor didn’t disclose this before you asked them?

Or is it a problem that they’re taking a referral fee altogether?

I’m all ears…

The post Bird Dog Fees & Referral Fees appeared first on Toronto Realty Blog.

Originated from https://ift.tt/2C5pvdl

0 notes

ecec333 · 6 years

Photo

Ignored as an artist, but hailed as an art forger: It’s one of the most curious forgery cases in art history: For almost thirty years, Mark Landis copied works of numerous artists, from lesser-known Impressionists to Picasso and even Walt Disney. But he didn’t try to sell his forgeries — he donated them. Under a variety of fake names, Landis fooled museums all over the country into accepting his forgeries as gifts — 46 museums in 20 states, to be precise. But Landis has never accepted any money for his work and has never been prosecuted. “Mark Landis may be the most infamous and prolific art forger who has never committed a crime,” wrote Matthew Leininger, the registrar at the Oklahoma City Museum of Art, in his blog. In 2008, Leininger was the first person who smelled a rat. He got suspicious about Landis’s donations and started an investigation that eventually exposed Landis as a fraud. Now, Landis and the unraveling of his 30-year con are the subject of a new documentary called Art and Craft, which comes out this month. Sam Cullman, one of the directors of the film, says an article in the New York Times caught the eye of Jennifer Grausman, his filmmaking partner. At that point, Landis had “disappeared from view” and no one knew anything about him. “The Times describe[d] him as ‘at large‘ — sort of playing up the dramatic aspect of him being this bad guy out there in the world,” Cullman says. He and Grausman contacted registrar Matthew Leininger, who had been obsessively trying to track down Landis. Rumors swirled that Landis was ill, or even dangerous. Together, the group finally made contact with the forger. When Cullman told Landis he was working on a documentary about his forgeries, Landis “spilled the beans” almost immediately. “Mark spent some time vetting us on the phone, but when we met [him] with camera in tow, he was incredibly forthcoming for a guy in his position," Cullman says. "He wanted to tell us everything, and he let us film him making the copies — and, pretty soon thereafter, giving them away.” Why would Landis so readily cooperate with a project that would expose him as a fraud? “Like most things, there’s always a simple answer,” Landis himself responds. “I’m a lonely old shut-in. And I really appreciated having some chic young filmmakers from New York City come to spend some time with me and become friends to me.” Landis grew up in Europe in the 1960s. His father was a naval officer in NATO and his parents liked to travel. They would all go to museums and bring home catalogs and information about the collections. “[Mother and Dad] liked to go out, and I’d be left alone in the hotel room,” Landis says. “They didn’t have TVs in the hotel rooms yet. But I did have the catalogs to go through. Like all kids, you know, you draw pictures. And I started copying pictures out of the catalogs.” The first painting Landis "donated" was a copy of a work by Maynard Dixon, an artist well-known for his paintings of cowboys and Indians. It started as impulse, Landis says, but then "everybody was just so nice and treated me with respect and deference and friendship, things I was very unused to — I mean, actually not used to at all. And I got addicted to it.” For the next twenty years, Landis pulled his con on one museum after another, seldom arousing suspicion. At first, he used his own name, but he began to fear that “gossip was getting around." He then switched to a collection of different aliases: Father Arthur Scott, Father James Brantley, Mark Lanois, Stephen Gardiner. If a museum became suspicious, it was in their interest to keep it quiet. The worst that ever happened was that Landis would get what he calls a “stiff letter,” informing him that his donation was being removed from the collection. Landis created his forgeries very quickly, usually in just a couple of hours, using cheap materials like felt-tip pens and dime-store frames purchased at Hobby Lobby and Walmart. “All that really counts is what it looks like,” Landis explains. “You know, when you go to a museum, you don’t put it under one of those giant microscopes that they have down in the basement.” By the time Leininger became suspicious of Landis, the Internet age had dawned and it was easier to track forgeries. He looked up one of Landis’s donated works and found that Landis had donated copies of the same work to several institutions. Landis claims to have been unaware, or at least unconcerned, that his actions might be illegal. “I guess I just didn’t really think about it much,” he says. “I mean, I’d have known that, if I was selling them ... I thought they’d just get mad and send stiff letters. And I’d be long gone by the time they got mad.” Cullman also sees the forgeries as benign. “I don’t think there was malice in his actions,” he says. “When we first met him, he was genuinely upset to hear that he had caused people some anguish.” Landis has twice had nervous breakdowns and has been diagnosed as schizophrenic or bipolar. But he dismisses the idea that what he did was caused by mental illness. “I never thought of it in that way,” he says. “And I don’t even know if any of that stuff’s wrong with me”. A couple of years ago, Leininger organized an April Fool’s Day exhibit of Landis’s work along with the University of Cincinnati. Now, the documentary of his exploits is about to be released. Not a bad outcome for a serial art forger. “A door of opportunity opens both ways,” Landis says. “I remember when I first found out I was in trouble, I was pretty down, because I was thinking, ‘Gee, what am I going to do? I can’t just sit around in my room watching TV the rest of my life.’” Now, people have been asking him to paint their children and grandchildren, he says. Sometimes when people go on vacation in Europe, they come back and ask Landis to make paintings of works they’ve seen. Is he still doing forgeries? “Oh, no,” Landis says. “Not unless somebody asks me to.”

Check out our slideshow of some of Landis's forgeries. This story is based on an interview that aired on PRI's Studio 360 with Kurt Andersen.https://www.pri.org/stories/2014-09-11/when-art-forgery-not-crime-when-forger-philanthropist

0 notes

sobdasha · 7 years

Text

12 - Yukina takes a level in romcoms

or, where my mind goes when I actually really remember, and realize what it means, that Yukina grew up in literally the opposite of a heteronormative society

((please suspend your disbelief I know nothing about 90s Japan I only know about US college in the not-90s and I just want a quick lulz not a factually accurate story))

About a year into Kazuma's university studies, Yukina gets...bored.

It's not that she's not happy with her homestay, living in the Kuwabara household! Because she loves it--living with all of them, and the cats, and helping keep the house, and running errands in the human city with Shizuru, and shopping with Keiko, and going to movies or museums with Kazuma, and visiting the library, and so on.

It's just that it all feels a little...stagnant.

The glacier was stagnant. Yukina can't stand that feeling.

It's not that she isn't learning a lot about exotic and fascinating human culture, experiencing their television and talking with them at the grocery store. But it feels like there are so many things still that she doesn't understand that humans take for granted. It feels like she's hit a wall. It feels like she'd learn more in, say, a school...a place for learning...among human classmates.

They have classes specifically called "Humanities," after all.

Yukina spends a day collecting college brochures and lays them all out on the dinner table with the meal that evening.

–

Kazuma and Yukina enlist Kurama's pretty face to get Yukina enrolled for a few liberal arts classes at a local junior college.

Kazuma and Yukina almost sabotage this entire planning by using those exact words to him. It takes Kazuma the better part of a day to talk Kurama down.

"I'm not saying it's girly or nothing, man!" Kazuma shouts through the door. "I mean, no one takes a look at this ugly mug and does me a bunch of favors for free!"

This line of argument isn't much better received.

But Kurama relents. Eventually. He does, after all, like a good Challenge, and being an entry-level office worker doesn't provide enough of those yet, not until he's got a few promotions under his belt. He can sympathize with Yukina's vague dissatisfaction.

And Kurama's pretty face--or else his under-used ruthless acumen--does the trick. In less time than it took Kuwabara to wrangle a meeting with the registrar's office, Kurama has Yukina's paperwork fudged and Yukina herself enrolled in a few credit hours of her choosing, despite her being a non-resident with no transcripts of other schooling and having no intentions of pursuing a degree.

To be fair, the school is getting a pretty good bargain out of it too. Yukina is paying her own way, and she's not quibbling about the extra tuition.

Kurama helps with the financing too, thankfully. Up until now, Yukina's been living on the Kuwabara family budget, seeing as neither she nor Kazuma have laid hold of the necessary resources to open a bank account in her name. Like a black market jewelry fence, for starters.

After all, any of the contacts Yukina might have used to turn her tear gems into credit were dead by the end of the Dark Tournament.

–

Junior college proves to be very refreshing for Yukina. She enjoys the commute, she enjoys the assignments, she enjoys making connections with her classmates and exploring campus.

It's also proving very educational. Yukina is learning all sorts of new things. She's learning new words. Like "heteronormative."

And this is the magic that changes everything.

In the world that Yukina was born into and raised in, on the Glacier, a girl was expected to grow up, and establish her own family line, and lend her power to keeping the island aloft and secret and safe. It's true that some ice maidens would grow close, closer than friends, and join their lives and families together. But it certainly wasn't expected, or talked about much in any particular way, or idealized.

Nothing at all like human world.

And this is what Yukina had been missing, she realizes. The thing in television, and movies, and books, and commercials, and grocery store conversations, that Yukina didn't understand.

At the very heart and soul of human culture is this: boy meets girl, they fall in love, they get married, and they make babies.

Yukina is still not entirely clear on how this works, actually. How Boy and Girl look into each other's faces for the first time and instantly pledge to die for each other, even though they know nothing at all about one another and it's all really very silly. But the important part is, now Yukina knows how to pick up the pattern, if she stops and analyzes it, even if it goes against every grain of her instinct and that makes it hard to recognize without conscious effort.

Yukina, now that she's mastered (or at least, finally unearthed) the keystone of human culture and interactions, pauses to reflect on what this means.

She thinks about Kazuma, whom she's known since he came to rescue her from Tarukane's stronghold against all reason and without regard for his own safety. Kazuma, who is kind and funny and a good friend even if he's always been very confusing (this is probably because Yukina didn't understand about Heteronormative Human Culture before now). Kazuma, who welcomed her into his family and who's supported her all through her homestay.

Kazuma who says that he really, y'know, he really likes her.

Armed with her new-found understanding, Yukina decides to put it to good use. She is going to find Kazuma his soulmate, so he can look into her eyes and fall in love and get married and make babies, because he is a wonderful human who deserves happiness.

–

Yukina does not realize that Kazuma has already looked into her eyes, telepathically, pledged to die for love of her, and then ineffectually attempted to date her for years.

–

Yukina is a demon on a mission.

She studies. She reads novels labeled "romances." She pays very serious attention to the details in the "chick flicks" that Kazuma takes her to, the ones that didn't make sense before and still don't make sense really, but which are all about Boys Meeting Girls.

She prepares.

And then she spends the next two months, with terrifying dedication, deliberately and painstakingly organizing a "meet-cute" encounter each week between Kazuma and one of her female classmates, just in case any of them happens to be his soulmate.

Meanwhile, Kazuma is having the weirdest fucking two months…

–

this is the point where a good author would have googled "what exactly are some examples of meet-cutes and what are some good ones I can steal" but guys I'm just, I'm really lazy

think of it like a Noodle Incident: whatever you're thinking of is bound to be better than whatever I'd bs

(I can assure you several scenarios involved cats tho)

#sobdasha fic adjacent #writober #yyh #much later yukina and kazuma get married so as to be more effective housemates #and raise like three or four adopted children together #because headcanon that although Yukina HATES EVERYTHING ABOUT ICE MAIDEN SOCIETY she's still weirdly extremely leery of doing it with a dude #anyway a mix of human and demon kids and also kitties #and they live happily ever after bless them

13 notes · View notes

aquotidianoddity · 8 years

Note

Hey! I was scrolling through the Helsinki tag and saw your most recent answered ask. I'm a uni student in the US and want to apply for a Masters at Helsinki (I have Finnish friends there who can help me), and their course requirements just to be considered as an applicant seem super strict. Based off your post I'm assuming that you're not at Helsinki, but I was wondering if you knew much about the application/selection process as a US student and can expand a bit on it? Kiitos :D

Hi there! I’m happy to be of help. I’ll post this publicly in case anyone else has a similar question, but let me know if you’d like me to take it down and send it private…I’m not a popular blog, so it shouldn’t spread around too quickly or at all.

Of course, everything I say may be different depending on the specifics of the degree you’re interested in and whether it’s an “international” or “non-international” degree. Seems like you’re already checking up on your program specifics, so hopefully I can give you a general foundation to build off of, and you can fill in the rest with your personal situation.

First of all: DEADLINES MATTER. Ironically, when you’re a student turning in an assignment or taking a test they pretty much don’t, but anything official like this is no joke. I discovered the MA I originally wanted to pursue three days after the deadline and emailed them asking if I could still apply, assuming the answer would be yes like it normally is in the states. Not the case…apparently the first step of applications is handled by the state and centralized in some office in Helsinki. Once it gets past that stage, things get more flexible, as the admins in the universities don’t care as much, but to be safe, know your deadlines.

Second most important thing: all throughout the application process, both on the state websites and university websites, I noticed that the information on the Finnish version and on the English version was sometimes different. If you’re applying to a program specifically advertised or targeted toward international students, this shouldn’t be a problem. However, I applied to a “non-international” program, and administration generally assumes that only Finns will apply to these programs, so I often had to read each web page twice, once in each language, and synthesize the information personally. If it sounds like this may apply to you, you could ask your Finnish friends for help.

In terms of the application process: in Finland you apply to specific programs, rather than to the universities (much like you would for an MA in the US anyway). However, there is only one centralized application for ALL programs. On the application you put your personal information, educational history etc, and then you rank all of the programs you’re interested in. The order you list them in DOES matter. It’s a huge numbers game, but essentially they do their number-magic about who’s most qualified and how many spots there are available and then out of whichever programs want you, you are offered a spot ONLY in the program you ranked highest. You will not be offered a spot in all of the programs you are qualified for or in all of the programs that would like you to attend. You will not be given a chance to choose between the different programs that want you…ranking them on your application is your only chance. Of course, if you’re only applying to the one program, then all that doesn’t really matter.

You said that the course requirements seemed strict. I assume you’re not sure if you’ve taken the right courses or somehow you’re not sure if you qualify? My suggestion would be to find the program coordinator in the directory and email them your questions. Actually, I would suggest you do that anyway…make up some questions…introduce yourself…get in contact in some way or another with them. I wouldn’t email the department secretary, as in my experience they aren’t as well-versed in the ins and outs of the program and are often really busy with a lot of the most stressful administrative tasks that fall on their shoulders. The program coordinator/advisers/whatever-they’re-called are typically also professors in the program. The general student-teacher relationship in Finland is flipped from how it is in the US: professors often feel an obligation to go out of their way to accommodate, please, impress, or generally help the students with anything they need (within reason). Of course, every individual is different, but if you’re not unlucky then the person you contact may have some useful hints, tips, or insider knowledge of their own university to give you. I ended up emailing my coordinator about 27 times and he was such a big help.

Whether or not you can be accepted to a program without the proper qualifications is another question, and it really depends on the program itself. Departments/programs in Finland are given funding depending on how many students they have, and they are given extra funding depending on how much coursework those students take (It’s possible to move at a snail’s pace in school, so the cutoff for the extra funding is even less than a full-time enrollment–no worries that you’ll be pressured into overworking yourself). If your program has less applicants than open spots, they will be more likely to consider you if you do not have the proper background or experience. If there are more applicants than study spots, your chances will go down. I believe there’s no longer an application fee? But at any rate, if it won’t cost you too much to send in all the application materials, you might as well apply and see what happens. Of course, your application still needs to be quality (good grades, all the required materials, good recommendations if required, etc.).

Some other random stuff:

An application to an MA program typically requires you to send a copy of your Bachelor’s degree (usually this is sent directly to the university and not the centralized application office and often has a much later deadline). They don’t really understand or care that due to university processes in other countries (i.e. the USA), we don’t have access to that for several months after graduating. There is often an exception for students from the USA that if your transcript specifically states certain degree information, then it can be accepted in lieu of the actual diploma itself (see: http://universityadmissions.fi/?page_id=24#USA). You should:

1. confirm with the institution you are applying to that they will accept a transcript with the degree information in place of the diploma itself, 2. confirm with your current institution’s registrar office that your transcript will contain the required degree information after you graduate, and 3. check with the registar’s office (or possibly your academic adviser depending on your university’s policies) when the degree information will be posted to your transcript. If the information isn’t posted in time, ask if it can be expedited somehow. My university wouldn’t rush the printing of my diploma (and were quite rude to me when I asked), but it wasn’t a problem for them to get my degree information posted within a week after final grades posted (this was something my academic adviser had to do, so check with whatever equivalent your uni has in addition to the registrar’s office).

Lucky for you, all application material may be submitted in either Finnish, Swedish, or English, so you won’t have to get anything translated. Unlucky for you, programs starting August 2017 and later now charge tuition fees for non-EU students. However, these are often much cheaper than US programs (my two-year MA apparently costs 8,000eur in total) and there’s likely to be scholarships to apply for (not sure how they work because I don’t have to pay). The dollar is actually quite strong against the Euro right now (1USD == 0.95EUR).

When will you find out if you were accepted to the program? If you’re applying to an “international” program it will likely tell you a date by which you’ll find out if you’re accepted or not. If you’re applying to a “non-international” program then all results are announced on July 1st…this will put you into a bit of a crunch trying to get all of the immigration stuff together and may be annoying if you want to consider any other opportunity that will likely require you to accept or decline before July 1st. Luckily I had no other prospects in life, so I had no trouble waiting.

If accepted, you will be required to get a residence permit (when you’re communicating with the embassy, don’t call it a visa. if you do, they’ll have no idea wtf you’re talking about.). When I applied in July of 2016 the only two places you could apply were the embassy in DC and the consulate in LA, so hopefully you don’t live in Kansas or something. It costs ~300eur. I was confused about the passport photo because there are a lot of strict requirements for how it should be taken, but the embassy just told me to go to CVS and get a normal US passport photo, just be sure not to smile at all.

You also have to purchase insurance. The immigration website suggests a particular company to use, and I used it…costs again about 300eur for an entire year. As a two-year student, you exist somewhere in this gray area of permanent and not permanent. You qualify for free health care through student health services and for some public health services. The insurance is to cover whatever else the public health services won’t cover.

99% of people here speak English, so that’s not a problem signs/automated announcements are usually in Finnish, Swedish, and English. If you don’t have US citizenship or you have dual-citizenship, you may check any sort of requirements or benefits your other citizenship will grant you. If English is not your native language, check the language examination requirements…however, a degree from a high school or university in an English-speaking country is usually enough to exempt you.

Some useful links:

https://studyinfo.fi/wp2/en/: this is the website for the universal application (called opintopolku Finnish). Here you’ll find information about applying to universities in Finland and you can search for programs and read about their requirements. You will also apply on this website. Unfortunately, you cannot create a My Studyinfo account (Oma- Opintopolku) without a Finnish bank account, Finnish phone number certification, or Finnish electronic certification card. However, you can apply without registering so long as you have an email address.

http://universityadmissions.fi/: this website has a lot of information about submitting application materials and what sort of documents are required from students from different countries. Of course, the advertisement for your program is the #1 source for information on what is required and how it should be submitted.

https://www.helsinki.fi/en/studying/how-to-apply: you may have seen this already…I didn’t use it because I go to the University of Eastern Finland, but it may have useful information. At the very least I see a link to a page about scholarships at the bottom…

Other websites where you may find help or information on programs, scholarships, or migrating:

http://cimo.fi/frontpage

http://www.studyinfinland.fi/

That’s all I can think of at the moment. If there’s anything that was unclear or another specific question that comes to your mind, feel free to ask!

#finland #suomi #helsinki #study in finland #sorry this is so long

0 notes

rebeccahpedersen · 6 years

Text

Bird Dog Fees & Referral Fees

TorontoRealtyBlog

Here’s an interesting tidbit: I rarely answer the office phone line.

I hate it. And that’s why I have never cold-called in real estate.

Last week, I got a call from a mortgage broker who I think might have been reading off a script. Either that, or he couldn’t take a polite hint.

But before he got to the end, he dropped a bomb on me:

“We give referrals to real estate agents. Up to fifty basis points on every deal.”

Say what?

“That means if somebody takes on a million-dollar mortgage, you’d get a $5,000 referral fee from us.”

He went on to give me a mathematical breakdown, suggesting that if I were to provide him with thirty clients per year, I’d take home an extra $150,000.

So what did I say?

How did I respond to the offer?

Was I about to get rich?

No.

Completely the opposite, in fact.

“I don’t take referral fees on mortgages,” I told him, to which he responded, “But this is approved by both RECO and OREA; it’s legal!”

A lot of things are legal that I don’t do, or don’t like, or don’t agree with. “It’s legal” is not the start, or the end for me.

So why would I throw all of that away for a few extra bucks?

It just stinks, and it’s really difficult to do without some bias and conflict of interest.

The moment you look to secure $1 more for yourself, by having that influence who you would recommend to your buyer or seller client, you’re putting your own interests ahead of your clients’.

That stinks.

And the broker is looking to pay real estate agents for referrals?

I didn’t like it.

The mortgage broker continued to ply me with, “This is all legal! The real estate boards are fine with it, people are doing it, people are happy,” but me thinks he doth protest too much.

That’s part of the job.

We already get paid to buy and sell real estate with our clients. There’s absolutely no reason to look for yet another handout.

The RECO website has a section dealing with exactly this, which you can read HERE.

It comes complete with this snazzy graphic too:

REGISTRANT RECEIVING REFERRAL COMPENSATION FROM AN UNREGISTERED THIRD-PARTY

Permitted with written disclosure

In keeping with section 18(4) and (5) of the Code of Ethics, the disclosure must explain:

that compensation may or will be received,

the conditions under which the payment will be received,

the amount or range of compensation the registrant will receive and where it is a range, the exact amount when it becomes known, and

Further, brokerages may establish their own additional policies and rules for their employees regarding the receipt of referral fees.

So now let’s continue with my example.

I have clients, Jane and John. They’ve read my blog for three years, and were finally ready to jump into the real estate market.

When I first met them, I told them they should speak to my mortgage broker, and trusting my guidance, they did.

They obtained a mortgage for $800,000, and were ready to go out and start shopping.

The next time we met, however, I explained a little something-something to them.

In who’s best interest am I working?

These folks trusted me to represent their best interests, and yet here I am, asking them to help me get paid?

It stinks!

It absolutely stinks!

I can’t imagine anybody out there willingly, gleefully, and knowingly agreeing to this.

And I never did, as my blog history will attest.

Wow, here’s a throwback! Have I really been blogging for this long?

December 5th, 2008: “Referral Fees”

I actually remember the conversation I described in my blog.

A gentleman sitting in my office telling me, “An envelope full of green is prettier than the Christmas tree in Time Square.”

Who talks like that, seriously? It’s like something out of a movie.

Now I mentioned in the title of today’s blog something called “Bird Dog Fees,” and this is something a little different.

Again, many people out there, be it agents, or the general public, may not have a problem with this. And it does exist, even though it’s prohibited.

I recall the first time I was introduced to this topic, back in a 2006 RECO bulletin:

March 31st, 2006 Registrar’s Bulletin: Bird Dog Fees

The takeaway from that bulletin is simple:

Paying any form of compensation to an unregistered person for activities that would be defined as “in furtherance of a trade” is prohibited.

Essentially this means that if Bob introduces you to Jim, and you sell Jim a house or a condo, you can’t give money to Bob unless he is registered as a salesperson or broker under RECO.

How does this differ from the referral fee?

It depends on who is giving and who is getting.

Referral Fee: The licensed Realtor receives a referral from a mortgage broker, provided the Realtor discloses this to the client at the earliest opportunity.

Bird Dog Fee: The licensed Realtor pays an unlicensed individual “in furtherance of a trade.”

As you can see, RECO believes it is okay for the real estate agent to get money, but not okay for them to give it.

And this is where the public turns on us, as they should.

On their own, each of those scenarios make sense.

But together? Held up against one another in the light of day? It looks as though RECO wants agents to receive, but not give.

In the end, I don’t like ANY of it.

The question is, if the Realtor says “yes,” what do you do?

Is it a problem that the Realtor didn’t disclose this before you asked them?

Or is it a problem that they’re taking a referral fee altogether?

I’m all ears…

The post Bird Dog Fees & Referral Fees appeared first on Toronto Realty Blog.

Originated from https://ift.tt/2C5pvdl

0 notes