#but old habits die hard and this one has been cooking for decades

[mashupofmylife]

For reasons that I now can't remember, my therapist (who mainly works as a child psychiatrist) and I ended up discussing the fact that I still sleep with stuffed animals. I was not expecting him to end the session by telling me that he expects to see pictures of them (or, for that matter, for him to reveal that he immediately assumed that my bed was completely filled with stuffed animals).

[draculasfavoritewife]

Night Terrors

Summary: Some things might never change, but every once in awhile, even the painful ghosts of the past can give way to further intimacy.

Pairing: Emma Frost x Scott Summers

Warnings: Mentions of death and past abuse, implied smut at the end. Angst galore.

I am a gleefully unrepentant shipper of these two and love getting inside their beautifully messy heads :) They were probably the first character ship I rabidly helmed, and to my dying day I will maintain that Emma is better for Scott than Jean ever was. That is all!

He wakes up violently again, muscles surging against her skin, only two decades of strict discipline keeping him silent, holding back the anguish that rips through his mind, simmering in the pit of his chest. 

Emma Frost is used to this, much as she wishes she weren’t. When you sleep with Scott Summers, the nightmares are part of the package. Not that she could ever fault him for it. She has her demons, too, the screams that won’t ever quite fade away, the haunted eyes, the scars and the bad choices. 

No, the reason she wishes it weren’t the case is that she hates feeling him in so much pain, most of it self-inflicted. 

She wishes he would open up instead of stuffing all of it down deep into that locked box in his psyche where it festers until it inevitably overflows. But then, who is she to make such demands of him? Emma Frost knows better than anyone how to hide weakness — how to repress her hurt, her doubts, anything that anyone could use to take advantage of her. 

Like her, Scott has been hiding his weaknesses his entire life. She alone sees through the cracks in his armor. She is the only one he allows to touch the scars inside of him, the ones that run so much deeper and are so much more painful than the physical scars scattered across his bare torso beneath her. 

Yet there are still things they don’t talk about. 

He’s trained himself never to open his eyes when he wakes. Even when he sleeps, she can feel his subconscious awareness that he isn’t wearing his protective glasses. His eyes stay shut, but his hands find her, his fingertips digging into the smooth skin of her back and tangling in her silky hair with a searching ferocity that borders on painful. She lets her own eyes flutter open, and as he feels her eyelashes brush his chest, his breathing relaxes. 

“Em?” 

She tells him she hates pet names and sentimental drivel like that, but he could tell, by the way she stubbornly kept her lips from curving up into a smirk the first time he called her so, that she really didn’t. 

She leans back slightly, pulling her weight from his body so he can take a deeper breath. “Yes, Darling?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Emma huffs an annoyed breath, blowing stray hairs away from her face. Sometimes it seems Scott’s entire vocabulary consists of “I’m sorry”. Doesn’t he remember, after the handful of years they’ve been together already, that she isn’t the Professor, demanding a certain standard of performance from him? She isn’t Logan, telling him off. 

She sure as hell isn’t HER, either. 

Old habits die hard, they say. 

Which is why, instead of voicing any of this aloud, she conceals her frustration at his apology and presses her lips to his strong jawline. “I’m a light sleeper, Scott. And it’s hot in here. It was only a matter of time before I woke up anyway.” 

He knows that’s a lie. He knows she would sleep past noon every day of the week if he didn’t tease and coax her out from their nest each morning with the promise that she can join him in the shower. But he doesn’t challenge her. He’s still too raw and tender from whatever old horrors his thoughts cooked up for him this time. 

“You sound like you want to talk,” she prods, sitting up. Moonlight slants in through the window, turning her already pale complexion silvery white. 

“I don’t,” he mutters, rolling away from her. “Go back to sleep.” 

Emma sighs and kicks away the sheets tangled around her long legs. “Well, you have my full attention, Lover. And something’s got your mind in a twist. Care to untangle it for me? Or am I supposed to simply await the next time I’m jolted awake so abruptly?” 

His broad back tenses. “You don’t like it, I can sleep somewhere else for the rest of the night.” 

Any other time, Emma would have laughed out loud at what he just said. This is his room they share, the room he has occupied since before she even knew what the Xavier Institute was, and he is the one offering to leave, instead of suggesting she do so. Whether it comes from his endearing sense of chivalry, or the fact that he’s completely wrapped around her finger, she isn’t sure. But it is funny. 

She has a feeling he’s not in the mood for a laugh tonight. He rarely is even at the best of times. So serious. So controlled. So…perfect, in front of everyone else. 

Emma was delighted when she first met him. She remembers the satisfaction of glancing through his thoughts and seeing how beautifully imperfect he actually is. Everything he worked so hard to keep from everyone else — the rage, the passion, the guilt, the POWER — she tasted it, lingering there in the wings from day one. She’s not the most religious person in the room, never has been, but something about meeting Scott Summers almost made her believe in a higher power. 

Why else would they have crossed paths? 

She reaches out, her caress sliding from his rigid shoulder all the way down to his hip, and he loosens slightly. “If you don’t want to talk…what about showing me?” This is nearly unheard of for her. She’s lived her whole life using her prodigious telepathic abilities to take what she wants and manipulate who she could in the name of self-preservation. It speaks volumes of how much he means to her, of the level of trust and respect they’ve cultivated in the years since they met, that she does not invade his thoughts whenever she pleases, asking for his consent instead. 

He’s known her long enough to realize this. 

Scott allows her to pull him towards her again, and he lets her in. Emma loves his mind, almost gets a rush from it when he bares himself this fully for her. She revels in the complexity of his keen intelligence, the turbulence of his emotions, the overwhelming drive and ambition that pushes him constantly to new levels of greatness. This is why she believes in him, why all of them believe in him, whether they are aware of it or not. If she had the time, she would willingly spend days in here, learning all of his idiosyncrasies, getting lost in his memories like a well-curated museum. 

The trail of his despair is easy enough to follow despite her desire to window-shop, and as she follows it ever deeper, his reluctance drags at her feet. She has a sneaking suspicion she knows which dream this is. 

Then she’s rounded a corner and there it is, playing out in front of her like a television rerun. The nightmare that most frequently haunts his slumber, the one they don’t talk about. 

The one about HER. 

She stands cold and aloof, an observer and nothing more as the flames rise higher and a woman cries out in agony and fury. Phoenix has always lingered here, in his mind. Emma can still feel whispers of the time when the redheaded woman was the one running her fingers through Scott’s memories and not her. Her presence is everywhere here, the one place that never changes even if Scott dresses in more expensive clothes now and has taken to leaving his jaw fashionably scruffy because Emma likes it. Another woman was here first, and no one can take that fact away. 

“It was different this time.” 

Emma turns to see him approaching her from behind. Not the same one currently playing out the grim theatre of death in his memory, but the real Scott. She feels a pain in her chest, though she would deny it, at the sight of his astral image still wearing his glasses, even though he can’t hurt anyone here. She turns away. 

“How was it different?” The words come out in her White Queen voice, the frozen tones she used before she met him. Emma hadn’t realized until now just how different her natural voice is when they’re together. 

He reaches out as if to put a hand on her shoulder, then has second thoughts and drops it to his side again. “Just keep watching, I guess.” 

So she does, and to her surprise, when the flames die and Phoenix with them, the woman the other Scott is cradling in his arms isn’t a redhead. Straight, pale blond hair is what she sees flowing over his shoulder as he breaks down, and it hits her with an odd gravity that she’s never watched herself die before. 

“I thought I lost you,” Scott tells her, voice low as he looks at the ground. 

Emma turns to meet his gaze again, and a tear rolls down her cheek before she can stop it. “You…it was me?” 

He nods, biting his lip. A moment of silence passes between them, and then he reaches for her hands, gazing down into her face. “I love you, Em,” he murmurs. 

She’s always had a more difficult time saying it than he does. He says it all the time in his thoughts, sometimes even aloud. It’s the way he ends most of their conversations. But he’s known real love, what it feels like, and she’s only ever heard the word as a euphemism for something that means absolutely nothing when the wrong people are doing it. 

In his thoughts, here and now, she thinks she understands what love really is, though. 

So she says it back. 

“I love you, Scott Summers.” 

Then he’s kissing her, and she’s always loved when he does it like this, alone in his head where no one else can see, when it’s just the two of them at their most vulnerable, more naked than they can ever be in real life. It’s intimate, it’s perfect, and she suddenly pities all those unfortunate souls that will never be able to experience a unity like this. 

Though if anyone ever accused Emma Frost of pitying anyone, she would slam them into next week. 

When she becomes aware of her own physical body again, Scott is sitting up in front of her, his eyes still shut but his thumb softly wiping the tear from her cheek. If it had been anyone else, she would be offended at their care, at their sympathy, at the assumption that she needs anyone to look out for her. But it’s Scott, and his touch is so gentle, and his lips are slightly smiling at her, and so she feels that pathetic warm and fuzzy feeling that only he has ever drawn out of her. 

She leans in to kiss him for real, sliding her tongue across his soft lips, and he returns the kiss with all of the warmth and passion in him, and she tells him again in their minds just how much she loves him. 

When they break apart, Emma allows her skin to harden, changing her body to diamond in his embrace. He senses the difference, her coldness against his skin, and tips his head to one side, questioning. “Em, are you sure?” 

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, Scott. Look at me.” 

His eyelids open, and she’s staring into his eyes. Even though her capacity to feel is deadened when she is like this, she knows how much she loves his eyes. They’re beautiful in their burning crimson glory, so much raging energy thundering out of them like an untamable force of nature. Those eyes that have killed, that have pulverized steel into dust and destroyed even the staunchest juggernauts he has faced, are nothing more than gorgeous to her. 

She can look him in the eye without his protective shields, something no one else on earth can do. It lights her up inside, both literally and figuratively she thinks, as she sees the patterns shining through her translucent body reflected on their bedroom walls. 

He closes his eyes again and rests his forehead against hers. “Thank you.” 

Even without her telepathy, she picks up on what he’s not saying, his desire for her to return to flesh and blood again, and what he wants to do to her when she has. “Don’t you want me to stay this way?” she asks coolly. “Most men would go mad at the very idea of having an entire woman forged of pure diamond in their arms.” 

“I’m not most men,” he replies simply. “And lovely as you are like this, I really prefer my entire woman much…softer.” 

She acquiesces, and he pushes her over so that he is the one on top now. “You’re certainly getting more assertive, Mr. Summers.” 

His smile is perhaps the closest thing to wicked she’s ever seen cross his handsome face. “That is entirely your fault, Love.” 

“Something I don’t mind blaming myself for,” she snarks, twisting her fingers in his thick hair. “What happened to ‘Go back to sleep’?” 

“Oh we will, don’t worry. But we’re going to get good and tired out first.” 

As he takes over, Emma reflects that his threats are the only ones she’s ever looked forward to fulfilling. 

[ravennm84]

Serafina

Part 2     Part 3

Based on @unmaskedagain post “Marinette’s Haunted Doll” this is my take on the story and the kind of things Serafina would have done to get even. There’ll be three parts, and will hopefully be posted through the week. Blood, gore, and character death ahead. You have been warned.

She was seven years old when her Grandma Gina’s sister, Ramona, passed away. Marinette couldn’t remember ever meeting her. Her dad said that she was a very private person and didn’t get out much. Since she had never married or had any children, all of her relatives were asked to come over to the house and divide the property before the rest was sold and equally divided. 

While her parents had been in the kitchen, looking over some family cook books, Marinette had wandered around the old house until she came to a small room. It was full of spiderwebs and old toys, which greatly interested her. She spent a long time looking through the boxes and shelves until she found a locked chest in the closet. Remembering the key she had seen in a dresser drawer, she retrieved it to see if it worked. It was hard to turn, but she heard the click and was able to open the lid. Inside was a box with an envelope laying on top of it. Curious she opened the envelope and read the note as best as she could.

“If I’m dead, Serafina killed me.”

Tilting her head in curiosity, Marinette set the letter aside and opened the box. Inside was an old looking porcelain doll. It was covered in spiderwebs, the dress was old and ripped, she was missing a shoe, and the hat looked like it was stained with red paint. 

“Are you Serafina?” She asked the doll before carefully lifting it out of the box. “I don’t think you’re bad, you just look lonely. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of you!” Giving the doll a gentle hug, the little girl got to her feet and left the room and letter behind. Finding her parents, she asked if it was okay to take the doll home so she could take care of her.

Tom remembered seeing that doll when he was a kid and had always thought it was creepy, but if his little girl saw the good in it, he would trust her. And since none of the other relatives wanted anything to do with the doll, it came home with them. 

Once home, the little girl raced up to her room with the doll and immediately got to work. She threw away the old dress, hat, and shoe before cleaning away all the dirt with a washcloth and carefully combing out the knotted hair. Then Marinette got to work on making Serafina a brand new outfit with new shoes and a hat. It took a few days, but she was really happy with what she came up with: a pink Victorian dress with rose and pearl accents, a wide brimmed hat with maroon feathers, and maroon slippers that tied with ribbons around the ankles.

Proud of what she had made, Marinette held the doll up high as she twirled around her room. She had been interested in fashion and clothes for months now, and making the pretty outfit for Serafina was a lot of fun. If anything, it proved to her that fashion design was what she wanted to do.

“I hope you like your new clothes, Serafina. You make the perfect little model, so I hope you don’t mind if I make more clothes for you later on. I promise to only make you clothes that will make you feel pretty.” Giving the doll a kiss, Marinette placed her next to her computer before skipping down stairs for dinner.

~oOo~

Serafina had not been expecting this when the young girl, Marinette, had opened her box. It had been decades since anyone had shown her any kindness. For so many years, she had been passed from person to person, shoved into boxes and hidden from sight or attempted to be sold off. Serafina had had no choice but to punish many of her past owners, and she had not been lax with their punishments. 

But she didn’t feel the need to do that with Marinette, this girl was different. She wasn’t afraid of her. She didn’t scorn her and hide her away where no one could see her. No, this girl was kind and made Serafina feel loved; something she hadn’t felt in nearly a hundred years. Staying with Marinette, she knew that she would be happy. So, no one needed to die here.

And she was.

The porcelain doll smiled quietly on Marinette’s desk as the years passed, and felt more for this girl than she could remember with anyone else. She felt beautiful whenever Marinette used her to experiment with a new outfit before she would make a full sized outfit for herself. She had fun when the girl would sing and dance around the room, sometimes even picking her up so she could dance with her. She felt entertained when she would play movies on her computer, one time watching a movie about a haunted doll like herself; they didn’t watch much before she turned it off, but Serafina thought it was funny. Scratching people and leaving notes wasn’t scary, she had done much scarier things than that.

As Marinette grew into a teen, Serafina felt proud as she grew from a shy girl into a fearless superhero. Her owner had a lot of love and light to give, so it made sense to her that she became Ladybug. She also felt scared for the girl, not wanting to lose her to Hawkmoth, but silently promised her that if she was ever hurt, the people who hurt her would pay her back in blood.

Serafina was also aware of the tiny god that gave Marinette her power, just as Tikki was aware of her. No doubt, the god could sense the darkness that dwelled in her porcelain body, but realized that she cared for the girl and would not harm her. So the little god wisely said nothing, she would hate it if Marinette suddenly feared her.

After all, the three of them were happy and at peace.

Until the day Marinette came storming into her room, complaining about a girl named Lila. From what she could hear, this girl was a liar and was using her friends. Knowing how much her human cared for other people, that didn’t sit well with how it would affect her. Then she didn’t hear anything about the girl for months. But when she was mentioned again, it quickly got worse from there. 

Serafina heard about the threats, the lies, almost being akumatized, her crush Adrien telling her to take the high road, all of it. She watched as one by one, her friends turned against her. Bullying her while accusing her of being a bully until only three of her classmates remained. She knew that the teacher and principal were useless and even accused Marinette of being a problem, especially after the expulsion. Serafina had nearly enacted her revenge that day, but held back when she was reinstated the next day.

Nathaniel, Rose, and Juleka were the only people left that believed her or even bothered to try and help in her class. There was also Kagami and Luka, Juleka’s brother. Serafina would admit, that boy was sharper than most. When he first saw her, his blue eyes studied her intently for a long moment until Marinette spoke up.

“That’s Serafina, she’s been passed down through my family for a long time. She was in really bad condition when I got her and took a lot of work to get her fixed up, but it was worth it. She was my first ever model and I’ve never felt lonely since she’s been around.”

Luka looked back over at the doll and gave her a smile. “I can tell, I’d bet no one gave her the proper love or attention until she came to you. And I think, if she could talk, she would say that you kept her from feeling lonely too, and all she wants is for you to be happy.”

Serafina liked that boy, a lot more than she had liked Adrien when he had come to play video games. The boy genuinely seemed to care for Marinette. And even though he could somehow sense that she was more than just a doll, he didn’t spill her secret. Yes, she approved of this one.

And then, less than a week after she returned to school, came the worst day. They were taking pictures at the school and Marinette had worked so hard on a new dress; it was pale purple cotton with teacup sleeves, a tulip skirt and pink lace at the hem. It was so sweet and looked like she was going to a spring tea party. Then half way through the day, she came into her room crying. Her makeup was smeared, there were bruises and scratch marks on her arms, another bruise on her cheek, her hair was a mess and covered in dark blue paint. The same paint that covered almost half of the dress. Tikki was doing her best to comfort the girl as she showered. Marinette was unable to save her dress and ended up throwing it away before she cried herself to sleep on her bed. 

Serafina was angry, the kind of anger she hadn’t felt since Ramona had attempted to burn her in the fireplace… and that hadn’t gone well for her. Tikki flew over to face her. “I know what you’re thinking and I can’t condone you falling into old habits and killing her entire class. Despite how much they’ve hurt her, it would still break her heart if they all suddenly died.”

The doll actually considered that for a moment before picturing some very specific people. Lila, the liar that was trying to take away/destroy the person she cared about. Alya, the best friend that betrayed her, acted like a hypocrite, and took joy in hurting her. Adrien, the boy that not only broke his promise to help her as a civilian, but continually harassed her as a pseudo-hero. And finally, Hawkmoth, the person that was constantly putting her in danger. Everyone else that had harmed her would be punished, paying back the harm they had done to Marinette in blood, but those four would pay with their lives.

Tikki shook her head. “As angry as I am with Adrien, you can’t kill him. Marinette still has feelings for him and if he dies, she might never get over him. I can’t stop you from punishing them, but please try not to kill them. You know that she has a big heart and it would hurt her to lose any of them, so please keep that in mind.”

Serafina would have argued, but the little god was right. Killing around Marinette would only upset her. So she would do her best to punish them without killing them… although, accidents do happen. 

~oOo~

It was easy enough to sneak herself into Marinette’s bag the next day of school. It was even easier to select her first victims. One of her classmates, Kim, stole her backpack and dumped out all of her stuff, including her. The boy laughed about Marinette bringing a doll to school as he ran up the stairs to keep it away from her. It took little effort to make the boy trip, in full view of everyone that had been watching, and fall backwards down the steps. 

Serafina had landed at the top landing with a perfect view of the boy’s tumble, and it was oh so satisfying. She could see his knee bent in the wrong direction, a bone in his arm protruding from the skin, and blood dripping from the cuts and open wounds. But the sound was even better, all the cracking and popping of bone before he began crying like a little girl, begging for his mom.  Ah, she hadn’t realized how much she had missed those sounds.

When the principal came out to see what was happening, she hid her presence and let the principal trip over her and fall as well. He even landed on Kim, causing more injuries to both of them. She held back a laugh as the grown man wailed and cried until the paramedics arrived. Loading the two into the ambulance while one of the teachers called the Board of Governors. A representative, M. Rupere, quickly came to take over the principal’s duties while he was gone, and was surprised when a bunch of students tried to blame Marinette for the incident.

“And how is it her fault?” He asked the students that surrounded him. “Did you see her push or trip M. Le Chien or M. Damocles down the stairs?

“Marinette brought in a doll and Kim was distracted by it when he was going up the stairs, that’s how he tripped and fell,” Lila told him with tears in her eyes. “Then M. Damocles tripped over the doll and fell down the stairs too. It’s just like how she pushed me down the stairs last week and I hurt my knee. I think she’s actually trying to hurt people.”

The man looked at Lila for a moment before looking to the top of the stairs, but there was no doll there. Then he looked back at Lila with a stern glare. “Young lady, if you had been pushed down the stairs last week, you would have been severely injured just like your friend or M. Damocles. And whether or not it was Mlle. Dupain-Cheng’s doll that caused the incident or not, does not mean that she is at fault for the accident. To the principal’s office, right now. I think we should have a discussion as to why you are trying to blame another student for something she did not do.”

Totally shocked, the girl looked around to her followers for some support, but they were now looking at her with uncertainty. They had just seen two people fall down the stairs and receive severe injuries, so how was Lila walking around just fine without a scratch on her? Huffing in annoyance, Lila stomped her way to the office while the class stared after her, most of them noticing the lack of limp to her walk.

Serafina was pleased with how this was turning out, she had already punished two of the people that had betrayed Marinette and had begun sewing seeds of doubt with the liar. At the moment, she was hiding in the classroom, observing everyone so she could figure out the best way to punish them. She noticed Rose, Juleka, and Nathaniel sitting close to the girl and doing their best to comfort her. She also noticed Nino, a boy she had seen a couple of times over the years, casting looks back at Marinette. 

During the first break, the boy cautiously approached her, clutching his hat in his hands. “Hey dudette, listen… I, um, wanted to say I was sorry,” he said, having a hard time looking her in the eye. “After Kim fell, what that Governor dude said about Lila not being hurt, and the fact that I’ve known you forever. I felt so stupid. You would never push someone down the stairs or cheat or steal from someone like that. And I tried looking up Jagged’s discography to see if there was any mention of a song about Lila, and there was literally nothing. I tried telling Alya, but she didn’t want to listen and-”

Nino was interrupted by Marinette giving him a hug. Serafina smiled at that. The boy had thought for himself and admitted that he was wrong. He apologized and Marinette was willing to offer him forgiveness. She supposed that Nino could also be exempt from punishment, so long as he never betrayed the girl again.

Half way through the second lesson, Lila had returned to the class with two weeks worth of detention and had a meeting scheduled with herself, M. Rupere, and her mother at the end of the week. Serafina decided to let the girl’s empire fall before going in to completely destroy her.

During lunch, when all the students had left. Serafina got to work on punishing Mme. Bustier. She started by slamming the door shut, it made the woman jump and look around the room, but there was no one there. Then the giggling started, causing her to look around the room again. This time, she walked up the steps to see if anyone was hiding in the room, but she was completely alone. When she turned back to her desk, the papers she had been grading were torn to pieces. A bit panicked, Bustier tried to run out of the room, but the door was locked. As she struggled with the door, she heard the scraping of chalk and froze for a moment before looking at the board. Large words were scrawled in block letters: LIAR, ENABLER, MEAN, CRUEL, and the most frightening of all, YOU WILL PAY.

Bustier’s hands were shaking as she erased the words from the board, not understanding what was happening. Only taking a breath when the door opened and her students began to file in. Serafina quietly laughed at the teacher’s fear, she was another person that she would take her time in punishing. Payback for failing to help Marinette. For now, it was time to take out her biggest supporter. 

Again, it was much easier than it should have been to sneak herself in Alya’s backpack and go home with her. When the girl found her she sneered. “The klutz must have put you in my bag by mistake.” Then she smiled cruelly at her. “I think I’ll give you to Etta and Ella to play with before giving you back to Maribrat, maybe tell them that you need a makeover and give them some permanent markers too.”

Turning to take the doll out to her sisters, she stubbed her toe on her desk chair hard enough that she felt a crack and dropped back on her butt while hissing in pain. When she was finally able to think past the pain, she realized that she had dropped the doll and didn't see it on the floor. After wrapping her foot, she looked all over her room but couldn’t find it anywhere.

That night, things got… more than scary. Alya was absolutely terrified.

First, her computer turned on, on its own, and started printing off papers saying “YOU KNOW THE TRUTH”. She turned the computer off, only for it to turn back on after she’d climbed into bed and the browser pulled up past searches; specifically, the searches that proved that Lila had been lying. She had found that out after Lila had disappeared from school for months, but had kept to herself so she wouldn’t lose her credibility on her blog or have to admit to Marinette that she’d been right. Turning it off again, she’d decided to sleep on the couch when her phone suddenly let out a hiss and burst into flames.  

Letting out a shriek, Alya rushed to her door, and had just barely opened it when it slammed shut on her fingers, causing her to scream as she struggled to pull her hand free. She could hear her parents and Nora shouting on the other side of the door, trying to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge. Her head got fuzzy and she suddenly felt cold, she realized that she was going into shock. Her parents’ shouts became garbled background noise and Alya heard the sound of tiny feet running around the room. She tried reaching the light switch so she could see, but it was out of reach.

From the light outside her window, she could barely make out the movement of a small shadow, moving from one part of the room to another. Coming closer and closer to her with every sweep. Alya began tugging harder on the doorknob and her hand. She needed to get out. Something was in the room with her. She could almost feel the darkness creeping closer. It wanted to hurt her!

What happened next, Serafina couldn’t have planned better if she’d tried. Alya jerked back her trapped arm and the doorknob at the same time Nora threw her shoulder into the door as hard as she could. Sending the teenagers flying into her bedside table and her head hitting the corner with an audible *crack*. The doll smiled silently in the corner of the room as the paramedics were called and listened to her parents cries for their horrid daughter to wake up. They called time of death at 2:03am.

~oOo~

It was a bit more of a chore for Serafina to get back to the school, but it was still manageable as her mother had to inform the school of her daughter’s death and pick up her things. The woman had also noticed the information that had been brought up on Alya’s computer and thought that she had been up late chasing a lead. And as the lead had to do with the disturbing behavior of one of her daughter’s classmates, she thought it best to show the acting principal the information before taking her leave. 

Making her way back to the classroom, she saw that the news had spread already. Nino seemed to be hit the hardest, as it was his girlfriend, but he would get over it. Kim was still out of class, and likely would be for a few more days. Tikki saw the doll when she was peeking out of the purse and gave her a disapproving glare, but there was nothing she could do. And in Serafina’s defense, she had only intended on maiming the failed journalist, her death had been an “accident”.

When class let out for lunch, Serafina got back to work tormenting Mme. Bustier. Today, the door slammed and locked shut a few minutes after the last student left. The woman shrieked and was struggling to open the door when the giggling started again. Bustier started screaming for it to “go away” but the giggling continued. Turning back to the door, books began flying at her from all over the room, hitting her chest, back, arms since they were shielding her head.

Then the door opened to show a panicked looking M. Rupere. “I heard screaming, are you alright?” The red haired teacher looked extremely frazzled; her hair was a mess, eyes wide and dilated, and her hands were shaking.

“The books,” she said in a trembling voice. “There was giggling, the door wouldn’t open, and the books attacked me. And this was the second time!”

His eyebrows rose to his hairline as he stared at the woman. “Did you see who was throwing the books at you?”

Bustier shook her head in a frantic manner. “There was no one, the books just started flying at me after the giggling.”

Giving her a slow nod, Rupere gently motioned her to step out of the room ahead of him. “How about you take the rest of the day to recover? Some rest will do you some good.” 

To his relief, Mme. Bustier agreed and collected her purse before leaving the school. Looking around the room, he was confused to see all the books in place on the shelves. Curious, he went to examine her desk and saw essay papers… covered in red ink with large “F’s” on every one of them. Reading the paper on top, all he saw were a few grammar mistakes, nothing that should have resulted in a failing grade. A bit unsettled, Rupere called the Board to schedule a psychological exam for the teacher. Serafina watched the man with satisfaction, at the rate she was going with that terrible teacher, she wouldn’t be around much longer.

Her next victims were Max and Alix during science class. She switched a couple of labels on the tubs on their desk before hiding in the room to enjoy the show. Half-way through class, Max poured a large amount of reactive chemical into the mix while it was warming over a burner, and the glass exploded. The two screamed and cursed in pain as Max tried wiping the liquid away from his face, only succeeding in getting more in his eyes. Alix tried wiping it away with a cloth, not noticing in time that the fabric was also soaked in the chemicals that now covered her entire face.

Serafina was impressed with how quickly Mme. Mendeleiev reacted to the incident. Doaning on gloves in an instant and leading the two students to the chemical wash station. Both students looked to have chemical burns on their faces, arms and necks. She could already see the burns covering a large amount of their exposed skin. While the class was distracted, Serafina switched the labels back so it would appear that the two had not been doing as instructed.

When school let out, the doll hid away in Mylene’s bag and ended up going on a date with the girl and Ivan. They commented on the bad luck their class seemed to be having and wondered out loud at what the cause might have been.

Mylene was hesitant to speak as the two ate their ice cream. “Do you think… maybe it’s karma coming back on our class?”

“Why do you think that?” Ivan asked her, seeming genuinely curious. Deciding that their conversation might lead to something more, Serafina waited and listened.

“It’s just… ever since Kim fell down the stairs, it’s got me thinking. Lila says that Marinette pushed her but the only injury she says she got was a bad knee, and she’s been walking around fine since then. And then she tried blaming Marinette for Kim and M. Damocles, when Kim shouldn’t have been running up the stairs and M. Damocles tripped at the top of the stairs when she was still down in the courtyard.”

“You’re right, now that I think about it. Lila lied to that new principal and she did it really easy.” Ivan nodded slowly, his brow creased as he pulled out his phone. “I wonder if she lied about anything else.” Mylene watched over his shoulder as he looked up the story about saving Jagged Stone’s kitten from an airplane. There was nothing, the only article that came up about a pet was his crocodile, Fang. The story said that he had hatched the reptile himself seventeen years earlier and any other pet wouldn’t be as rock’n’roll as Fang. “I don’t think Jagged ever had a cat, this article says that he’s only had Fang for longer than we’ve been around.”

Mylene pulled out her phone and called Rose, putting the call on speaker when she answered. 

“Hi Mylene, did you hear anything about Max and Alix? Are they going to be okay?” The girl asked as soon as she picked up.

“Ivan and I haven’t heard anything about them yet, but we have a question for you, Rose, and it’s something only you would be able to answer.”

There was a slight pause on the line. “Go ahead.”

“Do you still chat with Prince Ali?”

“Sure I do! We video chat every Saturday and I send him videos of our performances with Kitty Section. Why do you ask?”

“Ivan and I were wondering… Has he ever mentioned Lila to you?”

There was another pause, although they could hear a hushed conversation in the background. “So, you guys figured out the truth about Lila?” When they didn’t respond right away, Rose continued. “I found out a few weeks after Lila says she came back from Achu. I mentioned Lila to Ali and asked him about the charities they had been working on together, but he’d never heard of her. And Ali is only working on charities involving children, nothing with the environment. When Juleka and I tried asking Lila about it, she got really mean and threatened us if we told anyone. I would have been akumatized if Marinette hadn’t been there to calm me down.”

Ivan and Mylene were horrified, not only had Lila been lying to them, but she had threatened Rose, Juleka, and probably Marinette too. “What should we do?”

“First, you should apologize to Marinette for how you’ve been treating her and let her know that you know the truth.” They heard Juleka over the phone. “Lila has been more terrible to her than anyone else and she keeps getting in Lila’s way to protect us and Nathaniel since we know the truth about her.”

“Who all knows?” Ivan asked, feeling a bit sick to his stomach. Sure, he and Mylene hadn’t really hurt her or done anything, but they hadn’t stood up for her either and they were supposed to be her friend.

“Us, Luka, Kagami, Nathaniel figured it out when she said she could introduce him to Stan Lee, Nino figured it out yesterday, and Adrien’s apparently known from the start but didn’t say anything because he doesn’t think her lies are hurting anybody.”

Both of them could hear the acid in Juleka’s voice when she mentioned Adrien, and they couldn’t argue with her. They knew he had led a sheltered life, but how could he claim that ‘lies don’t hurt anybody’ after sitting back and watching Lila and her friends torment and bully Marinette?

Mylene hadn’t even realized that she had asked that question out loud until Rose answered them. “He told us that it was Marinette’s own fault for antagonizing Lila, and ‘If she just took the high road like I told her, then Lila would leave her alone’. It took everything I had not to slap him.”

Coming from Rose, that really was saying something.

Serafina was then taken on a shopping trip to an arts supplies store, a card shop, and a stop at an ATM before going to Marinette’s family’s bakery. She smiled quietly and with great respect to the couple as they apologized to her girl, gave her cards, an entire bolt of soft purple cotton the same color that her ruined dress had been, a new sketchbook, and money to pay her back for some of the things that Marinette had given them over the past year. They even asked her to provide them with proper receipts, and admitted that they knew the amount they had given her wasn’t enough to cover everything. But they promised to pay her back before asking for anything else, as well as pay in advance for any future items or baked goods. 

The little doll would have cried right along with Marinette if she could. These two had proven themselves to her and would avoid punishment, just as Nino had.

Taglist (it’s a long one):

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[yowzariversong]

plotted starter for @survivcrsguilt​

   Flames flicker ahead of her, licking around each stick and curling upwards, before dissolving into smoke in the cold air. It's only a little warmth compared to the vast chill, but River is still grateful for it all the same: she'd probably freeze out here without any extra heat. Gaze drops from the fire to her legs stretched out to warm her feet, eyes landing on the gauze-wrapped reason she's here and not fourty miles further into her trek: her ankle.

   It was a ridiculous mistake - something she would have been harshly punished for in her earlier days - but on a relatively danger-free trek to visit her parents, River hadn't felt the need to be constantly vigilant and so had put her foot straight into a rabbit hole. Her own stupid fault really, and now she's dealing with the consequences: a sprained ankle and a frustrating delay. She can still walk on it of course - it's only a sprain, her high pain tolerance and alien biology easily allowing her to put weight on it - but it will heal significantly faster, and better, if she rests it for a few days. She learnt decades ago, with her life full of danger and surprises (and sometimes, dangerous surprises) that it's better to heal now than run into an emergency and wish she had.

   The camp is bare but sufficient, with a large waterproof sheet for shelter and a firepit dug into the bare earth for food and warmth. A hare that she shot yesterday hangs off a spit above the fire, slowly roasting while it's skin sits in a pile next to her pack, bundled up tightly to avoid attracting bears or other predators with the smell. It's hardly the level of luxury she prefers, or even what she's used to, but it's enough to get her by for now.

   Fingers twitch ever so slightly, hairs on the back of her neck raising as she feels eyes on her once again; it's a gaze that's almost familiar now, in spite of not knowing who it belongs to, or where they are. Her small camp is backed by a large boulder and several huge pine trees, allowing River to keep the approach in sight at all times (old habits die hard), but no matter how hard she peers into the dense foliage, her eyes never alight on a person staring back at her. The feeling began yesterday, soon after shooting the hare, and has since returned sporadically, waking her with a start early this morning, and apparently showing particular interest in her skinning and cooking her dinner. It's reassuring that she doesn't forget it the moment it's gone, never once coming to her senses to find tally marks scratched into the dirt or her skin, but simply not being a Silent isn't good enough to reassure her this stranger is well-intentioned, or unarmed. A quick mental inventory, one which she knows by heart now: two boot knives, one belt knife, a period-appropriate gun and her blaster (not mentioning hands, sticks, or anything else she might be able to use to her advantage). Prepared for any fight that might come her way.

[ravenadottir]

Hear me out: headcannons about Bobby growing old with mc🥺 (I needed some fluff T-T)

no no no no no, you can’t just come in here and do this to me!! that’s so wholesome! i think i’m gonna have to divide this in decade marks, and maybe stop at the 30 year mark? i can do a part II later. 🤔

‘10 year mark’

the ‘mckenzie’ brand has expanded to restaurants, bars and bakeries all over the uk

the bars are considered a hot spots in the big cities. pictures of young ‘paisley cuddle’ are scattered on the walls, along with the pics from the villa’s parties, to set the theme

the restaurants have bobby and his experiences with famous chefs, like jake ‘sweetcheeks’ wilson, mary berry, gordon ramsey, wolfgang puck.

the bakeries however have the pictures from the time bobby went on the bake off show and won.

there’s small town models of the bakeries/restaurants that are seen as ‘family diners’

you and bobby already have two kids, 4 years apart from each other. in my head bobby is the type to have them earlier so they can live their best life together, have fun in the kitchen or in the backyard playing ball.

he loves throwing birthday parties every year, and of course, baking the cake. to which year is a different theme. “babe, you take care of the decorations and the details i’m definitely gonna forget, and me?” he puffs his chest holding a whisk. “i’m the cake guy.”

bobby is the reason why the kids love the parties so much. he’s the type of parent that goes on the slider with the kids, jumps with them in the bounce house, starts the water balloon wars…

the parents are so thankful for him since he’s pretty much the one who keeps an eye on them at all times.

usually, he’s waking up early every day because it became a habit since his hospital times. he never really shook that habit. so he prepared breakfast, takes the dog out, while you wake the kids up to eat and rush them to school

the dad that takes two different cameras and a phone to film and take pictures during his kids’ public presentations, games, recitals and science fairs “dad, one phone is enough” “yeah, but your dad needs backup! i’m from the 90′s darling. i can’t be any different” he says, shrugging with a grin.

you guys have a small house on the outskirts of glasgow or london, depending on who won the bet you had when you got married.

you’re pregnant again. entirely unplanned and now bobby can’t stop crying,. he always wanted three kids.

‘15 year mark’

a third child came three years ago, which made you consider a much more peaceful place to buy a house. and a bigger one for that matter.

bigger bakyeard means more people and their kids playing around the lawn, as bobby and gary grill sausages, making stupid jokes about it, and you and the girls have drinks shaking your heads.

you and bobby are gary’s kids’ godparents

ibrahim can’t come, he’s to busy making mad money on brand deals. noah is calming the kids down, by reading something in the living room, while bobby shakes a cocktail for the tired parents.

gary gives you a new couple of puppies, because the dog you had has unfortunately passed away. (sorry!)

your first kid is just turning 13 and being a little pain in the ass. but they like their uncles and aunties so they will actually raise their heads from *inser new device that will replace phones*

you guys travel in your car, to spend a week in cabins, fishing, playing ball, having picnics close to the lake

bobby always throws at least one of the kids in the water, before jumping in and splashing everyone. “bet you can’t do better than that, babe…” he says to you, raising his brows suggestively. “watch me, mckenzie.”

summer time and the lake became a tradition since it was the first place you and him spent a holiday alone

the employees that attend to you in hotels refer to you as “the mckenzie’s”

in the city, you have a trustworthy babysitter that will spend the night so you and bobby can have some time alone

he surprises you with dates and flowers out of nowhere

early nights are made for you and bobby to help the kids with homework

at this point, bobby is invited to be a special guest in cooking/baking competitions in the uk

and to have a “masterclass” of hiw own, where he mostly credits you for the idea of expanding, the execution of the administrative plans and how to actually expand a business. “i only do the cooking. she’s the genius behind the money.” he laughs while crossing his legs during his online course.

‘20 year mark’

kids’ sad times. graduations are happening. the youngest is entering third grade, the other one is in uni, far from home. “did you have to choose something so far from your old man?” “dad… of course! how else would i have a ‘paisley cuddle’ phase?” they respond, laughing. “i should’ve never told you thats story! now you’re having ideas!” “relax dad. everything is gonna be fine!” the middle one is entering high school and their rebellious phase.

bobby follows through with his part of the deal when you got married, by wearing something ridiculous to embarrass your kid at their graduation. “dad, you look like a hawaiian drug dealer.” “ i know,” “oh, so it wasn’t dark when you got dressed? mom!” “what can i say, your dad doesn’t care for blacks and blues.” “yeah, right…”

professionaly, bobby has a renowned signature dish, plenty of new ideas for the future, like school and courses.

the house is the same you bought five years ago, but now, it’s mostly parents getting together for barbecues, cocktails, movies and game nights

the younger children stay in the tv room upstairs

‘25 year mark’

your second child didn’t go to uni, and decided to help out on the family business. they always felt like this was the life for them and couldn’t wait to finish school to start.

bobby wanted them to go to school to learn everything they could “but dad, you didn’t, and you know so much.” “oof, they got you there, babe.”

you have a second wedding ceremony and a second honeymoon

bobby has a few grey hairs popping through his dreads

he’s still wearing colorful shirts and girls on social media call him ‘daddy’

he’s been invited to cook for the queen (yes, she’s still alive)

you see your friends a few times more a year now.

your third child is going to uni, to follow a career path you never imagined they would, but you’re proud of them

you decided to sell the house, that’s so big now, and find a smaller one that still has an extra bedroom for when your oldest comes to stay with their partner

bobby cracks dad jokes now, and according to gary, he picked them up from him “sure, gary, ‘cause you’re the only man on the planet who tells dad jokes” “stop bickering! you’re like an old married couple.” you say, slapping their arms playfully

‘30 year mark’

your first child just had their first child

“you’re a grandpa, bobs!” gary slaps him on the back, picking up a box of cigars that they will share with noah and ibrahim.

“can’t believe i’m this old.” “if you’re old, what am i?” you ask him, folding your arms on your chest. “beautiful?” he responds with a clear guilty expression.

‘things that would happen at all times during this entire journey’

bobby would sing to the kids every night

you would read them bedtime stories, taking turns to do the voices

it’s a tradition to cook together on special occasions, no matter what happens. the three kids, you and bobby would always spend the day listening to music, talking about life, slicing, sauteeing, mixing, measuring. it’s a tradition that will never die

when your grandkids come around, they will be the the ones resposible for measuring

drawings that your kids do in school akways have extra colors on bobby’s outfits. his name also has more than three colored letters

bobby has taught your kids how to play the guitar

rainy afternoons were known as “dad’s baking afternoons”

you and bobby had a hard time to find a compromise between being friends and parents.

open conversations with your kids, about everything. they knew what to expect in the world.

bobby’s parents would visit, to spend a whole weekend and share stories of his childhood, as yours would too

family vacation always had a ‘car trip and singing along to the radio’ type of tradition as well

your oldest now takes their child for family vacation in the same spot you and bobby used to

twice a year you guys rent a place for the family to have some bonding, even after they get married (or not)

“your dad is the finest pillow fort architect in the uk”

camping in the backyard when you had to cancel a trip

you’re in charge of coaching and playing sports in the back of the house while bobby relaxes under the sunlight “i was never very athletic”. he’s the empire

*these are the ones on the top of my head. i must’ve left dozens behind :/

[aries-rising-on-an-aquarius-tide]

Evocations: XVI

The Chief District Attorney drafts an over-eager redhead with too much to prove, to replace Alexandra within just a few weeks. Liv allows the natural rhythm of the work to sweep her along, pouring herself into it in order to keep the loneliness and the mourning at bay.

Darcie and Alexander check in regularly enough, even after the sale of the apartment is settled, two months after being on the market. She is genuinely touched that they call, but dreads it, too - being forced to sit in her sadness for that brief period every few weeks.

Elliot checks in too, in his own way. For the first couple months he pretends that he is being subtle about it: asking her if she's eaten, glancing at her fridge every time he stops by her apartment, making sure she is the first to nap in the cribs if they have a lull. As Christmas approached, he suggested drinks or pizza outside of work more often. He made it clear Olivia was welcome to celebrate Christmas with his family.

But Liv didn't want company. She didn't want Christmas. All she wanted was her life back, and if she couldn't have that, she wanted to work. So, she put her head down and plodded forward.

It was late in January when the phone call came. Olivia grabbed the phone on the first ring, assuming it was a case about to break. On the other end of the line, though, was Alexander's voice. Immediately, a chill snaked down Liv's spine. The Cabots never called her at work.

"Olivia," Alex's father said quietly, and the knot of tears in his throat was audible, "we lost Darcie."

Liv went stiff in her wheeled chair, fixing her eyes on a pile of paperwork in front of her. She listened to Alexander's soft voice telling her the basic details, all the while thinking of how he believed he had lost his entire family, when Alex was somewhere still alive.

She assures him she will call when she arranges her flight, and ends the call, walking straight into Cragen's office where she tells him she needs time off.

.

.

Alex has never been so sick of a winter as she is of that first Winter in Wisconsin. She has three layers to strip out of as she comes through the door at the end of the day, and Sky impatiently dances circles as she does so, waiting for her dinner.

Her job now is at an insurance firm. Not selling it, thank God, mostly just auditing and reviewing applications. Like everything else she has undertaken, the job is easy and she excels. Her skills are painfully underused in the position, and she is already exhausted with it by January.

Tina, her 'sister,' continues to see her regularly. Behind closed doors, they are acquaintances at best; any hope of having a close friend in the woman had sailed very early-on. Alex is, in fact, surrounded by acquaintances - in co-workers, at the stores she frequents, in her neighborhood. But nobody gets close.

Close isn't an option any more. Every time she forgets to respond for a beat to 'Emily,' every time she sees someone new, Alex is chilled through, wondering if she has been found out. She worries about people asking the wrong questions, about strangers who look at her a moment too long.

Is this the day? she has asked herself a thousand times, Is today the day I die?

In the bathroom mirror, she runs her fingers over the scar from her bullet wound, and tries to convince her reflection that she is Emily now. She practices it like daily affirmations, trying to accept her isolation, her loneliness, her confusion.

Once Sky is fed, Alex reheats some chicken soup for herself (she has refused to cook anything but hot meals since the first snowfall), and takes it to the spot where she has set up her desk and PC. She has gotten into the habit of keeping up with the news in New York, and in Dallas where her parents are; in her email are dozens of newspaper subscriptions she uses to keep on top of SVU cases and other tidbits.

A foot rubs Sky absently under the desk as Alex eats her soup and reads. Outside the doors to her back patio, the snow swirls and flutters with no end in sight to the frozen dairyland's stasis. This is when she sees it.

It rolls up on the screen of her digital copy of The Dallas Morning News:

Beloved Wife of Prominent Local Attorney Passes, Community Mourns

Below it, she reads her parents' names . . . her own name, words that she knows are a part of her real life, but at first she can't make them feel real. Again and again, she reads the blurb about the death of her mother, and the recent death of herself.

My mother is dead.

Mom has died.

Alex repeats the fact, continues to paraphrase it, until she rises from the computer and walks back to the kitchen with her half-eaten soup. Laying the bowl in the sink, she stares blankly into the receptacle until she feels the burn of her fingernails cutting into her palm.

When she looks up from her bleeding hands, her eyes land on the telephone, and she briefly considers calling Jack Hammond and demanding that he give her back her old life. To attend her mother's funeral, to be held by Olivia, to feel something again.

In the end, Alex takes Sky to bed under a thick pile of blankets, and her sleep is filled with nightmares where snow falls in Dallas, and she wanders the streets, screaming for her mother, who cannot hear her call.

.

.

Olivia has never been to Texas, and cannot think of a worse reason for her first trip there as she touches down in Dallas and embraces Alexander Cabot, who seems diminished without the two blondes who have always bookended him.

She moves into mothering mode quickly, encouraging Al to eat and sleep. She keeps a wary eye on his drinking, and makes sure that he is working through any paperwork Darcie left behind. As parents most often do, the Cabots had originally arranged to leave everything to Alexandra. After the cartel case, some reshuffling had occured, and Olivia is touched and conflicted when she finds out that some of it was shuffled to her.

When he falls into a fitful sleep the night before the funeral, Olivia slips silently, curiously into Alex's teenage bedroom. It is mostly intact: the walls showcase 80s movie posters alongside Feminist icons and clippings of political milestones of the decade.

Liv breathes deep of the ghost of her lover in the space, fingers reverently gliding over academic awards and dusty photos where Alex's smile beams out at her. On the bookshelf, she reads titles one after the other - Rubyfruit Jungle nestled right up next to Little Women . . . Jane Rule, Roald Dahl, Beckett, a gathering of strange bedfellows that brings a wisp of a grin to Olivia's face.

Finally she sits down on the narrow, creaking bed and picks up the tattered stuffed penguin at the pillow. The sigh that pitches from her is swollen with melancholy.

"His name is Shivers," Al tells her from the doorway, and Liv jumps at the sound. He fills the doorframe with his height and heavy sense of his grief.

"Of course it is," Liv sniffs with amusement, giving the flightless bird another once-over.

"You should have him," Alexander furthers.

The amount of restraint that Olivia has to employ to keep from confessing that the man's daughter is still alive is utterly monumental in that moment. She binds it, snuffs it, locks it away again and again. No confession comes, just a smile for Alex's father, and a nod.

The morning following the funeral, Liv flies out of Dallas with Shivers in her suitcase, leaving behind her a dozen yellow roses on Darcie's grave.

.

.

In mid-April in Wittenberg, much to Alexandra's dismay, the ground remains frozen. Most of the snow slowly melts, however every now and then, a light dusting of fresh flakes comes down in the morning or overnight, then melts with the climb of the sun.

She has lost weight through the winter months, and the sharp planes of her face in the mirror are painful to acknowledge. No proper mourning of her mother had come to pass; Alex had simply filed the knowledge away as a part of the life she lost, and continued the monotonous plod forward in the strange play she now acted in each day.

Before April gave way to the slightly warmer thaw of May, the insurance firm where she was working threw a social mixer - to break up the long change of seasons, they explained. Tina, who was concerned about Alex's weight loss and isolation, had pushed hard for her to attend, even if it was just to get out of the house for something other than work and errands.

So, on the evening of the mixer, Alexandra found herself at a local drink lounge called Doubles, quietly sipping a Shirley Temple. Her co workers were made up mostly of the usual office-job types: clad in off-the-rack suits, soft-spoken and nerdy, often shy, and unfortunately not very interesting. Alex stayed hugged to the bar, drinking and trying to decide how long she had to stay in order for her escape to be considered polite rather than asocial.

"Mind if I join you?"

The man that belonged to the voice was from the Claims Adjustment department of the firm. Alex had seen him around now and then, perhaps even passed polite words with him - but she couldn't recall his name. She waved her hand in the direction of the stool next to her in reply, and he settled in.

"You don't remember me, do you?" he chuckled, watching for the bar tender to free up so he could order a drink.

"I'm not so great with names," Alex told him apologetically.

"Well, I remember your name - Emily." He had a great smile, and he flashed it at her. "Mine is Greg."

"Thanks for reminding me."

He called to the bartender for a rum and coke, then checked if she wanted a refill, which she declined. "Where were you before Wittenberg?" he asked.

"Tulsa, Oklahoma," Alex told him, pulling from the pool of lies and backstory that she had been taught in October.

"Ah," his green eyes twinkled with amusement, "That explains it then."

"Explains what?"

"Why you seem to disdain Wisconsin winter so much."

"I didn't realize it was so obvious," Alex smirked.

He laughed, wrapping both hands around his highball glass. "Were you in insurance there?"

"No. No, this has been a big change for me," she admitted softly.

"Do you miss it?"

Alex startled. "Oklahoma?"

"Whatever it is you left behind."

The blonde paused, her blue eyes locked on the liquor in her glass. "Yes," she confessed, "I do."

They stayed at the bar, drinking slowly, while Greg asked her innocuous questions that were neither boring nor bothersome. Alexandra could feel herself relaxing, loosing herself from the lonely exile she had been prescribed. Before the evening was over, she even caught herself smiling at him, wanting to laugh at his simple jokes.

When the event began to empty out, she declined his offer for a ride home, and was genuinely surprised when he accepted it without pushing back. Neither did he ask her for her number, or to see him again. Alex wondered on her taxi ride home if perhaps she had misinterpreted a man's intentions for the first time since adolescence.

Her worry was quashed, however, when Greg reappeared at the office beginning of the week, and asked her if she would like to have lunch together. She agreed, and it slowly became a regular thing.

By the time he finally asked her on what could be considered an actual date, Alexandra was anxious at the idea of going back to being alone.

She considered the long winter, in which she hadn't put up a tree or celebrated the holidays. Considered the death of her mother, and the nightmares that had followed, leaving her breathless and shaking. Alex even considered the ring, somewhere back in New York, that might never find its way onto the finger of the love she had been forced to abandon.

Facing down the idea of that isolation for the rest of her life was too much to bear.

Alex said yes.

[leam1983]

On Grief

This is a long one. You're under no obligation to push further if you don't want to. It's a personal post, so I'll more than understand if this isn't to your tastes. The normally-scheduled pedantry, commentary and memes will resume shortly.

One of my relatives was diagnosed with ALS. What started as an odd case of palsy in her left set of vocal cords that could've been far more benign was just confirmed by her referred physician. It's Lou Gherig's, and with her age and current condition, her prognosis is of three to five years, tops. Sure, Stephen Hawking blew his own prognosis out of the water, but a combination of notoriety and luck enabled him to eke out as much existence as medical tech could've possibly allowed.

We knew things were suspect when my aunt, a marathoner with a monthly sub to Runner's World, stopped running. Her food intake dropped like a stone, and she soon took to increasingly simple painting and drawing styles. At first we thought it was just her wanting to explore simpler rendering techniques, but then...

Then we noticed the twitching. How awkwardly her pens and brushes were set in her hands. She was in great shape and didn't mind living in the ass-end of Sutton, basically in the open country and with a path leading up to her front door that was all in rough cobblestones. She broke a hip against them, last year.

Her speech started to slur, lately. Her last bike trip also landed her in the ER. She doesn't bike anymore. She doesn't run, and being a gourmand by nature, feels obligated to restrain herself, for fear of gaining weight. She's aggressively vegan. Not towards others, but towards herself. No meat, no eggs, nothing. Most of us ovo-lactos and omnivores in the family know her constant snacking meant her seventy-plus body is desperate for energy.

From the look of things, it feels like the diagnosis broke through her bullshit reasoning for being vegan. She wasn't vegan for the sake of limiting her carbon footprint or making more responsible choices at the grocery store, but because she, as a lifelong anorexic, thought she was ugly and needed to lose weight. That's been a constant with her. Age catches up and skin sags? She mistakes it for a love handle, cuts out virtually all sources of protein and carbs safe for tofu, seitan and bean-based preps. Of course, like a lot of anorexics, she'd have bulemic episodes. I used to sleep over at her last bachelor pad, as a teen, and I remember her pantry was loaded up for bear with Danish cookie tins, Nutella jars and whipped cream. I remember she invited me over specifically when she intended to cheat. Then it was back to yoga, pot-smoking, meditation and shopping runs - and she probably kept her purging for when I was gone.

So yeah. I'm betting Belgian Asshole (see one of my previous posts) convinced her to break her vows and went looking for a "slice of authentic Tikka Masala", to quote his email. The entire family is made up of ethnic food diehards, so we spam-flooded his inbox with recommendations. Looks like she'll be eating meat again, soon. Her own email mentioned concerns of strength and stamina, so I get it.

Otherwise? We're gobsmacked. Imagine spending an entire weekday both at work and off work, aggressively goofing off because you're trying as hard as you can not to think of your favourite aunt's mention of assisted suicide as an option.

Three to five years. Maybe one, or two good Christmases. After that, her condition should probably have started to deteriorate quickly.

I'm not close with a ton of my own family. I love them all, but it's more a sense of polite respect than anything involving solid bonds. The only two folks I know I'll be devastated for when they'll die are her, and my youngest cousin on the other side of the family.

I'm mostly okay now. No doubts, no crisis of unbelief, no anger, no rage... But then I'll see her in a more diminished state, one of those days. How am I going to take to it?

Part of me keeps a tally of the deaths in the family. First, it was my uncle on my mother's side. Ruptured abdominal artery, with a leak small enough to pool into the gut's cavity for months. Decay settled in, guy got anesthetized for an intervention...

They didn't even bother sewing him back up.

Second one was my other paternal aunt's new husband. First one was great, but left the country in the seventies to go live in Stockholm with his medical assistant. Second one was a geologist and physicist at the same campus she taught as. French guy, the son of innkeepers four generations down. It showed, too. Our Christmas tables haven't been the same since he left us his recipie books, all his corny jokes on provincial eating habits, and his obstinate focus on turning every 25th of December into a Roman orgy probably befitting of the old Saturnalia traditions. I mean, when's the last time you've had an eight-course meal, outside of Thanksgiving?

Tumors in his mesenteric artery lined the blood vessel's inner walls, deposited virtually everywhere in his body. He was diagnosed in June and dead by August. He'd always been the lanky type, bone-thin even if he hoovered food like he'd never have enough. He looked even thinner in his hospital bed.

Then, my maternal grandpa bit it. Decades of casual alcoholism, cirrhosis more or less jumping on him around his seventy-sixth year. He looked a bit like John Keston, the actor who played Gehn in CyanWorlds' Riven. Same hairline, same hawkish nose, same eyes - just more Cajun and less New England-esque. I don't know if it was youth or stupidity or - anything, really, but I dropped by to see him, just two days before he died. I didn't realize he was tallying my life, asking me if I had everything in order, if things were planned.

Now, I understand.

Next one on the chopping block is Aunt Doris, still on Mom's side. She of the serial mooching, she of the concept of not needing much to get by if you were the cute one of the family. She was pretty enough in her prime, sure - if by pretty you meant "cigarette-butt blonde with a discount Farah Fawcett blow-up and an unfinished High School degree". First husband was an abusive ass who gave her an uncommonly sensitive son, second one figured she'd stick to the minimum-wage circuit while he tore out rotator cuffs or busted his C7 while on his outboard like clockwork. By the end, she roped my grandmother into living with her, spent her days sloppy-drunk and died on her ratty couch while falling asleep and choking on her own vomit.

Before them all, the youngest of my uncles died at age two. Cancer. Never knew which one, was told it didn't matter. You didn't survive much of anything cancerous, back in the late fifties.

Ping-pong this back to three years ago, and my oldest paternal uncle dies. Paul, who smoked like a chimney for most of his life and successfully stopped after discovering Champix. He got to live five great years as the high-IQ oddball he'd always been, smoke-free. Paul was the weird bird in the family, the type to remember a really engrossing story at two in the morning and making a note to call you up first thing in the morning to share it. He always had a project of some sort to work on, like a simulated investors' tank for young entrepreneurs looking to learn the ropes, or a Byzantine arrangement of coaxials allowing four of his lakeside neighbours to pirate his cable sub. He'd invite us over for dinner, gather all the ingredients we'd need for whatever it was he wanted to treat us to - and then he'd let us cook it - just sitting by the sidelines, chatting away.

He was also a bit of a narcoleptic, and looked a bit like William Howard Taft if you'd worked him out of these old sack suits and into modern shirts and suspenders. He fell asleep practically everywhere, with his more wakeful environments being his workshop and his property's dock. He took me out fishing, once, and knew what the entire family expected.

"Oars're here, Gremlin, fish're that way. Wake me up when you've got a bite."

At this point, it wasn't even a point of concern; it was just an Uncle Paul Thing, the exact thing you'd have expected out of this kind, eccentric blob of a man whose idea of fishing involved pushing his hat over his eyes and basically all but ensuring that his roaring snores would scare prey away. He'd been a supposedly high-IQ type, terminally bored with almost everything, only really getting agitated and interested back when I asked him for help for my Junior High Computer class's Javascript calculator. Once the syntax hit something familiar and he realized that JS has some similarities with FORTRAN, he was on a roll, acting like someone had snuck a Red Bull in his coffee.

Well, fibrosis caught up with him. His last hours were spent directing us on how to cook what would've been his last meal. I think he really just wanted to know we were alright, that we still could exchange laughs around the kitchen counter. He clocked out the way he always did, except he had an oxygen tube running under his nose. His head bobbed down, he snored loudly for a few minutes, then turned increasingly quiet...

And that was it.

And now there's Isabelle. The marathoner, my partner-in-crime when it comes to professing to have a healthy diet while occasionally cheating in glorious, weekend-defining means, my gateway to cannabis and also the first person who took my cringy self-insert fanfic fodder and went No, that's worth it! Push it, develop that universe of yours!

I wouldn't be almost two-thirds of the way through my first decent manuscript, if not for her, and I wouldn't be shopping for publishers with the same energy you'd reserve for weekend-grade Facebook putzing-about. I owe her part of my self-acceptance, and part of my discovery of what defines my routine to this day. Isabelle was my first meditation coach.

And in three to five years, she might be gone.

I just thought grief might be... noisier, is all. Louder. Right now, it's just germane to confusion, and it's sitting there. There's a pinch of fear in it, too. My parents are in their mid-sixties. How long do I have left with them?!

And the family and I just covered that up with jokes and, well, cooking. I've been told I'd make a half-decent therapist but - navigating your own emotions is hard work...

I don't know. I guess I needed to put this down somewhere.

[mcfanely]

In the Ice emperor and earth dragon AU, after they get rescued from the cursed realm, does Cole accidentally call Zane the ice emperor sometimes? Does he trail after him like a bodyguard at first? He spent decades protecting Zane and following his orders. Does he still look to Zane for orders for a while? Does he ever try and call on his dragon form instead of using his powers normally?

Oh man, you have no idea how much I want to talk about this. I have the idea figured out in my head all the way through this AU, I know what's coming next and what'll follow that. How I'll "conclude" it, so to speak.

But just being able to think of the different ways their time in the other Realm has effected them? I'm totally down to ramble. Even if I can't ramble about everything 😂.

There's definitely going to be some baggage brought back from the Never-Realm, and it'll be spoken about unlike in the show where Zane experienced 40+ years of manipulation only to never mention it again (I mean, I get new season, new plot progression, but really? Give me character development and onscreen healing).

Anyway!

Even with the both of them being fairly trapped in their own way, Zane under the throes of amnesia and being kept in check due to his trust in Vex, to Cole's slipping awareness of the control that's still on him, and his drive to protect Zane; old habits are definitely going to die hard.

They definitely won't entirely be themselves when they get back. What happened to them during their 40 years of sort of mental limbo will be fuzzy with instances of sharp memories, but overall their clearest memories would be right before they were both corrupted.

Though it's still a shock when the other ninja realise how quiet Cole has become. How he's gone from someone who had a laugh that could be heard from the bottom of the monastery steps to a guy who sits in almost solid silence. His breathing is measured, his movements are almost calculated. And he barely talked, not unless he's spoken to first. It's like his mind checks out, only coming alive if he's being addressed.

And if Zane's in the room too? Cole's attention never once leaves his friend. It stayed fixed, taking in everything that's happening around them in brief glances as if there's a threat just waiting to happen and he needs to spring into a action. Both of them are constantly alert and on edge, and they can't properly explain why, but relaxing is hard.

The first time Cole addressed Zane as "My Emperor," everyone just immediately fell silent. It was during training, a few weeks after Wu had lifted their benching and it seemed that they were getting better. They were falling back into themselves, becoming more at ease. Zane was relaxing, he was cooking more and sleeping through the night. Cole was too, actually staying in bed instead of sneaking out every few hours to check on how Zane was doing.

Neither Zane nor Cole even realise the slip up. Zane's shoulders may have straightened just a little bit, his gaze hardening. Cole might have frozen in his spot, as if the only person that existed in the training area was him and Zane.

Then a quiet, "Uh, guys..?" From Lloyd, followed by a tap to Cole's shoulder from Kai before a careful hold was placed just onto the top of his arm. As if to ground him, to drag their friend back out of his thoughts.

Only, Cole flinched at the touch as if he'd been struck hard. It ended with Kai on the floor, his arm twisted behind his back, Cole's knee resting against his back and a low growl coming from his throat.

It only took Zane to bring Cole back, a cold handed touch to the back of his hand, and he immediately stood up and stepped away. Eyes widening, realisation crashing down on the both of them as to what had just taken place.

Both Zane and Cole went their seperate ways that day. Zane hiding out in his room, curtains drawn and door locked; and Cole finding solace alone in the mech hanger downstairs. He didn't speak for a few days afterwards.

Zane still uses his power, though it's tentative. Small flurries of snow, ice patches but nothing huge. He prefers using weapons, anything to seperate himself from the Emperor.

Cole hadn't used his powers at all since he got back. He draws in on himself at the clang of a sword. If his breath fogs even slightly its like the blood rushes from his face.

He hasn't touched his scythe either, or any other form of weaponry. He just observes training from the side, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

No one even mentions the white hair.

This is getting a bit lengthy! 😂

I don't want to clog up people's feed so I'll draw it to a close here! But I love that AU so much, and I love talking about it! Thank you for sending the ask!! It gets the ideas flowing!

[brokenbuttonsmusic]

Howard Tate: A Philadelphia Soul Resurrection

This post is a near- transcript of the Broken Buttons: Buried Treasure Music podcast (episode 1, side B). Here you’ll find the narration from the segment featuring the great Philadelphia soul singer Howard Tate, along with links, videos, photos and references for the episode.

Listen to the full episode on Spotify, Anchor or Mixcloud.

Music history is packed with bands and artists that had the talent, the songs and even the fully realized recordings to make it big, only to be passed over. Some miss their window, or worse, some get their big break, but somehow  self-destruct or fail to capitalize on it. It’s the reason why I decided to do this show. There is so much overlooked and under appreciated music out there to be found and enjoyed.

This next artist doesn’t quite hit any of those scenarios exactly though. Howard Tate got his break and made it happen. Howard Tate hit big and he hit fast. Tate said he came home from work one day and a big limousine was sitting in front of his door. 

“You gotta get in here right away. You gotta get a suit. You’re playing with Marvin Gaye tomorrow night.”

Between 1966 and 1970 Howard Tate had six top 40 R&B singles. And then he disappeared. Plunging into obscurity, almost as quickly as he soared within sight of the summit. Tate never completely crossed over. While he regularly appeared on the R&B charts, the highest he ever placed on the Pop charts was #63. 

Let’s start our dive into Tate, by hearing his highest charting single. One of three top 20 R&B hits in his catalog. This is Ain’t Nobody Home by Howard Tate. 

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Ain’t Nobody Home by Howard Tate.

Here’s what the Rough Guide to Soul & R&B has to say about that recording and the chemistry of the whole crew who made it happen.

“With a groove laid down by keyboardist Richard Tee, guitarist Cornell Dupree, bassist Chuck Rainey and drummer Herb Lovell, the production of Ain’t Nobody Home by Jerry Ragovoy both borrowed from and influenced the music coming from Memphis and Muscle Shoals, and set the precedent for Atlantic’s first recordings with Aretha Franklin. While the music was great, however, it was Tate’s vocals that made the record. Sounding like a less overwrought Percy Sledge, Tate’s simultaneously Northern and Southern phrasing was impeccable, and economical use of his falsetto made it all the more effective.”

Tate had the voice, which many compared to Sam Cooke and Marvin Gaye. He also had a distinctive gospel-blues delivery that sticks with you for days. But the tunes came from somewhere else.

Before his quick ascent, Tate was singing in a group with Garnet Mimms. Mimms was the original singer of the Janis Joplin hit,  Cry Baby. He also introduced Howard to record producer Jerry Ragovoy, who co-wrote Cry Baby. Ragovoy is known for writing Time is On My Side for the Rolling Stones and another Joplin hit, Piece of My Heart. Clearly Janis liked the songwriting of Jerry Ragovoy. In fact, she also performed this Ragovoy composition that you’ve probably come across at one time or another.

That’s Janis Joplin singing Get It While You Can from her massive second album Pearl in 1971. What you might not know is that Get it While you Can was originally performed by Howard Tate, five years earlier in 1966.

Ragovoy was taken with Tate’s voice and began recording him as a solo artist for Verve Records. Ragovoy’s memorable, punchy Northern soul production paired with Tate’s soulful blues phrasing was a perfect match.

Here’s Howard Tate’s version, the original version, of the Jerry Ragovoy penned Get It While You Can.

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That was Howard Tate with Get It While You Can from the 1966 album of the same name.

American rock critic Robert Christgau had this to say about Tate and his collaboration with Jerry Ragovoy.

“Tate is a blues-drenched Macon native who had the desire to head north and sounds it every time he gooses a lament with one of the trademark keens that signify the escape he never achieved. He brought out the best in soul pro Jerry Ragovoy, who made Tate's records jump instead of arranging them into submission, and gave him lyrics with some wit to them besides. In return, Ragovoy brought out the best in Tate.”

Despite the magical team up on early singles and a debut album, Tate recorded his second album without Ragovoy, instead working with Lloyd Price and Johnny Nash. Released in 1969, Howard Tate’s Reaction is more uptown soul than the grittier southern soul of its predecessor, but it’s another recognition worthy collection of performances.

Ragovoy and Tate reunited for 1972’s eponymous Howard Tate. This time an Atlantic release. Critics knock this album as being a notch below Ragovoy’s best songwriting, but I think it’s a worthy piece of Tate’s catalog. Tate sounds great, as always, and there are a couple of really explosive, interesting covers. The Band’s Jemima Surrender and this one.

Bob Dylan’s Girl From the North Country. Listen to this voice.

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Howard Tate covering Bob Dylan’s Girl From the North County from 1972.

After recording a handful of additional songs—one single for Epic and a few for his own label—Tate retired from the music business. Frustrated with his lack of crossover, but downright bitter about how little he was paid for his successes, which again, included 3 top 20 R&B hits—he quit. Disappeared, really.

But not everyone was ready to forget. And while his name would fade from memories over the coming decades, Howard Tate’s impact was undeniable.

One of Tate’s heroes, BB King, covered Ain’t Nobody Home. So did Bonnie Raitt.

Ry Cooder and Grand Funk covered Look At Granny Run Run

Jimi Hendrix covered Stop

Foghat covered Eight Days on the Road and so did the one and only queen if soul.

And not everyone forgot. Tate’s old partner, record producer and chief songwriter Jerry Ragovoy made many attempts to track down his old friend over the years. He contacted old business associates and got them in on the search. They all came up empty.

A New Jersey DJ named Phil Casden had developed somewhat of an obsession with Tate’s whereabouts. Casden hosted a weekly radio show, spinning soul, blues and R&B and had taken to asking his listeners for any information about the missing (by this time) cult soul legend.

Even Verve, Tate’s old record company, had given up trying to track down the long retired crooner. The 1995 CD reissue of Tate’s Verve sessions included liner notes that flat out said: Howard Tate is probably dead.

''It wasn't sufficient to leave a story like that open-ended,'' Mr. Casden said. ''I had to find out: 'Is the guy alive? Is he dead?' There had to be something more than, 'He just rode off into the sunset.' ''

In 2001 the mystery was solved. Ron Kennedy, singer of Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes recognized Tate at a grocery store and the old pals played catch up after nearly 30 years. They exchanged numbers. Kennedy put the New Jersey DJ, Casden, in touch with Tate. Casden enthusiastically announced the good news to his listeners and the soul fanatics across the internet. Howard Tate was alive! He even put Tate in touch with a lawyer to help him recoup past royalties from his reissues.

Apparently Tate had quite a loyal following overseas. Eventually, a British journalist reached out to Tate’s old partner-producer Jerry Ragovoy for a reaction. The only problem was, Ragovoy didn’t have a reaction to give because he didn’t know Tate had been found. Ragovoy was elated at the news. After reconnecting with his long lost friend and confirming he was doing well, the next thing on his mind: could Howard Tate still sing?

Before we answer that, let’s answer this: where had Tate been all those years after walking away from the music?

After becoming resentful and disheartened by his missing paydays, Tate decided to go missing himself. He didn’t intentionally go into hiding, he just bailed on the industry that he felt wronged had him.

He worked as a securities dealer with Prudential for a while and then darkness hit. He lost his 13-year-old daughter in a house fire. In 1981, after 20 years, his marriage fell apart. Soon after, Tate unraveled too. He tumbled into drug addiction and lost everything. He lived on the streets for years, struggling to get by and feed his habit. Finally, in the mid 90s, he started to climb out of the hole. He cleaned up and found god. He became a minister and dedicated his life to helping the poor and homeless.

And that brings us up to the moment of his big reunion with Jerry Ragovoy and loyal fans awareness that Howard Tate was alive and well after all those years. But now more than your die hard R&B/soul enthusiasts were interested.

But did he still have that voice? Could Howard still sing?

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Uh, yeah. Jerry Ragovoy was stunned at how strong Tate sounded after decades of being out of the game. And he was REALLY out of the game. Howard claims he never sang a note all those years. Not until Jerry approached him about recording a comeback album and got him into the studio. Tate also says he had no clue that Janis, B.B., Jimi, Ry or any of the others had ever covered his songs or took an interest in his music.

Howard and Jerry recorded a new album in 2003. It’s called Rediscovered. And remember that Elvis Costello quote from the intro to this episode? Elvis called Tate the missing link between Jackie Wilson and Al Green. Tate asked Costello to write a song for his new album and he agreed. 

Let’s here that now. From his comeback album, Rediscovered, more than 3 decades in the making, here’s Howard Tate with Either Side of the Same Town, written by Elvis Costello.

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That was Either Side of the Same Town from Howard Tate’s first album after 30 hears away from the music business. But not his last.

Tate had quite the victory lap. He made numerous tv, radio and festival appearances in the ten years after his reemergence. He recorded two more studio full lengths and a live album. On December 2nd, 2011, Tate passed away of complications of multiple myeloma and leukemia.

With a superb first act and a spectacular resurrection that led to the near doubling of his recorded output, there’s plenty of Tate music to check out and enjoy.

Other sources for this segment are listed below.

I referenced several NPR features in this episode, including the obituary they did for Tate. 

Deep Southern Soul - This blog did a great post on Howard Tate. Lots of other good stuff here, but they recently announced they are closing up.

Gadfly Online - Another nice write up on Tate and his back story.

New Jersey new feature - The clip of Howard talking is from this segment. They did a feature on Tate’s rediscovery.

Trunkworthy - Post about Tate and his comeback. This site digs into music, movies and TV you might have missed. They also did a post about the Elvis Costello song featured in this episode. Elvis’ version is on The Delivery Man album. 

New York Times Obituary for Howard Tate

The Guardian Obituary for Howard Tate

Billboard Magazine, July 26, 2003 - Article about Howard’s return after 30 years.

[pythosart]

A big ol 2019 end of the year update

I felt somewhat compelled to write my end of the year/decade thoughts, but a warning before you read: This one’s going to be heavy, intensely personal, and long. If you don’t feel up to reading that, it may be best to skip it. I promise I’ll go back to shutting up and posting art afterwards. I’m profoundly incapable of being concise, ever, so apologies for the length of this.

2019 was a nightmare.

Some background: In mid 2016, my mother was diagnosed with a rare form of liver cancer. She was given a few months to live. She was given weeks or months to live multiple times, for almost three years. In that time my mom was in and out of the hospital, but spent all her good days living life to the fullest, starting and finishing dream projects, and keeping all of us going despite her own situation. Even when she was bedridden, hooked up to tubes and bags and god knows what, she found time to prop up her loved ones and pursue her hobbies. She even managed to develop new hobbies and interests while otherwise imprisoned by her physical state, something I struggle to do at the best of times even in my young and relatively healthy form. If there’s anything I can make of this experience, it’s that I hope to grow into even half the woman my mother was.

I ended 2018 with my final quarter at SCAD. I spent the entire quarter terrified my mom was going to die while I was away from home. It was horrific, I barely scraped by my last few classes (bless my professors’ endless patience), and immediately left Savannah for home as soon as the quarter was up. I never had room to celebrate finishing college. Any other year it would be a huge milestone, but I barely even care.

This past May, my mother passed away, after three years of petrifying suspense. It happened in the dead middle of the night, while my best friend was visiting for a con, and it still feels like a bad dream. It’s also one of the only vivid memories I even have of this year. 

I wish I had more to say on that, but I genuinely think the drawn out suffering and fracturing of my whole world left me unable to fully unpack everything that’s happened. It’s hard to even think about for long, and at times I even half-forget she’s gone. I think of things I want to show her, or tell her, or cook with her. Just the other day I kept thinking I’d tell her how much I liked endive after she showed me how to make it. I found a historical Italian cooking channel that, every time I see it, I just think of how much she’d love it. I knew she’d love Hot Fuzz but never got to show her. Little, stupid things that shouldn’t matter, but they do. They just do.

My mother and I were close, much closer than I am with my dad. Especially towards the end of her life, we had gotten closer, and I felt like I was only just really getting to know her as an equal. I still want to share my life with her, but that chance is gone.

This holiday season has been especially rough in her absence, because not only was my mom the motivational and creative force behind a lot of holiday activities here, it’s the first everything without her. We had Thanksgiving with friends and a catered dinner, instead of spending several days cooking and polishing family silver and setting the table. I won’t be making handmade tortellini with her for Christmas like we did every year. It’s the little things like that.

We’re a tiny family, with over half of us in Italy and lacking much communication due to the language barrier. Family holidays were always small, but there’s just a huge hole how, much greater than the cold numeric value of “one fewer participant.” My mom was always a driving force and a keystone in our support networks, not to mention the main line of contact with the Italian-speaking side of the family, so now the family feels so much more scattered and isolated than ever.

My girlfriend was close to my mother too, and as she’s been living with me for years now and is practically part of the family, I think she took it just as hard as anyone. Cel saw everything I did, and dealt with many of the same uncertainties and traumatic experiences I did.

A month after I lost my mother, I lost my cat too. Galileo was twelve years old, a spry old man who yelled instead of meowed, and just a wonderful cat. I got him when I was in 7th grade, after begging my parents for years to get me a cat. It was my mom who eventually overrode my dad’s hesitations, and from then on Leo was part of the family. He went through a very sudden decline over the course of a week or two, and we learned it was cancer. Feline lymphoma, I think. I had to make the call to put him to sleep, and it ripped what was left of my heart out.

Not that it needs stating, but fuck cancer.

A few too-short months later, I cut ties with a “friend,” which despite how fucking much it hurt, was really for the best. At a certain point one simply can no longer afford to waste energy on a certain kind of person. Unfortunately I’m a persistently optimistic idiot, and it took me too long to cut my losses before deep damage was done. Done to me, my close friends, and even barely involved acquaintances this “friend” dumped on relentlessly and tried to harass into spying on me. Really, if any part of this is unforgivable, it’s that.

All this was, however, a valuable reminder that it’s no good to have any tolerance for habitually dishonest people, even if they think they’re doing it to look “nice.” Chronic liars will gaslight you whether they know it or not, and trying to navigate that in an already damaged mental state is inadvisable. It was an important lesson in picking one’s battles, albeit one learned too late. I’m still holding out hope I can find it in my heart to forgive this person, if only for my own selfish sake so I can move on. I have a lot of experience living on spite, and I don’t want to make a further habit of it.

Naturally all of the above did little to curb my already inflamed pessimism about the state of my country and the world at large, but I need not expand on that, I imagine.

I suppose it would be unfair of me to leave it all at that and only mention the negative, though admittedly positivity is hard to muster these days. A few bright spots of note:

Graduated from SCAD with my BFA in Sequential Art (technically last year, but I did the ceremonial bit this year)

Tabled at Animazement with Woods. We barely broke even, but it was a great time and I plan on doing it again in the new year.

Spent literally an entire month hanging out with my two best friends, which was amazing and exactly the kind of healing experience I needed around that time of year.

Properly did Halloween for the first time in years. I made a costume I’m proud of and we went out on the town… for like an hour, because it promptly started pouring. But fun nevertheless

Started therapy. As of writing this, I’ve only had an introductory session, but it’s a start. Should have started six months ago, but didn’t for reasons to be addressed...in therapy

Started volunteering at the local natural history museum, where I spent like half my childhood. I’ll be doing data entry in collections, but that’s still cool as hell

Got a start on figuring out what I want to do with my life. It’ll involve going back to school for science within the next five-ish years, but it’s nice to have a goal. More of a goal than I’ve ever had, in fact.

Played some extremely good video games (shout out to The Blackout Club and Control)

Made a shitload of unnecessary yet endlessly fun and good AUs with my friends and my one (1) OC

Got an iPad Pro and started learning Procreate, which has gotten me drawing more

Learned a bit of needle felting

2019 was a year of getting much closer to my two best friends, and I genuinely owe them my life at this point. I don’t know where I’d be without them. Nowhere good, certainly.

Woods and Dross kept me talking to people, kept me creating, told me when I was being unreasonable or needed to cool it, heard me out when I needed it but always kept me honest. They helped me keep some creative juices flowing when otherwise I’d have been at a frustrated loss and might have given up for good. If it seems like I’ve kept up my usual art output at all, and if you’ve enjoyed the Lou content (or not, whoops... apologies to everyone who followed me for monster content) you have both of them to thank.

Even moreso, I owe my girlfriend a great deal for being there for me through all of this while she herself was suffering similarly. She and I have had our ups and downs, and been through a lot in the five-ish years we’ve been together. We aren’t the most outspoken couple, but I think our mutual understanding and pain mitigated a lot of the damage this year has done. I don’t think I could have handled it alone.

Furthermore, I really need to thank a lot of other friends and acquaintances I’m not quite as close with, but still talk to. These people especially were willing to call me on my bullshit when necessary, or just talk to me at all, about anything. Even if these acquaintances didn’t know it at the time, there’s a good chance they were dragging me out of one of my frequent existential despair spirals.

I also, weirdly, owe a lot to helping my hen Julia recover from her dog attack. That was around the time that my mom’s health was in its final decline, when I felt the most helpless and despairing. I think having even some tiny something I could do to help was like, the only feeling of control I had in life for a bit there. Julia’s fine, by the way. Still queen of the yard, top chicken boss bitch, etc. Julia was always a kind of kindred spirit with my mom, in a way. Little but not to be underestimated, gray, big personality and commanding presence… Not to mention, she was one of the first in our flock and was always my mom’s favorite. 

It would be too much to say I have high hopes or plans of any kind for the upcoming year, but I do have a list of things I want to try and do. Some of which will involve art, and the posting thereof.

Big if on this one, but I’ve also recently started therapy (only took me half a year to work up to making a phone call after the first failed attempt took all the wind out of my sails) and I have…maybe not high hopes, but hopes, for that doing something to help. I should have started therapy two years ago, but the second best time is now, etc etc.

I have a lot of New Year’s resolutions, beyond the usual “get in shape, drink less coffee, blah blah” that I’ll try and write up a little list of separately. Most of them are art-related, so you all will be there to watch me swing and miss I PROMISED I’D TRY TO BE LESS NEGATIVE. New Year’s resolution #1: Maybe don’t make so many self-deprecating jokes.

Anyway, I don’t know how to end any wall of text, be it an OC worldbuilding screed or something serious like this, so... I guess, love yourself, cherish your friends, know when to put your own needs first and when to put your friends’ needs firster. One of the things my mom taught me in this past year or so is that relationships are what you make of them, and that it’s okay to be selfish sometimes. Be generous, be genuine, don’t be a doormat and don’t lie to people you care about, even if it seems kinder in the moment. Savor the time you have with those close to you, and spend time doing things you love. Cliché, maybe, but cliché can still be true. Happy new year, everyone. I sincerely hope it will treat us all better. 2020 may just be an imaginary change of numbers, but I like to think it really does wipe the slate in a way, and make room for all of us to do what we can to be better. Speaking of which, vote. For the love of all that is good, vote.

--

A little bullet list of New Year’s resolutions, because it’s nicer to look at

Try to get back in shape (of course) - That 30 days of strength thing was good while it lasted, despite my joints hating me

Learn some new recipes, preferably with fewer carbs, you Italian ass

Keep a physical calendar and stick with it for at least a few months

Learn at least one new skill by the middle of the year, whether it’s art-related or something else

Start writing more. Don’t have to share it, but try. Write down ideas somewhere other than Discord where they’re easy to lose

Either reopen Patreon or figure out how ko-fi works. Even if it’s for no money, just to have structure and goals.

Do Animazement again and try out some new product types

Go to SCAD career fair with a decent portfolio

Get better about spending, by whatever method works

Attend some art classes at the local collectives, doesn’t matter what

Play more video games. I swear I only played like three new things this year 

Read more classic literature and nonfiction, at least one book per month. I’ve been really enjoying Agatha Christie’s works and am about to start Guns, Germs, and Steel

Read more comics. Basically just consume more media

Do Halloween again, better this time

See friends in person more

Practice accepting whatever shitty thoughts show up and then letting them go, rather than dwelling on them

[gigilalaka]

Meta Knight HCs part 4

I can fianlly write this one down! Good god, this was a long time coming. Its mostly going be about Meta’s childhood, skills and other small things. Its a sort one, but that all the time I have for now.

Edit: I’ve added a bit more since I won’t be able to make any more HCs for a while. My work has gone from 7 hours to 10-15 hours work thanks to the covid-19 virus. I work at a cleaning and house help place, where we help with laundry, house cleaning, shopping ect, for the handicaped and ill. So thanks to the virus, we become very busy with deliverys to all the places that needs all the help they can get. Hope everyone are haveing a good week/month.

-When Coldswager, Estella and Kickcrack found out about Meta’s real age of 1775,his been at the sickbay for 16 years and both Coldswager and Estella was very concerns about why Meta’s body seems to have bad reactions with a lot of the medicien that was given to him, instead of being somewhere between 3000-5000 years old as his hight, weight and body structure said, the three of them did not believe it at first. It took another 10 trys with the same end results for them to believe it. Arthur was far from happy when he got told of Meta’s true age.

-When Dragato, Nonsurat and Falspar was told that their new little bro to be was infact still a toddler/baby, they could not quiet believe it. It did not help that Meta’s body was physically 3-5 years old. Though they learned over the years that Meta was indeed bearly 2000 years old.

-Theres a high age diffrent between Meta and his brothers. Meta’s age when Kirby meets him is 50 268 years old. His big brothers age are as followed: Dragato’s is 76 279, Nonsurat’s being 65 893 and Falspar’s being 58 785.

-Meta dose not start speaking untill he is 3207 years old, simply thanks to the fact that he did not know that he had the ability to and had learned from his time at the lab that being silent is worth its weight in gold if he wanted to not get eaten or beaten to death. Though he’d would have problemly start speaking sooner had he know how his dad and brothers react to it. He almost got crushed by a hug from Estella when Dragato asked Meta who she was, and got ‘mom esta’. Safe to say she was very happy.

-Meta is smaller than most puff children his age, and along with his blindness, trust issues, truma and fear that he got turing his first 1759 years of life, it became hard for him to be with other children his age without getting in some sort of problem, trouble or misunderstanding. He also became a prime target for bullys and the like. This has been one of the many reasons why Meta is so anti-sosial, though the pain of his friends dying in the war is the biggest reason of them all.

-Meta would spend most of his time playing with Falspar becuse of said bullying and the fact that Falspar was still a child and thuse had more freetime than the rest of the familiy. Meta also played a lot with Nonsurat and Dragato when they where not busy with training or study. When Galacta became friends with Meta things got a little easier for him to make friends.

-Becuse of Meta’s poor health, the puff had to eat a special diet for the next 10 000 pluss years or so. He only got things like junk food, cakes, sweet and fancy food on either his birthday or holidays. Now as a adult he can eat whatever he wants, but he still eats healthy meals most of the time.

-The first time Meta ever got to taste something sweet was when Dragato shared some of his favoritt snacks, strawberries dipped in chocolate and baked apples with honey, and the purple puff swear to this day that fireworks was danceing in his little bros eyes when the dark blue puff got to eat them.

-Meta when he was still a child and small, ended up with two habits that would only show when he was with his family. One being that he would fall alseep on their heads, after a while and out like a light, whenever he ended up on there. None of them mind it. The other one being that he would only accept anything that had something about food from them. He had a major trusts issues when it comes to food thanks his living conditions back at the lab and him being blind did not help at all.

-Meta is a terrible cook. He can not cook something without a cookbook and someone to help him, and unless you like to eat brunt ash or some sickly grayish soup, flaming water, want your kitchen to brun to the ground or expolde it is not the best idea to ask him to make dinner.

-His is however smashing at bakeing, pastry, candy makeing and other sweet desserts as well as makeing the best tea or coffe. Had he not been warborn, he’d be famous for it around the galaxy and make tons of money. His Milk tea jam, honey salted chocolate candy, special lollipops and special mixed coffeblends are to die for.

-Meta has taught both Tiff and Tuff self defense as well as hidden knife and throwing technique a few decade after NME’s defeat, when all the other villains started to invade Popstar at Lady Like and Sir Ebrum request. Both Tiff and Tuff sees Meta as their honorary wired/cool/smart uncle.

-Meta knows how to swear in eight diffrent languages and can out swear Dark Meta Knight and Dark Galacta Knight at the same time with or without curse words with flying colours. Though the only time anyone hear him swear like that his when you have ROYALLY PISSED HIM OFF HIS ROCKER AND ASKED FOR MOTHER DEATH! He swear most of the time in his head though.

-Meta’s relationshipe with Knuckle Joe and Sirica has over the centuries gone from awkward and tense to familiy friends. Both hunters sees Meta now as their uncle and would often ask Meta about their parents and what the three star warriors would do together when not in battle. They where supriest when they learned that the old warrior had a husband that got seal away 21 203 years ago and both felt bad for the puff.

-Meta and Dark Meta as a very intreresting, distructive, annoying and bad relationshipe. The two of them have a hard time not trying to either maim, kill or get on the others nerv. Both has a burning hatred for the other, and there are very few things the two of them are willing to agree, share or help on with the other. However, the both of them are very happy to team up when their husbands decides to destroy eachother and the univers with them though. Both of them hates it when its happends.

-Meta is someone that even the best of psychiatrist would find as a struggeling nightmare to help. The old warrior has had so many trumas, mental breakdowns, seen enough shit to last a few lifetimes and more that many of them are amazed how he is still as some sanity left. Some would say that the puffs psychic is a utter mystery for their profession.

[solasan]

15, 16, 22, 24, 27, 49 for Zinnia!

15. are they good at cooking? do they enjoy it? what do others think of their cooking?

yea she’s a good cook. liked to experiment a lot with it when she was younger, but she does that less now. lots of spices, she loves spices. also lots of seafood, bcos it’s what she’s used to; she knows how to make seafood good, whereas other stuff (like, say, venison) she’s less experienced with. 

she enjoys cooking quite a lot !!! even her bone broths (which would be what she’d usually be subsiding on by the time they’d reached a month / six weeks into a voyage) are like...... still very unpleasant, but usually have some spices in them to make them at least somewhat palatable

one of the best cooks on the white thorn 100%. used to barter meals she’d cooked for rum and whiskey from time to time shdhjsjdk. and her companions appreciate her cooking too, even if she hasn’t got access to as many fresh supplies / as much seasoning as she’d like. which is probs for the best bcos shadowheart would probably die from her proper dishes HSJDJSKDK

16. do they collect anything? what do they do with it? where do they keep it?

ok zinnia is a very practical person as a rule (whatever her personality might suggest) but she’s..... also a pirate, bro. she likes shiny stuff. specifically, she likes rings; she’ll collect rings till the day she dies. she’s always wearing at least one on every finger, sometimes two. they’re always on her person (less chance of them getting stolen that way, surprisingly) and those she isn’t wearing will be strung around a chain on her neck.

look when ur a rogue and a thief u kinda lose faith in locks and chests, ok

22. what are their favourite insults to use? what do they insult people for? or do they prefer to bitch behind someone’s back?

uhhh she’s especially fond of using ‘wanker’ as an insult. any form of it. if someone’s pissed her off she might go off abt them being a ‘small cocked wanker’ for example shdhsjdks. also just generally going around making it pretty clear she thinks ur an idiot is a sure bet; i do foresee her asking astarion if the tadpole ate up his whole brain, or only half of it, bcos really ur pretty dumb mate. and like, we know, but hey

anyway she might have a habit of stabbing people in the back when it comes to combat, but zinnia is absolutely willing to tell u to ur face if she dislikes u. esp if u’ve done something that breaks her ‘code’; she lies, she cheats, she steals, she even kills, but she doesn’t fuck with slavers and she doesn’t hurt kids, not ever. hurting the innocent (but especially kids) is a surefire way to get her boot up ur ass

on a less severe scale, she’ll insult u if ur boring or a stick in the mud shdjsjdk. even scholars aren’t especially safe from her (soz gale love u) just bcos she doesn’t see the point in learning from books when u could learn from the world

24. what is their sleeping pattern like? do they snore? what do they like to sleep on? a soft or hard mattress?

eh. better sleeping pattern than she had when she was younger ig tho i do think she finds it harder to fall asleep since the whole tadpole thing shshjjsd. worries she’s never gonna wake up again. but when she does sleep, she sleeps very deeply; snores a bit, drools sometimes, splays out in the most contorted positions. but once she’s in a position she’ll stay in it, basically; won’t move the whole night, sleeps like a log.

she can sleep anywhere and on anything (comes from years of sleeping in a rocking hammock on a moving ship, surrounded by her loud crew) but she prefers a soft mattress. not that she’s gotten to sleep on many

27. what makes them sad? do they cry regularly? do they cry openly or hide it? what are they like they are sad?

she’s not much of a crier tbh ??? comes from the emotional constipation shdhsjdjk. what happened to arabella made her very sad, but that quickly turned to anger; she’s gotten good at that, turning her sadness into anger. she knows what to do with anger ig ??? not so much sadness.

but yea seeing suffering kids, suffering animals, that makes her sad. also thinking on yarrow for too long; she starts wondering if yarrow’s alive, how her life is, if she misses her, etc. thinking of her crew does it a little bit too, but less so; it’s more that she feels extra motivated to get back to them

when she does cry, which is rarely, she hides it very well. tears are weakness to her ??? so she’s not comfy being seen like that. but usually she manages to turn sadness into anger before that can happen, which is definitely not healthy, but hey

49. what is their most valued object? are they sentimental? is there something they have to take everywhere with them?

oof. she’s not particularly sentimental, but she has a stack of yarrow’s old letters tied up with a piece of string back on the ship that she feels a little bit naked without. she’ll be super pissed if she gets back and finds they’re gone shdjsjdkl. i wouldn’t say those are her most valued possession tho; they’re sorta like a bruise she likes to push sometimes, but less and less as the years go on ??? they make her chest ache, and as we’ve already discussed, she’s.......... bad at being sad SHDJSJDK

im not sure what would be most valued to her tbh ???? her blades ig ??? bcos she’s so attuned to their specific weight, and they’ve kept her alive for years, and they’ve been her only consistent possession for like..... over a decade ???

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 40

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 7. Go to previous. Go to next. These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree. That’s... not an old fashioned, is it, Liv?

____________________________________

The dark walls, pale carpeting, and little furnishings of the general’s office belied the actual dimensions of the somewhat small space. At her ebony dry bar, General Francis poured the two of them each an old fashioned, with dried rind curls 'Choly imagined were mutfruit. The ghoul placed one in ‘Choly’s gracious hands where he sat, and took hers to her leather office chair opposite the desk. She took a sip and slicked at her side-shaven asymmetrical blonde french twist with a tense sigh.

“Call me Olivia. Please. I hate the rank and pomp of being the last breathing wretch on base. Ghoul or not, I’m still a person, you know?”

‘Choly nearly murmured a whooped and then some. His tongue sneaked against the back of his teeth behind a faint smile. He lingered in the numbness of an iced drink in his palms, and stared into the handcrafted cocktail a little too long before remembering it was for drinking.

“Olivia, it’s... really been just you here for all... or most of this time?” He held the short glass to his cheek, eyes glazing out of focus. “--Gosh, ice. You’ve got a working ice machine.”

“Imagine if you’ve been milling around for a few months now, you’ve come to appreciate most prewar commodities as current day luxuries.” Olivia downed about a third of her drink before setting it down to lace her leathery hands on the desk. “It’s been just me and the robotics fleets for a very long time, yes. I’ve whiled the decades doing maintenance on them all. I consider them a sense of found family. They keep plugging alongside me, and they keep me plugging.”

She drew a cigarette from the silver case on the desktop, and lit it with a gold flip lighter. After taking a deliberate puff, she offered up both with a genial gaze. Not to shy from her hospitality, he nodded and followed suit. A long exhale melted him into a comforted disillusionment.

“It really has been a jarring adjustment. Especially not having soap every day. Menthols and muddled cognac on the rocks. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to coax me into a tough patch.”

“You’ll find a great deal of the amenities on base have been repaired and maintained.” A grin pulled her thin lips across her teeth and she sat back, sustaining eye contact. “Deenwood in every way has kept me busy.”

“And the Rust Devils?” he asked over his sipping. His attentive oily eyes skimmed her wasting features, to skirt the acknowledgement she hadn’t dismissed his supposition. “They’re keeping you even busier?”

“Don’t tell me they’ve expanded operations outside Lowell,” she growled, suddenly furious. “I’ve lost twelve robots to them just this year. Bastards took to the RobCo Towers. It’s a wonder I’ve managed to stay as ahead of them as I have been, further encrypting the Sentry Bots and Assaultrons especially. And the front doors, of course.” When he watched her expectantly, she snorted through another slug of her cocktail. “RobCo Towers was the company’s home base for Pip-Boy development and manufacture.”

“Encrypted the... front doors?” He frowned thoughtfully, somewhat distant. “Aside from confrontation with a Mister Gutsy, I didn’t have any trouble getting on premises.”

“Your bars have RFID encryption technology in them.” With a sneer, she pointed her smoke hand at his Pharm Corps coat. “The system’s biometric scanners have a two-factor screening process. You were smart enough, to turn up in enough of your uniform, to look the part of an officer--and lucky enough, to still be human enough, for the system to be able to match your genetic scan. Honestly, when I heard an officer had made it on base, I thought the Rust Devils might have figured out a way to sheepskin their way in here.”

“I guess it is a bit of luck, that my service uniform survived all this time. It’s one of the few belongings I still have. I don’t recognize the flavor of these bitters, but damn if this isn’t smooth cognac.”

Olivia topped off his glass with more cognac from the decanter on her desk, which he accepted greedily.

“The licorice, or the mint? It’s some East Central Commonwealth label. I like it well enough. These days, you tend to take what you can get your hands on. The cognac, though. That’s my favorite.” She shrugged in the direction of her liquor cabinetry, uninvested in getting up to scrutinize the exact identity of the liqueur. “Don’t discount, either, that you still have your Handy. A lot of my maintenance on Deenwood’s robots hasn’t just been to keep them running. It’s so they can continue defending themselves, and stay out of raider hands. To this day I haven’t determined a more effective approach than to be proactive. They just keep trying.”

Angel had stayed out in the hall to chat with robots it hadn’t seen in two hundred years.

“I wouldn’t be alive right now, if Angel weren’t with me. I know that much.” ‘Choly picked the desiccated rind curl out of his drink and chewed at it. “I’ve had my run-in already with raiders myself. I’ve half a mind to think Lexington’s still on fire because of me. Ha!”

Her dark eyes wilded, more punch-drunk from delivery than she was from the spirits.

“You can’t just drop that on me and leave it.”

His sheepishness poorly contained how oddly tickled he felt then by such a traumatic experience. Unmistakably, the physical condition of his company had everything to do with his craving to impress.

“After I came out of the vault outside Concord, I holed up in the Walden Drugs in Lexington. I got along with the raiders in the Corvega factory for a few months. They... pushed me around, and I... I.” A self-conscious grin tugged at him, unable to tell if the modus operandi were appropriate to divulge. He noticed he’d let the cherry fall off his unattended cigarette onto the leg of his Vault Suit. He brushed away the ashes and deposited the half-smoked thing in the crescent shaped ashtray. “...In so many words, I overdosed their leader on opiates. So they Molotov cocktailed the pharmacy while I was asleep, and chased me out of town.”

Olivia’s head kicked back in a sharp, barking cackle, and she only calmed herself enough to start on a fresh cigarette.

“Sounds like you’re more uniquely suited to the Wastelander life than you give yourself credit for. And believe me when I tell you, you don’t have to skirt talking about CM anymore. It hasn’t been restricted to your pay grade for a hundred eighty years, and the DIA’s bit the dust just like the rest of the government proper.”

‘Choly’s face slacked in culpability. He avoided eye contact a tic, and set down his half-finished half-cocktail to fold his hands under his legs.

“I’m proud of the way I’ve adapted Syringer rifle darts. CM’s... surprisingly versatile weaponized.”

She gave him a sleazy, approving grin when he admitted what she’d intuited.

“I don’t remember that we got along all that well back in the day, but damn if I’m not glad to see you. Not speaking ill of my chrome family, but I don’t get to see a flesh and body face all too often these days. It’s not going to be easy for you to get back out, now that you’re in, I’m afraid. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Maybe after you get some rest and think on it, we can form some kind of a game plan to deal with these assholes down the street once and for all?”

Struck dumb that she’d not torn into him for what he’d done with his military intelligence, he sat frozen at length. He found himself staring at the chrome Pip-Boy on her left wrist, vaguely nagged by his inability to identify the model. Her proposition soaked into him slowly, and he picked his drink back up to work on finishing it. He sucked on an ice cube and feigned anything but total adoration.

“You said that the residential block got hit hard by the fallout. Is... any of it still standing?”

“Most of it, yeah. But it wasn’t prepped to shield that heavy a rad barrage, is what I meant. The rads have since aired out of the majority of the lot. You’ve got your pick of any townhouse on the lot, except mine.” She straightened, drawn back to reality a ways. “There’s just the one thing. Only drink or wash in the water from the compound. Residential plumbing still runs for the most part, but you’re a smoothskin. Don’t risk the rads.”

He choked on the acknowledgement of the fundamental difference between the two of them with a nervous chuckle. The supposition she might be immune to radiation titillated him.

“...About that. I’ve... come across a good number of ghouls since I woke up. But you’re the first fully rational one I’ve met. I think I’m only now finally understanding what people meant when they called a ghoul feral.”

Olivia gave him an uncomfortable grimace.

“Fortunately, you won’t have to deal with ferals on base. Deenwood is monstrously secure, so nothing can get in. They make me a might bit skittish myself. Don’t like the thought of encounters with them being only a bubble off looking in a mirror. Anyway...” She cleared her throat to punctuate that she’d noticed just how much he’d been caught staring, and he flinched. “Enough nightmare talk. We have an early morning of it. I still keep military hours, even though I’m the only non-robot here. Makes the robots happy, so it makes me happy. Habits die hard.”

“--Don’t they ever. I’m just glad that, now that I’m back, we’re not right back glued to cooking up CM and testing formulations on soldiers. Chase’s R&D’s the nightmare talk for me.”

She topped off her glass one more time, and ate her dried cherry.

“No, we’re far past that now, aren’t we?” Olivia rose and ushered him out of her office, meeting objection. “Imagine you don’t need me to show you around, even two hundred years later. The Gutsies and Handies can help you, if you’ve forgotten your way. I typically stay close to the Robotics wing, if you need me. We’ll meet back here at, say, oh-six? That’s plenty of time for breakfast first, mm?”

His head slurried with him standing. He glanced at his Pip-Boy. Already seven o’clock. He gave her an uncertain but obeisant nod with a little too much rattle in it, too cowardly to press her continued company.

“Goodnight, Carey.”

He stopped her from pushing the heavy paneled wooden door shut, and he continued holding out his arm a good ways after doing so, tottering on his feet.

“I, you. You said you prefer to be called Olivia. I’ve made a bit of a name for myself in the past few months.” She looked to him with attentive fatigue. “Melancholy. ...‘Choly.”

After thinking on it a moment, she patted him on the cheek.

“Really rings what’s survived of your accent. Goodnight, Melancholy.”

The door clicked shut, and he heard it lock.

When Angel didn’t come up on its own, he belted out an insistent, deep whistle that cut down the corridor both ways. And he waited to be escorted... home. He shuddered, and couldn’t quite say why.

Go to Next »»»

[razorsadness]

please, my favorite, don’t be sad (part four of four)

61. lately I find myself kicked in the chest by the passage of time; it absolutely knocks the wind out of me. I know I’ve been acutely aware of the fleetingness of everything from a very young age, but it just gets more acute as I get older. (sometimes I wish I could take the me of 18, 15, 10, hell, even 5 years ago, and say: “you think it’s bad now? the nostalgia, the way time has gone and what it has taken from you? it gets so much worse.” then again, me 5 or 10 years on from now will probably wish they could say the same to present-day me.)

62. I just. two of my old Chicago haunts—Heartland Cafe, The Mutiny—closed in 2018. I remember Loop Distro zine readings at Heartland, reading cryptic pieces I’d written about my crush; hoping they wouldn’t know it was about them, but also hoping they would. sixteen, nearly seventeen years ago. and The Mutiny. the last time I was there was January 2009–a decade ago. it was the night I dreamed up Punk Month. it was the last time I saw W. that motherfucker. I miss him. I lost him in the “breakup” w/ Maggie. though she had such a chronic habit of dropping her supposedly best friends (which I didn’t fully realize until she’d dropped me) that I wonder if she’s since ditched him, too. not that I’d even know how to find him, now. he’s one of the people whose real name I don’t remember, cuz I mostly knew him by his punk name.

62.5. & I was reading the newest Razorcake because a lot of my friends are part of this issue, & thinking about the days when I used to write for Razorcake, & realizing that I stopped writing for them 15 years ago. which also means the Year of Our Inferno, Heart Attack 2004, was 15 goddamn years ago. & I discovered Coyote Boy’s married now & even though I haven’t felt anything romantic towards him in a long time I still felt a brief ache because I miss the times we had together (cheap beer, ‘Mats records, the coyotes howling outside; polka bars & RUCKUS!), & god, that was all so long ago, too.

63. queue I feel so much older now, and you’re much older, too. how’s your husband, how’s the kids? you know that I got married, too. queue I’m older now than you were then...

64. early November, I voted at the Cesar Chavez Community Center. it was the first time in a while an election gave me any hope: lots of people at my polling place were registering to vote same day; many of them were young, many were non-white. & tho I’m not a die-hard Dem, I’m glad so many people elected nationwide were women of color and/or LGBTQ+, & I’m glad Wisconsin finally got rid of Scott Walker.

65. the next night, I saw my Beagan for the first time since August. the day after that, I drove to Kenosha again. or to put it all poetically:

65.5. I was coming down off a two-day bender, drunk from the sugared lips of a girl with purple hair. we danced to the rattle of the Union Pacific going by, & I went reeling. tried to steady myself with coffee & a grilled cheese at the boathouse on the river. there were two crows sitting in a vacant lot, & the smoke was on the air...

66. it was all downhill from there. I spent most of November depressed. October was pretty much a month-long manic episode & November was the crash. I was burnt out, sick, & sad. as always happens when I’m depressed, I became convinced I’d never complete another piece of writing, & that it didn’t matter because I’d never be successful anyway.

67. Thanksgiving was good. my immediate family (P., the kiddos, & my folks) started a new tradition a few years ago, of having our Thanksgiving meal at the Pfister (a fancy old hotel in downtown Milwaukee). it’s a good tradition; the food there is amazing, & since no one has the stress of cooking a holiday dinner, we argue less.

68. I began to climb out of my depression on Small Business Saturday. I walked around downtown Racine, visited various shops, began buying holiday gifts for my loved ones. I was given a red beret & the next day I wore it for the first time, & wrote two poems. I joked that the beret cured my writer’s block but obviously that’s not true. it’s more that wearing it made me feel like I had to write something, to be worthy of it.

69. some snippets from late November-early December: financial worries that turned out all right in the end. / decorating the house for Xmas; hanging garlands, building altars, putting out dishes of candy. / finding the joy in early mornings, making oatmeal for my children & myself, serving it with cream & walnuts  & brown sugar & fresh berries or sliced bananas. / feeling completely overwhelmed by my children, but also crying while packing up the clothes C.’s already grown out of because I’ll never have another baby. / realizing that though I still like wearing short skirts/dresses or tight pants/tops occasionally, as I get older I am more drawn to loose, flowing, drapey clothing. it’s not just the comfort, it’s not even that I’m trying to hide my body—I’ve realized loose/drapey/flowy clothing is sexy in its own right, sexy in a different way than short/tight clothing. / finding out a creepy ex who borderline stalked me is friends with some of my friends.

70. a dream from late November: I lived in San Francisco; it was present day but in my dreamscape the vibe was more like ‘60s SF. I was part of a polyamorous triad with a man & a woman. she was a fashion designer & clothing maker who screenprinted these gorgeous dresses & kimono-like robes with vibrant, abstract patterns; he was a painter. I was a poet. she & I sat together at the small kitchen table as the late-morning sun came in through the window; there were ferns hanging everywhere which gave the room a subtle, lovely green hue; she & I both wore robes she’d made, she made coffee in the french press while I read aloud from a poem I was working on. he & I had a lot of passionate sex—I remember the flecks of blue paint on his dark skin & beneath his fingernails. god, why isn’t that my real life?

71. on the night of December 2nd, I had a dream about trying to help a bunch of people escape a burning building. it was very realistic & terrifying; it wasn’t until halfway thru the next day I realized I’d had the dream on the two-year anniversary (right around the exact time of night, too) of the Ghost Ship fire.

72. in a lot of ways, I’m living my dream. there are areas of my life which are lacking, & even the good parts are often stressful, are hard fucking work. still: writing, spoken word, editing, publishing, teaching the occasional class; I’ve made the things I love into a life. into a living. & I may not always pay all my bills on time but—

72.5. queue the only ones who have suffered from it are the creditors & the landlords. well, you know what? fuck them.

73. Pete Shelley died on December 6 & it was really hard for me. I’m writing a longer piece about it (which will probably be published in zine form), for now I’ll just say that I mourned the world’s loss of one of punk’s great songwriters, I mourned my own loss of a man whose kindness meant a lot to me when I was young (yes, I knew Pete; not that we were close friends but we’d met), & I mourned the loss of who I was back when I first heard Buzzcocks—back when I was a teenage misfit always falling in love w/ people I shouldn’t have.

74. the next day was Tom Waits’ birthday, & I used it as an excuse to partake in some nostalgic pleasures; to be my old self if only for an hour or two. or as much my old self as I can still be. I went to the Douglas Avenue Diner for lunch, w/ C. as my date. I thought of Filia. I always miss her most in November & December. & diners make me think of her, & Tom Waits makes me think of her, & the death of old punks makes me think of her. everything reminds me of her. I thought of Hearts Don’t Break, the novella I wrote in ‘02/’03, which was heavily based on our friendship; thought of my description of the coffee-stained comfort of our favorite diner. different diner, different city, different year, but it was comforting to be there. they were playing Christmas carols & the patrons were an equal mix of punks & old folks.

74.5. oh, nostalgia. Greek-American-owned diners like Douglas Ave. make me the most nostalgic, as those are the diners I grew up going to—there are so many of them in the Midwest. I thought of the Alps East in Chicago, the Greek diner I haunted as a broke college student; how I’d go there & order a cup of soup & a bottomless coffee & sit for hours eavesdropping on other patrons, getting ideas for short stories. I thought of the Greek diners in Kenosha, going to them w/ Beagan back when we were dating, sharing an order of spanakopita & a side of rice pilaf.

75. after I left the diner, I mailed out a bunch of zines and chapbooks & that, too, was the same as it ever was.

76. oh nostalgia. E. recently recommend my zines to “anyone who wants to feel nostalgic for the days of wine & Punkin Donuts,” & that made me happy. & A. said that as a hypersexual bi person reading my words made them feel seen; they also told me there was a week straight when they read a particular one of my poems every day on their lunch break & had to go cry in the bathroom every time.

77. & crying. in early December, I took the kids & P. to Barnes & Noble so I could participate in a poetry & music jam some of my pals were doing to raise money for the Racine Literary Council. I only got to sit in with them for about a half hour before the kids got antsy, & I cried as I walked away because goddamn, I miss my friends. though I enjoy alone time, I truly am an extrovert. if I don’t have meaningful interactions w/ other adult humans on a regular basis, I get depressed.

78. mid-December, I stood out in my backyard and saw the comet Wirtanen, a weird green glow moving across the sky.

79. oh, nostalgia. December was all about nostalgia & I am nostalgic by nature. I found myself missing S., missing our whiskey-drinking, impromptu zine-making, taking tons of photos days. but she stopped talking to me and unfriended me around the same time Maggie stopped talking to me, probably due to things Maggie said. yet another friend I lost in the “breakup.”

79.5. anyway. in December, I found myself missing N., too. I remembered the first time I saw his band live, before I’d met them, N. held the mic out to me during a song about heroin so I could sing along on the refrain. I was newly off heroin at the time, & a year later when I met him I mentioned that & he said: “yeah, I could tell, takes one to know one, y’know?” N. was probably one of my soulmates, in a totally platonic way. I was never physically attracted to him, but we were a lot a like & I loved to be around him.

80. I had a good Xmas & birthday/NYE. I’m 37, now.

81. this year I’m rediscovering the joy in writing. I’m submitting less & remembering that publication & recognition are nice but they’re not why I write. sometimes the act of getting it down on the page is its own reward.

82. January 3rd, we had a sunny, warmish day (30 degrees! you know you live in the midwest when...). I put coffee in a travel mug & drove to Petrifying Springs (the park alongside Parkside where I’ve spent a lot of time smoking cigarettes & writing poems in the woods). C. fell asleep on the drive & I parked the car & sat writing & drinking coffee in the front seat while he napped in the back & it was perfect.

83. I fell into another depression mid-January. it wasn’t as devastating as November’s depression, more just the winter blues. still, I didn’t feel like writing much for a couple weeks. so I did a lot of cleaning and organizing, & during my downtime I read a lot & took a lot of baths & just tried to be gentle with myself.

84. I felt pretty fucking sad when I heard the news that Maximum Rocknroll will no longer be a print magazine. love it or hate it (or love/hate it like most of us), it was just heartening to see a punk mag last that many years. I’m glad that I finally made it into MRR a couple years ago, before they ceased print operations. of course, thinking about that made me a little sad, too, cuz the interview was about WWTAWWTAP, & the press that was supposed to publish it never will, now... but maybe I will self-release it as originally planned. yeah, I think I will. I’ve got some new things to add and I really feel like it has to be out in the world so I can fully move on.

85. I saw Beagan again, mid-late January. we drank & talked & just being around her heals me.

86. then the midwest got hammered by polar vortex temperatures. I holed up at home, wrote a lot, cooked delicious food. then Imbolc & Chinese New Year. wearing red for luck, wearing my Brigid pendant, placing ginger & oranges on my altar. planting seeds that will grow in the next few months, making way for the new. 

87. there have been hard things. C. has been ultra clingy & cranky in the evenings lately. the other day, while writing part of this entry, I went into a sad spiral about the Maggie situation & stupidly Googled her & then had a panic attack. right now I’ve got some awful virus that’s wearing me out. but I’m finishing up my full-length poetry manuscript, doing press work, preparing to publish two chapbooks, preparing the two classes I’m teaching soon (one about tarot & poetry, one about zines). all I can do is keep going, because I don’t know any other way.

[tisfan]

But Not to Me

Chapter One and Two

Chapter Three

Ahch-to - midnight

Tony Stark, the last of the Jedi order, shook himself awake. Even now, decades from his long-ago and wasted youth, the habit remained. He rose every day, across the galaxy, when the first of Tattooine’s binary suns would rise, shedding crimson light over the sands of the desert wastes.

I do not like Tatooine, but I do like saying Tatooine.

Oh, Rhodey, old friend, how I do miss you, Tony thought. He opened the door to the small village hut that he’d chosen for himself. Rocks and stone, the door built from timber the likes of which his limited childhood imagination would never have believed.

He stepped over the boy -- well, man, really, but as guileless as a boy -- who was sleeping, curled up, near the sheltered side of the door. He was shivering, even in his sleep, and Tony viciously suppressed a twinge of sympathy. Hadn’t he, too, been cold, when he first left the sands of home.

And what was it, he wondered, about desert wastelands that they seemed to produce Jedi? Was it a lack of living things, so far between them that the natural habits of man to reach out, to connect, led to firmer, and stronger connections. So used to a lack of water, a lack of life, that once in the larger universe where such things were plentiful, they were powerful?

Bah. Power was useless.

Power was worse than useless. It was dangerous.

He pressed one hand against his arc-reactor.

He’s more machine now than man, twisted and evil.

“Yeah, and what does that make me?” Tony demanded of the empty air around him. Only the loth-cats were interested in the question, but they didn’t know the answer.

He trudged all the way down the stairs to the Falcon. Couldn’t Rogers from Nowhere have found a better place to land?

The ship was beautiful, lithe and streamlined and filthy and falling apart, the way it always was. Tony wondered if it had ever been new. He boarded. Nothing, seemingly, had changed. It had fallen into greater disrepair. Even the old Dejarik board was broken. The little monsters that had once had their reign of the concentric circles that made up the gameplay space, were gone.

Tony sat at the bench, feeling the old memories seeped in the duriplas and carbosteel. Little snippets of conversation.

How he had loved this ship.

How he had lived for this ship.

Once. Before he’d come to Ahch-to to die.

There was a faint scrape, wheel against metal.

DUM-E clattered into the lounge, a very old blender in his claw, the fire extinguisher resting against the base of his arm-platform. He made an inquisitive noise and sat the blender down in front of Tony.

“Old friend,” Tony said, running one hand down DUM-E’s support strut. “You’re holding up well.”

DUM-E clawed for the extinguisher.

“Aaaah, uh-uh-uh, yeah, no, buddy,” Tony said. “Nothing’s on fire, here.” There was no fire. There was no spark left in Tony. Nothing remained of that boy, the one who thought hope could fix anything.

DUM-E nudged the blender at him.

“Wish I could make you understand,” Tony said. “It’s all worthless. Good, evil, light, dark. Eventually, entropy takes over, and nothing orderly and good comes out of it. It’s over. The Jedi Order, the Republic, the Rebellion, it’s all just--”

DUM-E knocked the smoothie over into Tony’s lap.

“Cheap move, buddy,” Tony sighed. “It doesn’t matter what you do, or say. I’m staying here. There’s no hope left in the galaxy. There’s no point.” He knew that he was actively trying not to care, that he was forcing everything down in him that wanted to rise up, to help the galaxy. Innocent people would die by the billions with Pierce’s Hydra in charge.

But it was hard to know who to trust, it was hard to extend that hope again, just to watch it all crumble to ash.

DUM-E nudged him again. In his claw -- and the Force only knew where he’d gotten it from -- was the old arc-reactor. The one that Pepper had sealed in clear duriplas. Proof that Tony Stark has a heart.

Steve woke with a start. He was cold, he was damp, and the ground was hard as stone under him. The ground was stone, under him. He really should have gone back down to the Falcon to sleep.

“Get up. At dawn, you’ll get the first of three lessons and I’ll tell you why the Jedi Order should end. You deserve that much. Fury deserves that much.”

Tony stalked away, his robes swirling around him.

Steve scrambled to his feet, looking this way and that in the pre-light, silver grey and merciless. What had changed his mind?

“What… what about breakfast?”

“Do you cook?”

Steve shrugged. “A little,” he admitted. “I can make coffee.”

“You brought coffee with you?”

Steve nodded. “It’s back on the Falcon,” he said. “Do you--”

“Yes.” Tony slammed the door again, leaving Steve talking to the ancient wood. The loth-cat nearby made a purring, inquisitive noise, and yow’ed a few times, like it was laughing at Steve.

“Oh, shut up,” Steve told it. It didn’t listen. It also didn’t go away. The cat followed Steve all the way down the stairs (dear suns and moons, why why why were there so many stairs?) and into the Falcon, where Steve rummaged through the pods he’d brought.

DUM-E was cleaning the floor, a mop in his claw.

“Are you doing something useful?” Steve asked him. “Did you see him? Did Master Stark come down in the middle of the night to talk to you?”

DUM-E turned, whapped Steve over the head with the broom. Beeped.

Stop asking stupid questions and get what you came for.

“Sacred island, bot,” Steve told him, rubbing his head. That stung. “Watch the language.”

If a bot could look condescending, DUM-E had managed it.

Steve packed the bag and headed back up the stairs. His asthma seemed to leap out of the mist and grass to see how he’d been doing without it, and he had to stop to dig through the bag for the medication the FX-7 had given him before he’d left the fleet. It worked, but like everything, left him dizzy and floaty feeling. And with the inevitable dread that this would not be the last time.

Climb finished, fire started, coffee made. Tony sipped from the mug with no evident delight, but the way his hands curled around the ceramics made Steve smile. Bucky had been like that, too. Hostile to daylight, until the rich liquid worked its way into his system. The smile faded as he remembered that there might be a reason for that. Bucky had been Tony’s student, once.

Before Pierce. Before Hydra.

“Tell me, Steve Rogers from nowhere,” Tony said, when his cup was empty. “What is it you know about the force?”

“Um,” Steve scrambled to get to his feet, to look competent, and eager. A worthy student. “It’s a power the Jedi have that… they can use to control people. And… make rocks float.”

“Wow,” Tony said, eyes widening as if he was impressed. “Every word you just said was wrong.”

Steve scowled. The sarcasm really wasn’t necessary.

“Okay, up here, sit down, close your eyes,” Tony said, patting an old and crumbling stone, covered with moss and bits of broken rock.

Steve obeyed with alacrity. At last! Someone to teach him… something. Anything. He hated being so confused and lost all the time, with everyone looking at him like they expected great things. He was just a kid from Brooklyn.

“Reach out--”

There was nothing, but Steve pushed his hand out into the air. Something tickled against the edge of his fingers. “Do you feel it?”

“Yes, yes, I feel--”

“That’s the Force, right there--”

“Really--”

Something sharp and thin slapped the back of his hand, like an angry teacher at school, scolding him for holding his pencil wrong. “No. Idiot.” There was Tony, hold a green reed and Steve, like the greenest of fools, had…

“Oh,” Steve said, embarrassed. “You mean reach other the other way.”

“With your feelings,” Tony said, eyes rolling.

“I’ll try again,” Steve said. Tony grabbed the hand that was still outstretched, pushed it onto the rock, fingers tented out.

“With your feelings, reach out. What do you see?”

Steve strained. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, right up until it wasn’t.

“The island.”

“And beyond the island?”

“The planet, the galaxy. Green and growing things. Life. Below it, death and decay. That in turn gives way for new life. Me. Bucky… light. Darkness.”

“And between those things?”

“A… balance. An energy. A… a force.” Steve reached. The blackness that was Bucky, standing proud and tall, his hand outstretched to take everything-- “Darkness.”

“Fight it, Steve.”

“It’s calling me,” Steve protested. “Bucky’s calling me. He needs help--”

“The Winter Soldier is beyond help,” Tony said, bitterness cracking his tone. “He’s--”

“He needs me,” Steve insisted. He reached for Bucky, reached--

Darkness grabbed him with cold hands, pulling him down in the planet, promising him answers, ease to his pain, comfort. Home.

“STEVE!”

Steve opened his eyes with a gasp. The ground under him cracked with the strain, a sharp report like a blaster going off.

“The darkness in you,” Tony said, “calls to him. And you don’t even try to fight it.” Disgusted. “The Force isn’t a power the Jedi have. It’s arrogance to think the end of the Jedi would do anything to the Force. It’s just… there. Like gravity and light and inertia and entropy. It no more lifts the rock than a lever does. It’s a tool. And you’re a fool.”

Tony stormed off again and Steve didn’t even have the strength to chase after him.

Chapter Four

Ahch-to - mid-afternoon

Steve wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, now. Master Stark wasn’t speaking to him again, and he was bored and restless.

He took up his weapon and did some practice. If nothing else, he needed to be better. He’d barely beaten back the Winter Soldier last time they’d squared off. While Master Stark might be unwilling to teach him the ways of the Force, Steve knew enough, felt it in his bones, that he would face the Winter Soldier again.

There were many places on the island that seemed designed for Force practice. Each was seeped with lore, deep in the soil and the rocks. Steve placed his feet just so, and seemed to hear voices telling him to move, just a bit, swing from the hips. A flash of children, learning there. The shape of the rock spoke of blows landed on the target.

The lightsaber called to him, and Steve didn’t bother to resist that call either. If Master Stark wanted him to learn control, he’d control the things around him.

He swung, listening to the high pitched buzz, the deep and deadly thrum of the weapon in his hand.

Steve loved it.

He wasn’t sure why, or how. The thing that had frightened him so much the first time he’d ever seen it seemed to become one with the end of his arm, seemed to be his. He practiced as the sun set over the water.

Finally, sweaty and exhausted, he turned to see Master Stark walking away. Had the Jedi been there the whole time? Steve couldn’t feel him with the Force, not the way he could feel everything else. Somehow, Master Stark had cut himself off from the Force, had sealed himself away.

Steve sighed and followed Master Stark up the hill.  (Honestly, what Steve wouldn’t give for a damn hoverbike around here?)

“Lesson two,” Master Stark said, as Steve approached, without even looking around. Stark’s cutting himself off from the Force hadn’t seemed to affect his ability to use it. “Now that they’re almost extinct, they’re romanticized, deified. If you strip away the legend, the few good deeds, and a really good catch-phrase, the legacy of the Jedi is failure, hubris. Hypocrisy.”

“That’s ridiculous, it’s not true,” Steve protested, but he was already doubting. What did he know of the Jedi? What did anyone know of the Jedi.

“It’s absolutely true,” Master Stark said. “At the height of their power, the Jedi allowed the Red Skull to rise, allowed Hydra to be formed, and everything resulted in the extreme sanction of the Jedi and most of their allies. They failed.”

“And you turned the tide,” Steve burst out. “Rebuilding, the futurist. Learning from our mistakes and moving on. Isn’t that the whole point?”

“Maybe,” Master Stark admitted. “The Avengers initiative, a handful of extraordinary people, to fight the battles that the rest of the galaxy never could. A grand idea, and like all grand ideas, doomed to failure as soon as real people got involved. As soon as the Winter Soldier got involved.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, my mistakes, I could count them for a decade and still never run out,” Master Stark said. “The Winter Soldier… he was… well, in those days, he was just Bucky Barnes. Earnest and strong, good arm, good eye. Good heart. I made the worst mistake. I fell in love.”

“What?” Steve’s voice went high and tight on him.

“Legendary Force Master,” Master Stark sneered, but it seemed he was sneering at himself more than Steve. “Too old to begin the training. The Jedi aren’t supposed to love, not individually. Not… not like I loved Bucky. He was beautiful, he was talented. He was funny, and sweet, and dedicated. I didn’t see the harm in it. We were in love. And because we were in love, I couldn’t kill him. And because I couldn’t do that… all of this. This happened. Because I was a fool. Because I didn’t know what I was doing and I thought I did. Because… because I didn’t try hard enough to be what the galaxy needed. Tony Stark, billionaire, genius, Jedi, playboy. Idiot. The whole galaxy is suffering because I had to play god.”

“What happened?”

Master Stark shook his head. “Pierce got to him, somehow. I don’t know. Tempted him. I sensed darkness in him, sometimes, while we were training. Anger. I thought it could be tempered. I was wrong. I went to confront him, had a vision. Terrible things, terrible things that he would do. By the time I said something, it was too late. He was already the Winter Soldier. My Bucky, my love, my life, he was gone. I didn’t know how to save him. He turned on me. Pulled the Temple down around my head. I guess he thought I was dead. Took a handful of my students, slaughtered the rest. Went to join Hydra.”

Stark sighed, sat down on the meditation platform. “I blamed Pierce, at first. Hydra. Everyone, except the one person who was at fault. Me. I failed him. I failed to protect him. I didn’t do enough, and he was vulnerable, and I let it go, because I loved him, and in the end, all I did was drive him away, let someone else turn him into a nightmare. The last time I saw him, he hated me. Hated everything that I was, everything I stood for. Everything we’d been together. The galaxy is where it is because I couldn’t do enough. I couldn’t love him enough to give him a reason to hold on.”

“He failed you,” Steve said, very gently. “But it’s not over. I can feel conflict in him. He wants to come home. He’s drawn to me, to you, to the Light.”

“That’s dangerously arrogant,” Master Stark said. “You think you can bring him back and all he’s doing is pulling you toward him. You see the closeness, how you’re standing near each other, and you fail to realize -- he’s the one with the knife.”

The Winter Soldier stepped out of the bath and wrapped a towel around his hips. “Is privacy not a thing for you?”

The boy, Steve, was there. “Believe me, I’d rather do this at another time.”

The Winter Soldier rolled his eyes and went on with his routine. He had wounds to think of, care to take. His arm vented a few times, letting water drain out onto the floor. The servos whined and twitched as the systems came back online.

“You’re not doing this,” the Winter Soldier said. “You’re not trained well enough, the effort would kill you. It would stop your heart to try to reach halfway across the galaxy, to what? Spy on me when I’m in the bath?” His mouth twitched, a little. Vaguely, he remembered. Gentle hands that cradled his skull, that sifted through his hair. There you are, snowflake. A fond voice. The Winter Soldier thrust it away, he wasn’t that man anymore. If he’d ever been that man to start with.

“I thought you were doing it,” Steve said. He held out one hand. “Why won’t you just come home and let us help you?”

“Us? Who is us?” the Winter Soldier demanded, gnashing his teeth together. Jealousy filled him; Steve was there, with Tony. They were us? “Did he tell you what happened? What he tried to do-- he tried to kill me. He doesn’t care about you, Steve. You should… you should go, before something happens to you.”

“No, no, Bucky. We’re trying to help you, we just--”

“Did he tell you what happened, that night?”

“Yes.”

The Winter Soldier reached, pulled at the connection between them. “No, he didn’t,” he said, finally. “He lied. Trying to protect himself, even now. The truth… depends on our point of view? Is that what he said? That we cling to ideas, reframed and represented… from a certain point of view?”

“He told me enough, he told me you tried to kill him, that you slaughtered your fellows at the Temple. He had a vision, he told me. Of what you would do.”

The Winter Soldier shook his head, let himself laugh. It wasn’t funny, it had never been funny.

“Of what he would drive me to do!” The Winter Soldier burst out. “He didn’t trust me! He came to me, full of rage, full of anger, full of fear! He saw that I would kill his parents, and he tried to stop it. He came to me, his lover, his friend, his beloved… with a weapon in hand, intent on murdering me in my sleep? What was I supposed to do? I fought back, because that’s what you do. You don’t ask why, when someone comes to kill you. You fight back.”

“You’re a liar.”

“And you’re clinging to ideals from the past,” the Winter Soldier said. “Let the past die. It’s over, it’s done. Kill it and put it out of its misery.”

Steve was weeping, and the Winter Soldier wanted to reach for him, to curl himself around that warm body, to find solace in love. He’d missed that, so much. Missed holding another person, caring about them. Having someone else who loved him.

“Let it go,” the Winter Soldier said, “and become what you are meant to be.”

Mine.    

[rotationalsymmetry]

How to eat less meat (without going fully vegetarian) and/or make more sustainable choices about meat — pick one or mix and match:

Pick one day a week to not eat meat on. (If that goes well you can increase the number of days you don’t eat meat, or you can stick to one day if that’s what works for you.)

Mostly not eat meat but have some exceptions (eg when someone else is providing the food)

Cut out certain types of meat (such as red meat or highly processed meat — red meat is usually higher impact compared to chicken or seafood, highly processed meat like sandwich meat is more likely to be especially bad for your health.)

Only eat certain kinds of meat based on where it comes from: eg, local. (Keep in mind that some words mean things and others really don’t; “natural” doesn’t mean much as a label, and as far as I’m aware “sustainable” doesn’t by itself mean anything. So be prepared to ask questions/do some research. The Monterrey Bay Aquarium ranks fish and seafood on sustainability, and they’re considered very reputable.)

On the subject of asking questions, if you have a farmers’ market you can get to, chances are they’ll be happy to talk to you. I wouldn’t necessarily assume all “natural” food stores have well informed employees, but some do. (Maybe co-ops more than traditional boss/employee stores?) Generally I assume the packaging on food products won’t flat out lie but will often try to mislead.

You can also/instead experiment with eating less meat in meals where you do eat meat. For instance, a beef burrito has meat in it, but it’s one ingredient among many, whereas if you’re ordering a steak, then the meat is the main thing you’re eating.

Some tips for preparing/eating vegetarian food when you’re not used to it:

It can take a while to get used to new foods, and it can also take a while to get used to thinking of food in terms of “is vegetarian/isn’t vegetarian”; embrace the process and don’t sweat perfection. (Unless you’re the sort of person who can’t do most of the way without going all the way. Know yourself.)

Your tastes might change when you start eating different foods, and if there’s something you decided you didn’t like as a young child you might like it now. Try things you “don’t like”.

There’s two nutrition things you might want to worry about (more than this if you’re going vegan): protein and iron. There’s a variety of good sources of vegetarian protein, including eggs, dairy, tofu, beans, hummus, whole grains, and nuts and seeds. Most vegetarians get enough protein, but it’s worth developing a little awareness. Read something (more than this post) or talk to a nutritionist. Keep in mind that many restaurants etc use “protein” to mean “meat or something serving the same culinary role as meat” — they’ll do weird shit like call roasted veggies “protein” and not call cheese or lentils protein. Meat substitutes and dairy substitutes might be good on protein or might not be, you have to actually look at the nutrition label. If you’re just skipping meat occasionally you probably don’t have to think about this at all.

(Personal story: I was a teen when I went veg and my parents had me see a nutritionist. I’d already been doing my own research so I don’t think that affected what I ate much…but she was really big on proper hydration and I leaned that a bunch of minor things I hadn’t paid much attention to were actually signs of mild dehydration and started drinking way more water. Which incidentally was probably a good time for that, since I started eating a lot more fiber when I went vegetarian too.)

If you’re cutting out red meat and have periods (if you’re pregnant then this probably still applies but I’d recommend getting more info) it might be worth noticing which foods have iron in them (since red meat is a very good source of iron and people with periods need 50% more iron than people who don’t have periods) and also be aware that iron absorbs better in the presence of Vitamin C, which is present in orange juice and a lot of fruits and vegetables. Personally I take an iron supplement now, although I was fine for idk over a decade so again it’s not like you can’t get enough iron on a fully vegetarian diet without supplements. Chances are your iron is going to come from a variety of so-so sources rather than one really good source. Unless you really like molasses.

Start by focusing on food you already like, then trying out new things that are close to what you already like. Some people prefer sticking with food they already know and using substitutes, others prefer avoiding substitutes even if that means having to find new go-to foods. Personally I didn’t cook before I went vegetarian and pretty radically transformed my eating habits, but that’s kinda doing things in hard mode and you don’t have to do that if you don’t want to. If you want to go full vegetarian but feel overwhelmed, phasing it in over a period of months or even a couple years might work better than switching all at once. Even if you want to switch all at once, it might make sense to plan a time to switch it over to give yourself a chance to find new recipes and preferred foods, rather than doing it right away. Making slow changes that you can stick to for the long haul is better than diving in immediately then giving up because you decided it was too hard.

If part of your motivation is health, honestly I would not expect really dramatic differences, especially not weight loss. Lots of vegetarians are fat. (Vegans less often…but it’s dramatically harder to get enough food on a vegan diet in a meat-eating culture.) I wouldn’t expect sudden surges of energy or clarity of mind. Go ahead and notice if you feel any differences. But, uh, it’s probably not going to be massively transcendently different. You’ll probably get constipated less. There’s some studies suggesting lower risks of cancer and heart disease, but it’s possible to get those lower risks with dietary changes that aren’t full vegetarianism.

You might notice you need to eat more food and eat more often, especially if the foods you’re eating are low on fat and high on actual vegetables (like if you eat a lot of salads.) This is normal and fine. Plant foods are higher in water and fiber and less dense in terms of actual calories, and the calories they have tend to be more carbs which are digested faster than protein and fat. If you get hungry more often then plan more snacks into your day, or eat more fatty foods during your meals. On the other hand, if you eat a lot of fries and grilled cheese sandwiches, or if you were eating fairly low-fat before, you might not notice a change.

The normal health and nutrition guidelines still mostly apply. Trans fats are still bad for you. Salt still affects your blood pressure. Fruits and vegetables are still high in micronutrients. There’s been kind of a thing about the old “fatty foods are unhealthy” paradigm getting challenged; I don’t know what’s going on with that and frankly it’s not for lack of reading up on it. I’m a fan of moderation and intuitive eating mostly, I’m not about to go off the Atkins/keto/sugar-is-the-root of-all-evil deep end. (My aunt has. As far as I can tell her life has gotten strictly worse for it.) Eat sugar if you want to eat sugar. Eat other things too. We all die in the end and you can’t life-hack your way to immortality or perpetual good health. (If you’ve got a specific condition like diabetes, look for info about that condition, this is general advice here.)

Have good judgment about what’s going to work for your life and what isn’t. If you’re interested in vegetarianism for sustainability reasons (which is kinda what I’m assuming here) then keep in mind there’s limits to how much a given individual can do and you have a right to live. 20% of effort makes 80% of the impact, etc. So focus on what’s going to make the most impact for the least sacrifice. And look for ways that doing what’s good for the planet is going to be net good for you and your loved ones as well, even if it’s more effort at first.