#but yeah they refuse to accept it and live in a limbo state

[impossible-rat-babies]

rotating in my head the way the bureaucracy of the twin adders hates eyrie for weird legal situations

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 25)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 3.4k (I’m sorry, these two really like arguing)

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Soo, yeah, here we are. I hope you like this one! Thank you for sticking around, and for reading! Love you all!

The previous chapter was also uploaded today and it is right here

Btw, insider’s tip: keep in mind her words from last chapter about what love is 😉

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @heavenly1927​ @toe-vind-ek-jou​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @pieces-by-me​ @angelofthorr​​ @samsationalwilson​  @peachyboneless​ @1950schick​ @punkrocknpearls​ @ietss​ @psych0crybaby​

Ivar startles you one night, sitting in the dim light of your shared room and starting to talk as soon as you walk through the door.

“What would you have done? If someone had come and promised they could take…take something from you, what would you have done to stop them?”

“You didn’t have to stop them, Ivar,” You bite out with no little anger in your tone. You take a deep breath before speaking again, in what you hope sounds like certainty. “Unless I agree, no one will take me from here. And I won’t agree, you should know that.”

“Why should I know that, hm? Why do you act like it should me so clear to me that y-…?”

“I promised,” You interrupt softly, ignoring every bit of who you are and walking towards him. “I married you, Ivar.”

“That doesn’t…” He stops himself, a deep breath of anger and frustration and so much more, and then starts again, “It doesn’t mean anything, though, does it?”

“If that doesn’t, then what would?”

He holds your gaze, but eventually shakes his head.

“That’s enough. Go to sleep.”

“No,” You refuse, raising your chin, “Answer me.”

“I said that’s enough!” He snaps back, eyes wide and furious and set on you.

You only curl your lip in anger, and stomp your way to change out of the dress and into your nightclothes. As you wrap the robe over the nightdress, you can sense his eyes on you, you can feel the chaos lurching under the surface of pretend control.

It usually is that way with him. Chaos and fury and fire perilously kept at bay by gritted teeth and cruelty, wildfire waiting but for one crack in the wall to spill and burn it all.

Burn him, too.

You may still flinch when a fire is breathed too much life, you may still have dreams of charred flesh and screams, but the Gods made you a woman that would never accept fearing any man, no matter the kind of fire he wields.

And because you could never keep your mouth shut and the Gods know you won’t start now, you state,

“You hurt me. You wanted to remind me you could, so you did,” You point out, for once not caring how your voice wavers. “And you get the right to be angry?”

“Be angry, I’m not stopping you!” Ivar yells, turning to you with fury burning in his pale eyes, “Be angry, be cruel! Fight me, I don’t care, just…stop this.”

“Stop what? I haven’t done anything.” You insist, frowning.

“Yes, yes you have,” He lifts an accusatory hand to point towards you, before that same hand runs over his hair, settling at the back of his neck. “You are…” His breath leaves parted lips, “You are soft, and good, and it’s driving me mad.”

“How is that my fault?”

“Because you…” His words fail him and it is with an angry snarl that he stands up, limping towards a table and grabbing a horn of mead, drinking before deciding to turn accusing eyes to you. “You said no.”

“To the merchant?” You ask, a furrow of your brows.

“You had a chance to leave, to escape, and you refused it.

You only watch with wide eyes as his gaze searches the nothingness in front of him. A blinded man trying to make sense of the world, frantic and uncertain.

Ivar’s voice is low but unwavering when he continues, certain and still holding that angry edge, “I’m not an idiot, I know this isn’t where you want to be. I see you still shiver when the night falls, you aren’t used to the cold, you were made for warm and sunny places; I notice you still hesitate with many things about our language, our ways; I…I know you don’t feel at home, I know I took you from the people you loved, from where you belonged.

A part of you, a part of you that you sometimes fear is too alike him, wants to bite back he has no right to say where you do or don’t belong, wants to remind him your mother made you strong and the years made you resilient, wants to let him know no cold and no realm of death can make you break.

But he isn’t saying those words to insult you, or attack you, you realize. In the reminder that you are soft and warm and gentle there isn’t the accusation of a fault in you, but rather…rather a fault in him, in what he did.

You realize the edge of regret in his tone, and a part of you curses Fate for making it so that the one time he admits to regretting something he did, is when he shouldn’t.

Because yes, you aren’t used to Kattegat’s cold, even more so now that winter approaches, but it is easy to forget the cold, when you sip sweet drinks and are surrounded with people of loud laughs; it is easy to feel warm when you have Ivar with you.

And yes, you still have much to learn when it comes to these people and their customs, their traditions and their ways; but you revel in the tales and lessons the women at the apothecary share with you as you work, their voices warm and their laughs light; in the moments you can spend with Ivar having him teach you the way of his people, his eyes bright and voice enthralling, with each tale he tells drawing you further in.

This isn’t the place you were born in, this isn’t the place you imagined your life in, but here you have people you trust, people that love you not because of who your legacy says you ought to be, but for who you are; and the Greeks aren’t with you and your heart mourns for them still, but the people of Kattegat are your people as much as they are. This is your home, too.

But you don’t say anything, you only look at Ivar with wide eyes as he moves to the bed, sitting on it, leaning back on the backrest.

“And after all I did to you, after…everything, you are still soft and…and light, and good and I…”

“You are driving yourself mad?” You supply tentatively, a hint of mirth in your voice.

Ivar chuckles, but it is humorless and it sounds like a dying breath.

“You said no,” He repeats, and it sounds like an accusation at you as much as it sounds like a reassurance for himself. “And you look happy here and I…I wonder if you are fooling me or I’m fooling myself into believing…” He stops himself with a twitch of anger in his nose, the clear tell he feels he’s given too much away. But you remain silent, you refuse to ask him to continue but also to give him ground to retreat. Eventually, he sighs, “Believing you would choose to stay, when this is over. Because you are-…you said no, and…Gods, woman, you know you should have said yes to him. A smart woman would have said yes.”

For a moment as long as the blink of your eyes he is just a Viking and you are just a Priestess, in some old hut in a city you will never return to, being the strangers you will never be again.

His words from that first day echo in your head like an old song, “A smart woman would know better than to deny me.”

And your reply is still the same, “I never claimed to be smart.”

He doesn’t reply, fingers making quick work at the iron braces around his legs, with practiced ease. Before long, he takes both of them off -you’ve noticed he takes the left one first, the armored and heavier one- and sets them in their low table by his side of the bed.

He is maneuvering his legs into a comfortable position -though you notice he doesn’t get under the furs yet- when he asks,

“Why? Why did you say no? Why didn’t you leave?”

The answers come easy to you. Your vow to kill Stithulf isn’t fulfilled, he still lives and so does your desire for revenge. You knew those men would fail at helping you escape, four armed merchants against Ivar the Boneless and his army.

You could answer with any of those reasons, and it would be true. But it wouldn’t be the truth.

“I promised,” You reply easily, holding his gaze. After a moment, your heart trembles its beat inside your chest and your breath stutters past parted lips, and you approach him, sitting on the bed. Your heart has always been foolish, and so it robs you of your choice, making the words leave your lips before you can try to stop them, “I am…I am living on borrowed time as much as you are, this feels…it feels like a strange limbo, a state between being dead and alive.

You remember the Abbasid traveler of weathered skin and wise eyes, Aamir, the man you met on the Roads so long ago. You remember the night he looked right through you, making you think that for a man so certain there was only one God he spoke with the wisdom of those blessed by Apollo.

His words when he spoke of those worlds in between, even after so many years, still echo in your head, a lesson you haven’t forgotten, They are filled with opportunity, life or death, past or future, nostalgia or hope.

You lick your lips before continuing, “I don’t know what my choice would be, I don’t…I don’t want to. I know what I should choose, but I don’t…I can’t make that choice, not yet,” Your words taste like pleas, to Fate, to the Gods, to anyone who might hear, that this borrowed time may last a lifetime. But you can’t admit that, that would mean betrayal of everything you ought to be. “Pretending to know what my choice will be is no different than keeping me from choosing. I only ask you let go of that certainty that I will leave.

And the part of you that is angry and raw and hurt refuses to leave you vulnerable to his answer, refuses to give him ground to stand on, refuses to have him believe this is a war he can win.

So, you continue, spiteful and angry, “But you can’t, can you? Because it would imply trusting me, and you can’t trust me.

You nod to yourself, and at the anger that takes over his expression, the contained vitriol at the realization you are right; you only grow more bitter.

“You know, for a man as cunning as you are, for someone so used to observing people, for how perceptive you are to all that makes me…me; you refuse to see what’s right beside you. You refuse to acknowledge that ever since I stepped down from that boat I have been at your side.

Freydis’ promises she would one day help you escape, the countless times you looked at the horizon of the kingdom you were forced to call your own and knew escaping would be easy, the fights with the blonde you call a friend over the fact that if you just were willing to play you’d have all you ever wanted.

“I have had many chances to betray you, to leave you, before and after we were married. This man wasn’t the first to offer me a life without you in it, and he won’t be the last. Each time, I’ve said no. And for all that will come, I will say no.

You gesture with your hands in a sign of helplessness, of defeat.

“And yet you refuse to trust me,” It is helpless and hopeless, the smile you are able to offer, “You trust me with your life, I know this, you wouldn’t sleep each night by my side knowing I could slit your throat while you’re vulnerable if you didn’t trust your life to me. But you don’t trust me with-…”

Your heart.

You stop yourself, and close your eyes with a sigh. Shaking your head at yourself, at how foolish you are, at how soft and lovesick you remain, you stand up from the bed, walking to your side of it and sitting down with your back turned to Ivar.

You start attempting to untie the knot in the robe you wear over the nightclothes, ready to sleep off these nightmarish weeks, but the sound of Ivar rusting behind you, moving closer to youn on the bed, so close you can feel the warmth of his body at your back, stops you.

Hesitant fingers trace your back, grab an uncharacteristically delicate hold of the ends of your loose hair.

“One braid?” Ivar asks, voice low, hoarse.

You nod, ignoring the part of you that demands you let go of this pathetic softness, that presses you to seal off weak spots, that begs you to hold on to the anger.

You feel him start to make slow work of the one braid to go down your back, and you sigh shakily.

“I’m sorry,” He says, voice so quiet you think you’ve imagined it. A part of you begs you to turn around, but you remain still, waiting for him to continue, “I wasn’t thinking and I…I regret it.”

You feel the stupid urge to cry taking over you, but you grit your teeth and focus on breathing. Giving away weakness is not something you’ll allow yourself now.

Even if your voice is hoarse you for once don’t attempt to hide it, “I care not for regret if it isn’t accompanied by the promise to never do something like that again.”

You know you are pushing your luck, you know somewhere in the world Sieghild is getting a headache at your recklessness, you know a smart woman would back down and accept it as a victory.

But you never claimed to be smart.

Ivar takes a deep breath, and his hands still, their work on your hair paused for a moment.

It feels like asking him to promise you freedom when Stithulf dies all over again. A baited breath, a moment where you fear he cannot guarantee the one thing you ask for.

“You have my word.”

And just like then, to your peace and his torment, he offers a promise.

And just like then, for better or worse, you believe him.

You return to silence, but realize your part of the bargain that comes with this arrangement you two have had for weeks regarding your hair being braided isn’t fulfilled.

“Why can’t you trust me, Ivar?” Is the truth you ask in exchange for the braid.

“I do,” He replies certainly, taking you by surprise, “You insist I don’t, but I do trust you. More than anyone.”

“Yet you think I’ll betray you, you…you think I’d choose anything and anyone over you.”

The only answer you get is the crackling of the fire, the rusting of clothing as Ivar’s arms move as he works on the braid. And so you are lulled into safety, into warmth, by the familiar quiet of your room and the -even now- comforting presence of Ivar at your side.

Without prompting, his voice low, he offers, “I…I can’t stand the thought of them having…having more of you than I do.”

“They don’t.” You reply easily, but still quietly, as if not to break the tentative truce that has settled in the air.

Ivar only huffs a breath that tells you he very much doubts it.

A truth of your own, a truth of how no one has ever had as much of you -of your mind, of your heart, of your soul- as he does, is at the tip of your tongue, but pride keeps those words at bay.

What you offer is the closest you can get to the truth without making it the raw and terrifying reality that leaves you vulnerable.

“With you I…I am the most at peace with myself I have been ever since I was no one, just a healer in the Silk Roads,” Your shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, “I am myself when I am with you, in a way I never could with any other. Never doubt that.

You turn your head towards him when you feel him let go of your hair, and keeping your eyes on his, for once not hiding anything, you whisper,

“Also never doubt that if I felt for you the same way I do for any of the people you so envy, for what you did to those men, to me, I would have killed or left you.”

____

You hold back a sigh and turn around on the bed, careful not to let too much frigid air pierce the warmth around you.

Before you can ponder too long on what may have woken you, you are reminded of one of the first observations you made about the King of Kattegat: he talks in his sleep.

Ivar lays on his back next to you, one of his arms folded over his head and face now turned towards you.

As you let your eyes trace his features as he sleeps, free of the almost permanent tension that coils around his whole body and expression during the day, the cruel smiles and nose curled in anger absent, you have to close your hand into a fist to resist foolish temptations of reaching up and tracing his face with your fingers.

You did horrible things, once. You did cruel things, played twisted games, and said it was necessary.

You looked into a man’s eyes, promised him forever, swore to love him, and then killed him while his heart still beat by making him realize it had all been a lie, a ruse, a game.

And he forgave you. Narses looked at you and all the awful things you did, and chose to forgive you.

You called him weak, you called him a fool.

But now you look at Ivar, you face every horrible thing he has done, to you and to others; you remember every cruel word and every time he put binds on you; and you realize that you can still find it in you to forgive him.

Maybe you are weak, maybe you are a fool. But it doesn’t scare you as much as it should, the realization of the kind of hold the Viking has on your heart.

It doesn’t scare you, you realize, because what his mind tells him to believe and what it is less frightening for you to have him believe are one and the same: that you are counting the days until your vow is fulfilled and you can make the choice you weren’t able to before.

You know he won’t think your heart is foolish enough to have you make the choice to stay; because a smart a man as he might be, he is also uncertain, vulnerable, and, when it comes to matters like this, when it comes to you, surprisingly defenseless.

This particular secret can remain only yours for a while longer, you think as you let yourself fall back asleep.

Dreams of bloodied lips smiling behind a red veil prove no secret is only yours.

Before you can take your leave the next morning, Ivar quickly grabs at your hand and stops you. Turning around with hundreds of questions at the tip of your tongue, you find those turning into thousands as you meet Ivar’s eyes.

He looks at you with what someone that didn’t know him would think is pain, is fear.

He clenches his jaw, takes a slow breath through his nose before he speaks.

“Have you forgiven me?” His voice is quiet, so quiet.

You search his eyes, and a sad smile curves faintly at your lips. Though a part of you wants to for once allow you to only be soft and gentle, like Ivar said last night, you were never only one thing.

And because you are iron and arrogance and pride as much as you are any other thing, you whisper, repeating back to him his words on your wedding night,

“You’ve chained me, but don’t forget I’ve chained you too.”

I can hurt you, just as you can hurt me.

____

Soooooo, whaddya think?

It was supposed to be a bit longer by adding another scene regarding Stithulf, but I decided to put all that in the next chapter, so this one (and the one before) can focus on the consequences of that one big fuckup and what that means for both of them. This is just a lot of words to say chapter 26 is a 5k beast but ok

Thank you for reading lovelies! Love ya!!!

[whitherliliesbloom]

quietus

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #13 - oneirophrenia ]

[ kaye & illya ] ★ [ 1,883 words ]  ★ [ wozwald au ] a continuation / sequel to fragrant sorrow, a previous fill i did

a hallucinatory (dream-like) state that is caused by such conditions as prolonged sleep deprivation, sensory isolation, and drug use

in the midst of his delirious, drunken haze he saw her - he can’t tell if it was meant to be his final blessing or an eternal curse

When the man felt the effects of the strong intoxicants begin to take its toll on him, they had already long left the domain of the last minor god he’d slain, dragging his bloodstained scythe behind his back. 

Though Lily had insisted that they scour the area for medicine in order to purge his body of the toxins, he’d stubbornly refused and instead stumbled his way back to their base. They both knew that a god of the original pantheon would not be so easily felled by drugs in his system.

But Kaye hasn’t been the same since they’d last visited the ruined temple of the first goddess of creation - his refusal to sleep, eat or even communicate past singular words of acknowledgements or fatigued grunts troubling to no end. She had thought it best to simply leave him in his grief, that time would come to heal him back to normalcy, and that she needed only but to wait for the painful memories to fade. 

It was a decision she regretted immensely as she watched as he finally crumpled to the floor. And as she cradled him in her arms and watched in tearful horror as he stared back up at her with an emptiness in his eyes, light slowly fading, she cried out his name that sounded nothing more than like the muffled trickling of water ringing distantly in his ears.

“Kaye! Kaye!”

Perhaps this was the ending he had always longed for, a fate that he has long awaited at far end of the tunnel... and it certainly took it’s sweet time to arrive. 

As the closest thing to divinity, it would be no small feat to kill him. No amount of drugs, sleep deprivation or even starvation would be able to grant him eternal rest - he knows first hand. He’d spent many millennia injecting his body with nicotine and alcohol, but they never did anything more than to dull his senses - a small mercy granted for him to put up with the karmic retribution that constantly struck him with pain like hooks sinking into his very flesh.

The only thing that could kill him was one of the other pantheon members - and they’re all gone. The life he has led thus far as the sole survivor is one he saw as divine punishment. 

But even a god has his limits - and he wondered if it would perhaps benefit Lily more if he’d just passed on from his own hands, unlikely and irresponsible as that may be.

“Kaye. Kaye.” 

He hears his name being called again, but his eyelids feel too heavy to open... until the scent of daisies fill his nostrils. 

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself in an old, familiar body... a long almost forgotten form of himself from ages ago that he abandoned with the passing of the last of the divine pantheon. 

He’s silent as he looks down at his tattered robes, loose and out of fashion for the modern age compared to his leather jackets and high laced boots. 

“Kaye.” 

He turns his head to the sound of the voice behind him, and his eyes widen - but only briefly. 

“You seem troubled. Is something wrong?”

An ethereal maiden clad head to toe in silken white garbs rests against the stone pillar, her back resting against the cold cobblestone and a singular white flower clasped tightly between her small fingers. Her once familiar vibrant and sparkling violet eyes are now a muted, murky hue - a luster in which he’s had to watch being lost gradually to the cruelty of time. 

Was this a dream? A lucid nightmare? Or perhaps he was in limbo - caught between the realm of the living and the underworld of the dead that awaited his arrival. Where do the souls of dead gods even rest after death? He’s unsure - but he’s certain there is no place for him in heaven.

Despite his initial confusion, Kaye doesn’t seem perturbed or panicked in the least... the sight of the girl filling his heart up with a sorrow that he hadn’t known was even possible for him anymore. He had thought himself incapable of feeling anymore - and yet here he was.

“Nothing.” he answers before he can even think, just like he had back then... Perhaps he really was in a dream - reliving the memories of his biggest regret as punishment for his transgressions. 

“Are you sure?” the girl asks, her voice weak and soft... and he furrows his brows at her insistence. “You can talk to me about whatever is bothering you.”

“I’m not the one who is-” 

The words die in his throat, caught in a choked mutter that gives away his lapse of weakness. He cannot bring himself to say the words, but she has abandoned all shred of self-pity and spells it out with her own voice... and he can only wonder why she is being so nonchalant about her own fate.

“Going to fade? I know.” 

How can her voice remain so gentle? One would assume nothing was amiss about her had she not been wearing an obviously drowsy expression on her face - and even then, she is still smiling. 

“But melancholy doesn’t suit you... You’re usually more... passionate, more angry. Like when Roko pranked you into drinking the stale wine.”

“I’m surprise you still remember that.” Kaye huffs, but his words aren’t entirely true. Because of course she would remember - of course the kindest, most pure-hearted of the six of them would remember everything... She loved everyone more than she even loved herself, foolish and naive as she is.

She giggles lightly, like tiny bell chimes ringing and carrying its melody in the wind and into the starry night sky... but none save the trees and himself are here to hear it, and it does nothing to soothe the thorns that are wrapped in his chest. 

“Maybe I should take you to the shrine after all.” Kaye suggest, has already suggested multiple times before... But the girl merely shakes her head. 

“I’m tired. I don’t think I’d make it even if you carried me.” 

He would in a heartbeat if it would help, but the both of them know it’d be pointless. He’s in denial of the situation, clamoring for what little hope there was left. Were his brother around, he’d certainly point out the irony of the situation with a laugh. 

“Besides... I want the remainder of my energy to remain there... So you can remember me by.”

Beneath sealed lips, Kaye grits his teeth and bites the insides of his cheeks. He knows she doesn’t mean for it to be... But her words felt like they were meant to be a punishment for him - a promise that he wasn’t ready to commit to and make yet.

“Illya.” At the sound of her name, she quiets, fiddling with the petals of the lone flower in her hand gently. “I probably won’t last long enough to remember anything.”

“Don’t say that.”

Finally, he catches a hint of strain in her words, pain flashing in her eyes as she shakes her head.

“All creation will always meet an inevitable end... But death is everlasting, it’s eternal for as long as the world exists.” The goddess pauses for a moment to let her words linger, to let her voice hang in the air and embed itself into his memories for as long as she can afford it to. “You were always the strongest of us... You’ll keep protecting the world for us, won’t you?”

Kaye doesn’t respond her question, but he doesn’t need to... He knows Illya already knows what his answer would be - she knew even before the world began to fall to anarchy.

“Without life, there can be no death.” He murmurs bitterly, and she smiles sympathetically back at him.

“Which is why I will never truly be gone. As long as you live on, you will be living in my memory.” 

A selfish part of himself says he doesn’t want to. He was never known to be the most altruistic of gods, back in the beginning of the world and even now. She knows full well the burden he must bear - and the weight of the words that she spoke to him. 

But beneath the surface level, there is a reason for her blind optimism. She sees her urging him to live not as punishment.... but because she still, even after the ugliness of humanity and life has presented itself fully, carries a flickering hope in her heart that he is sure will die with her.

Illya wants him to live because she believes he will one day find a way to be happy... and if that is what it takes for her to pass on in peace, then he is willing to indulge her with that juvenile, unimaginable fantasy. 

“Can I ask a favor of you, Kaye?” it was to be her final request out of many... She knows of her own self-centeredness as she asks him apologetically. 

Her hand slowly raises, the white flower in her palm grasped weakly between her little fingers. The golden ornaments dangling from her armlets knock together and let out a soft ominous chime. 

“When you visit me in the future, could you bring flowers?” 

He hesitates to move... knows that if he were to take the flower from her hand, that he’d be sealing her fate... and he was far from ready to accept that.

But the swirling of her hopeful, radiant eyes... even as they were slowly losing their usual jewel-like shine bids him take the flower with his left hand, and he holds it delicately in his palm - so softly that he was afraid it would wither away. 

“What kind of flowers? You still haven’t told me what your favorite was.”

“Hehe... you’re right. I am a little indecisive when it comes to that, aren’t I? Let’s see...”

He turns away from her, staring intently at the flower in his hand.

“There are lilies... particularly white ones, but other kinds are pretty too. I really like hydrangeas.. did you know that they bloom in different colors depending on the soil they grow on?”

Her voice is getting softer - more distant. He swallows back the lump in his throat, even if he can tell that she was closing her eyes.

“Yeah, I know. You told me before.”

“I also like plum blossoms... They represent resilience and hope. They’re also called the harbingers of spring.”

She’s so lost in her enamor for flowers that she failed to realize that she hasn’t answered his question... but he cannot bring himself to interrupt her.

“Carnations, hibiscuses, delphiniums...” 

Kaye can no longer remember what her final words had been - only that she spent the final seconds of her life listing the names of flowers - of the things that she loved even unto the very end.  

By the time he realizes she’s grown quiet, and he turns his head to look behind, she has vanished, leaving naught but the lingering, quickly dissipating warmth of the stone she sat upon and the flower in his hand that swayed gently in the nightly breeze. 

[kagebros]

Desert Limbo

Summary: Wing gets started on his road to recovery. And he gets to see the person he needs to see most to set him on that path. Warnings: N/A Word Count: 1545

What happened?!

His sparkpulse is weak, get him on a table NOW. I’m gonna try to stabilise him.

…

…

…

Bright. Bright yellow light is all Wing can see as his optics online. There’s no sound around him. He sits up from his spot as the area around him is similar to the planet’s geographic makeup from New Crystal City. A large red sun sits in the sky as Wing stands up from his position and looks around. There’s no dead bodies scattered around the area like it was that fateful day. In fact he sees nothing. There’s no Crystal City gates waiting to coax him back in, he stands in what looks like oblivion. He looks at his servos for a moment and closes his palms, realising he’s still able to feel things. And he looks up, the large red sun refusing to move as it towers over him.

Wing shuffles before sitting back down, cross legged and attempts to meditate for the first time in years. If this were the place where he was to die, then he might as well try to make peace with the demons inside. He inhales and exhales. When he exhales he sees pitch black smoke from the interior of his frame begin to take shape in front of him. It’s him. A literal carbon copy sits across from him and he’s confused for a moment. Until the carbon copy moves and stands up, unsheathing its swords. Wing tumbles back and unsheathes his own, legs bent, ready to move at a moment’s notice. When the shadow lunges at Wing, he dodges out of its way and soon the two are in a battle that Wing is all too familiar with.

The shadow morphs into Braid and beckons him. Wing’s went over the moves of this battle over and over. Trying to find a way that he would have won, that mistake he made that ultimately led to Drift’s death. He goes through the motions as he lunges towards this shadow version of Braid and he struggles but these years of fighting for the Autobots has given him some more experience. The mistake that he made no longer exists as he slices through Braid, not having to use his greatsword. The smoke dissipates for a moment before forming back into Wing. That was only one demon he defeated. And soon he’s in another battle with this shadow Wing. Shadow Wing is relentless . It represents all the pain, grief, rage, sorrow and guilt that Wing’s been carrying throughout these years.

Wing may have been able to defeat Braid but this.This he couldn’t defeat. He was never able to defeat it during his time on the Lost Light, he certainly knew that he wouldn’t be able to do it now. After all his spark gave out earlier from not only falling for fake Drift, just a figment of his imagination meant to kill him, but the fact that his family, the Circle of Light that he abandoned so many years ago were all dead. And he can only imagine the amount of grief and loss they felt when Wing left. That as well as the fact they died potentially seeing a fake Wing, thinking they finally had found him.

This shadow Wing quickly overpowers Wing, the weight of it is too much, it’s unbearable. He feels weak, so weak as the shadow Wing raises its greatsword and goes to slash through Wing. Wing closes his optics, accepting his fate before there’s the sound of air slicing in front of him and the pitch black smoke dissipates with a poof. When Wing onlines his optics, he sees him .

He’s brighter than the sunlight that spreads across this desolate landscape and he looks different. But Wing knows who that is. He knows that’s Drift. His optics are no longer that bright blue that Wing was used to but instead a bright golden, similar to Wing’s. His face is painted with the red markings similar to Wing’s that he took on when he had heard of Dai Atlas’ passing. There’s more red paint than Wing is used to seeing on Drift and his frame has changed entirely. He grows confused when Drift is holding his own greatsword.

And Wing thinks he’s intangible, that this Drift is fake like the other one. But when Drift reaches a servo out for Wing to take, he grabs it and Drift pulls him up from Wing’s sorry state.

“Mech, are you a sight for sore optics,” Drift says, a twinkle in his optics. Wing replies with a plea.

“Please tell me you’re not-”

“I’m not a fake,” Drift answers. He then scoffs. “Can you imagine me saying something like ‘let’s ascend together‘?” Wing’s silent for a moment but then something in him ignites. And for the first time in so long, Wing’s face breaks out in a wide smile, with each breath it grows wider and wider until he’s laughing. He laughs, he laughs as tears stream down his face and he immediately hugs Drift. The hug he gives Drift is almost crushing and Drift wheezes as he pats one of Wing’s pauldrons. Drift hugs Wing back with a chuckle. The two hold each other for a moment as Drift lets Wing do what he needs to do. Wing almost melts when Drift nuzzles his helm into Wing’s neck.

“I missed you,” Wing breathes. “I missed you so much,” he says weakly as his voice cracks with emotion.

“I know, I know,” Drift replies, his voice soft and gentle. When Wing pulls away, he looks at Drift’s optics, still unable to believe it.

“I love you” are the next words Wing utters. And Drift’s astonished this time. He then clears his resets his vocaliser.

“Listen, Wing,” Drift starts, his finials pointing back. “I didn’t come here to welcome you to the afterlife. If I’m being honest, I’m saving your life again,” he says.

“I don’t think I want to go back,” Wing replies.

“You’re as stubborn as ever, I guess,” Drift says in slight irritation. He sighs. “Wing. I died so you could live,” Drift says this time. “Don’t waste that, you’ll be with us when the time comes.”

“Us?” Wing then asks.

“The Circle of Light,” Drift then says. “...Dai Atlas and I have been talking. Axe and Redline as well. They all searched for you when you left.” Wing feels that guilt creeping back in again.

“And they’re all dead because of me, aren’t they,” Wing then says.

“Well,“ Drift says, taking Wing’s servos into his. “It’s a lower death count than the one I have,” he says, looking into his optics.

“I. I saw the amount back on the Necroworld,” Wing says. “To be fair… Megatron and Optimus had a much higher count.”

“Yeah, that tracks,” Drift scoffs, the amused smile he gives shows his fangs and Wing smiles. “But I said what I said,” Drift says this time. “It’s not your time to go. Especially when you can’t defeat the one thing that is blocking your happiness.”

“I don’t know if I ever will,” Wing says.

“Where’s that annoying optimism, Wing?” Drift asks.

“It died with you,” Wing replies. Drift falls silent this time and leans his forehead against Wing’s.

“I want you to live and be happy, Wing,” Drift says after a few quiet moments. “But that happiness won’t have me in it. You have people down there who care about you, who will love you for who you are. I know I found your optimism and faith and everything annoying, but I fell in love with that. I found my utopia, Wing. And that utopia had you in it. What would the universe be without someone who is as brilliant as the sun? Who instantly lights up any room when entering it? ”

“This doesn’t sound like you, Drift,” Wing says, stepping back for a moment, slipping out of his grasp. He’s fearful that this is fake again. That his mind is playing tricks on him again.

“I’ve changed a lot during my time with the Circle of Light. Well, and being dead,” Drift says. “But I made that choice, I don’t regret it. After all, you’re still alive.” Drift then smiles at Wing this time. Drift looks over to the red giant that hangs in the sky and sees it beginning to set. “It seems like we’re running out of time,” Drift says.

“Will I see you again?” Wing asks. Drift sits down and in a gust of sand, there’s a rock that he sits down against. Wing sits down beside him and Drift leans his helm on Wing’s shoulder and holds his servos in his.

“I don’t know,” Drift replies. “But. For now, let’s just watch the sun set.” So the two do. The red giant lowers further and further until the last shine of light glimmers across the landscape. “I love you, too.”

That’s the last thing Wing hears Drift say before he wakes up in the Lost Light’s medbay. He sees that he’s hooked up to some life support lines. He looks to the side, his optics focusing to see Ratchet looking right at him. Wing braces himself for what Ratchet has to say and says only one word.

“Hey.”

[call-me-rei]

Chapter 25

“I can’t stand that you see right through me. I can’t stand when you look away.”

---

The rest of the week went by in a haze. I felt like I floated through life: eating, sleeping, going to school, coming home, and doing it all over again. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about Vic any more than I already did on Tuesday. I figured that if I left it alone then I could get over it and find a way to fix it.

Too bad no one told my brain that that was the plan.

I was obsessing over the fact that Vic was trying to avoid me. We had two classes every other day, and in both classes, he never looked at me. I would get to our government class before him and whenever he walked in; he would look through me on his way to his seat. In music appreciation I stole glances at him to gauge how he was feeling. I hoped he would look back at me, but he never did.

He was acting like I didn’t exist.

On Wednesday when Ms. Pope gave us time to work on our projects Vic resorted to putting his headphones in and writing in his notebook.

I was hurt but refused to show it.

I didn’t know what I could do to either stop these feelings or get Vic to admit his to me. I had so many plans jumbled in my mind that I wanted to put into action. So many words I wanted to say. Of course, I wanted him to make the first move, but I knew that didn’t make sense.

On Thursday I told myself to man up and go through with something. At that point it didn’t matter; I just wanted to stop obsessing about it.

It was Friday, the last day before Thanksgiving break. I was in music appreciation waiting for the bell to ring to dismiss the other students from lunch. I had managed to sneak away from my friends so I could have some time to think about what I was going to do.

Today was the day I was going to get Vic to talk to me.

We hadn’t talked since Monday, so I figured he would’ve had enough time to collect his thoughts about me. That was the hope, at least.

I looked down at the blank sheet of paper on my desk. I had decided to write Vic a note since I didn’t want to risk him flat out ignoring whatever words came out of my mouth. I just needed to figure out what to write. “I’m sorry” seemed too vague; “Can we talk?” seemed desperate. I wanted him to acknowledge me, but not think I was a desperate loser who needed his attention.

Even if that was who I was.

I thought about what I wanted to say to him as the end of lunch bell rang. I knew I didn’t want to simply apologize. No, he deserved an explanation as to why I acted the way I did. And knowing Vic, he’d request one even if it was coming anyway.

My classmates started trickling into the room, meaning that class was going to start in five minutes. Vic would be one of the last ones to arrive, so I had a bit of time to figure out what it was I wanted to write to start the dreaded conversation.

I bit my lip as I looked at the page. I had been going around in circles for the last fifteen minutes and had gotten nowhere. I was about to start drawing on the page when I felt a pair of eyes on me.

I dared myself to look up to where the feeling was coming from. My breath caught in my throat as my blue eyes locked with his brown ones. Time seemed to stand still. Then, all too quickly, it moved again. He shook his head and walked to his desk without looking at me again.

I looked at him from the corner of my eye. He had started writing in his notebook, I guess so he wouldn’t have to look at me again. I bit my lip not so subtly, mostly out of frustration.

Class started shortly after Vic took his seat, and once again, he didn’t interact with me. By the time Ms. Pope was done with the lesson and had given us time to socialize before the bell, I had decided on what to write. I scribbled it onto the page and folded the paper in half twice. Then I reached over to Vic’s desk.

His eyes met mine with confusion in them, but I ignored it and slipped the paper in-between the pages of his notebook. I didn’t care if he read it while I was looking; I just needed him to see it.

I quickly stuffed my things into my backpack so my back would be turned to Vic. I didn’t want to look at him or else I’d lose all the courage I had come up with to give him that note. I wanted to preserve the last little bit of confidence I had before the crippling anxiety I was usually overwhelmed with pushed its to the surface.

I turned back around and saw Vic staring at the note in confusion. His eyebrows were furrowed as he read my writing. I almost smiled at his cute, confused look.

He must’ve noticed me because he turned to look at me. Time stood still once again. We stared into the other’s eyes, waiting for a move to be made by the other. Finally, Vic made a motion. He opened his mouth to speak to me for the first time in days. And although I craved the sound of his voice, I didn’t want the rejection that was sure to come from his lips.

Thankfully, the dismissal bell rang throughout the school, signaling the start of our week-long break.

“Okay you guys, have a wonderful and safe break! I’ll see you all in two weeks.” Ms. Pope bid us goodbye and the class emptied. Vic turned his attention from our teacher’s announcement back to me. He opened his mouth to speak once again, but this time I cut him off with a small smile. Without a word, I turned and walked out of the room.

***

Can I come over?

That was the message I wrote to Vic. In retrospect I could’ve come up with something better, but I wanted to be direct and have the best chance of not getting rejected.

I figured that Vic wouldn’t want to meet me anywhere like a restaurant or the park, so that wasn’t an option in my mind. And since those were out, then inviting him to my house was out as well. There was a better chance that he would be more open to talking to me at his home base; at the place where he felt most comfortable.

At least that’s what I kept repeating to myself as I stood in front of his front door.

Whether he said yes or no, I was going to show up. I didn’t want him to go out of town and keep me in limbo for a week. I was already in such a bad mental state after four days. I didn’t want to know where I’d be if we added seven more.

I took some calming breaths as I looked at the wooden door before me. I had been standing outside for ten, maybe twelve minutes. School was released an hour ago, so I knew Vic was home. Whether or not he was fine with me showing up was what kept me standing on his front porch.

I have a fear of rejection. I want people to like me so I do all I can to be accepted. That’s why I waited to tell my friends I was gay, that’s why I go along with whatever stupid idea someone comes up with, and that’s why I tried so hard to keep Vic away at first. Not knowing if he was into me kept that fear at bay, but now that I know and that he might have someone else, I feel like an idiot who should’ve listened to his conscious when it said that I would end up like this.

I sighed for the hundredth time and fixed my eyes on the doorbell. The longer I just stood there, the more suspicious the neighbors would become. I didn’t need a Karen on my ass. I reached forward and pressed the button.

In no time the door swung open to reveal one of the Fuentes brothers. It wasn’t the one I was hoping for though.

“Geez, I was wondering when you were gonna do something,” Mike said to me. I cocked an eyebrow in confusion. “You’ve been standing out here for almost twenty minutes!”

Oh, so that’s how long I was out here.

“How’d you know?” I asked. Since I was at the door, I figured I would’ve seen someone at the window.

“Call it a hunch,” he spoke with a smile. “I sensed someone was at the door and when I looked out there you were. What’s up, you here to see Vic?”

I nodded, afraid to say anything about my situation with Mike’s brother.

“Well, I’m glad you are. But I gotta say, whatever happened between you two really messed with him.”

I chewed on my lip. “I was afraid of that,” I mumbled.

“Hey, at least you’re here to make it right. He didn’t tell me what happened, but if it’s bad enough to get him all moody I know it was something big. I can tell he’s holding himself together, but one more day and I’m sure he would’ve broke.”

“Broke?”

Mike shook his head. “I can’t talk about it; that’s more for him to discuss.”

“I get it.” I did. It was like me and my thoughts of self-harm. I wouldn’t want anyone telling people about them. That was for me to do when I was ready.

“Anyway, do you wanna come in? I’ll go get Vic.”

A voice in the background spoke before I could answer. “Why are you getting me?”

Mike turned his head in the direction of his brother’s voice. I was inclined to do the same and peeked around Mike to see Vic coming into view.

“You’ve got a visitor, bro.” Mike turned back to me and gave me a wink. “I’ll leave you two to it.” With a pat to Vic’s shoulder, he walked around the corner, leaving Vic and I staring at each other.

“Hey,” I whispered to ease the awkward silence and tension. Vic sighed.

“I never responded to your note. I think that means to stay away.”

Ouch.

I ignored his harsh words and focused on my mission. “I was gonna come over anyway,” I said. “Can we talk? Please?”

He looked to be thinking through a hundred thoughts at once. His brows were furrowed, and his arms were crossed at his chest. He was staring at me in discontent. Then all of a sudden, his hateful look vanished and was replaced with a look of defeat.

He sighed. “Come on in.” He moved aside to give me space to walk in. “Follow me,” he spoke as he closed the front door. I did so without a word.

We walked around the corner to the living room. Vic made eye contact with Mike who was sitting on the couch watching TV. Apparently they had some sort of brotherly telepathy because Mike nodded even when neither of them said a word. Vic nodded back to him before we took off again.

“I’m surprised you wanted to talk so soon,” Vic said as he led me up the stairs to his room.

“Yeah, well, I overthink and over-analyze everything so it’s better for me to get things out in the open as quickly as possible before I start obsessing relentlessly.” As if I hadn’t been relentlessly obsessing all damn week. But I wouldn’t let him know that.

“Makes sense,” was his only response.

When we got to his room, Vic flopped onto his bed. He reached for his phone that was on his bedside table. I took that as a cue to find a seat, so I sat at his desk.

“So, what did you wanna say to me?” he asked. I chewed on my lip yet again.

What did I want to say? I had so much I wanted to say. I wanted to apologize for being a dumbass; I wanted to confess my feelings for him. I wanted to ask him if he had feelings for me; real, true feelings. I wanted to know that I had no reason to be afraid of him rejecting me because he really, truly wanted me. I wanted to talk about Alex, but I didn’t want to talk about Alex. I wanted him to assure me that Alex was nobody because I’m the one he needed.

I wanted to live out a fairy tale with Vic if only for a moment.

A huff from across the room drew me out of my thoughts. I looked toward the source of the sound and noticed how annoyed Vic looked. He rolled his eyes and picked up his phone.

“I’m not sure why I let you come in if you weren’t gonna do anything.”

Ouch.

“I’m just trying to-”

“Save it,” he barked, his eyes not leaving his screen. “If you’re gonna sit and waste my time then at least do it after the holiday. I’ll be stuffed and sleepy, so I won’t even notice you’re here.”

Double ouch.

I clenched my hands into fists to distract the tears that were threatening to fall. I applied so much pressure into my palms that I’m sure I was about to draw blood. But I couldn’t let him know how badly his words hurt. It was obvious he was doing this as a defense mechanism. Mike said he was hurting, and this was probably how he was trying to keep me from seeing it. If Mike hadn’t have told me the truth, I would’ve run out of the room in tears.

But I didn’t. Instead I said something that made me want to crawl in a hole and die.

“Let’s play truth or dare.”

Vic looked up from his phone. “What?”

“Truth or dare.”

He let out an annoyed sigh. “Really? Why would I want to-“

“Please?” I asked with more confidence that I had left in me. I figured since I already said it, I might as well roll with it. “We learned a lot about each other the last time we played. I think it’ll be good.”

He huffed before picking his phone back up. “Fine,” he spoke as the light from the screen illuminated his face.

“Okay, I’ll start. Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” he answered uninterested.

I racked my brain for questions to ask. I could ask if he was into guys or girls, or both, but that seemed too invasive for the first question. I could ask about Alex, but that also seemed too invasive. There was no way in hell I was going to ask him about his feelings for me. I bit my lip in frustration.

“What, you didn’t pre-plan your questions?” I regained focus and glanced at Vic. I guess the silence piqued his curiosity because his phone was away from his face and his eyes were on me.

“No,” I chuckled uncomfortably as my hand rubbed the back of my neck, “I guess I didn’t.”

“Fine, I guess I’ll start.” I breathed out a small sigh of relief. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” I answered.

He sat up and dropped his phone on the bed. “Why’d your freak out on me the other day?”

I blew out a breath. I had a feeling that question would come up. Did I expect it to be the first thing he asked me? Hell no, but I should’ve known that Vic wouldn’t beat around the bush.

“Because my friend told me some things that I thought were true.”

“Things about me?”

I didn’t answer. Instead I looked down at my lap. My hands began fidgeting with a loose thread on the hem of my shirt as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

“What things?”

I bit my lip harder with my eyes cast down and my hands occupied by thread. I didn’t want to answer.

“Kellin?”

“I’d rather not say,” I whispered.

“Well too bad. If you’re hearing things about me, I’d like to know what they are.”

I shook my head slightly. It wasn’t meant to be a response to Vic’s statement, but I knew he took it as such based on what he said next.

“Wouldn’t you want to know if it’s true?”

I looked up from my lap expecting to see that cocky smile I was used to. I didn’t get it. Instead I got a serious look. His face was stoic; there wasn’t a hint of a joke etched anywhere on his features. He really did want to help me distinguish the truth from the rumor.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly while fixing my posture so I was looking at Vic again. My back was straight and my hands were folded in my lap. If I was going to tell him, I was going to be confident about it. At the very least I was going to feign confidence so my voice wouldn’t shake. That’s how that worked, right?

“She said that there’s a rumor that you and your friend Alex are messing around. Or rather, that you two were messing around when he first moved here but you put a stop to that rumor but you’re still sleeping with him in secret.”

He was silent for a few moments. I didn’t know if he was waiting for me to continue or was taking in what I said. My unspoken question was answered soon enough. “Why did that bother you?”

“Because…,” I hesitated. I took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “Because you asked me out like you were interested in me. We had this wonderful date and I thought you actually liked me. Then I see you two together and I hear about you guys and I think, ‘Maybe I’m just a little bit of fun on the side.’ Or ‘Maybe he’s a player so he has me and Alex and who knows how many others he can call up when he’s lonely.’ It sucks because you’re the first guy I’ve had real feelings for and to be played like that by your first gay crush is bullshit.”

I didn’t expect myself to let all of that out at once, but I couldn’t deny that it felt good to say it. I wanted to hold onto that good feeling for as long as possible, so I ignored the fact that Vic had scooted closer to me.

“I’m your first gay crush?” I gave him a small nod. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m flattered.”

I rolled my eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” I mumbled loud enough for him to hear.

“No, seriously. I’m happy to know you like me.”

“Why?” I challenged.

“Because I was kind of a dick to you when we first met. And for a few weeks after that. I’m glad I didn’t scare you off.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not all bad,” I stated dismissively. Vic’s smile got bigger.

“Thanks Quinn.” We stared at each other for a little bit. For the first time all week I saw the softness and humor in Vic’s eyes again. It made me smile.

“So,” I dragged out once I had taken in enough of Vic’s happy face, “are you gonna address my questions?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I owe you that.” He moved over some more so that he was sitting in front of me with his legs hanging off the end of the bed. “Those rumors your friend told you about are really just rumors. Alex is straight with a girlfriend. And even if he wasn’t, I’m not interested in him. We never hooked up, never flirted with each other or anything like that. We’re just friends.”

I felt some of the tension leave my body. My muscles relaxed and the weight on my chest lifted. I really needed to hear those words from his mouth. But how much of it was true?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Vic said. I looked at him questionably. “Your face changed,” he answered. “I’m not lying to you, I swear. This isn’t something I’d lie about.” I searched his eyes and found sincerity. I smiled at him.

“Thank you.” He nodded. “I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I shouldn’t have freaked out on you the way I did. I just didn’t like feeling that I was being played.”

Vic got off the bed to kneel in front of me. “Listen to me: I would never play you.” He paused with hesitation before he continued. “I actually…” His eyes darted around the room uncomfortably. He looked nervous.

“You actually what?”

He sighed and wiped his face with his hand. When his hand dropped his lips were pressed together. He took a breath through his nose.

“Vic?” I was getting worried. I had never seen him this way. “Are you okay?”

He looked anxious and apprehensive at the same time. Then, in an instant, his face was clear from all previous emotion. It was like a switch flipped. I was appalled. How did he manage to do that, and could he teach me?

I was going to ask him about his sudden change in facial expressions when he sighed deeply.

“Fuck it,” he said in a husky whisper. He straightened his body so he was still on his knees but his eyes were level with mine. Before I could wonder what he was doing, he placed his hands on my cheeks, leaned in, and kissed me.

[f4liveblogarchives]

Fantastic Four Vol 1 #138 & #139

Sun Jul 28 2019 [02:24 PM] Wack'd: So apparently the whole "60s issues colored Wyatt white so as a compromise let's give him a slight tan" was not an invention of John Bryne

[02:24 PM] Aleph Null: that's supposed to be a tan? [02:25 PM] Wack'd: That or he's covered himself in strawberry yogurt [02:25 PM] ThreeOfFour: maybe its the widows peak but is that Namor? [02:25 PM] Wack'd: Nope! It's Wyatt Wingfoot! [02:26 PM] Aleph Null: dang, you're a wing, and you have feet? [02:27 PM] Wack'd: Under Kirby's pen Wyatt's hair varied from a standard close cut to something vaguely Clark Kent-ish [02:27 PM] Bocaj: Wait. [02:27 PM] Bocaj: Namor has wing feet [02:27 PM] Bocaj: HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM [02:27 PM] Wack'd: His hairline's receding a bit, though I have no idea if this is intentional or just how Buscema draws him [02:27 PM] Bocaj: HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM [02:27 PM] Wack'd: *Anyway* [02:28 PM] Wack'd: So wait--I have questions

[02:28 PM] Wack'd: 1. Did Johnny drop out of school? Probably, right? I mean, he’s not graduating today [02:28 PM] Bocaj: Damn johnny is a drop out [02:30 PM] Wack'd: 2. Metro College is nearby? And has phones? Besides "Stan forgot about me" there's no good reason why he hasn't spoken to Johnny or the rest of the Four in, uh--five years [02:31 PM] Wack'd: I get the idea that if he's going to return you want to make it kind of a big deal, but I'm far more comfortable with the idea that he's still been around and just not doing anything superheroey? [02:31 PM] Wack'd: Because now it's just like "oh, I've moved on with my life but I should probably invite my old best friend who's also a drop out to my graduation ceremony" [02:32 PM] Wack'd: "By breaking into his apartment" [02:32 PM] Umbramatic: oh [02:33 PM] Wack'd: Anyway, Reed decides to give the ceremony (and subsequent chill sesh at Wyatt's place) a miss in case Sue comes back [02:33 PM] Wack'd: Look, dude, I'm sure she does she'll call first? Or leave a note? [02:33 PM] Wack'd: Whatever [02:34 PM] Bocaj: When you refuse to make the first move it involves a lot of sitting by the telephone [02:34 PM] Wack'd: In fairness she's deliberately gone off the grid with his infant child and asked that no one tell Reed‏ where she is [02:35 PM] Wack'd: Not really a lot of opportunities for first moves here [02:35 PM] Bocaj: Has he asked [02:35 PM] Wack'd: Also fair [02:35 PM] Wack'd: But I'm pretty sure when someone doesn't want you to know where they are, going out of your way to find out is stalking, and that's generally frowned upon [02:36 PM] Bocaj: Well like he could have asked someone to send her a message saying he wanted to talk [02:36 PM] Wack'd: True [02:36 PM] Wack'd: You make a lot of good points [02:36 PM] maxwellelvis: True, but the problem is this is Reed Richards we're talking about here. [02:36 PM] Bocaj: Since Reed Is Never Wrong in Reed's Mind he's stuck in limbo waiting for her to come crawling back [02:36 PM] maxwellelvis: He'd have to delegate it entirely to someone else [02:36 PM] maxwellelvis: because aside from what Bocaj just said, Reed tends to make a big production out of everything. [02:37 PM] Wack'd: John Buscema awakes with a start and realizes that nothing about the team's civvie fashion sense has changed in thirteen years

[02:38 PM] Umbramatic: shameful [02:38 PM] Bocaj: "Oh shit, fashion changes" [02:40 PM] Wack'd: 1. Humphrey Bogart was a major movie star and *definitely* has folks fussing over his hair.  2. I'm finding a *lot* of photos of Lloyd Nolan with immaculately trimmed facial hair.  3. Oh god Ben's a "what about the troops" guy

[02:41 PM] maxwellelvis: Just change the references to 'Nam-era stuff and he sounds like Walter Sobchak [02:41 PM] Umbramatic: yufoufgtpit;u;jo'piop [02:41 PM] Wack'd: I'm starting to think that last issue all of his talk about being old wasn't him being brainwashed, that's just how Gerry Conway thinks he should behave [02:42 PM] Wack'd: Which is not exactly endearing me to his run [02:42 PM] Umbramatic: rip [02:42 PM] Wack'd: Well that's ominous

[02:42 PM] Umbramatic: eeeep [02:45 PM] Wack'd: So, Wyatt's tribe has a name now. "Keewazi" (EDITOR’S NOTE: I’d apparently forgotten Lee and Kirby explicitly made him Comanche.) [02:46 PM] Wack'd: I'm sure that was talked over with a lot of Native Americans not just a bunch of randomly-picked syllables [02:47 PM] Aleph Null: marvel bad [02:47 PM] Umbramatic: marvel no [02:48 PM] Wack'd: "I haven't seen Johnny in about five years, so it's definitely socially acceptable to laugh at him"

[02:48 PM] Wack'd: That said, he looks like a friggin Brady [02:48 PM] Bocaj: Which is weird because Marvel Avengers tended to leave it vague and Claremont X Men picked specific real tribes [02:49 PM] Umbramatic: now i'm just imagining a laugh track at all mentions of johnny's hair [02:49 PM] Umbramatic: and it's the Tidus Laugh [02:52 PM] Wack'd: I will say this, to Buscema's credit (and maybe Conway's?)--there's definitely still in "old west" aesthetic here, but the outfits are not nearly as "I watched a movie once" as they were last time we saw these dudes. Also: smart move avoiding teepees. It's the 70s! People want efficient heating!

[02:52 PM] Wack'd: (We didn't actually see any dwellings last time. Mostly just Wyatt's dad sitting on a carpet in the middle of an open field) [02:53 PM] Wack'd: Uuuuuuh "kings" yeah sure

[02:54 PM] Umbramatic: big mountain boi [02:56 PM] Wack'd: And with regards to "warriors" [02:58 PM] Wack'd: Oh no, Johnny did drop out!

[02:59 PM] Umbramatic: poor johnny [02:59 PM] Wack'd: So the Keewazi are in Oklahoma so jot that down [02:59 PM] Umbramatic: oh [03:00 PM] Wack'd: Wyatt traveled a long way to go to a state school! [03:01 PM] Wack'd: That explains nothing, thank you

[03:01 PM] Aleph Null: this is just what men are like [03:02 PM] Wack'd: Also last time we saw this joker he was just Mysterio but earlier and worse [03:02 PM] Wack'd: So this should honestly be a cakewalk [03:02 PM] Umbramatic: good [03:04 PM] Wack'd: nerts

[03:05 PM] Wack'd: Fortunately it turns out that attacking Miracle Man himself breaks his concentration, so no more rock man [03:05 PM] Wack'd: Coming out to gloat--*always* a bad idea [03:08 PM] Wack'd: Oh wow so Miracle Man's new backstory sure is something [03:08 PM] Wack'd: He sought out a tribe of Native Americans who'd mastered "total mental control" and had dwindled to seven despite never having interacted with a white guy before [03:09 PM] Umbramatic: oh [03:09 PM] Wack'd: They agree to a free and equal trade of information, but once Miracle Man has learned all he cares to he murders them all [03:10 PM] Wack'd: Nice of Conway to leave future writers an escape hatch in case this one day turns out to be problematic

[03:11 PM] Wack'd: Which it did, I'm pretty sure, the second it was written [03:11 PM] Umbramatic: yes [03:12 PM] Wack'd: If nothing else this is all fairly on brand for a white guy.

[03:12 PM] maxwellelvis: Well, the next time we see Miracle Man is in Marvel Two-In-One #8, written by Steve Gerber, and he doubles down on the weirdness, as I've said before. [03:13 PM] Wack'd: That's cool so long as he doesn't also double down on the racism

[03:15 PM] Wack'd: ...sure

[03:16 PM] maxwellelvis: To paraphrase Rifftrax, "Either the laws of physics no longer apply, or [Johnny] is playing Halo 2" [03:17 PM] Umbramatic: these are superhero comics, physics are just a suggesstion [03:18 PM] Wack'd: Okay, so the philosophy at play here is kind of nonsense bonkers, but I really want to hone in on the "city he has created on these barren sands." The sands weren't barren! People lived here! They were using it! Christ, Conway!

[03:19 PM] maxwellelvis: Not by choice, mind you. Though I'm not sure if Wyatt's living on a reservation or not. [03:20 PM] Wack'd: Lee and Kirby certainly seemed to think so. Conway and Buscema have issued no statement on the matter [03:20 PM] maxwellelvis: And IIRC most reservations were deliberately placed in the most desolate areas the feds could find. [03:21 PM] Wack'd: But still, it's super shitty to talk about someone's home as though you could be using this land better. [03:21 PM] Wack'd: It tends to be a big anti-Palestinian talking point--"it's good the Jews came in because it's not like those idiots were doing anything worthwhile"--so I'm a little sensitive to it [03:22 PM] Umbramatic: ah, geez [03:22 PM] maxwellelvis: Gotcha [03:23 PM] Wack'd: Anyway, Johnny, Ben, and Medusa make their way back to the surface, and Miracle Man conjures some monsters for them to fight [03:24 PM] Wack'd: And then when things start going south he summons a cyclone to wipe them all away [03:25 PM] Wack'd: Reed Richards Is Useless™

[03:26 PM] Umbramatic: LOOK BEHIND YOU REED [03:26 PM] Wack'd: We're going to find out about that next issue, apparently [03:26 PM] Wack'd: And meanwhile, in Pennsylvania, Franklin without a high-pitched scream and then passes out [03:27 PM] Wack'd: Sue decides not to send for a doctor because "somehow I know he's alright" [03:27 PM] Wack'd: Good instincts, Sue [03:28 PM] Wack'd: Back to the main story! The cyclone harmlessly drops everyone off a few miles away from Miracle Man's city [03:28 PM] Wack'd: And yeah, the Keewazi live on a reservation [03:29 PM] Wack'd: And so Wyatt, Johnny, Ben, and Medusa build a raft and head upstream back towards the reservation, with Johnny using his fire powers as a "motor" for the boat [03:29 PM] Wack'd: I'm sure that much open flame next to a wooden raft is definitely a good idea [03:30 PM] Wack'd: I think Miracle Man might actually be the most morally reprehensible villain in *Fantastic Four* yet

[03:30 PM] Wack'd: A genocidal colonist and a potential rapist to boot [03:30 PM] Umbramatic: ew [03:31 PM] maxwellelvis: Next time we see him, he'll start trying to become God. Not hyperbole [03:32 PM] Wack'd: Apparently Miracle Man is planning on destroying the entire earth! Jesus!

[03:33 PM] Umbramatic: ah yes, the classic supervillain plan, blow up ze earth [03:33 PM] Wack'd: More mook fights. Medusa is kicking some serious ass this issue, effortlessly flinging around three at a time [03:35 PM] Wack'd: Ben, meanwhile, has gone after the Man himself--and this fight is too fucking good to deprive you of

[03:35 PM] Umbramatic: BALOOM! [03:35 PM] Wack'd: God I love me some Buscema punches [03:37 PM] Wack'd: Anyway, Miracle Man tries to get up one last time, but is spirited away by the ghosts of the Cheemuzwa tribe he wiped out, who hope they can cure him of his megalomania. Awfully magnanimous of them. [03:37 PM] Wack'd: Why didn't they do this earlier? shrug [03:38 PM] Bocaj: There was a character from Fairy Tail who was raised by a first nations esque tribe but then it turned out They Were Ghosts All Along so character was free to join the main cast [03:38 PM] Bocaj: Also I hate Fairy Tail [03:38 PM] Wack'd: Anyway, we go out on a cliffhanger, the thing Reed should've looked behind him that was a Negative Zone alarm light

[djinmer4]

Triptych 3: Primum Osculum (Priest AU)

Inspiration Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGS3TaHHNBw

Takes place some time before ‘A Meeting in Limbo’.

“Father Szardos?  Are you there?”  The knock on the door was too hesitant for anyone with unblessed ears to have heard, but he did.  Kurt got off his knees and opened the door.

“Guten morgen, Sister Katherine.  What can I help you with today?”  He ushered her over to the sole chair in the cell while he took the bed.  Katie fidgeted with the edge of her skirt, brown eyes refusing to look up at him.

“It’s about . . . “ she blushed.  “The Choosening that’s coming up.”

“Ja, it’s your first time.  What are you nervous about?”  Katie tended to prefer cutting straight to the heart of the problem, so Kurt would give her the same courtesy.

“Well, I’ve never done anything like this before.  What if I’m bad at it?”

“Never?  But you were zwölf before you came to the cloister.  Surely you must have had-”

“No.”  The response was surprisingly sharp and cold for the good-natured girl.  She softened a little when she saw that she had startled him.  “Sorry, Father.  It’s not like I haven’t had crushes on other people before.  But you’ve never lived outside the Church.  Smart girls don’t exactly have boys lined up to kiss them.”

“But how about here?  Celibacy and chastity are actively discouraged among the clergy.  Surely Apostle Remy has had you practice in his class?”

“Yeah, Bobby always volunteers to partner with the murals like me.  But I don’t want to be just another notch on the bedpost of some vagabond like him.”  Kurt frowned at that.  He tried to avoid having people singled out like that when he did the class, but Apostle Remy clearly had other ideas.  Perhaps he should speak to the younger man about his teaching methods.

“I’ve never even kissed someone outside of class.”

“Well,” he reached out to hold her hands.  “That’s something I can help you with.”

He started slowly.  First a kiss on her cheek, then her forehead.  Things she’s experienced before when he’d blessed her.  Then he brushed across her lips, dry and chaste.  She pulled back and giggled a little.  “That’s not so bad.  Almost like kissing my younger cousins when I was at home.”

“That’s not the feeling I’m hoping to inspire.”  Kurt slid his hands up to her shoulders.  This time when he kissed her, he slipped his tongue between her lips.  When he pulled away, this time she actually looked surprised.

“Still not the emotion I’m looking for.  Still, why don’t you try now?”

“Um . . . You know, outside of the Church, giving away your first kiss is a really big deal.”

“I may have been a child oblate, but I’ve heard enough from older converts about that.  That’s why learning to kiss is part of the curriculum in the sex ed.  Get it over quickly and get the students to understand that kissing, while a sign of affection, isn’t the end of the world nor the focus point of relationships.  Better than having them panic over the whole issue or be tripped up in the future.”

“You make it sound like murder.  And I don’t think it works as well as you would hope.”

“People are only human.”  He raised his hands to cup her face.  This time she slipped her tongue in, but didn’t seem to know what to do with it.  When it was his turn he tried to show her how to move it, taking the time to explore her mouth.

Katie tried, but this time something went wrong.  As she started to withdraw, her tongue scraped against one of his fangs, filling his mouth with the flavor of her blood.  Rather than letting her regain her breath, he pulled her close and plundered her mouth again, chasing the taste.  He let her breathe then, only to trail kisses up to her ear, then fall again until he was sucking at her pulse point.

Katie brought her arms up to put some space between them, but he pressed her down and continued to kiss her.  Her resistance was starting to melt away when a knock came on the door.  “Father Szardos?  The ceremony is in fifteen minutes.  Are you ready to give the sermon?”  It was Father Rasputin.

Kurt froze.  He had pulled Sister Katherine off the chair and onto the bed.  She stared up at him with wide eyes.  Her wimple had fallen off and he had pulled the open of her collar.  “I should go.” she whispered.

The older man stood and tried to help her up.  She batted away his hand and fixed everything herself, quickly tucking her hair under the wimple and closing the collar over the bruises he left on her neck.  There was just enough time before Piotr pushed open the door.  She ducked under his arm and left with barely a murmured courtesy.

Kurt was left sitting on the bed, while the Muscovite stared after the young Sister in confusion.  “Was that Sister Katherine?”

“Yes.”  The Bavarian combed his hand through his hair, then realized that it had gone back to it’s usual curly state.  He probably didn’t have time to put more gel in.  The congregation would just have to accept his less than precise appearance.

Piotr’s blue eyes examined him and the older man resisted the urge to snap at him.  “Was she here for something?”

“She had . . . some concerns about the upcoming Choosening.  I attempted to alleviate her worries a bit.”  He combed his hair with his hands, trying to put it some sort of order.  “Could you do me a favor, Piotr?”

“I’m not taking this afternoon’s sermon, I hate speaking in public.”

“No.  I want you to take Katie for her first time.”

The taller man covered his eyes with one hand.  “Зачем?  I thought you-”

“I don’t trust myself!”  A few deep breaths.  “Besides, she asked for you on the form.  I’d like her first time to be as good as possible.”

Now it was Piotr’s turn to look awkward.  “I am not . . . the best person for that.  I won’t harm her, but I can’t . . . perform long enough to make it a good experience for my partner.”

“I know.  Just do your best.”  Kurt stood and collected his Bible and notes.

“It would be easier if, perhaps, you would-”

“That’s something you’ll have to tell her yourself.  It’s your secret, not mine.  I’ve been hinting at it for a while, but she’s remarkably naive in some ways.  She’s going to have to learn eventually, and it’s better if you tell her.”

The reluctance was obvious on Piotr’s face, but he nodded anyway.  On another day, Kurt would perhaps have been more sympathetic.  But today, the turmoil of jealousy, desire and self-loathing left him too raw to comfort the other.

[richincolor]

Author Interview - J.L. and M.A. Powers

Today we welcome M.A. and J.L. Powers to the blog. We appreciate their willingness to answer questions about Broken Circle, their writing life and more.

What was the inspiration for this world where souls are being shepherded after bodily death?

M.A.: When I began thinking about personifications of death (such as the Grim Reaper) and what it would mean to shepherd the souls of the dead, the first image that popped into my mind was, of course, Charon poling clients across the river Styx in a flat-bottomed skiff. For the newly dead, the river Styx represents an insurmountable obstacle to the afterlife unless they are given, or pay for, help by a knowledgeable guide with a boat. This image turned into a conscious and subconscious working framework for our concept of Limbo, that unique place between life and death where a newly dead soul requires help to navigate.

Our Charon characters, Soul Guides, come from human families loosely based on the legends of supernatural personifications of death such as the Angel of Death, Grim Reaper, and Dullahan. Like Charon, they have special abilities to navigate Limbo and help the newly dead overcome their own personal Styx (an obstacle to accepting death). This “River Styx” for each person (“Limbo”) is developed subconsciously throughout their lifetime.

For us, the concept gave us a great vehicle to explore people’s fears, wants and desires and it is relatable because we all struggle to accept our own mortality. In this world, only someone who has completely accepted their own person, and has become friends with the concept of mortality, could cross Limbo without help from a guide. I feel, as humans, this is a very rare condition. Our refusal to accept death is a refusal to accept our own life and struggle.

The monster Adam repeatedly encounters is rather terrifying. I felt hints of La Llorona there. Was she an influence?

J.L.: I’m sure La Llorona was a subconscious influence. I don’t want to say too much about the similarities between La Llorona and the monster character in the book because it includes too many spoilers for readers who haven’t read the book yet. But let me just say that Matt and I grew up in El Paso, Texas, where the story of La Llorona is beloved and much told. As you know, I work at Cinco Puntos Press and our children’s picture book La Llorona is one of our best-selling books so the tale is something that is both extremely familiar and undoubtedly was an influence.

What was your favorite part about writing Broken Circle?

M.A.: First, my favorite part was writing with my sister who is a great idea generator and developer and could make my wild, and often pathetic, stab at writing dialogue pop!

Also, the laughter. We have a similar sense of humor and had laughing fits over parts of the book that may not seem funny to some readers.

Second, I was trained rigorously in biochemistry and genetics. My favorite part of science was the intellectual pursuit of generating a hypothesis. Hypothesis is just a fancy word for “scientific fiction production” and is the state of acquiring a handful of seemingly unrelated and confusing facts and imagining a scenario where they do make sense. Furthermore, you have to propose tests that will confirm or reject this scenario. Although it did have its high points, I was not particularly fond of performing those tests because it was often repetitive and tedious for me.

Writing Broken Circle was a constant stream of generating hypotheses (In our case, fiction based on world building rules instead of fiction based on a set of known facts) and did not include any of the lab bench drudgery!

What does the collaboration process look like for you two?

M.A.: It’s a chaotic miasma of interruptions from our children and herky-jerky writing all dependent on babysitting schedules and poop. Yeah, when something smells funny, it’s time to stop writing and get out fresh pampers.

Our worst interruption was on a Skype call. I put my 9-month- old in the Bumbo on the table and turned my back to get the little table thing to snap her in when I heard a dull “THUNK” and then crying. She had launched herself out of the snug foam leg holes and off the table and was lying in a small heap of brown corduroy and pink onesie on our scratched hardwood floor.

Horrified, I scooped her up and yelled goodbye to Jessica as I rushed off to the emergency room, fearing I had irreparably broken my baby. My daughter was fine! In fact, she had stopped crying by the time I had put her in the car seat but I forged ahead, determined to do penance at the hospital by being “That Dad” who put his kid on the table and turned his back. Obviously, I needed a stiffer penance to get right with the god of muse. The book we were collaborating on at the time has yet to be finished. Karma?

Did you do any specific preparation before crafting the characters who are from cultural backgrounds that are different from your own?

J.L.: Over the years, I’ve become known for writing books about characters who are from cultural backgrounds that are different from my own. The process is similar each time. First of all, I should say that in most cases, it’s sort of organic. I don’t pull a culture from my hat and think, ‘Let me write about XYZ.’ For me, I am writing out of both my personal experiences with cultures I’ve lived within as well as professional knowledge. Just as an example, we have a Latina character in this book, Liliana La Muerte. As I said, Matt and I grew up in El Paso, Texas, which is 75% Latin@ and, specifically, Mexican and Mexican-American. We grew up in a neighborhood where we were the only white kids. In many ways, Mexican and Mexican-American culture is much more familiar to us and safe for us than the white American mainstream culture that we look like we’re supposed to be from. But of course, that level of familiarity doesn’t give us a pass. I try to do meticulous research: reading books and articles, talking to people, traveling as needed, immersing myself as much as possible so that I can present authentic and accurate characters, and asking other people from those cultures to read it and be brutally honest about errors….

Broken Circle is the beginning of a series. Are you able to share anything about the future books?

J.L.: That’s a scary question! We are working on Book 2, and I’m also starting to work on Book ½ (yes, there is a Book ½ in our series, just like the ½ chapters….). One thing you might be interested to know is that Book 2 starts almost at the same place where Book 1 leaves off, and it will end up in Chicago. So Chicago, here we come!

Also, we will explore the world of Limbo and Soul Guides a bit more in-depth as that has been one critique from readers—they’d like to have more information or world-building about those concepts. You’ve spoken, we’re listening, we’ll respond!

I think people should know that we planted some things in the first book that will emerge as bigger plot points in later books, but we tried to plant them in a way that people don’t notice them in the first book. So hopefully it’ll be this wonderful exploration over time….

You’re a blogger at The Pirate Tree. Could you share a little about that work and why you are involved there?

J.L.: I helped to start The Pirate Tree with other like-minded authors who want to examine children’s literature positively from a social justice angle. This is a very broad mandate. A lot of times, people think that if you’re looking at social justice and children’s literature, you’re looking for issue-driven books. Not so! In fact, I definitely am not interested in books that appear preachy or have a moral attached. Any book can be examined for how it treats the human condition and how it analyzes society and the status quo. And good literature automatically does that. Our goal is to present and celebrate books that we think demonstrate a commitment to developing a more peaceful and just world.

In addition to being an author, you’ve also worked in publishing with Cinco Puntos Press and now you’re starting Catalyst Press. Can you tell us a little about that work and what keeps you working to publish the work of others?

J.L.: I started working with Cinco Puntos in 2002, if you can believe it! And I still work for Cinco Puntos Press. I absolutely love our books, which are some of the most important multicultural books being published today. We have been publishing diverse books since the 1980s—long before there was any kind of movement for it.

And I started Catalyst Press and Story Press Africa because I wanted to publish African writers and African-based literature. There’s a huge gap. Eventually, I want to branch out to publishing other indigenous literature from other parts of the world, but this is where I’m starting because of my own expertise—I have two graduate degrees in African history. And I can’t state often enough how much I love Africans and the continent of Africa….

I love to write, but I also love books altogether. I believe books change the world. So to me it is a supreme pleasure to be able to present important books to the world that might be overlooked by mainstream publishers.

You may find M.A. and J.L. Powers at www.powerssquared.com

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: An Artist and “Dreamer” Discusses the Potential End of DACA

Image of Arleene Correa’s employment authorization identification card (all images courtesy the artist)

In March of this year, I had a conversation with Arleene Correa, an undocumented art student originally from Mexico, who is attending California College of the Arts (CCA) in San Francisco. We talked about her the hurdles to becoming a student, maintaining the highest possible grade point average, fighting invisibility, and scratching to find the funding to meet the tuition which is upwards of $23,000 per year.

The Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) was enacted by the Obama administration in 2012 as a way to meet the needs of those essentially held in limbo by the refusal of the US Congress to pass some version of the DREAM act. Because of this policy intervention, Correa was able to secure a Cal Grant, to cover most of the tuition, with the balance being met by the college’s diversity scholarship. With DACA being arbitrarily ended by the current administration — albeit with a six-month deferral to allow the US Congress to again attempt to pass DREAM legislation — Correa’s entire academic pursuit was thrown into jeopardy.

I reached out again to talk with her about how she has responded to this crisis, what CCA has done to make it possible for her to graduate, what her plans are, and what it means to be described as a “burden” for her husband in the eyes of the state.

*   *   *

Seph Rodney: Hi Arleene. We’re having this conversation because we had talked last year about your immigration status and how that affected your experience as an art student at CCA. Now we want to follow up, given what’s happened in the past week, with the president ending DACA. We had exchanged emails, and you said that you felt very precarious, very anxious about what was happening, and that you might lose the Cal Grant funding you have. Is that still the case?

Arleene Correa:  I believe so, yes, because previous to having DACA I was not able to actually transfer from community college to California College of the Arts. Without DACA, I had actually applied to California College of the Arts and got accepted, but I wasn’t able to make the transition because I didn’t have the Cal Grant, so the Cal Grant plays a huge role in me being able to continue [my studies].

I should be in the last semester of my junior year, but because I don’t know what’s happening with DACA and these six months are just living in a limbo, I’m actually starting my senior year instead, and I’m forced to put all my classes into a very hectic schedule so that I can graduate Spring of 2018. My DACA expires October of 2018, which I knew was going to happen and so the best I can do is graduate before October, just to guarantee that I will finish here at CCA.

Correa working in her studio

SR: Right. Because the alternative is if you’re not done, then you basically have no degree and you may be deported.

AC: Correct. Exactly. And that is one of my biggest fears right now, I’m actually doing, I think, seven classes, and the normal is five or four, no more than that, but because I can’t lose the scholarship that I have and I can’t go halfway through with my education, I’m going to do whatever it takes to get out of here next spring, just to guarantee that I won’t lose everything I’ve worked for so far.

SR: So let’s talk a little bit about possible resources you have. You mentioned that you had chatted with immigration attorneys about whether your husband, who’s a citizen, whether your status of being married to him could provide a way for you to stay, and you said that it doesn’t seem so.

AC: Yeah, absolutely. We’ve actually seen about three lawyers and we have two more appointments this month, and so far it’s been really complicated, and I’ve actually mapped this whole thing out and I’m making an art piece out of it, because it’s like playing Chutes and Ladders, you know? You think you’ve gotten so far and then something brings you back down. This last lawyer that we saw laid it out really well for us: I basically broke two huge laws. The first one was coming here illegally as a child in 1997 — I was two and a half […] Then, DACA wasn’t in place until I was 19 and a half, so for a year and a half I was a consenting adult and I lived in New York illegally, knowing that I was an adult and so that year and a half counts against me now, even though there was nothing in place for me to apply for anything. As soon as DACA came into play I applied for it, and I was approved right away, but that year and a half is really hurting me right now. So given all that, the loophole to all this is marrying an American citizen.

SR: Right.

AC: Thankfully I’m in a very loving, committed relationship with my husband. And the tenor gets really muddy after this because my entry was illegal. If it [had] been a legal entry, I would be on a path to citizenship right away, however, then we have extreme hardship on his end. They don’t care that we’ve been together for eight years. What they care about is that he’s suffering. Now we have to prove that he cannot live without me, and there’s three options for this: the first one is that he is physically or mentally ill and needs me to take care of him. And he’s not, he’s perfectly healthy. The next one is finances. Given I’m in school and he has a great job, which supports me, therefore I’m a burden to an American citizen, since I don’t provide enough financially. And the third one would be if we had kids, however we don’t. So we’re kind of at a dead end.

SR: I want to talk a bit about the language that is used to describe your situation. Did they actually use that word “burden”?

AC: Absolutely they did. I’m a burden to him because he actually has to pay to feed me and house me, which any person in a committed relationship is willing to do for their partner. However, because I’m undocumented, I’m a burden.

SR: But also, do you find that in your conversations with attorneys that certain people want to refer to you as illegal and others will refer to you as undocumented? We talked about this in our first interview — that you felt really demeaned by that term when you were in casual conversation with someone, and they referred to you as simply as “an illegal.”

AC: Yeah. Saying “You’re a burden. You’re an illegal” or “You’re an illegal alien” … it really shows that something is not right. When I saw the speech delivered when they were talking about ending DACA, he used the word. He [Attorney General Jeff Sessions] even said illegal aliens and I just felt dehumanized. I felt I was like, “wow.” When I think of an alien, I think of a little green monster with weird ears and, that’s not me. I feel like, “Is that me?” I felt so dehumanized that day. I just couldn’t even move, I was in bed, and I just cried the entire day. It was bizarre to me that this language even exists to describe a human being.

Arleene Correa, “Pies de Cerdo” (2017) installation, mixed media and pigs feet

SR: So in terms of financial support, how is CCA responding to your situation?

AC:  I actually wrote an email to the head of financial aid at CCA and expressed my concerns. because half of my funding comes from Cal Grants and the other part [from] the diversity scholarship at CCA. With DACA ending that means I’m no longer eligible for Cal Grant. Then they responded quickly and they said that due to my scholarship, if I was to lose my Cal Grant, they would just adjust and make up for the difference. This is a very special situation because I do have the highest scholarship that CCA offers. When I first started here, we signed a contract that they would fund my education for four years, which is great, and I feel extremely thankful, but it got me thinking about [others in a similar situation, and … ] nobody’s going to make up for the difference that they have to pay.

SR: How are you adjusting? I mean, what’s it like to know that you have to be done by next spring?

AC:  The first day when DACA got canceled, I was just so sad I couldn’t move and then the next day I was like, “All right. I’m getting up. And I’m going to make this work and I don’t care what happens, but this is happening.” And I think it’s just this attitude that comes with being undocumented and knowing that you don’t have the luxury to sail smoothly. It’s an attitude of hard work and we’re going to make this work, regardless.

Correa surrounded by portraits completed this year

SR: You said in your email to me that you were thinking that if DACA does actually get rescinded that you were thinking of leaving California if none of that actually comes together.

AC:  I’ve lived in this country for 22 years […] And I’ve actually written a “Wetback Life Hack” list. And you know, as funny as it may be, it’s a serious list on how to live your life like, in the shadows going unnoticed. It’s really hard and it sucks a lot and I’ve done it my entire life, and if I have to do it again, and if I’m forced into that corner, then you know, there’s no other way out. I just think it’s survival of the fittest, and I can’t imagine leaving this country and going somewhere I’ve never lived. And so my husband and I have come up with a plan of what we’re going to do if nothing happens and if we can’t figure anything out and we have to leave, then you know, we have to leave, and I’ll have to put my list to use again.

We see it in movies all the time where somebody will marry a person and they’re a citizen the next day. And it’s just not like that. The real world is not. I don’t care how much money you have or how beautiful you are, it’s not like that. It’s just not … everything is stacked against me right now.

The post An Artist and “Dreamer” Discusses the Potential End of DACA appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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