#currently in my 'fucked up one family 'bout to fuck up another one' era

[fooltofancy]

vacillating wildly between euphoric relief and soul-shattering despondency, btw.

[leam1983]

It’s the end of the work week and, well...

I’m having thoughts on labor culture.

My father was born in 1958. He lived as the son of an absent father of five children who had no ability to truthfully express his love and care, and who instead chose to bury himself in work as a means to display his commitment. My paternal grandfather made and sold mattressees and died quite young of a cancer strain that today would’ve seemed benign. He was described as a hard worker, either up to his neck in his business or wanting just a scant few hours per day to himself. It made an aloof lover out of him and a distant father - who still loved his wife and children to bits but who felt emotionally castrated in a sense, as were men of the era.

The family consensus is that his work killed him.

My father is now 65 and survived a bout of Non-Hodgkinian Lymphoma. The oncologist and anyone with half a brain agreed that stress was the culprit. Early on, Dad had the family as an excuse for his tendency to overwork. He had to provide for us, after all, and garnish my mother’s meagre savings. All she has is her government-issued pension plan, while my father does have his own pension as a retiree of the City of Montreal’s Real-Estate Appraisal service. Considering, he felt obligated to pull a heavier load to bring in more, so they’d have better investment opportunities. Later on, he kept working out of a sense of fealty and attachment to his division, breaking out of retirement during the pandemic to join the work-from-home team. He wanted to help techs and city officials find ways to bring more of the traditionally snail-mail-based parts of the system online so the city’s Land Management service wouldn’t be paralyzed by COVID-19. What was supposed to be a single month turned into four, which turned into twelve.

By the end, they were begging him to stay on the team and to pull longer hours. We’re talking twenty hours per day, in some particularly grueling stretches. That means being logged in by breakfast and scarfing bagels down with Urban Design techs on Zoom instead of your own family, or having supper with your boss because she needs a play-by-play of the situation to stave off her executive anxiety.

Long story short, I didn’t see Dad much during the first wave. His reasoning was that he’d eventually stop, pool all this cash, and chuck it into his and Mom’s Registered Retirement Savings Account - with maybe an extra two thou or so in case the country reopened enough for their postponed trip to Cuba to take place.

Guess what? His zona flared up and he ended up with odd, shingly bumps along his scalp which to this day the local dermatologist grimaces at and tentatively has us dab with cortisone cream.

Mom, though? She’s a retired and registered nurse with a self-negating streak and a chronic propensity to undervalue her own physical ailments. Someone who quite literally understands the pain of busted hips on a clinical level because she was trained in Gerontology - and also someone who refuses to schedule an appointment with her GP and who inexplicably self-medicates with white wine.

As for me, I’m a 37 year-old man with a paycheck I consider massive with its meagre six bucks above the minimum-wage threshold - someone who chose to shack in with his folks until the current crisis ends and who therefore has a history of a single, willingly terminated apartment lease that originally began in the Planned Housing market. The apartment I want is basically a Barbie doll house for adults, a gleaming fantasy I’ll never have enough capital to touch unless I feel like trying my hand with criminal applications of my skills. The apartment I can get right now is a shithole, and I have the audacity to think I deserve a shithole that at least wasn’t someone’s former cockroach den.

Now here’s the kicker: I value my sanity and my health. I know my mental stamina levels and I know from experience that after working seven-point-five hours per day with the occasionally shorter Friday, I’ve found my limit. I could invest more if I worked more, yes, and I’m already in a better position than my parents, retirement-wise. I’ll never be rich, but I’m already set to be comfortable, provided I don’t spend my golden years trying to make it as an unsponsored TechTuber or anything else that’s equally ludicrous.

Where that’s a problem is in the toxicity this is generating. See, I have the gall to slide my daily schedule later so I can start at an hour that fits my biological clock and ends at an hour where I’m at my most creative. That means the folks saw me spending my pandemic mornings on Animal Crossing while Dad was trying to wrangle Excel spreadsheets for non-tech-savvy fellow Boomers while preventing the dog from eating his meeting notes. That means they guzzled vinho verde like it was Kool-Aid after seven while I made sure to find more concrete means to distance myself from work - ideally ones that didn’t involve functional alcoholism.

Naturally, what was bound to happen, happened: Dad soon spent his evenings calling me shiftless or “unwilling to commit”, while I was stuck watching him miss all the cues his stressed-out body were sending him. We already had Trump’s last desperate months and a global plague to handle, I really didn’t want my work to turn into more of a nuisance than it already is. I already love the people I work for and hate what I do (repeating the family cycle, it seems), but I’ve at least decided to give myself ample Me time every single day. 

I’ve paired that with smaller, if consistent portfolio investments, along with a few new habits I wanted to get into to stay saner. Dad pulls crosswords or plays competitive chess in the wee hours, while I usually lay down to meditate around midnight and fall asleep by 1 AM at the latest. I’m half-expecting my father to pull a Tyler Durden and to sneer at me, at some point. “Self-care is masturbation,” he’d probably say.

Looking at classifieds for rentals, it’s obvious that the entire system is predicated on abuse. Work yourself down to the therapist’s office, right down to the fucking bone, and you just might earn a half-decent retirement because nobody’s taught you to invest incrementally. Nope, Society seems to say, you’re supposed to buy, buy and buy some more, until you realize you have ten years left to start from scratch!

I remember Dad’s face on my eighteenth birthday. “Why would you want a Disability Care Savings Account, Brain? You just turned into a legal adult by Canadian standards - you’re in no rush, right?”

I told him the real gift I wanted for my birthday, that day, was a ride to the family’s Financial Investments counsel. I pulled up the PDFs I’d printed out and filled and brought them over. From then on, if I dropped a penny in my nest-egg, Ottawa would drop another one. If my share grew, so did the government’s. In the twenty-odd years since, it’s expanded exponentially.

Dad thought I’d done this to have a big cushion by the time I’d retire. Mom thought I’d done this in case my disability worsened and I started requiring equipment or physical assistance. Honestly, my dumb, if slightly prescient eighteen year-old self figured I’d rather spend my time reading or playing video games than working. I knew I’d need something to help cushion my admittedly low career-related ambitions. I might throw several thousands at a new computer every seven to eight years, but that’s because I’ve saved them up for just as long, little by little. I have no vices beyond what sillicon offers and what you’d find in the pages of a book and don’t exactly need a big ‘ol, stonkin’ humidor stuffed with conoisseur stogies.

I have a shoebox with a poked-out Ziploc bag and a sponge, with a handful of joints and a few Santa Anas I got off of a buyer’s pool from work. Five of us occasional chair-bar goons pooled cash together on Cigar Chief and cushioned prices with a single, shared and massive order. I’m nowhere near rich, but assuming the housing market can catch its breath eventually, I’ll be able to live modestly - with one or two markers of occasional luxury I’ll have chosen.

I have a shittier job than my father has had and I’ve chosen to be happier than him. It’s just sad that the usual response elevates overwork as the supposedly one, true way to leave a mark in society.

No, Dad. I don’t want to die while my own cells eat me alive, I want to die blazed out of my fucking mind, happy because I’ll have had time to enjoy my friends’ company and to finally make some sense out of Kerouac’s Subterraneans or to figure out what the fuck is going on in Joyce’s Illiad. I’ll die crusty as shit and fulfilled as a Pop Culture jockey, because I’ll have either finished Persona 5: Golden in my lifetime or I’ll have watched the entirety of the MCU’s output before Disney finally manages to kill their golden goose.

I want to die decades from now, feeling like I at least owned my choices and didn’t spend my time tethered to someone else’s professional expectations of me.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Countless Roads - Chapter 43

Fic: Countless Roads - Chapter 43 - Ao3

Fandom: Flash, Legends Pairing: Gen, Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, others

Summary: Due to a family curse (which some call a gift), Leonard Snart has more life than he knows what to do with – and that gives him the ability to see, speak to, and even share with the various ghosts that are always surrounding him.

Sure, said curse also means he’s going to die sooner rather than later, just like his mother, but in the meantime Len has no intention of letting superheroes, time travelers, a surprisingly charming pyromaniac, and a lot of ghosts get in the way of him having a nice, successful career as a professional thief.

———————————————————————————

"Do you guys ever not get in trouble?" Sara asks, her arms crossed.

"Hey," Len protests mildly, though privately he agrees. This trip has just been one bout of bad luck after another. "I ain't the one who uses jam tarts to brainwash people."

"I can't believe Ray ate one of those after we specifically told him not to," Kendra says, looking down at Ray. Ray's head is in her lap; Sara knocked him out pretty quickly after she got over the initial surprise at seeing Ray attempting to murder his teammates.

"He didn't really think there was a problem," Mick points out with a shrug.

"He should've believed the rest of us," Kendra says, but the way she gently moves her fingers through his hair belies her harsh words. "I hope he's okay."

She doesn't look over at Rip when she says that. Kendra brought Rip down herself, hawk wings and red eyes emerging alongside screams of accusation that Rip had stolen Carter from her with his mission as she threw herself bodily at him in what ended up being a very quick fight. There were clearly some lingering issues there. Just as clearly, Kendra obviously wasn't comfortable with having expressed them quite so viciously.

Rip is currently tied up and gagged to make sure he doesn't do anything else to the Waverider.

That's their assumption, anyway; no one has heard anything from Jax or Stein since they went off with Ray to repair the ship, and judging by the determined way that Rip keeps struggling despite his bonds, his eyes blank as he ignores all logic and sense to keep trying to obey the Matron's directive, they're pretty sure Ray wouldn't exactly be available for questioning if they woke him up.

Len hates the fact that he doesn't know where Jax and Stein are or how they're doing.

He hates the fact that they're trapped in this ugly parlor room.

He hates the fact that there are no ghosts around, other than the angel and sad-faced Franz, who hovers over the Matron's bound form.

Oh, and he hates the repetitive thuds that come from the thick layer of ice that covers the doors, the thuds of little brainwashed bodies throwing themselves futilely at it in an attempt to rescue their beloved Matron.

"This is seriously fucked up," Mick says, glancing over the same way.

"No kidding," Sara says. She looks over at the Matron, who's gone stonily silent. "Can't you call them off? For their sake?"

"Her loyalty is to her kids," Len says piously, then sneers. "At least until it's inconvenient, that is."

"How dare you," the Matron snaps, aggravated out of her silence at last.

"You feed your kids baked goods that brainwash them," Len snaps back. "Doesn't sound all too loyal to me."

"My children need it," she says stiffly.

"Trust me, as someone who's been there? No one 'needs' brainwashing," Sara says. "How could you? They trust you!"

"It's to keep off the effects of temporal drift," the Matron says.

"Temporal drift?" Kendra asks, looking up again.

"When a person is removed from their time period for too long, they begin to detach emotionally from their surroundings," the Matron says. "They lose the ability to form real connections and with it, their ability to objectively judge a situation."

"So they turn into sociopaths?" Sara says. "Sounds like that would help being 'objective' in the face of suffering."

"Don't be absurd," the Matron says cuttingly. "Yes, temporal drift cuts off an individual's ability to properly evaluate risk or to empathize with others, but we don't permit it to happen: it can be staved off by surrounded people with others that hail from a similar era, or if a person slowly becomes accustomed to the effects of the drift."

"So that's why Rip picked all of us up from the same year," Kendra says. "I'd wondered."

"The medicine in the biscuits and tarts –" the Matron starts.

"Brainwashing drugs," Sara says, holding up a hand. "Call it what it really is. They used to call it loyalty tea in the League; that didn't make it any better."

"The drugs, then. They are designed to make it easier for the children to adapt to temporal drift in a peaceful manner," the Matron says. "It encourages certain bonds –"

"Bonds to the Time Masters' goals, I bet," Len interjects. "And to you. But not so much to each other, huh?"

"Those kids we saw earlier weren't friends," Mick agrees. "They barely remembered how to play with other kids."

The Matron is stiff-lipped, but Len thinks he detects the slightest bit of guilt in her eyes.

"We taught them a few games," Len says. "Took 'em a while, but they were finally laughing – really laughing, ugly laughing, not that freaky picture-perfect commercial bullcrap they were doing earlier."

The Matron's face twists into an expression of wistfulness and hope, just for a second, before she regains control.

"You really love them," Sara says, sounding surprised. She'd seen it, too.

"Of course I do," the Matron says. Her back is as stiff as a board, and her jaw is clenched, but Len doesn't doubt that she's telling the truth as she understands it. "I raised them. All of them. They're my children. And whatever they choose to do with their lives later, they are always my children here, forever."

"That's creepy," Kendra says. "People should grow up. They shouldn't – they shouldn't linger forever. It's not right." She makes a face. "Trust me."

"You're hurting 'em," Len reminds the Matron. "And you're hurting what's out in the forest past the garden, too."

She looks away. The other Legends look curious, but keep quiet about it.

"Has the forest always been there?" Len asks, keeping his eyes fixed on her. "Were you here from the beginning?" He pauses. "Was it an accident, or..?"

"Even if what you say is correct," the Matron says, "and I don't believe that it is, it was obviously an accident."

"Was it?" Len asks, glancing up at the invisible Franz.

"Certainly," the Matron says haughtily.

Franz won't meet Len's eyes.

"Are you sure?" Len presses.

He ignores the Matron's blustering response, more interested in the guilt on Franz's face.

"Why would they keep it trapped deliberately?" Len asks, cutting the Matron off, his eyes fixed on Franz. "Let's assume they did, huh? What would the reason be?"

"There is no reason!" the Matron exclaims. "That's what I'm telling you, that there is no purpose for such an act - we're not monsters, whatever you may think - and therefore in the unlikely event that you are not lying about the contamination –"

"They needed anchors for the Vanishing Point," Franz whispers, barely audible over the Matron's desperate attempts to justify what happened. "To hold it down. I saw the markers. They were Time Master work."

"Markers?" Mick murmurs.

"Mechanical guideposts. They help keep the Vanishing Point steady."

Len glances at Mick, who nods and gets up silently. He'll go find them and bring them back as proof, and check on Jax and Stein in the meantime.

After all, he isn't stopped by ice doors, or dead-eyed children, or even walls.

"– that it’s an accident doesn't matter," Kendra is saying fiercely to the Matron. "We all make choices. That's what you're supposed to teach someone, if you're raising them. If you know someone is in pain – if you even suspect it – and you can do something about it, you have to do something about it. It's your duty as a human being. Choosing to do nothing is still a choice!"

"My first duty is to care for the children," the Matron protests.

"The children that are currently hurting themselves trying to get in here to rescue you?" Sara asks. "Damnit, Matron, we won't hurt them if you make them stop, and we're not hurting you, so letting them keep this up is doing no-one any good."

"If you don't want to hurt them, you need to let them go," Len says.

The Matron glares at him. "I have no choice," she grinds out through her teeth. "I cannot 'let them go', as you say. If the children are found to be unfit, they are sent home to god-knows-what fate, and if they are fit, then they become Time Masters and to do anything else would be to invite paradox and destroy the timeline. I can only do my best for them while they are here –"

"The best is never going to be knocking themselves into a wall of ice," Sara snaps. "They have to be free, damnit – free to live their lives and make other choices -"

"Sara," Len says. "It's not that easy."

"Snart!"

"The one in the garden we have to free, because it's hurting people and hurting itself," Len says. He doesn't want to meet Sara's furious gaze for what he's going to say next. "The others ain't so easy. She's probably right about paradox."

"They're children and they're being brainwashed! I don't see how that isn't enough for you!"

“‘Michael’ is here, ain't he?" Len asks the Matron, who hesitates. "Well? Tell us the truth."

She nods.

"Michael – wait, as in Rip?" Kendra exclaims.

"Wait, he's here right now?" Sara asks, and Len can see in her eyes that she's starting to understand the problem.

"If Rip never grows up to be a Time Master, we never go on this mission –" That doesn't sound so bad at the moment. "– and we end up in a recursive time loop."

"Time will eventually fix itself," the Matron says grudgingly. "It'll rip holes in itself to do so, but eventually, it'll be fixed. Usually for the worse."

"So, what, we just have to let it happen?" Sara asks, scowling. "Is that what you're saying?"

"Sometimes, there's nothing you can do," Kendra says. She looks down at Ray. "I don't want to leave them like this, and I agree with you that it's morally reprehensible, but what can we do about it? Hurt more people? Destroy the timeline, the way we risked doing when we tried to save the younger version of Mick?"

"At least we'll be doing some good before we leave," Len tells Sara, though her expression indicates that it's not helpful. "When we find that key – "

"You cannot restart time," the Matron says quickly, trying to capitalize on her momentum. "If you do, the consequences – "

"This is an injustice that has been going on for too long," Len says sharply. "I'm willing to be flexible about avoiding paradox with the kids, because I really do think that the adult Time Masters won't hesitate to throw some of their colleagues' younger selves back to die, but you've given me no reason to think that letting someone you’ve driven insane go would be an issue."

"Our defenses – "

"You're in the middle of Siberia and we need to turn them off for a minute, max," Len says. "What in the world are you afraid of?"

The Matron is silent.

"Do you even know?"

The Matron is silent.

Everyone's silent, actually; Sara and Kendra brooding over the moral issue, Mick on assignment, the Matron sunk into her own thoughts –

Actually, now that Len thinks of it, it's too quiet. He's not sure when was the last time he heard the children banging at the door.

"Where'd the kids go?" Len asks, twisting to stare at the eerily silent doorway.

Sara frowns. "I haven't heard them for a while, actually. Damnit, Matron, what have you done now..." She trails off. The Matron has gone white. "What is it?"

"They shouldn't have stopped," the Matron says, her eyes fixed on the iced-over door. "They're my children; they wouldn't abandon me – what happened to them? What happened to my children?"

"Try it on someone who doesn't know about the brainwashing," Sara snaps. Len's feeling a mite sympathetic himself, though: he also wants to know what's happened to the kids.

"What have your people done?" the Matron demands.

"We've been sitting here the entire time," Len points out, quite reasonably.

"Yes, well – wait. Where is the other one? The big one, with the burns?"

Oh, lovely. Now she notices that Mick has gone.

"You planning an ambush?" Len asks instead, levering himself up. "If I go out to check on the kids and they jump me, I'm gonna have to shoot, and that'll be worse for everyone."

"It's nothing of my doing," the Matron says. "I swear it. Please, the children – "

Len is such a goddamn sap.

Sara rises as well and comes over to him as he studies the iced over door.

"Can't you send someone else?" Sara asks, sotto voce. "One of your – " she wiggles her fingers, apparently indicating ghost.

"There are almost none here," Len says honestly, voice also low. "Franz – he used to be the gardener – doesn't want to leave the Matron, and he's the only one I've seen beyond the one in the forest."

"She said the thing you encountered in the forest killed people – "

"By accident."

"Not the point. If they got killed, and no one can move on, where are they?"

Len frowns. "Good point."

"Yeah, I thought so."

"Problem for later," Len decides. "Doesn't change the fact that we need to figure out what happened to the killer kiddies, preferably without being ambushed."

Sara snorts. "Good luck with that."

Len finds the break point in the ice and shatters it with a single blow from his gun, then rears back, gun at ready, anticipating an attack.

Nothing.

Okay.

Len creeps out to the hallway, gun at ready. The kids are –

The kids are fast asleep. Big, medium, small, teenagers to toddlers, they're all curled up on the ground like they all collectively decided to go naptime.

"What the fuck?" Len asks.

Sara pokes her head out. "Uh, yeah. Seriously, what?"

"What happened?" the Matron calls.

"They're all unconscious," Sara says.

"Asleep," Len corrects. "Look at the way they're lying."

"You're right," she replies. "Like they laid down of their own free will. That discounts most knock-out gases..."

"Let me see!" the Matron cries.

Sara pulls her head back into the room, only to re-emerge a second later with a still-bound Matron leaning against her.

"What did this?" the Matron asks, seeming honestly aghast.

"Time Masters," Mick's deep voice replies from the door.

Len turns with a smile that only gets broader when he sees Jax and Stein behind Mick, looking fine and safe and healthy. He's so happy to see them he's not even going to yell at them for not answering their goddamn comm units when he called. "You figured out a way to stop the kids?"

"Nope," Mick says. "It's a built in failsafe if you try to mess with the time of this place." He holds out a small device, like a remote control with mechanical spider legs. "It's got a frequency tied to the babelfish devices – it’s just lucky that the Waverider’s are on a different frequency, or we’d have a problem. Luckily, it's a sleep order, not a kill order."

"A kill order?" the Matron asks, looking shocked.

"You were right," Mick says to Len, ignoring her. "The angel wasn't stuck here by accident when they built this place."

"What?" the Matron asks.

"Angel?" Sara asks.

"The whole point of this place is to keep it here," Mick continues. "Us talking with it triggered the markers to be activated in case we tried anything, and just as we were doing that, Jax and Stein accidentally came across one and it shocked 'em as a defense mechanism. Feisty little things, like little robots. They tried to disable the ship, though we stopped that."

"I didn't know about those defenses," the Matron murmurs. She sounds shocked.

"As far as I can tell – and it's mostly just guessing – but I don't think it's entirely one-sided, with this place anchoring the Vanishing Point. I think whatever system the Time Masters built at the Vanishing Point, it has side effects here."

"No passing on for the angel," Len says. "And no ghosts of the rest."

"Even Franz is vanishing off – somewhere," Mick confirms. "Look at how weak he is compared to how much he regrets. I've got no idea why, but this place is designed to suck up power. I'd bet they tried it all over and this was one of the few that worked – "

"Because the angel had enough power," Len says, frowning as his concern grows. "But, Mick, the angel is a ghost –"

"Are they using code words?" the Matron asks Sara, who ignores her.

"— then the only way anyone can force a ghost to give power is by mediums. Or necromancy, I guess."

"Yeah," Mick says. He's frowning, too.

"The Time Masters are attempting necromancy?"

"Medium-style necromancy, if I had to guess," Mick says. "Explains what they'd want with Savage – he's probably the oldest medium alive. Knows all the tricks."

"Necromancy," the Matron says. "You think the Time Masters – with my children? Their former selves, or at least some of them?"

"Your children are the cover," Jax says. "We found these markers all over the forest, and less so near the house. And when they activated, they knocked out all the kids."

"We suspect they may have sent an alarm to the Vanishing Point as well," Stein says.

"Untie me," the Matron demands.

"Uh, how about no?" Kendra says.

"Untie me, and I'll answer their call and tell them nothing is the matter," the Matron says impatiently. "It will buy more time to figure out what is going on."

"And if you betray us?" Sara asks.

"Then they will come one way or the other."

"Why are you suddenly willing to help?" Len asks, suspicious.

"Because," the Matron says, her lips pressed together, "I was always informed that there was no way to set up an alarm from here, no matter the threat to the children, because the frequency was unavailable. I always assumed that meant it could not be accessed, not – not that it was already in use. I don’t want to believe that they care more about this – this angel or whatever it is than the well-being of my children, but…well. I suppose we’ll see."

They all look at each other.

"Fine," Sara says, and unties her. "If you sell us out, I'll make sure you stay alive to see what happens when the Time Masters attack this place with all its sleeping kids."

"Would they do that?" Kendra asks. "If these are themselves –"

"I doubt this is the only place they have like this," Sara says. "Don't put all your eggs in one basket, that sort of thing. They might be willing to risk damage to some of their younger selves if they think the Vanishing Point is important enough."

"They do," the Matron says. "It's not just a base for them. It has religious importance."

"Great," Kendra says. "Religion. That's not going to be a problem, I'm sure."

An alarm rings. One of the picture frames flickers into a call waiting symbol.

The Matron pats her hair into place and goes to answer it. The face of a middle-aged man in what look like monk robes appears; he looks like the one that attacked Rip in the forest with the Hunters, Rip's old mentor. "Why hello, Andrew!" she says. "What brings you here?"

"Hello, Matron," the Time Master says. "And please. It's Druce."

"Certainly, Andrew. Whatever is the matter?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing – do you happen to have guests?"

"No," the Matron says. "Though we did have some that just departed – rather abruptly, I'd say – and the children here have fallen asleep rather suddenly. Would you like to come look at them? I'm a little concerned –"

"I wouldn't worry about it, Matron," the Time Master says. "Not there anymore, you're certain?"

"Now, Andrew, really," the Matron says admonishingly.

"Yes, of course," the Time Master replies absently, clearly already thinking of other things. "No matter, then – perhaps we'll talk more later, Matron; I'm afraid I have some sensitive matters to attend to..."

The screen cuts off.

The Matron's face twists a little. "Well," she says, then shakes her head, her lips pressed together tightly. "That's that, I suppose."

"Not quite," Len says. "We still need the key to restart time here. Do you know how to do that?"

"They haven't kept everything from me," she says briskly. "You should pack up and be ready to go. Once I deactivate the shields, the alarms will undoubtedly go off."

Franz puts a hand on her shoulder and shoots Len a longing look.

Len pushes a bit of life towards him, just enough for an apparition – audiovisual spectrum, but no poltergeist powers. He's done trusting in the good intentions of, well, anyone in this place, ghost or not.

It's harder than it usually is for something so minor. Mick's not wrong about this place draining power.

The Matron jumps when the hand on her shoulder becomes visible. She turns, mouth pressed together, then stops.

Absolutely stops.

The Matron, who has mastered herself through every situation so far, resisting or concerned or simply steadfast, just stops, her eyes wide, her mouth agape, her hands dropped out of their fists.

"Franz?" she whispers.

"You're doing the right thing," he says.

"It killed you," she says.

"No, Mary," he says. "It didn't. I got tired of seeing it there in the forest beyond the garden, always at the corner of my eye, something not so much seen as felt. And I tried to let it go."

"It's true, then?" she asks, her voice breaking a little. "You died –"

"I died unbowed and unafraid," Franz tells her. "I stayed to watch over you, in hope that one day you would feel the same."

She swipes at her eyes. "How do I know this isn't a trick?" she asks, glancing over at Len.

Len considers pointing out that he would still have to get his information from somewhere, but decides against it. Snark wouldn't help right now. Privacy, on the other hand...

He turns away from them to let Franz convey whatever he feels he needs to in order to convince her of the truth. "Jax – can we fly?"

"Yeah, Waverider's okay," Jax says. "Did most of the repairs Rip wanted; even fixed some of the new stuff. We haven't managed to do some of the fancier stuff he'd been hoping for, but –"

"We don't need fancy," Sara says. "We need out."

A few minutes into their conversation, the Matron marches over.

"How would you like to do this?" she asks, her eyes steely again. This time, though, the anger's not directed at the invaders, but at the people who brought her children into contact with so terrible a danger - and on purpose, no less.

Loyalty first to the children, it seems, really is her watchword.

Who'd have thought?

"I'll stay," Mick says, glancing at Len, who nods. It's the only thing that makes sense. "You turn it off, I confirm it."

"You'll need to fly out of here virtually immediately after the key turns and the freezing of time goes," she says. "I've always been warned against doing it, but I suspect the consequences have been somewhat oversold. But if there was an alarm simply for contacting your angel, then there will most certainly be one for the key. The Time Masters will come in force."

"We'll be ready to fly," Kendra says. "Sara, do you think..?"

"I can manage with Gideon's help," Sara says. "I've been watching Rip."

"Speaking of..." Kendra says, looking at the Matron.

"The effect will wear off as soon as you're in the timestream," the Matron says. "Your AI should be able to confirm when the drugs are out of their systems."

"Good," Kendra says, turning to go carry Ray back to the ship. Sara goes with her to help drag Rip along.

"Good luck," Len tells the Matron, and also Franz, who's looking increasingly peaceful. He's seen what he hoped to see – Mick wasn't wrong about his slow degradation as a ghost, but if the Matron lowers the shields now, he'll be able to pass on instead of whatever else is going on.

"Are you sure your friend will be able to make it to your ship in time?" the Matron asks Len, nodding at Mick.

Len hates it when people talk over Mick's head. They're usually assuming that he's a dumb thug with nothing to contribute and a blind loyalty to Len's orders, no matter what, and that's just such utter crap.

"I only mention it because they will attempt to capture any one of you that they can," she continues. "And if you thought the drugs I used were problematic, my dear, you will be even more put out at the way they, ah, process their captives."

"Torture," Len translates. "And brainwashing."

She nods. "Time Pirates often become bounty hunters, once they've been captured. Given time – and the Time Masters have all of that they could possibly need."

No wonder the Stormtroopers Three didn't have ghosts. They were relieved to be free at last.

Disgusting.

"Your system of justifications to explain to yourself how you work for people that do that must be amazing," Len says dryly and entirely without sympathy. Why is he not surprised that at the end of the day, protestations of loyalty aside, she's little more than a collaborator? Albeit one finally pushed too far. "Mick will be fine."

They return to the ship.

"You sure we can take off?" Sara asks, glancing at Len. "With Mick..?"

"He's a ghost," Len reminds her. "He can float and go through walls. He'll catch up."

She nods and takes off. "Gideon," she says. "Prep for jump."

"Yes, Miss Lance," Gideon says, then, after a moment, adds, "We are now ready."

They wait.

They don't have to wait long.

Something changes in the place, a feeling almost like something ripples through the air. The whole building flickers – suddenly, for just a moment, the entire building is in even better shape then before, then only decent, then bad, then failing and falling to pieces, and then suddenly it's good again – and the grounds cycle abruptly through the seasons, a flash of each, snow heavy on the ground a heartbeat before the spring and summer race by.

That's not what Len's waiting for.

And then it happens.

Some great presence, indefinable, moves over them in a burst of light that is filled with joy, singing a song of praise in the simplest of numbers, the light filling their eyes and ears, the faintest feeling of a brush of feathers on their faces, before it fades.

Passes on.

Everyone's eyes are wet.

"Sara," Len says, forcing the words out. "Now."

She nods and reaches for the controls.

As she does, Len reaches out and calls, with all the force of his life, all his power, "Mick!"

And Mick is there beside him.

They make the jump into the time stream moments before the first of the Time Masters' ships arrive.

"Take us somewhere we can hide," Kendra says, and unbuckles herself. "I'm going to check on Ray and Rip."

Len reaches out to Mick and catches his arm, squeezing lightly. He doesn't know what he would've done if Mick hadn't been able to come so fast.

Luckily, he doesn't need to wonder.

Mick smiles at him.

Len smiles back and goes after Kendra to check on their teammates in med bay. Sara follows a second later, setting the piloting on auto and leaving Jax to keep an eye on it.

They're just blinking awake, green lights signaling full health above their heads.

"Oh, Ray," Kendra says tearfully, and throws herself at him. The shade at her feet hums contentedly.

Rip is frowning. "Mr. Snart, Miss Lance," he says, looking at them. "Have I – missed something?"

Len looks at Sara. Sara looks at Len.

“Yeah, not it,” Len says, and turns on his heel.

“Coward!” Sara shouts at his retreating back.

But she sounds amused.

[thefreshfinds]

MULABOY SKEE:

Running through the city with clever motives & a bucket of cash — MULABOY SKEE puts his prominence on the map.

In a brief summary, the key to the emcee’s success is staying on his P’s & Q’s. Because he stacks up his bread, MULABOY SKEE is able to enjoy the finer things in life. Instead of boasting, MULABOY SKEE counts his blessings simply because he knows what it’s like to start from scratch (Hollow Man).

Sonically, MULABOY SKEE has an commanding rap delivery. You can really hear that he’s about his business from the way he carries his lyrics from the beginning to end. “Damn” is MULABOY SKEE’s most reflective track simply because it screams at everyone to wake up. He’s tired of everyone being artificial and just capping for distractions like the gram. In fact, he'd respect certain people more if they got it how they live. Beat wise, MULABOY SKEE lets the drums roll! Coupled up with the base, each song goes off in the best way! Still, MULABOY SKEE’s biggest strength in music is his gangsta lean towards thinking wisely & passing it along.

If anyone thinks that dreams are unattainable, look no further. MULABOY SKEE is living proof that it can happen with one rhyme at a time.

When you hear him mention "MULABOY" just know it refers to where he comes from. At most, he comes from Newark, NJ but shouts out Essex County. "If you can make it in Newark you can make it any where. Just rich in history & culture you know some of the greatest ever to do it come from here so it just inspires me to hopefully one day be mentioned in the same breathe."

In his high school years, he was apart of a rap group referred as "Money Mafia" then as time passed, the name transitioned to "MULA GANG". From there, others would call them the MULA Boys. "Skee" just so happened to fall right in line. Since MULABOY SKEE was young, he was in love with music. Aside from having a mother who was apart of a R&B group, he also had a father who loved to blast #1 hits from his car stereo. But the most important stressor of his commitment to the game stems from freestyling, " I remember I was in the 9th grade & I guess my mans told me to come to his crib.” MULABOY SKEE goes on to say "He showed me his little studio set up & I made my first track in his bedroom." Since then, he's been putting the pen to the pad 24/7.

At the crack of dawn, MULABOY SKEE keeps in mind that it’s still time on the clock to win the game. Hes got to do it for his family, most importantly his dead ones. "Every time I step out the door I’m setting myself up for an opportunity to get some money. When I get out the bed, I think of it as another day I can go to the studio & exercise my talents." MULABOY SKEE adds.

In his opinion, his biggest strength in music is constructing many flows & he rap about any kind of content. Likewise MULABOY SKEE's message is to motivate kids or others that are in a smiliar position as he long ago. "I want to speak to the kids who don’t know what they will become or where life would take them but they have that little itch in the back of their minds telling them to do this. That itch is that dream you know that one that haunts you. I make my music for them people I want them to follow their gut you know and chase that dream & not to ignore it because I know it can be torture. I also make music to try to paint the picture of what it was like for me growing up in The Bricks . If you turn my music on & you feel like you grew up with me on my block, I did my job in my eyes." To date MULABOY SKEE's illest verse comes from an unreleased song, (which has a title for keeps). The verse goes "I live my life/Up & down/This ave all alone/No place to call a home /Fuck it, imma build my own/All I had was a phone & a quarter zone/Me & my bros /Dreaming bout the days/When we get on them struggle nights was cold, heat the crib up/With the stove/No problem getting hoes/We always had the fresh clothes/You don’t grind, don’t eat that’s what the struggle taught me/And all money ain’t good money/What my mother taught me truthfully the grind/Never been no trouble for me/Kicking back enjoying, everything my hustle brought me/What we lost to get to this far that’s another story /But I can tell you in fact that my souls intact/I’m like that rose in the concrete that growed through the cracks/Get this shit off my chest /I got this shit on my back /I gotta kill you niggas they ain’t cutting no slack /Wonder when you look me in my eyes what you seeing /Can you tell it was a time when a nigga felt defeated /Victim to my own pride/Battling these demons/Militant  exterior but inside was screaming/Truthfully this shit deeper then you could ever know/A nigga dealing with real shit that could never show/If we dont break the cycle how could we ever grow?/Yea I know guess it’s whatever though." Equally important, MULABOY SKEE would change how rappers sound the same in the current rap era. Even though hes knowledgeable on how the industry works, he wishes for a breakthrough. In his words, he'd rather hear rappers actually speak about what's really on than flexing. If given the opportunity, he would collab with SZA. Still, everyone in New Jersey is extremely talented. "I do believe that Jersey  supports Jersey. But then again I also think that we need to step it up just a little you now. Sometimes we sit and watch our own go get hot in other states & places until we show that full support & that’s got to change ASAP. If everybody else do it we can too." says MULABOY SKEE. For any upcoming artist, MULABOY SKEE says to own your work, stay true to yourself & to ignore the doubters. "We are moving into a new day and time and that music & art is going to only become more & more valuable. The music industry was never built to favor the artist & people have been eating off the creatives for years." The album N.I.G (Now I Get It) is coming soon and it’s will be very personal. Although you're on the grind, take some time to listen to MULABOY SKEE. He just might take you consciouslessly overseas & make you discover something way different.

By: Natalee Gilbert

LINK(s):

1. Instagram: @mulaboyskee

2. Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/mulaboyskee

3. Spotify: Search "MulaBoy Skee"