#he geared up to meet deadlines and have a silly time

[lonesome-squire]

New pfp!

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Fixated

A/N: I can’t explain how I am feeling, so I am going to let fic do it instead. This is entirely written without edits, without a read through.  Overworked!Scott

Edit: Okay I did a read through. Remaining mistakes are mine

-----

Virgil is the first to notice. Maybe because he’s Virgil, and possibly because he’s the only one who can call Scott his immediate older brother, so there’s something in their closeness in age, having navigated childhood together almost as equals, that sets his Scott-sense apart from that of his younger siblings.

When Scott was thirteen and Virgil was eleven, Scott was in the eighth grade and had to write a research report on the Wright Brothers, the pioneers of modern aviation. And that was all well and good, because Scott was going to start training for his pilot’s license right when he turned sixteen. The report became not just a chronicle of the historical figures’ lives, but also of flight, of the first airplane itself and the prototypes before it, of physics, and aerodynamics. He researched in a way he never had before because it was a subject he was passionate about.

He obsessed.

Like John but different.

John absorbed the search for knowledge into the fiber of his being, his fingertips always itching to take a deeper dive through archives when he heard a word he didn’t know or a concept he couldn’t explain fully. Research was as much a part of John as music was for Virgil, or swimming was for Gordon. It was a companion he could always revisit later, and so like all of them with hobbies that mattered, John knew how to catalog  and save for a better time, and turn the itch aside when he needed to. He knew when to stop.

Scott didn’t. Scott defined the turn of phrase “down the rabbit hole.” Alice caught and enraptured by the not yet known or understood.

When he cared, he obsessed.  

That project got finished with an A+, but resulted in anxious shaking that didn’t alleviate until a few days after the grades came back. Scott had lost weight, skipped his extra curriculars, and Virgil hadn’t seen him for two whole weeks while he worked. The younger ones likely didn’t remember.

But Virgil did. And he knew the signs. Forgetting to eat, falling asleep at his computer or on his books, waking up earlier than normal to get a head start to whatever imaginary goals he created for himself that day.

So, the day Virgil notices, it’s because Scott missed lunch. Grandma had made hot wings, which was one of his favorites, so the smell of char in the air would’ve been enough to set his stomach rumbling. With Scott absent when he definitely shouldn’t be, Virgil decides to make him a plate, six hot wings with ranch on the side, and some celery.

He finds Scott at their father’s his work desk, his fingers flying over the keyboard, intently scanning the files behind the screen.

“Hey, I brought you lunch.”

No answer.

Virgil steps closer to the desk, sure that once Scott catches him in his periphery, he’d acknowledge his presence. But Scott doesn’t appear to have a periphery when he’s focused like that.

“Scott?” There’s a little room on the desk, so he nudges a few papers to the side and slides the plate down. “Scooter?” He looks tense. He can see knots forming, so he drops a hand on Scott’s shoulder, and –

“FU—”

Scott nearly jumps out of his skin, his hands fly up, catching the side of the plate which clatters, sending ranch and hot sauce all over the floor. Even MAX scurries away with a low beep at the sudden sound, and Virgil flinched in a sudden panic when the dish slipped through his fingers.

“Sorry, sorry! I just meant to help.” Virgil is already kneeling on the floor, trying to pick up what he can with his hands, knowing he needs a wet rag. Maybe a mop.

The little cup that held the ranch slid a ways. Gross.

“Ah. Thanks, Virg,” Scott says. And he means it, Virgil knows that. But he can also see the gears in Scott’s head still working, still thinking about whatever he had been focused on, not quite fully present. “Umm. Do you have this? I’m under a deadline.” He looks at his watch. “Ugh. A rough one. I’d help if I could.”

“No, I got this! Sorry, Scott.” He picks up the dirty hot wings, placing them on a plate for their compost pile. “Is there anything else I can get you instead? These were the last of them.”

But Scott doesn’t answer. He’s already back to his computer.

~*~

Gordon is next.

He may not have the same Scott-sense as Virgil, may not have picked up on it as quickly, but he and Scott both share early morning routines, meeting in the kitchen at 5:00, Scott dressed in a tank and his running shorts, Gordon in his swimsuit, a towel around his shoulders. Coffee is too heavy to start the day, but Scott usually would begin the brew for when they returned (and in case Virgil woke up) while Gordon filled their respective water bottles. Whoever finished first chose the energy boost of choice – sometimes just a snack bar, sometimes a shake. On weekends, it might be oatmeal or toast.

Out by the pool by 5:15. Stretching was important.

Scott began his run. Gordon began his laps. They went about their day. Rinse, repeat.

Occasionally a rescue might come in and affect their sleep cycle just a bit, but Scott and Gordon were both military. If they weren’t rising before the sun, it was too late and they lost half their day already.

So Gordon is next, because Scott doesn’t meet him in the kitchen. He’s not sure he knows how to make smoothies for one – hasn’t in a long time – so he proportions his ingredients for two, fills a second cup for Scott when he wakes, and sticks it in the refrigerator so it will stay cold.

He pushes himself during his exercise. He was long past chasing times, but he still raced himself. Seconds could save a life, and so he exercised for speed, for longevity sometimes. For survival.

It’s a longevity day, so he’s abandons speed for energy conservation, which makes it a long morning.

His muscles are tired and sore when he returns to the kitchen and opens the fridge for a drink to boost his electrolytes. He is not in the mood for coffee today, but sees the pot is half full, so someone is up. But it’s not Scott.

Because the smoothie is still in the fridge, untouched.

He tells himself he needs to check in on Scott once he finishes his research down at the dock today. He’s been tracking a pod of dolphins near Mateo and has been needing to collect the latest data captured by his little research vessel.

He’ll catch him later. Figure out what’s going on.

~*~

Then it’s Alan.

Alan admires Scott, has been practically raised by him since Dad disappeared. Scott is everything Alan wants to be… just the John version of him. Take Scott’s courage and bravery, John’s love of space, you get Alan. Eyes on the horizon, but looking beyond it into stratosphere, exosphere, the space between stars itself.

He’s a hell of a pilot. He knows that. He wouldn’t be the pilot of Thunderbird Three otherwise. But a part of him will always seek the approval of his older siblings. He wants to make Scott proud.

Scott hasn’t had the time for him lately. He’s been working on… oh he doesn’t know. They don’t tell him. Something for Tracy Industries.

His final quarter grades have come out, and he aced all his classes.  It had been a hard semester and juggling his courses between rescues had been tough. He’d needed to call on his brothers’ expertise a few times.

He knows Scott has his file somewhere in his email, but he likely hasn’t gotten to it yet because he hasn’t said anything to him. It’s been a few days. So Alan pulls up his grades on his datapad and strolls past the center of the lounge over to Scott.

The first time he says Scott’s name, he doesn’t answer.

Nor the second.

The thirdfourthfifth time, because that’s how he called for him, the name running together like that, Scott irritably gives him a low grumble of “What do you want, Alan?” He doesn’t glance up, and the smile falters from Alan’s face.

“Oh, I, uh—” This was silly. It’s not important, really. Scott will get to it eventually.  “My grades came through. When you get a chance.”

He grumbles in response. “I’ll look later,” he says. “I need to…”

But he trails off, back to his computer, and Alan still doesn’t know what project stole his brother away.

~*~

John’s the last.

He’s called to check in. He’s definitely connected, but....

Scott is slumped at his desk, and John’s calls are not working.

“Scott!”

No answer. The figure at the desk doesn’t budge. So John opens a channel to the rest of his brothers, his feet already sending him toward the space elevator as he calls out. “I can’t wake Scott!”

[that-house]

Hi, it’s me! I gained a lot of followers since I last posted writing, so let me know if you want to be added to my tag list. Reblogs (especially if you tell me what you think) are super ultra giga appreciated, and feel free to check out all the other stuff in my writing tag!

One little CoM vocab note, a necroscopy is a medical examination that tells you when and how your body is going to fatally fail. Enjoy the story!

The Procedure (City of Mammon)

Everyone heard rumors about the Procedure. It was no question that the same faces featured prominently in advertisements, generation after generation. Liches lived forever, everyone knew that. But only a select few in the Middle Market knew how.

Howard Brass had been obsessed with the Procedure since he first found a grey hair in the mirror. Since then, he’d trawled the internet, asking everyone what they knew. Within a decade, he was the Middle Market’s leading expert on the Procedure.

It was a medical operation, only possible in advanced Upper Market facilities, and impossibly expensive. It was, in short, inaccessible to the people of the Middle Market. Despite this, Howard Brass was determined to achieve immortality. Unlike every other Middle Marketer, content to meet a mortal end, Howard Brass had a plan.

The most important thing was the money. He got a job with a law firm, made his way up the ranks, and worked for 15 hours a day, every day. Sometimes he would work for multiple days without stopping to eat or sleep. There would be time for that. There would be time for everything.

Howard Brass left nothing to chance. At age 40, fearing that he might die before he’d earned enough money, he spent a few thousand dollars on a necroscopy, which revealed that he would have a fatal heart attack at 88. Now with a deadline, he redoubled his efforts. He rationed his food and water. Every aspect of his life was geared towards achieving his dream.

At age 41, Howard Brass’ wife left him, taking their two children. He didn’t particularly mind. Three less mouths to feed meant more money to feed into his search. There would be time to get them back. There would be time for everything.

To get the procedure, he would need an Upper Market access card. Acquiring one posed little trouble. The next time some Lich’s secretary passed through the law firm, Howard Brass strangled her to death and took her card. He felt no guilt. There would be time to mourn for the life he took. There would be time for everything.

Immortality was his chance to change everything. With eternity ahead of him, he would have time to collect infinite wealth and maybe, just maybe he could change the City. He could redistribute wealth into the pockets of the people. He could abolish the debtor’s prison. His mission was just. He knew it. And in time, everyone would hail Howard Brass as their savior.

In his 86th year, Howard Brass was ready. With more than enough money, he called a sky taxi to take him to the hospital. Upon arriving, he moved with as much haste as his arthritic limbs could muster, barely able to contain his excitement. It had cost him everything. He was thin from years of rationing. He was alone, his family having left him long ago. He had blood on his hands. But soon it would all be worth it. There would be time for everything! Howard Brass was going to save the world, no matter how long it took him!

He swiped his access card at the elevator, reveling in the chime as the doors opened. The elevator music was bland and tasteless, but to Howard Brass it was the greatest sound in the world. As he ascended to his future, a grin crossed his wrinkled face.

The receptionist took his money without question. He had an Upper Market access card, he had money. It didn’t matter that the card said he was a 26 year-old woman. As far as the receptionist was concerned, a customer was a customer. Howard Brass practically waltzed into the operating room.

The Procedure hurt. Even with a near-lethal dose of anesthetics, it was remaking his body, turning back the clock. Stripping away the rust that built up in his proverbial gears was a painful process. Howard Brass screamed and cried, but he was smiling the whole time. Soon, he would be immortal. The operators moved on to cleaning his neurons, and Howard Brass lost consciousness.

When he came to, he swiftly reached up to touch his face. He winced. What was this? His joints were still swollen. His face was still wrinkled. Had the Procedure failed? No, his face was noticeably smoother, but not by much.

“Why am I still old?” he cried.

A doctor rushed in, wearing a patronizing smile. “Oh silly, the Procedure only takes a year off your body per operation! If you want to set up another payment, we can take another year off for you!”

“It was supposed to make me immortal!”

The doctor shook his head. “Oh we could take decades off with a single operation, but think of how much money we’d lose! I’m afraid it’s just not a sustainable business model.”

Howard Brass died of a heart attack at the age of 89.

[georgemackayhey]

Rules For Falling In Love: #1

summary: In which George wants to get married. But... you're not dating. Why should you say yes?

a/n: Here it is I'm obsessed with this concept my dear friend thought up, so much so that I was inspired to write this multichapter fic about it all. Please let me know if I forgot to tag anyone, or if you'd like to be added to the list! And as always... feedback of any and all kinds are greatly appreciated!

w/c: 2k

Part 2 >

───※ ·❆· ※───

"Don't be a third wheel, come on now!" Dean's publicist shooed him away from where you stood next to George, counting down the seconds till the red carpet came to an end. You gave the guy a quick, twisted frown, as George's publicist pulled him further down the carpet, his hand holding on to yours, silently bringing you along.

This was just another normal Friday evening.

When the time came to flood into the award ceremony, you sighed in relief and reached for a drink from the tray of a despondent boy meant to stand right where he was for most the night.

"Don't you have any place better to be?" Dean laughed your way, thanking the waiter for the drink he swiped.

"We were going to go bowling." You shot George a look. You'd only made the plans as a joke, wondering how much shit either of you would get for ditching this stupid ceremony to go have a bit of real fun. But you'd made a promise to George long ago, to attend all these silly little Hollywood shindigs with him.

"And we will go bowling if we make it out of here alive" George declared with a nod, leading you toward the row of seats with your names on them. He hated these events almost more than you did. He insisted your presence aided to quell his anxieties these circumstances stirred up. And you couldn't tell George no, very often.

"If one of you ever did one thing without each other, I think hell would freeze over." Dean chuckled as you all settled into your seats. You looked to George again, and he looked to you and you both laughed, but Dean was probably right.

After the awards had been given out between long, sometimes painful speeches, the boy's publicists insisted they linger around the after-party for as long as they could manage. You kept your usual pace in between them, cackling over stupid old jokes and offering forced toothy grins to celebrities who asked if they could steal George away for photos and chats about the magic of acting- or whatever.

"You know, no one has even ever asked about us." You pointed out to Dean, sharing a piece of cake in the quietest corner of the party. "Showbiz people I mean. They just assumed right away. Even the times we've insisted we're only friends, they insist we're joking." You huffed a laugh.

"That's Hollywood for you, I suppose. But you've gotta admit... you and George-"

"Are just friends." You finished. Dean halted, smiling in agreeance to drop the subject, but clearly held back from stating his other points, whether they were valid or not.

After one too many sweets and drinks, George found you and informed his sister was on her way to give the two of you a lift home. You traded a few hugs with Dean, making rough plans to meet up again very soon, without all the cameras and microphones in the way.

///

"How was your date, then?" George's sister wondered as you clamored into the back of her car. George followed behind with an answer.

"It wasn't a date, it was work thinly veiled as fun."

"But you went together, which makes it a date."

"Nice try," You rose a finger, buckling in as the girl sped off toward the city streets. She'd always found sly ways to get you and George to admit there was something deeper to your connection. She'd introduce you to her friends as her brother's girlfriend. She'd address Christmas presents to the both of you, handing them out with a wink.

"I don't understand you two." She dramatically croaked now, as if your denial was her personal defeat. "You're catfishing the world!"

"We're not pretending to date." George reminded his sister, "And we're also not pretending we don't live together."

"Yeah so why aren't you dating? You do everything else together."

"We live to torment you. It's all to drive you mad" George falsely confessed.

"I wouldn't put it past you." His sibling let out a whine.

You and George shared a roll of your eyes, dulling snickers and exhausting explanations that weren't worth wading through. The midnight ride to your flat fell silent then. The night had been long, but it was a seemingly usual evening, these days.

By the time you and George shuffled up the drive, waved his sister goodnight, you were ready to forgo your usual routine and drop face-first into bed.

"I think my sister has a point," George mumbled, shutting and locking the front door.

"Hmm?" You encouraged George to go on, halfway in tune to listen, more so gearing up to head to bed after such a long evening out. George remained silent as you kicked your shoes off, and didn't speak again until he had your undivided attention.

"Let's get married," George said.

You tossed your head back in a laugh as you floated further into your shared home.

"I'm serious, y/n." George hurried along, moving to stop you from walking away, boring his sleepy eyes into yours.

"What?" You chuckled again, shaking your head, trying to keep up.

"We already live here. We've been talking about sharing a bank account. And it'll be so much easier to introduce as my wife than as 'my best friend who I live with but am not dating but go everywhere with.'"

"But that's the truth!"

"Marriage could be true! Think of how much easier life would be."

"George, how much have you had to drink?" You cackled as you pushed past him, into the kitchen for a glass of water. You clattered about the cupboards as he followed you, rambling still.

"I'm serious! We've planned out our lives together already. Future vacations, birthday parties, career deadlines, all accounted for with each other in mind. We should just get married."

"George! I will not let you lie at the altar. A wedding is for two people who want to commit every bit of their lives together for the rest of the foreseeable future."

"My plans for the weekend are always to ask you what you want to do the next. I'm your only emergency contact." George listed off these points as if they were dead giveaways.

"Okay, let's say we get married." You entertained, standing in front of George as he noshed on some deserts he'd brought home from the after-party. He raised a pretty brow, waiting for you to go on.

"Sure nothing changes at first, not really. You're already my ride to work, and I already promised to go to all those silly Hollywood parties with you. But what happens in five years when I want to move to France and you want to stay here? What happens in six months if some super hot mailman comes and sweeps me off my feet? What happens when you fall in love with some leading lady, George?"

"People get divorced all the time." He shrugged.

"That's a lot of money to blow. And for what? For a lousy label and some ugly rings?"

"So we pick out some bloody cool rings and promise to only get divorced if shit hits the fan. Neither of us can stay mad for long. Remember when I spilled wine on your great grandma's old lounge chair? I was fully prepared to be excommunicated. But you just hugged me while you cried." George chuckled, keeping his desserts close.

"Do you really wanna kiss me in front of your mother and the world and pretend that this is normal?" You tried to ask with a serious glare, but it was just too funny. You couldn't help but let out a little giggle of disbelief that this was the conversation you were having on an otherwise normal weekday evening.

"Y/n, we're practically already married."

"George I love you, but this is a stupid idea."

"I don't think it is, but I love you too. I'm taking this box of macaroons to bed, now."

"Okay goodnight you two." You laughed, pulling at the sleeves of your too-tight dress on your trek down the hall.

"Wait!" You called out, a few steps from your room. "Can you unzip this, please?" You took a few backward steps to meet where George had stalled in the hall, macaroon halfway in and out of his mouth, he balanced one hand on your shoulder and used the other to undo the zipper that hugged your spine.

"G'night!" You heard him mumble past his dessert as you gave him a wave of thanks and practically threw yourself into your nice warm bed.

///

You met George when you were kids. You grew up attending the same local festivals and schools. His acquaintance turned more familiar with each passing summer until you'd become rather inseparable. It was that fact that kept his number in your contacts when you moved to the city, and he went away to film more often.

You'd kept up lunch dates when he came back home, and celebrated holidays with his family every time they invited you to come round like they'd been doing for years. You'd even attended a few birthdays and dinner parties with his family when George was out of town, when you hadn't spoken with him in months.

You moved in with George some odd years ago, when the flat you rented threw one too many unfixable issues your way. His home was the closest to your work, and he was one of the only friends you trusted enough to reach out to for help. After occupying his guest room for a few months, George insisted you move your things into the place you'd already practically been living in.

His home was big enough, tucked away just outside of the city. It's high ceilings, warm decor and a manageable rent were easily and comfortably split between the two of you. It made sense. You'd been sharing most of your free time together for years, anyway.

You shuffled through the bright halls, past framed photos of George's family. Of you and George. There was no difference, you'd been close for so many years, your lives were complexly intertwined whether you liked it or not. Luckily, you did.

George was already in the sun-drenched kitchen when you entered, stretching into the new day.

After trading usual morning greetings you could practically hear George's silent, burning thoughts. He poured you each a cup of coffee and shot you a look you knew was meant to say much more than words could.

"Okay, what?" You asked in a warning tone, accepting the drink he placed before you at the table, before sitting in the chair at your side. You knew George had something to say, and he'd say it whether you asked him about it or not.

"My mum thinks we've been dating since Uni. You know we can't talk her out of it. If anything she'd be relieved."

Oh, he was really still hung up on this huh?

"So you wanna do this because of your mother?" You asked, watching the steam curl up from the drink between your hands.

"No. I wanna do this because being together officially would make all our being together anyway, so much easier. Bills, plans, excuses, rainy days."

You looked at George, his start blue eyes, his unkempt hair, that stupid withheld smile he got when he was focused on something. You loved him for longer than you had the patients to do the math for. You planned on loving him for a while, even when he pissed you off, you couldn't imagine struggling alongside anyone else...

"Earth to y/n."

"I'm not responding because you're starting to make sense and I don't like it." You pretended to pout. Then George went silent for a beat, his brilliant eyes searching your face.

"Do you still want to go bowling?" He pipped up as if he'd just remembered you'd said something about it a day earlier.

"Sounds fun, doesn't it?" You asked, hoping he'd join you in wasting a day having childlike fun. George bit back a grin, leaned in close to catch your eye, and said,

"If I win... we'll get married."

You wanted to curse his name through a laugh, but you very rarely could tell the man no. And you hated to admit it even to yourself, but the more you thought about it... the more you liked the idea.

"And if you win?" George mused, egging you on. But you didn't need to place bets to play.

"Let's go bowling, Mackay."

///

As you took turns knocking pins down, George brought up several valid points.

How his family adored you. How he'd drop anything to be there for you when you needed him. How you'd always talked about how scary the future seemed, but agreed it was better to face together, like always.

And you argued for a moment that maybe neither of you knew any better, how you were all each other knew since growing up.

But George pointed out that simply wasn't true. He'd traveled. Met girls, none of whom were around at all anymore. You'd dated and failed to find anyone worth keeping around. It was as if you and George were the survivors of some twisted game of life, having only managed this far because of how you relied on each other.

But you weren't on the same bowling team.

You were scoring strikes left and right a few solid points ahead in the game.

But George was close to beating you, one good turn and he'd wind up the winner.

All the while, George only stalled his passionate speeches to listen and laugh over yours. And as you considered how familiar his presence was, and the way you couldn't imagine living life any further apart, you'd made up your mind.

But every time you thought of voicing your decision, something stopped you. You bit your tongue and decided that you'd wait to see if your feelings changed soon. And after some serious thought, you could either tell George that you'd hate to let him down, but plan a movie night alongside his favorite dinner, to make up for your decline. Or you'd tell him yes, and agree to his stupidly sweet idea to get hitched. Because you couldn't tell him no.

He won the game.

But of course, George wasn't living and dying by the bet he made that coaxed you to play. And you never really agreed to it anyway. The two of you simply went on arguing on the way home, more or less about how you were on the same page, and just what to do next.

And while you made dinner together, your conversation stopped when you sucked in a big breath and spun on your heels across the room. You'd heard enough.

George raised a pale brow, sitting patiently at the table as the oven did its thing. Then he watched as you settled back to the seat across from him, placing a pad of paper and a pen down.

"If...we do this, I'm writing down rules."

George watched on, sipping tea as you scribbled away. Once you felt comfortable with the list of regulations you'd penned, you read from the marked-up note pad, one at a time.

"Okay, listen up..."

MARRIAGE RULES

one. No lying to family and friends. They get to know that this isn't conventional.

two. No lying to each other. We're only doing this to make things easier. We must remain every bit a team.

three. We must celebrate our anniversary because there's no point in not milking the chance to go on holiday.

"Now," You flipped the page to a new set of rules before George could go on smooth-talking.

DIVORCE RULES

"We can only get a divorce under dire circumstances. Which include the following..."

one. If we betray each other's morals or trust in a way that cannot be fixed or forgiven after a year's time.

two. If one of us is dying. Actively dying.

three. If one of us finds and falls in love.

"We've managed to work out all the bad shit together so far and I'm sure we can keep that up. A divorce is too much money to waste over one fight we end up resolving and remain otherwise together."

"So you'll do it?" George grinned, setting his drink to the side.

"Is this you asking me to marry you? It's very unromantic. Negative three out of ten." You laughed, George did too. But you needed to make yourself very clear.

"I'll think about it." You clarified. "You should too."

You’d tell him yes later. Because as much as it scared you... you'd already made up your mind.

───※ ·❆· ※───

taglist: @whenthe-smokeisinyoureyes @andux @imaginationandlove @velvetgoldsilver @queen-bunnyears @maria-josefin @dearevansamham @belledamsceno @nilletellsstories @haileymorelikestupid @loulouloueh​ @visionsofmelodrama

[hpdabbles]

More unlikely Slytherin raising Harry?

Hubert fights to not roll his eyes as yet another woman flutters her eyelids at his uncle. She is leaning a little to close to the man, half draped over the table that the book store has set up for autographs. 

Another book signing where the lines were more there to lust after the author then read his work. Sitting in a chair a little ways behind Uncle Tom, Hubert tries not to fidget with impatience knowing it would be disgraceful of him to make a scene. 

He had a reputation to uphold. His uncle had raised him with proper manners and had been hiring tutors to insure he keep ahead of the richest school he was attended. He rubbed elbows with all the upper crust kids who his uncle taught to charm and mingle in. 

Hubert knew any slip up could be held against him in the world of the rich and famous which why he always keeps control of his body and actions, with great care.  

After all,  “A proper gentleman knew how to run a ball even without a ballroom”    So he sits with the proper poster and reads his own book- nothing he Uncle writes- about dragons and the wizard Merlin. (his Uncle has always made faces at any mention of Merlin) without so much of a hair out of place, emotions are carefully hidden by a pleasant relax mask.

The woman leans forward to give his uncle a chance to look down her shirt. Uncle Tom keeps his eyes politely on her face instead. 

A part of him wants to tell her it's hopeless because as far as he is aware his Uncle Tom hasn't found anyone attractive since Hubert was a baby. Though he had noticed the backward glances he uncle shoot a bloke that one time- however that couldn't have been for any reason. Hubert knows the lady will be forgotten as soon as she steps away, only to be replaced with another fawning woman wanted to sing his uncle writing false praise.

 They always did. Half of Uncle Tom's fans were more interested in the author then the stories he created. It wasn't too hard to see why, at thirty-two his uncle still seems attractive, young enough for a bride, rich enough to sustain a family for three generations and with the mannerism of a manor Lord, Uncle Tom had many women chasing him. It was rather sad sometimes. 

 Not that Hubert would ever point it out in public; a lady's reputation was easier to smear and harder to clean then a gentleman's and Uncle Tom made sure to raise a proper gentleman. Hubert was expected to act like that of his rightful standing, having come from a family of old money. Hubert didn't know too much about his family or the life his Uncle lead before his grandparents died.

The family was a touche topic for his uncle. 

In fact as far as his biological father went Hubert knew very little, since his guardian and father didn't part on the friendliest of terms. The last time they spoke was when his Uncle had been fifteen, one argument that went too far breaking the bond they had beyond any repair. 

 A few years later his father and mother had been killed during a house robbery, and Hubert had been the only known survivor, the murder still at large, along with the other cold cases of a seller killer that was running around the same time. The law enforcement believed that the incidents were connected but haven’t found anything in the last decade to prove it. 

He was handed over to Uncle Tom as his last living relative, having called the man in the dead of night. Upon learning he was now in charge of raising a child, his uncle had bought an old victorian house on a hill, - said to be haunted but his Uncle found it amusing people believed so.   

According to him, there was nothing floating around, and if there was a ghost they would know.  Uncle Tom had paid a small fortune to have the house rebuilt to its former glory, and Hubert grew in a what could as well been a mansion with its private land surrounded by a thick forest and its own small lake.

 The closest neighbors were a good forty-minute drive away, just as Uncle Tom like it. 

“In case we need to hide your accidental magic” Uncle Tom used to say back when Hubert believed in silly things like magic and Father Chrismas. “We can never be too careful”

His father would have adored it according to his uncle. Sometimes Hubert wonders if when he looked at him did he see the brother or the nephew but didn’t dare to voice the question. 

 He once asked what disagreement was about. His uncle had gone very quiet staring at the ring he keeps on at all times- not that Hubert knew why the thing wasn't even that valuable but he supposes he has never seen such an impressive carving of Sirius constellation on metal. "He didn't agree with the life choices I was making at the time. I thought he was picking a foolish path. In the end, we went our separate ways. It is my greatest regret."

 Hubert often wondered what Uncle Tom could have possibly done that his father disagreed so much with. He had a suspicion, after all, that one backward glance to the passing bloke was a one-time thing but it happened.

He didn’t feel very comfortable with the idea of coming from a man who didn’t tolerate same-sex love, so Hubert tried not to think about it. He would accept Uncle Tom regardless of who the man loved, he just needed to wait for the man to think him old enough to talk about it.

His parents' and grandparents' disapproval were no longer important. Jake and Rose Saiph were long dead anyway, it best to leave it at that. Even if Hubert wondered sometimes what it would have been like to have a mom and dad instead of an uncle.  

“Hello dear, who may I make this out to?” Uncle Tom greets a girl with bushy hair and buck teeth. Hubert is surprised to find someone his age in line since the story was fantasy but it was more geared towards young adults. Too many words.

“Hermione Ganger please sir” She squeaks looking like she was meeting a movie star. Her face is flushed, and she seems slightly shaken with star stuck eyes. The woman accompany her- her mother based off the similar features- isn’t fairing any better.  “Can I just say, sir, that I adore all your work? I read all your books, I’ve even got the special edition from Paris- and I was so excited about the newest release. I waited in line outside the book store for three whole hours!”

 Uncle Tom chuckles, signing the special edition that she must have specialized ordered with an elegant twirl of his wrist. Hubert is a little impressed by it, that copy had a fancier cover with accompanying illustrations on the inside of pages, it was also twice the regular price.  “Thank you very much for your support deary. My nephew could learn a thing or two of supporting this old man from you.” 

Suprise to have attention on him, Hubert easily plays if off by lifting his head and offering Ganger a winning smile, that he knows rings true to Uncle’s looks. As he suspected she stares before flushing bright red. He gives her a small nod and then locks eyes with her mother to do the same before responding “I support you, plenty uncle. I always make sure you turn in your manuscript by the deadline. Without me, there would be no books in Fallen Son.” 

Uncle Tom chuckles, which causes the female Gangers to crack a smile each. Poor dears wouldn’t last a day in the upper-class world. Much too open with their thoughts.  

The girl opens her mouth to say something, only to jerk in surprise as the ten balloons surrounding the table burst in loud pops, one right after the other, as if though someone had gone at them with a needle each.

A few people in line scream at the sudden noise and all the color drains from Ganger’s face. Her mother places her hands on her shoulders, face turning fiercely protective.  Hubert himself had jumped in his sit the closest of them all to them. 

Uncle Tom doesn’t even bat an eye the jerk. Standing to boy slightly at the whispering people “Terrible sorry about that ladies and gentlemen. I may have bought some defeated decorations in my effort to lighten up my nephew’s day.” 

His disregarding of the strange occasion ease the crowd into chuckles as if he had purposely set up exploding decoration for a prank seem like something normal. A perfect example of saying something with enough confidence it would appear true. 

Ganger’s face relaxes, some of the color returning but much more reserved than before. She no longer rocks on her heels or seems to burst from excitement anymore. 

 Hubert is quite surprised when Uncle returns her book he offers her a soft understanding smile.   “You are a very special young lady.” 

Now, what is this man up to? 

Ganger’s face has fallen “I’m Blaze”

Hubert knows that to the villain in Fallen Son, which he quickly corrects seeing his chance to win her favor.  “Blaze learned to control his abilities and became the general of the army. He was evil at first but he isn’t now. You could be the next general, don’t sell yourself short for a few strange happenings. Life would be boring that way.”

Ganger gives him a weak smile at that but she still flees all the same. 

When the two leave and the book signing finishes Hubert asks why his Uncle had bothered with attempting to gain the Ganger’s favor. 

“She will most likely be your classmate in Hogwarts. Best for muggle-borns to stick together and if we want your story to stick we must build up the illusion starting now- which reminds me, we must reapply your make-up the scar is peaking through.” Uncle answers as Joel- their chauffeur- drive them home kept behind glass to have their privacy.

Hubert rolls his eyes.  “Uncle Tom, I’m not a child anymore-”

“Are you above the age of twenty?”

“No”

“Then you are a child,” His uncle says with a slight smirk. Hubert fumes for a moment before calming down. When one raises their voice in a disagreement its because they are losing the argument. Hubert is not losing.

“Uncle Tom, I am not a foolish child. I don’t believe in magic-”

“How can someone from my own family say something so terrible? Of course, you believe in magic. We are magic, even if I don’t have a wand to show you. I am a pureblood and you a half-blood but we will masquerading as muggle-borns. You will be a second-generation, of course, but still considered muggle-born none the less. I know I told you all this when I went over all the changes your body was going through a year ago-”

“Thank you, Uncle Tom, we don’t have to bring that up!”  Hubert interrupts face burning. He refuses to think of that delightful “welcome to puberty” conversation when he turned ten. His Uncle had given it to him earlier than his classmates due to his “magic”. 

Sometimes he wondered if Uncle Tom was mad, because he honestly believed in magic and that somehow Hubert was a person named Harry who defeated a great evil that he used to follow. Rubbish.

At least he thought so until an owl delivered a letter at their house and Uncle Tom took it with great care.  “After so long, I’m finally going back. Come, Hubert, we have your supplies to buy.”

Hubert went with him, thinking it was for the secondary school only to be shocked when they entered a pub instead and thankful had his meltdown at home behind closed doors. He has just been in a hidden magic market place he thinks he deserves it  “Wait you mean you weren’t just making up bedtime stories for me? I really am magic and we were are hiding from wizard hit men!?  Is my whole life a lie?!”

“Not all of it. Just most.” 

“Uncle Tom are you even my uncle!?”

“.....Distantly. We’re more like cousins three times removed. The Potter and the Blacks have married but we are so inbred that-”

“STOP!”

[ubernoxa]

The Dare: A GNR FanFic

Chapter 31: Earthquakes

Story Summary: A stupid harmless dare, that’s all it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be something they would do, and never revisit. For Delilah, little did she know that visiting the strip wasn’t going to be a one time thing when she made the choice to accept the dare. Life is full of choices. Some choices can mean absolutely nothing, while others can change your entire world. Delilah had heard many rumors about the Sunset Strip or Devil’s Strip. Teenagers would whisper stories about how the Devil walks the streets of the strips without a care in the world. It was known as a place untouched by God. After years of hearing rumors about the Devil’s Strip, Delilah wants to see it for herself. Thus a Dare was born.

Chapter Summary: Earthquake (noun), a sudden and violent shaking of the ground, sometimes causing great distruction, as a result of movements within the earth’s crust or volcanic action.

Author’s Note: Shit’s about to get real

Masterlist

Taglist: @gingerspicetalks @str4nge-haze @queen-crue

Earthquake (noun), a sudden and violent shaking of the ground, sometimes causing great distruction, as a result of movements within the earth’s crust or volcanic action.

While most earthquakes happen within the Earth’s crust, this one happened on the surface. Don’t worry, even though this one didn’t happen within the earth’s crust, it was still just as deadly. Just like any earthquake, it was bound to have aftershocks.

It had been three days since Mags had told Drew about the pregnancy.

Three days since her and Drew stood in the pouring rain.

Three days since he screamed at her and denied it was his own child.

Three days since he shoved her to the ground almost throwing her in the street.

Three days.

Tonya walked into the apartment after covering Mag’s shift at the strip club. It must have been at least 2 AM, she had honestly lost track of time. She unknowingly let a sigh escape her as she opened the rotted door causing the fragrance of whatever Delilah had cooked fill her nose. Tonya still hadn’t made her mind up about Delilah. Of course she was an absolute free loader who had inadvertently been the source of a lot of problems lately, but it was moments like this that Tonya let that slide. Moments where Delilah was there without question for her friend, even though she hadn’t known her for a while. No doubt that Delilah had cooked lasagna by the smell that filled the apartment. Between being their personal chef, cleaning, doing laundry, and taking care of the Mag’s brother’s band she earned her way of off Tonya’s hate list. As Tonya stepped into the living room, her heart ached as she saw the sight that had fallen asleep on the couch.

She placed a blanket over Delilah, carefully grabbing the pens and notebook that she must have been using before she fell asleep. Shaking her head Tonya looked at the sketch of Duff she had drawn. She hadn’t heard much from Delilah about how the boy’s visit to Seattle was going, but she knew it wasn’t going in accordance to plan. Tonya used to compare Steven or Tommy to a love sick puppy, but now Delilah had taken that role from the drummers. Duff had been gone for a day, and she was already missing him like he had left for the war.

Tonya felt her smile match the one that was on Mag’s face. Dried tears had stained Mag’s cheeks, but the smile was a source of hope. A source of hope that there was a place that Mags could imagine where she could be happy.

“Hey,” Delilah’s voice had caught Tonya off guard.

“Hey,” Tonya shot back.

“How was work? I made you some dinner,” Delilah stood up and made her way over towards the kitchen to reheat some lasagna for Tonya.

“Those look good,” Tonya pointed to some sketches that were laid out on the table.

“Thanks, Axl wanted me to draw some new logos or designs while they were out on tour. I think he is looking for some artwork for their new fliers,” Tonya mindlessly nodded at the brunette. Part of her wished that she could draw, but she knew she never had the patience for it.

“Any word from them?”

“Yeah, I talked to Duff a few hours ago. They ended up hitchhiking up to Seattle because their car broke down. They somehow made it, and their first gig is tomorrow so fingers crossed,” Delilah plastered on a fake smile and a happy tone as she spoke to Tonya. When he first called her and said that their car broke down and they were hitchhiking she wanted to beg them to come home. She was worried sick about him. Hitchhiking was so stupid, how could he have been so stupid! She wanted to scream at him, and beg him to come home. She didn’t, she couldn’t. He needed to do this.

“I wouldn’t worry about them Delilah....plus no one would ever mess with Axl Rose. He’s defiantly wound a little different than the rest of us,” Tonya sent Delilah a comforting smile hoping to alleviate her worry.

It was obvious that Delilah was putting on a strong front, but she could tell she was worried. It was clear she loved Duff, and he felt the same way back. Most people girls would whisper on how they would find someone like Duff, but Tonya didn’t. She knew rockstars were only good for one thing, heartbreak.

“Tea?” Delilah quickly pulled Tonya from her thoughts. Without hesitation Tonya nodded her head thankful for the brunette’s help.

“How’s she doing?” Delilah froze as Tonya pulled her out of her thoughts. Both girls barely able to focus this late at night. She was still waking up from her accidental nap, and her mid was still racing.

“Better, but not good. She plans on going to work tomorrow...or I guess today because it like what 2 in the morning?”

“Hmm, good for her. I don’t know if I can keep covering for her...it’s gotten kind of...hard,” Tonya took a bite of her lasagna as she finished speaking.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s Mag’s job? She’s never said anything,” Delilah felt silly as she asked the question. She had known the girl for months now and it had never come up. Tonya sent a sweet smile to Delilah as she watched her cheeks redden.

“She’s a dancer,” Tonya didn’t need to wonder why Mags didn’t tell Delilah about her job. She was probably ashamed or some shit like that.

A silent ohh crossed Delilah’s lips as she stared towards Mags who was currently asleep in the living room. The gears confined to turn.

“Don’t tell her I told you that,”

“Why?”

“She’s worries you’ll judge her or some shit. She’s not proud of it,” Tonya snapped back at Delilah as she spoke.

Delilah remained silent as she stared at Mags who was still asleep.

“A job is a job. I don’t know her story, who am I to judge,” Delilah’s words caught Tonya off guard.

“Seriously?”

“What do you means seriously?”

“She’s a stripper, don’t religious people hate strippers or some shit like that? Don’t they call them the Devil’s mistress?”

Delilah calmly shook her head no. “My parent and other might make a comment about it, but like I said, I don’t know her story. She needs a job to live, so she got herself a job.... Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her. Mathew 7:13.”

“Huh, I always thought you religious folks were a bunch of judge bitches,” Tonya’s comment earned a snort from Delilah.

“Some are, some aren’t, depends on who you’re talking to.” Silence filled the room once again as Tonya continued to eat her lasagna.

“You know, when I was little my mother wanted me to be a nun,” Delilah casually shrugged causing Tonya to almost choke on her lasagna.

“You okay?” Delilah turned to her roommate who was chugging her tea to help alleviate the coughing.

“Sorry...I just...don’t take it the wrong way, but it’s hard to see you, Duff Mckagan’s girlfriend, a nun,” Delilah joined Tonya as their laughter filled the room.

“Crazy right? I wanted to change the world,” Delilah admitted once her laughing died down.

“What are you two giggling about at 2 in the morning,” Mags appeared in the kitchen obviously exhausted.

“Did you know that Del here was almost a nun?” Mags sent Delilah a small smile.

“No I did not! I am horribly offended that I wasn’t told this sooner. Does Duff know?,” she teased back.

Laughter and giggles filled the room, but once the laughter died down Mags spoke again.

“You guys should follow me to the living room, you need to know what’s about to happen,” Mags tone went dark, and a familiar sadness filled her features. Without question, Delilah and Tonya followed her into the living room.

Before she could even begin to tell the story, Mags began to cry. The wound Drew made was still fresh and raw, but she had to tell them. This wasn’t just about her anymore.

(Flashback to three nights ago)

Mags stood waiting for Drew underneath one of the street lights. She was thankful for the water that poured from the sky concealing the tears that had stained her cheeks.

“So fucking poetic,” she mumbled under her breath as the rain continued to pour.

After what felt like an eternity, she spotted a figure that resembled Drew’s walking with an umbrella over his head. That’s when she felt the pit grow in her stomach. She knew this wasn’t going to end well.

“Hey, are you okay?” Drew’s voice was laced with concern as he spoke. It gave Mags hope.

“Yeah, peachy,” Mags sent a sad smile back, earning a confused look from Drew.

“Then why did you call me to meet you here. I have a deadline at the end of the week, I need to get this story out,” Mags jumped back at his sharp tone. She froze as she was finally able to see his dry features. Dark purple circles were painted below his eyes, it was clear he hadn’t gotten any sleep in a while.

“I’m...I’m...”

“Mags, it is pouring rain, spit it out.”

Since the words were failing her, she took the pregnancy stick out of her pocket and handed it to Drew. He remained frozen as he stared at the stick.

Positive.

Holy fuck, it was positive.

Drew couldn’t breathe as she looked back at Mags.

What about his career?

His life?

His actually girlfriend?

What was he supposed to tell his family?

They had been smart.

She was on the pill.

He wore a condom.

Unless...unless she lied to him and she didn’t take her pill.

Was she trying to trap him with a child?

Was she trying to use him because he had a career he was building?

“What the fuck is this shit Mags.”

“A pregnancy test, Drew. What they didn’t teach you that in college?”

“Tell me this is fake!” He shouted back.

“It’s Tonya’s right? We all know she sleeps around! Or is it Del’s? She is dating a wanna be rockstar, so it comes with the territory,” Drew screamed back at Mags making her turn white. For the first time in her life, Mags wasn’t just scared, she was petrified. Her brain lost function as fear took control.

“You fucking bitch, tell me this isn’t yours!” Drew shot back making Mags take a couple steps back.

“It’s mine Drew, I’m carrying our baby,” Mags squeaked, her voice barely louder than a mouse.

“No you’re not. How do you know it’s mine? How many managers or bar owners have you slept with to get your brother’s band a gig?”

“Who...who told you that,” Mags wanted to run, she wanted to hide, but she couldn’t.

“I had to do my research Mags, it’s apart of being a writer. Why do you think I wanted to fuck you in the first place? I heard such great reviews!”

It was in that precise moment that Drew had shattered Mag’s hearts into thousands of pieces.

“Drew...I..”

“You’re all the same. This place really is..” Drew shook his head laughing at his own realization.

“This place is what, Drew? What?” Mags was finally able to find her voice as she screamed back at him.

“This place is without a doubt the filthiest vile place I have ever been, and the people here are so much worse!” He wore a smirk as he screamed back at Mags. One thing was clear to her, he was enjoying this. He was enjoying f ripping her to shreds.

Mags remained frozen at his words causing a larger grin to splash across his face.

“I can see your brain is trying to process this. Good for you for actually using it for the first time in years!” He cheered and clapped.

“You are all the same! You, Trixie, Del, and Tonya. Birds of a feather, is that how the saying goes? You’re all desperately clinging onto something, something so unreal that you will never obtain. You all live similar lives as you drink your ‘sorrows’ and ‘pain’ away. You will live on the strip and you will die on the strip,” he continued to laugh at his comment as if it was some type of sick twisted joke.

“Now you stand in front of me, ‘claiming’ that you are pregnant with my child? Please, I don’t buy it for a second. I’m not some idiot. Now have to go make a lot of edits to the article coming out in two days thanks to this little stunt your pulling. The desperate whores of the strip..has a certain ring to it don’t you think?”

“You fucking bastard,” once again Mag’s voice was not above a whisper.

Drew shook his head and let another chuckle escape his lips before promptly shoving her to the curb. He then smiled as he left her alone alone in the rain with her tears, her only company, falling down faster than the rain that surrounded her.

She loved him.

She truly loved him.

(End flashback)

The small living room went silent as Mags finished telling Tonya and Delilah what had happened.

“That fucking bastard!” Delilah shot a glance towards Tonya unsure if she had meant to say it out loud.

“I just thought you should know before his article comes out. I don’t know what the hell he is going to say about us, but I highly doubt that it will be good,” the tears once again stained Mag’s cheeks.

Without hesitation, Delilah pulled Mags into her arms. While her heart was focused on Mags her mind couldn’t help, but wander wondering if Mags actually slept with people to get her brother gigs.

They had survived the earthquake, but will the same be said about the aftershocks?

[livefreeordie13]

Day 1 (Narukami, APLC - Pt. 2)

Day 1 of @souyoweek2019​ “Soulmates or Music: Pick a Song from the P4 Soundtrack”

there isn’t an “AU” after that soulmates option but i went ahead and made a part 2 to my silly Soulmates AU Lawyer!Yu story from last year’s Souyoweek anyway. i put a little link in the last sentence but if you didn’t read it, basically he hires yosuke to be his secretary and yeah, it’s very tropey. 

i’m not afraid of your judgment.

warnings:  little innuendo i guess. 

(Narukami, APLC - Pt. 2)

Yu Narukami, Yasoinaba’s popular new lawyer, had finally landed himself a secretary.

That wasn’t big news to anyone else around town, but it was the best thing to happen to Yu himself since he’d obtained the keys to the small suite he’d converted into his private practice just over a month ago.

His legal assistant’s name was Yosuke Hanamura, a local young man about Yu’s age who attended college and worked part-time for a local retail chain. He seemed . . . entirely different from the type of person Yu might have considered hiring for such a position, in retrospect, but was no doubt bright, interested, and even better - he had no qualms with working late hours when Yu was most available.

The partnership had been a thing of beauty almost from the beginning, as the daytime engagements both men seemed tethered to often meant they didn’t have time for office meetings or organization until much later in the evening when the rest of the town shut down. Yosuke dutifully showed up at the perfect time nearly every day - just as the sun was beginning to set over the lush hillsides of Inaba’s rural landscape - always with a tired but eager smile, and always with two fresh coffees.

Surprisingly, training him had been a cinch. He showed interest and percipience, and seemed to be something of a mind reader when it came to asking questions. Yu was impressed. He had never been great at being trained himself, since he often needed to ruminate and figure things out on his own without the feeling of someone hovering over his shoulders. Yosuke, on the other hand, seemed well-equipped to handle spontaneity and Yu’s stubborn tendency to quick-correct, which came in handy immensely when a client project forced them both to switch gears to something alien.

He was so intelligent, so intuitive, that Yu had been stunned when Yosuke confessed one night that he hadn’t managed to pass a college entrance exam until his third try, and that it was, in part, why he was still attending college at 27. As an academic, Yu couldn’t imagine how crushed he’d have been to score any less than perfect on a test. He certainly didn’t know if he’d have been brave enough to try a second time, either, and thought Yosuke to be remarkably determined.

He’d shyly admitted as much in exchange for that secret, and didn’t hide his appreciation for the flattered blush that crossed Yosuke’s face in turn.

Unfortunately, his quick wit, his affable personality, it only made Yosuke more devastatingly attractive to Yu. It was true that Yu was still kicking himself for allowing his labido to shove itself rudely in the way of his hiring process, but he considered himself lucky in this case. Extremely lucky, actually, since Yosuke seemed a perfect match for this position in every way that mattered, current degree status be damned.

He seemed a perfect match in other ways, too, and Yu was trying to ignore that as much as he could. He knew he ought to be focusing exclusively on his growing practice; a green solo practitioner like himself didn’t exactly have a short list of responsibilities to ensure he didn’t malpractice every matter that chimed at his door.

And dating? Dating was not on that list. Not currently, anyway.

Yu took shelter in the quiet moments he and Yosuke spent in the office together after-hours. A picturesque shift for them generally had Yu at his desk, researching or drafting or emailing, and Yosuke on the floor across the room with a spray of Yu’s files all around him (it didn’t matter how often Yu reminded Yosuke he had a desk to use). It was such a petite office that the young men didn’t have any form of privacy. It didn’t bother Yu, though. He enjoyed looking up to see Yosuke surrounded by the spread of his own files, happily categorizing and identifying their homes, singing along in bits to whatever tune drifted from the headphones Yosuke kept around his neck.

As the weeks passed, the length of time they were spending at the office gradually fell off. Great for his practice and the expense to his clients; bad for Yu and his steadily growing crush. Some days, Yosuke didn’t even have to come to the office at all.  

Yu became pretty disappointed in himself when he realized the nights Yosuke wasn’t there were the nights he couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything. He initially wrote it off as a side effect of weekendless days but that excuse hadn’t lasted long; he’d worked about as much in Tokyo. He’d even gone on solo coffee runs in the absence of Yosuke’s usual friendly gesture and ended up wandering home afterwards, slightly too despondent to return to an empty office.

By the end of the second month of his relocation to Inaba, Yu knew he had it pretty bad.

It may not have seemed like much to anyone - this ridiculous crush he couldn’t shake. “Just ask him out,” he’d told himself. With the soft glances when the other wasn’t looking to the near constant flirting that had ballooned beyond Yu’s expectations, he had very little in his way from doing so. He could ask him out, and he was pretty sure Yosuke would say “yes”. He was more than pretty sure, the further he thought about it. And the further he thought about it, the simpler it felt.

They’d confirm there were no deadlines that day and he’d let Yosuke exercise all his charm giving Yu an official tour of the town he’d grown up in. They’d eat country food and Yosuke would introduce him to the cook, and then Yu could offer to cook for him one day, and Yosuke would show him that excited spark in his eyes that he got when he heard something he liked. And, at the end, maybe at two in the morning, Yosuke would know somewhere quiet, somewhere for just the two of them, someplace outside of their office that had a nice breeze and the sound of crickets.

Yu wondered if Yosuke’s skin would look like the moonlight - gentle and fair - as he leaned in to press their lips together. He wondered if Yosuke would be smiling. He wondered who would drag who to the nearest bedroom, the order their clothes would tumble off them, if Yosuke would fumble with the lamp string or sweep him away in the dark . . .

The possibilities were so alluring they almost made Yu forget that his romantic life had so far been a complete disaster, with one disinterested and fickle lover after the next shifting in and out of his life when it seemed convenient. That’s what he got for routinely dating fellow law students and lawyers, he assumed, but it didn’t make his record look any better.

In his defense, sleeping with people in that circle had always been more of a competition than any real attempt to connect to another human being - and it wasn’t something he missed.

He couldn’t fathom treating Yosuke like that. He was intimidated by the thought of Yosuke finding out how many partners Yu had taken, though, and how shallow that would make him seem. He didn’t want Yosuke to look at him differently, see his brow crinkle and his eyes roll as his respect for Yu washed away with the rain. Yosuke was too . . . important, now. Yu was still a little scared to admit that, but it was true.

Yosuke practically ran his office, and he was fast learning how to take his heart, bit by bit. With every gracious smile and playful wink, Yosuke was nearing the finish line. Yu honestly had to stop to consider whether he was even in control of what was happening between them any longer. Or . . . if he had ever been. Maybe Yosuke been targeting the new transplant this entire time? Maybe he was herding his pray into a kill box like the sly dog he pretended to be some days. It was certainly possible; Yosuke had all the makings of a killer, despite his somewhat quirky habits.

He supposed he’d find out, one way or the other. For better or worse.

Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d find out tonight.

On cue, the door chimed at Yosuke’s arrival. Just before seven in the evening, after his mid-shift at Junes. The sun was setting.

Yosuke greeted him with his familiar smile and wink. Yu nodded in greeting and stood to come around his desk. With a grateful smile, he quickly took his coffee so that Yosuke could unload his bag and light jacket.

“Ugh, my shift was hell today.”

Yu sipped his drink. Perfect as always, just a splash of cream. “You didn’t have to come in tonight, in that case. I don’t have any deadlines.”

“Yeah, but I got a ton of filing to do. Just look at that stack!” He gestured over to the stack of paper nestled in the thin tray on his desk that, if Yu were being honest, was laughably short.

“You call that ‘a ton’?” Yu snorted. “Do you remember what my office looked like when I first hired you?”

Yosuke hummed, staring into the middle distance for a second. “Mmmm, okay good point.”

He grinned and Yu rolled his eyes, turning back around towards his desk to reclaim his seat. “Well, if you need rest, it can wait,” he assured him. His computer screen had gone black from all his daydreaming earlier, and he hurriedly shifted the mouse so that Yosuke didn’t catch it.

“I’ll be fine. What are you working on?” Yosuke asked, making his way across the room to his little desk and very little tray.

“Um, research.” Yu stopped his nail biting and took another sip of his coffee.

Yosuke gave him an odd smile - well, odd for the situation, but not for Yosuke. He’d been giving him plenty of odd smiles lately, of course. “Researching what?” he asked in a teasing tone, pretending to be engaged in the notes he was holding.

Yu pulled his hand away from his mouth again. “How to make sure cheeky assistants mind their own business.”

“Heh, good luck with that.”

Yu smirked wickedly, flicking his eyes from his screen to glance at Yosuke who had just moved onto the next little stack of papers. Yu mentally chided himself immediately when he noticed Yosuke wearing the red pants Yu liked. Yu had never dreamed of getting away with fashionable looks like that, but Yosuke always made it seem like it was nothing. They fit him so well, too . . .

“Enjoying the view?” Yosuke asked, his voice carefully neutral, as he reviewed his documents.

Yu blanched and shot his eyes to Yosuke’s face. He could feel his face heating up tremendously; even his ears burned. He sat, stunned to silence. Yosuke had never called him out for looking before. In fact, he was more prone to pretend he didn’t notice, and then later Yu would feel eyes on him . . . But the confrontation was terrifying.

Yosuke eventually glanced over and gave him a disarming wink. “Relax,” he said softly. And he meant it. He didn’t pull his eyes away.

Oh. So, Yu was the prey after all, wasn’t he? Yep.

Yosuke had told him to relax yet Yu still couldn’t move, could barely blink. The charms he’d adapted for use in the city were utterly failing him. Probably because Yosuke was “important”, he remembered. And it would stand to reason that flirting with an “important” person would be very different from flirting with one night stands. That was fair. Distinction, noted.  

Yu still looked like a deer caught in headlights, so Yosuke gave a quiet sigh and set the stack of documents down. He looked down at his fidgeting hands. Meanwhile, Yu thought he might burst waiting for what was going to come out of Yosuke’s mouth next. His control over his racing pulse was about as far away as Tokyo, at this point.

“Look, I know I may not be-” Yosuke started, cutting himself off. He rubbed his neck. Suddenly, he appeared unable to meet his employer’s eyes. “I don’t know what you’re used to in the city, but I don’t fool around. Weird, I know, because-” he gestured between them, “but, really? This is kinda new to me.” Here, Yosuke met his eyes again, and he seemed completely humorless, for once. “I . . . really like you. Really. Like, I’m not interested in a one-off.” He paused (Yu was suddenly aware how heavy his own breath was). “And . . . I don’t think you are, either, if I’m reading you right?”

Yu let out a breath, felt himself ever so slightly shake his head.

Yosuke quirked a tiny, disbelieving smile. “Good,” he said, smiling wider as it, apparently, sunk in.

Yu stood, cautious and slow, smoothing down his tie and taking measured breaths to still his heart. He swallowed. “I really like you, too, Yosuke. Really,” he emphasized, with a smirk.

Yosuke laughed, a little shrill but clearly relieved. Then, he cleared his throat. “Awesome,” he said, nodding.

Yu might have never seen anyone so gorgeous; he wasn’t interested in the challenge of finding out for sure. Yosuke was drop-dead so, the way his cheeks burned and his hair fell and how his neck looked in that v-neck. And now he could look at it all night if he wanted. Finally.

He really was home now.

“Well, uh,” Yosuke rubbed the back of his neck again. “No deadlines tonight, right? Wanna . . . shut it down for tonight? I know a place that has great steak skewers.”

Yu smiled and removed his tie. “Lead the way.”

[acaseforpencils]

Jason Chatfield.

Bio: I grew up in the far flung suburbs of Perth, in Western Australia, and used to spend my paper route money on MAD Magazines (I cheaped-out and stole my dentist’s waiting room issues of the New Yorker. I think I was the only kid who looked forward to going to the dentist).

I moved to New York in 2014 and started pitching to the mag in person. I’m not sure Bob liked me, so I went back to pitching via email. Then I went in on his last day and finally sold my first piece. I feel like it was his final f—k you to the magazine. “Here! Have a Chatfield!” 

Find this print here!

The cartoon was a goofy play on Vlad the Impaler. 

I didn’t sell to the magazine again until last month, but I’ve had a handful sold as dailies. And I’m published in MAD often, so they’ve clearly done away with any of their standards.

When I’m not drawing gag cartoons I write and draw a syndicated legacy strip called Ginger Meggs which I took over 10 years ago. It’s been around since 1921 and now appears daily in 34 countries. He’s kind of an Australian version of Dennis the Menace, except he predates him by about 30 years.

Tools of choice: For drawing/roughs, I use a Prismacolor Turquoise clutch pencil with a red lead and try to find some paper with a little bit of tooth. The mixed media pads at Blick do the trick nicely.

I ink using a Uni-ball Vision Elite Stick Roller Ball Pen… or a Pigma Micron 03. 

DO NOT use the Uni-Ball Vision Rollerball Pens, Fine Point (0.7mm) if you’re traveling. They explode on planes. And ruin your copy of The New Yorker.

For a wash, I just use watercolor and whatever brush is lying around. Nothing fancy. There’s a scanning app on my phone called “Adobe Scan” which does a nice job of scanning line-art into a PDF when I’m out of the studio and need to email in a quick rough.

I use a Wacom Mobilestudio Pro for finished artwork. I like to get out of the studio and work from a bar or restaurant, so it helps that I can take that with me. I use a little glove that I got on Amazon so I don’t grease up the screen, and the felt-tip nib that comes in the pen-holder makes the friction between the stylus and the screen more like pencil on paper. Unfortunately, they’re not waterproof, as I found on a recent vacation…

My wife plays piano and sings at bars around the city so I’ll often sit at the bar during her sets and draw. Digital/Traditional depends on what deadlines are most pressing. (She has a weekly residency in Astoria —if anyone’s interested in going, let me know!)

A lot of people email me for advice about tablets —I’ve been trialling/demo-ing Wacom products for 15 years— I think they’re great. If you’re married to doing stuff by hand but want to colour digitally, you can get a decent tablet without going broke. Depends on your workflow.

Writing Desk: My wife and I were living upstairs in 5A when my neighbour in 4B died. He was a brilliant poet and had an incredible old writing desk. It’s the only thing that was left in the apartment, so I’m looking after it ’til his grandson moves in at the end of our lease. I work for countless hours at this old thing. It’s beat up, but I’ve patched it together enough that it won’t collapse and bury me mid-brushstroke. I’ve stuck a few of my favourite toons on the top of it.

Tool I wish I could use better: My brain. It really is a sack of cats. Whenever I want to sit and do work, it clocks off. Then it comes up with a pearler of an idea at 3 in the morning when I’m trying to sleep. I write it down in my phone, but autocorrect makes it indecipherable by morning.

I like working with my writer friend, Scott. We both do comedy at night and have developed a nice short-hand. We also seem to have the same library of references and can build on each others’ premises, which tames my sack-of-cats.

Tool I wish existed: The Deadline Extender.® I’ve never missed a deadline, but that said… an extra 3 or 4 minutes to allow for a terrible wifi connection, or a errant scanner wouldn’t go astray.

Also: The Deadline Extender® PREMIUM: Let’s you go back in time to when you were procrastinating and slap yourself in the face. $30 p/month.

Tricks: Ok, well. This is going to sound a bit Dalton Trumbo, but bear with me: I do my best work…in the bath.The most productive 3 hours of my week are during Scotchbath Sunday; an immoveable chunk of time on Sunday evening whereby I lock myself in the bathroom, run a bath, lug my drawing stuff onto a bit of wood that sits over the bath, and just write and draw. Nothing else. I write weeks worth of my syndicated comic strip (Ginger Meggs), I write New Yorker cartoons, scribble up roughs for dailies— and when I feel like I’ve earned it (usually 2 hours in) I tap the side of the bath three times, and my wife peels herself from her piano and I unlock the door to a nice big glass of scotch. It’s a hell of a carrot on a stick to work towards when you’re stuck. (PS. Lest you think I’m some kind of Don Draper-era misogynist; the scotch reward part was her idea. I think she realized it keeps me in the bath and out of her way.)

Anyway. It’s a great way to switch gears creatively. It’s like being on an aeroplane. No wifi, no phones — just the work you need to get done. Get involved. #ScotchBathSunday.

Oh! And if I get my deadlines done for the week, I have a small budget for a solo lunch somewhere where I can eat cheese and draw. I really didn’t know cheese ’til I moved to America. (And yes, I’ve already been to Wisconsin. Good Lord.)

Tips? I always tell younger artists to not even think about touching a drawing tablet until they’ve learned to draw by hand first. Otherwise they’ll always be drawing away, knowing they have the insurance of the CTRL+Z key at their disposal if they screw up a line. That’s not a good habit to have when you’re working to a deadline. But, once you do know how to draw, by all means dive head-first into the digital realm. It’s incredible. Procreate, Sketchbook or Photoshop are all great.

Misc: One of the hangovers from working in advertising illustration is that I’ve had to be a bit of a chameleon style-wise for the last 15 years and haven’t allowed myself to just settle into one style. Lately, I’ve just decided to say “Bugger it!” and try and find a loose, consistent style that I’m comfortable with, that’s an apt conduit to my silly ideas.

I always loved George Booth’s line, and his ability to create a scene with so much movement but just at the right moment in time. Also Sam Gross’ dark, hilarious cartoons with perfect line-economy. And I’d give my left arm (I draw with my right) to know how Barry Blitt has so much control with his washes…

Chatfield’s portrait of Sam Gross

While I’m geeking out, I love seeing younger cartoonists find their feet and thrive in a style that just feels like they’re speaking to you— Ellis J. Rosen, Sofia Warren, Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell, Jason Katzenstein, Amy Kurzweil, and a seemingly endless list of talented younger artists who are putting in the work are a big inspiration. 

I know it should be Steig or Thurber or Addams, but my favourite cartoonist is Sergio Aragones.

I was always so enamoured of MAD growing up and studied the lines of Jack Davis, Mort Drucker, Al Jaffee and the Usual Gang of Idiots. I remember being so frustrated I couldn’t even come close to getting my work to look like theirs, but I think I found a style somewhere in between when I fell short. 

I think Wil McPhail’s poses are masterful, and I wish I knew how how the hell he did that. One day I’ll trudge up to England and knock on his door to ask him. I find myself doubled-over at John Cuneo’s Instagram, and Ed Steed’s absurdly funny gags. I have a slew of toons I’ve torn out of years’ worth of magazines and taped to my studio wall, or my zillion year-old writing desk. I’m constantly humbled by how generous and welcoming the existing crop of New Yorker cartoonists have been to a goofy Aussie immigrant — Joe Dator, Matt Diffee and Pat Byrnes, Mort Gerberg and an ever-growing list of prolific, talented cartoonists who make the 99% weekly rejection tolerable.

I’ve made some of my closest friends and have been lucky enough to meet my cartooning heroes through the National Cartoonists Society. I got to spend a lot of time with Sergio at the Lakes International Comic Art Festival in the UK last year which made my year. We were signing together for a whole afternoon and I spent more time geeking out with him than signing.

Okay. Enough drooling. Sorry.

I’m a fan of cartoonists.

Website, etc. I have a weekly podcast where I throw around ideas for New Yorker cartoons with a fellow comedian and writer, Scott Dooley. It’s called “Is There Something In This?” It’s a bit of fun. We don’t take ourselves too seriously, but we do take the art of writing gags very seriously. It’s an extremely difficult skill to master, and we’re virtually zygotes at it. We have lots of listeners now, which is bewildering. Talking about drawing is like dancing about architecture, but here we are. Anyway you can find it on iTunes or wherever you waste time listening to podcasts.

My website is jasonchatfield.com and my comedy stuff is up at jasonchatfieldcomedy.com  ( I’ve been doing stand-up comedy for 11 years. If anyone wants to come see a show, hit me up! I’ll put you on the door). My instagram is @jasonchatfield. I’m still trolling the British chap who has the @jasonchatfield handle on Twitter to no avail. To that end, I’m @jason_chatfield on Twitter.

If you want more art supplies in your life, A Case for Pencils is on Instagram and Twitter.  You can also find me, Jane (the person who created/edits this blog), on Twitter here, which is where I stick the paintings that I’ve been doing instead of interviewing people consistently (I needed to balance working on other people’s work and my own work!). Oh, and If you’d like to support this blog, which is always very appreciated, there are many different ways to do so, which you can find here!

[littledreamer9211]

Monsters

A/N: Not going to lie, I don’t know what this is. I’m just in one of those moods today. I’ve left it open so you can imagine any guy you like. It is quite heavy so if you feel like you can’t read it then i totally understand. On the other hand if you do read it and want to talk to me about anything then please message me, I’m here for you. You can also message me just to let me know what you think. 

Warnings: Mental Health issues - could be triggering. and maybe a couple swear words  Word count: 195 ____________________________________

It’s amazing just how quickly a mood can change, with very little prompting. One minute your walking through your life with a metaphorical blue sky, able to face any challenges thrown your way then before you know it the pavement is ripped apart and the smooth path you were once able to see is now disrupted with lava pools and monsters lurking in the corners and bushes. You can’t see them but the utter dread in the pit of your stomach lets you know that they are most definitely there. Waiting patiently for you. No matter how long it takes you to get to their part of the path, they know that the wait is worth it. And that’s one of the scariest parts of the dark path. The knowledge that it doesn’t matter if you make it to the monster this time around because they will happily lay dormant until the next disruption to your blue sky. The fear is enough to make you feel physically sick.

Laying in bed ignoring the shrill screams of your alarm, you could just tell it was going to be one of those days. The only reason you turn to shut the damn thing off was the sudden movement of the warm body beside you. A gruff “morning baby” as he hauled himself from the depths of the warm duvet. The rush of cold air only making you hold on tighter and snuggle deeper into the warm, squishiness of the mattress while trying to cocoon yourself in the blanket once more.

The sound of the shower door squeaking open and the rush of water lets you know that there’s no way to avoid the dawning of this new day or the tasks that the day was impatiently waiting for you to check off of your list. Knowing that once he got a proper look at your face he would know that today is a dark day, you dragged yourself from the bed and over to the wardrobe – shoving on which ever clean clothes came to hand first and not giving a damn what you looked like. Sneaking into the bathroom while he was still singing away in the shower, you quickly brushed your teeth and washed your face while thanking the heavens above that you showered last night so your hair was manageable. Normally the squeak of his voice as he hit the high notes in Sia’s newest song would bring the brightest of smiles to your face but not today. A quick “bye” and you were out the door where you could disappear into the horde of morning commuters and stay lost, just another face in the crowd. It’s always easier around strangers. You don’t have to pretend or explain. You can just be.

You avoid your favourite coffee shop because the friendly smiles might just tip you over the edge. You’re not even sure you want coffee, it’s just a morning habit. No appetite is a normal occurrence on these days.

Finally making it into the office, you place your bag and phone on the desk. Not paying any attention to the 3 missed calls and 4 un-answered texts all from the same number.

A quick glance at the diary for today and you let out a heavy sigh of relief that there were no meetings scheduled. Closing your office door, thankful you were the boss, you sent a quick email to your PA and friend Wanda full of bullshit about how you were snowed under with paperwork and only wanted to be disturbed if it was absolutely necessary. Of course, you knew she would smell bullshit straight away – she’s your PA and knows your schedule and deadlines better than her own. But she was also the kind of friend that would see you needed your space and would respect that. It was one of the many things you loved about her. Nat on the other hand, is the complete opposite but you didn’t have the energy to deal with that right now so decided to ignore the red head for as long as you could get away with.

A couple of hours go by quietly before deciding you should at least let him know you’re ‘okay’. Unlocking your phone, you read the texts which get more urgent with each new one. “Damn it babe, I’ll phone Wanda and Nat. Don’t think that I won’t.” Just as you finish reading this last one, another text comes through. “Just let me know you’re okay. That’s all I ask.”. The rush of guilt that washes over you makes your eyes swim with unshed tears. You don’t deserve this man in your life. His unconditional love and understanding leaves you utterly speechless. The sparkle from the diamond on your left hand catches your eye and reminds you that he said he was all in, for better or worse but it’s hard to believe that when your inching closer and closer to a hidden monster. “I can’t today. Too dark.” Was all you text back.

By now it’s early afternoon and your inability to focus on anything or get any work done would normally have you infuriating by now but you’re numb.

The constant buzzing of voices and office talk creeping through the crack under your office door is starting to really grind your gears. Who cares about the hot repairman that’s finally came to fix the fax machine that you emailed about 2 weeks ago? Or how the new Stark project was “so cool!”. You were surrounded by a group of well paid, nerds. On any other day, you would be out there geeking over whatever they were discussing too but today that just cost too much energy and you had none to spare.

You’re about to email Wanda and tell her to make everyone shut the fuck up when suddenly you hear a soft, deep mumble of a voice just on the other side of the door. It’s a voice that you would be able to recognise anywhere. He’s here. He seems to be having a conversation with Wanda and you hear her muffle of a reply before there’s a soft knock at the door. From the second the knock rings around the silent room, it’s like time freezes and you can’t breathe.

Like slow motion, the door opens and the light from the hallway seems to frame his silhouette in a golden glow. Your own personal guardian angel. Fuck…you loved this man. You watch, unable to move or say a word as he softly closes the door behind him and takes in the scene in front of him. You didn’t realise how much you had trashed your own desk until you see his eyes flash surprise, which in turn fades into concern and a hint of something else…was that heartbreak?

But you don’t care…can’t care. About the state of your normally overly organised desk, the fact that you’ve made no effort to open a blind or even turn on a light, or the fact that you’ve unconsciously ran your hands through your hair so much that it looks like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. He doesn’t say a word as he walks towards you slowly, never breaking eye contact. As he gets to the side of your desk, he cautiously pulls back you chair and turns it so that he can kneel in front of you. Saying nothing as his hand moves towards your face pushing the hair out of the way and cradling your cheek in his palm. You don’t realise that you are crying until his thumb gently strokes the tears away.

His warm skin against yours feels so right and you didn’t know how much you needed it until just now as he hesitantly brings his other hand to cradle your other cheek while bringing your head forward to lean against his own. Both of you close your eyes as he lets out a gentle breath at the contact. Your hands finding their way automatically to his wrists, gently tracing themselves up to link your fingers with his, finally able to let out a shuddery breath of your own. “Hey there boss lady, whatd’ya say we get out of here?” His voice hesitant to break the silence, the whisper fading out into the dim room. One small nod of agreement from you and he places a soft kiss to your forehead. Nothing more is said as he reluctantly lets you go and grabs your phone and your bag in one hand and waits patiently for you to stand. As soon as you’re as steady as can be on your feet, he pulls you close to his body with his free arm and cradles your shaking form to his side, letting you lean all your weight on him. A soft squeeze to your shoulder and he’s leading you out of the room.

You don’t make eye contact with anyone as you leave the building but you feel as he nods towards people in acknowledgment also knowing that the look on his face will stop anyone in their tracks should they try and talk to you. Even Nat and Wanda.

You can see his car abandoned at the side of the road and another wave of guilt rushes over you as you can tell that he was more worried about getting to you than a parking fine or even wiping out other cars in his panic. He seems to sense your new wave of emotional distress as his hand rubs soothingly up and down your arm. Your head turns to bury you face into his chest but he hears you just fine as you mutter a small “I’m sorry.” He just tuts and kisses the top of your head as he whispers back, “Silly woman…got nothing to be sorry about”.

Unlocking the car, he quickly throws your bag into the back seat before opening the front passenger door and helping you climb up into the black SUV. Once he’s sure that you are safely strapped in and going nowhere he runs around the front of the car and jumps in the driver’s seat.

You both sit in comfortable silence as he speeds through the streets and its not long before the tall, suffocating city buildings start to disappear from view and finally it seems a little easier to breathe. The open fields and clear sky making you feel a little less claustrophobic.

As your tense shoulders seem to relax a small part of your brain kicks in and you realise just what this wonderful man has done for you. Without being asked, without being told how to, he has saved your life.  Not just this one act of kindness but by loving and understanding you, by always being there for you and by being your best friend.

Turning your head to look over at him, you find that he’s already watching you. It’s not much, but you give him a small smile and slowly reach over to take his free hand in both of yours. Bringing it up to your lips as you gently kiss each knuckle individually before linking your fingers between his and bringing his hand down to rest in your lap. He shoots you one of his dazzling smiles and squeezes your hand in reassurance at the same time.

You were in no way ‘fixed’ nor were you ever likely to be but at least you knew you had found someone in your life who could help you slay the monsters one at a time, carry you over the lava pools and be your light at the end of the pathway. That’s all anyone could ever ask for.

______________________________________

Let me know what you think.

[gmhmlia]

SpiritAssassin’s Gift!

Firstly, I would like to apologize. I feel like this didn’t get quite on the adventure I was hoping for, but since the deadline is today, I’ll send it first. I’ll write the second Chapter and send that as well. Dear @noblerosetyler, I hope you enjoy what I’ve got so far, but there is more to come! Also, here you go, @dailyspiritassassin 

Also, please don’t post this anywhere, as I would like to do it myself. Thank You!!

Learning to Fly, A Rogue One SpiritAssassin Fic.

No Summary Written Yet (Welp)

Exactly a month and a week ago, Baze Malbus had been standing with his best friend, Chirrut Imwe, in front of Guardian Nemlo and the Head Guardian was just beginning to detail the first Journey Baze and Chirrut would be undertaking as newly minted Seventh Duan Guardians. The Journey had been relatively simple, all the two would need to do is guide a group of Pilgrims safely through the Desiccated Tablelands. Once through, Guardians from the Guang Shan City Temple of Kyber would be the Pilgrim’s guide for the rest of the way. It wasn’t uncommon for Temples to send Guardians of the Seventh Duan or higher with groups of Pilgrims that needed to cross the Desiccated Tablelands, as the area was rife with natural and man made hazards. As Guardians with the Seventh Duan would be trained in many useful skills, such as wayfinding, combat and basic medicine, crossing the Desiccated Tablelands was a very popular Journey. After Guardian Nemlo had dismissed Baze and Chirrut, both men had returned to their shared quarters and begun preparing for the two and a half month long Journey, using the couple days notice to pack bags, make all the necessary foodstuffs and mending any holes that appeared in their traveling gear.

At dawn of the day Baze and Chirrut would be meeting their chargers, Guardians Nemlo and Syllu met them at the Gates leading to the Holy City. The older Guardians blessed them off with portions of the ‘Chant of Voyagers’ and with that, Baze followed Chirrut and the light sound of tapping into the slowly waking streets of Jedha City.

Fast forwarding to the present, with Baze and Chirrut having just met with the Guardians from Guang Shan City Temple and officially finishing their Journey with the Pilgrims. The other Guardians would safely guide the Pilgrims through the Fallen Plains, named for all the fallen statues broken across the cold desert landscape, and towards Guang Shan City, where the Journey would end.

Turning to Chirrut, Baze asked, “Shall we begin our Journey home?”

Chirrut, always the little bantha shit, pouted and whined, “But Baze, I really wanted to see all those fallen Jedi statues!”

Baze held his breath, knowing Chirrut wasn’t quite finished yet, “Wait, Baze, help! I think I’ve lost my vision! I can’t see!”

Air came gushing out of Baze’s lungs loud enough that Chirrut’s grin, as impossible as it may seem, grew wider. Shaking his head, Baze began walking back towards the Desiccated Tablelands, knowing that Chirrut would follow swiftly.

“Baze Malbus, don’t you shake your head at me! I legitimately require assistance! What if I trip over something on the ground I couldn’t see?” Chirrut wailed as he ran to where Baze had walked to a few meters ahead, undermining his own argument as he flew over the desert on quick and stable feet.

“I think you’ll be fine,” Baze snorted as he continued walking, ignoring Chirrut’s loud indignant squawk, “Come on, let’s get going.”

Baze knew that at some point any minute now, Chirrut was going to whip up his walking staff and smack him against the back of the head. Baze also knew that all the preparing in the Galaxy wasn’t going to save his head from the pain. However, for the time being, Baze and Chirrut would simply begin the journey back through the Tablelands.

“Hey Baze,” The younger Guardian said, voice serious enough that Baze nearly missed a step, “What does the Desiccated Tablelands look like anyway? Are there any obvious landmarks or anything?”

Pausing for a moment, Baze moved so his friend was standing directly in front of him and gently cupped Chirrut’s elbow, “May I?”

A nod of agreement from Chirrut had Baze guiding his friend’s arm, “Just over in that direction ahead of us, one can see the outline of the Holy City and this is where our Temple sits. Outside of NiJedha, in this area starting in the East sit the Catacombs of Cadera.”

Guiding Chirrut’s hand to trace over both the East and West sides of the Catacombs of Cadera, Baze made sure to pause over a special feature that was situated between the end of the Catacombs and the start of the Tablelands, “And right in that area, about twenty-one days walk from where we are right now, lies one of the largest of the fallen Jedi statues.”

Remembering his friend’s somewhat silly request from earlier, Baze added, “If we make great time traveling across the Tablelands, we will have time to make a stop there. Would you like that?”

Baze didn’t need to be looking at Chirrut’s face to know the expression on the other’s face could be none other than that gentle smile the bigger man loved.

“Thank you, Baze,” Chirrut reached over and unerringly patted Baze on the arm, “I would like that very much.”

A moment of silence passed over the two friends, with Baze simply enjoying the moment. He loved moments like these with Chirrut, rare because Chirrut was rarely quiet; even in sleep, the blind man makes an interestingly loud racket. The moment of peace is sadly broken a few short moments later, by Chirrut sneezing rather loudly.

“Huh, someone must be thinking about me,” Chirrut muttered as he wiped at his nose, “I hope it's happy thoughts.”

Baze snorted, “Hmm, more like cursing your existence.”

Once again, the taller Guardian ignored his friend’s loud indignant cry, hoisted his pack and set off back onto the road. A quiet whoosh of air was the only warning Baze got before he felt Chirrut’s staff thunk him on the head.

“You’re such a meanie Baze! I thought you loved me!”

Some say when one realizes that their love is requited, there is a moment of bursting joy. However, for Baze, there was only a moment of cold fear. Did Chirrut think that Baze did not love him? Was it possible that Chirrut didn't know? Had Baze failed in letting the most precious person in his life know how much he was loved? Fortunately, Baze’s silent state of panic wasn’t happening unnoticed.

A hand on his shoulder brought Baze out of his head and back to the present, “Baze Malbus, you silly Guardian. Did you think I did not know? Did you think I was ignorant to what you have given me?"

The lump in Baze's throat prevented him from responding verbally, but Baze nodded his head and felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Seeing Chirrut's arms come up, Baze stepped forward and let himself be gathered into a hug. Stooping down a bit lower, Baze returned the gesture and he made sure to convey all the things he couldn't say to Chirrut through the hug.

The two Guardians stood there for a couple minutes in companionable silence, simply enjoying each other's presence, before Baze felt a sharp pain in his ear, "Bantha shit!"

Pulling back, Baze tried to swat at the little shit who'd bitten him, but Chirrut had danced out of reach, "Wuguay! You need to catch me first!"

The knowledge that Chirrut Imwe, fellow Guardian and the light of Baze’s life, loved him as fiercely as Baze did was helping him fly across the landscape to catch Chirrut, where a rare whoop of joy exploded out of Baze.

[espytalks]

The studio

Couldn't sleep, so here's take 2 of the thing I tried to write the other day. fair warning though it gets dark.

Knox didn't know how he got there, or why, but he figured since he was there, it wouldn't hurt to look around the old studio. His footsteps echoed loudly in the silent halls, floorboards creaking every now and then as he stepped on a loose board. Such a place, so empty and quiet, might have seemed creepy and menacing to anyone else, and Knox did take note of that, but despite the haunted aesthetic, he felt completely safe. He knew this place, even after all these years. How can you be afraid of your own home? 

He walked slowly through the halls, observing posters of cartoons that were barely finished, rushed in order to meet deadlines. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the artists. In the short time he lived there, he could tell they were overworked and stressed, and in hindsight he realized they probably were underpaid as well, promised money from profits that never came. They had hoped, too late, that bringing in living toons would ease the workload, would help out the employees at the studio, but in the end the cost to make them was too high. Not long after Knox came into existence, the company shut down, and the studio was abandoned.

Knox always meant to come back some day. To remember the good times he had at the studio, but time slipped away from him. He had gotten busy, with other projects, with his own deadlines, until the thought was pushed further and further to the back of his mind. But now, he had a chance to make up for his forgotten promise, and stepped into each room carefully, taking in every detail. 

There was the writer's desks, papers semi-organised, but yellowed with age. There were pens and ink bottles laying around, and some papers had half finished stories written on them, and some crumpled up in trash bins nearby. Knox figured those must be failed first drafts. He picked up a page from one of the desks, but the writing was too messy for him to read. He hoped it had made sense to the person who wrote it.

He moved on to the storyboarding area, small pieces of paper with quick drawings on them taped to the wall, but only filling about a third of the space. Another sign of work half done. Perhaps this is a bit depressing, Knox thought, before moving on to the background artists room.

He walked immediately to a specific desk, out of habit. A wonderful woman used to work there, who he remembered well. She was so kind, and patient as he asked questions, and let him watch her work. He always admired her talent, and speed. She could get may detailed backgrounds done incredibly fast compared to the others at the studio, so she was often ahead of schedule.

She liked to talk about her dog Owen, a mutt she has taken into her life years ago, and had been having some health problems when the studio was at its end. But she was always optimistic, insisting he was still his happy little self. He realized suddenly that she was almost certainly gone now, and he felt an all too familiar ache in his heart at the thought. She seemed so full of life, and energy. The thought that he'd never see her again...? He suddenly felt terrible he never thought to try to visit her one last time. He took a moment to hold back tears and collect himself. He had gotten good at hiding this feeling, at least in appearance. 

Once he calmed down, he continued on towards the back of the studio. There was the directors office, and the music department. He spent quite a while in the latter, observing instruments he had no idea how to use decades ago, but could now play with relative ease, especially the piano, an instrument he particularly enjoyed practicing on at home. He took the time to dust it off, and played a melody off the top of his head. 

When he was satisfied, he moved once more, passing by Kevin the janitors' closet. He was a grumpy old man who- 

Wait. Knox never knew a Kevin at this studio. He was the only one there who went by that name, he was certain. So why did he suddenly feel so sure another of his namesake had worked there? He was suddenly dizzy, and held a hand out to study himself, five fingers pressed firmly against a wall. When the moment passed, he looked around in confusion. What was he doing again? 

Oh right, he thought, feeling silly, a four fingered hand smoothed down stray fur on his head. He was walking through the studio. Of course. And he was coming up to the final room. Behind a door he knew to be locked was a room he had only been in once, and only briefly, in his life. It was locked soon after he was born, the first room to be abandoned. He, along with the rest of the studio, had ignored the room, but now Knox was filled with curiosity. He wanted to see the machine that made him. 

He tried the handle, and was surprised to find it unlocked. He supposed that made it easier on him. He didn't quite feel like snooping around for an hour looking for keys. He entered the room, and, for the first time, observed with detail the ink machine. 

It was huge, taking up the whole wall, with pipes, switches, and gears in seemingly random and unnecessary places. The main part, however, had four large pipes leading into large containers of some sort of ink. Another pipe stuck out from the front, leading to a glass box in the center of the room. He figured that was where the mixture ended up, and somehow it turned into a cartoon character? It didn't make sense to him. 

Even by toon logic, he felt it was a bit weird that that was all it took. Maybe something happened inside it when he turned it on? It certainly made a lot of mess whenever it was operational. Ink stains were all over the place in the room, and many spots on the machine were black from ink that was never cleaned. He groaned in annoyance. This darn thing was a pain ta clean. And ya had to turn it on ta clean some parts of it, too, and half the time it just added to the problem. He was about to turn it on to clean it when Knox realized he shouldn't know how to do that. Why did he know how to do that? 

The dizziness came again, and he swayed, knocking himself back into the machine. Through the fuzziness in his head he heard switches click, and gears starting to turn. He started to panic, and backed up, trying to think clearly, but failing. Suddenly he could feel his foot slipping on something, and he felt himself falling back, and then hitting something hard. The box in the center of the room.

He stood up, mind suddenly clear, but was instantly met with a wall that wasnt there before. He tried all the sides, but all met with the same result. He was trapped. 

The machine was running. 

Gears turned.

Lights glowed. 

Pipes started to run through 80 year old ink. 

And it was going to run right in to the box Knox was trapped in. 

Knox was terrified. He banged against the walls, yelling at the top of his lungs, hoping someone, anyone, could hear him before it's too late, before the ink flowed and filled the chamber, before he drowned in the very think he was made of.

But nobody came.

Ink pored down, slowly at first, but multiplying in strength. Soon, his pants were soaked in knee high black liquid that was rising fast.

Ink pored down hard on his head as he desperately tried to ram into the walls, to make a crack large enough for the pressure to shatter the box, but the ink was slowing him down. It reached chest height, and all he could do was try to keep his head above the ink, as it rose above his shoulders, to his neck, until it was nearly full, and he was gasping for air. 

One final gulp of precious air, and he was submerged. His heart was beating fast, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold hold breath for long. Just a few more seconds, just hold on a few more seconds, and someone will come. He was sure of it. Just a few more - 

He couldn't hold it in any longer. He breathed out, and inhaled out of reflex, despise trying not to. And the burning pain was worse than holding his breath. He spasmed, trying to breathe, trying to be rid of the ink on his lungs, but all that came was more ink, more ink, more ink, more- 

The pain was starting to fade. Everything was starting to fade. He couldn't move. He tried, but everything was fading black, black like ink. He was sinking. And he thought, weakly, that he didn’t want to die. A wave of deja vu hit him before everything went dark, and he couldn't think anymore. 

---

---

And with a jolt, Knox sat up, gasping, in bed. His heart was pounding, as if to remind him that yes, it's still working, you're still alive, just breathe, now that there's finally air. He realized then that it was just the nightmare. He felt a rush of relief, and used that to slowly calm his breathing. 

Owen hopped into the bed at the moment, tilting his head to the side in confusion, or perhaps worry? It must have been, because he gestured at Knox, as if to ask him if he was alright. Knox realized he must have been making quite a bit of noise and woke the cartoon puppy up. He forced a small smile to comfort him. 

"It was just a bad dream, Pup pup," He said, surprisingly calm for how he felt just moments ago. "I'm alright. No need to worry." 

The puppy's posture became more relaxed as he grew less worried. He walked up closer to Knox and nudged him in the arm, and when Knox raised it, Owen circled around himself before lying down next to his owner. He closed his eyes, and the message was clear: he was going to sleep next to Knox to comfort him. 

Knox smiled, for real this time, at the gesture, before looking at his alarm clock. 4:13, it said. He didn't have to be up for a few more hours. He debated whether to get up and start the day early, but after a few minutes, Owen looked up and whined.

Go to sleep, ya big doof, he seemed to be saying. And Knox did feel tired. Maybe he could try to get son more rest, though he doubted he would actually fall asleep. He laid down, closed his eyes, and tried to relax.

---

Knox almost missed the alarm three hours later because of the dream he had. Owen had somehow gotten wings, and was trying to get him to be a pirate for revenge against an octopus. It was absolutely ridiculous in hindsight, but it was, without a doubt, the best dream he had in years.

Knox smiled a lot that day.

[rhinctus4]

02//48HOURS

Yeah, so much for weekly updates! Based off previous attempts to do weekly content on youtube and tumblr, it’s not at all easy to keep up with. Also, i haven’t touched on gamedev much at all, everything to do with school changed within probably two weeks after posting that so nothing to say in that regard. Something which did happen recently (on August 25th) was the 48HOURS Furious Filmmaking Challenge, which is probably one of the biggest events of the year. It’s always a huge buildup to the event and it turned out to be heaps of fun this year, so I want to put my experience on here. 

So every year around May we check on 48hours.co.nz to check if any new updates are posted. As of last year that hasn’t so much been the case as the dates got moved towards the end of the year due to sponsorship issues. After checking multiple times the registration finally opened near the arse end of term two, sometime after I posted the first post just below this one. For a while we had been desperately trying to figure out what on earth the team name should be, as we didn’t like the old one and no one was coming up with a good one to replace it. After holding a proper set of polls we nailed down the new team name. Mach One. Which we thought could possibly be mispronounced as mack one, but we decided it didn’t matter. We were making films at the speed of sound.

Our first meeting was with a small group of people, the writers and directors, which helped us boil down what we wanted to do over the weekend. The big white table was set out at the bottom bock of Max’s house, an area which became known as “The Pit”. As lunch approached we continued the discussions over lunch at the international food court

Ruby, Max in the distance, Felix, and Donald with some hearty meals. We can all agree that Wave is still the best chocolate milk in nz.

The man in the distance

That pretty much concluded our meeting for the day, not too much else happened other than writing up a timeline for the weekend. The next meeting was scheduled for the Friday before 48HOURS, on the 18th. 

This year was our first year inviting Eamonn onto the team, which rounded off the team member number from 9 to 10. It was a huge meeting, held again in The Pit, we discussed ideas, roles, and went through the entire timeline which had been written previously. People were falling asleep towards the end of the night, which was a bit of a worry in light of the upcoming weekend! Despite this, the meeting was a success and put us in good step for the weekend. 

Welcome to the pit! In this shot, going clockwise from the bottom left, is Oscar P, Ruby (face obscured by fatt hed), Joe, James, Eamonn, Max, Sharn, Donald, and Felix

Max holding the talking stick

Sunglasses for everyone!

Here we see Doggie tapping away at organisational documents

Things get silly with the now broken talking stick

Making a point

Oscar appears

Impromptu drum jam sessions are in order, and are tradition for us with 48HOURS at this point. 

Sleepy boi Sharn

Grandpa Max reading out his genius 15 minute ideas

Sleepy Oscar towards the end of the meeting

Oh no

Max evaluating his choices

Quick escape!

James and Donald are not impressed

So that wraps up our meeting. Everyone headed home on their own merry way. The next event was on the Thursday before 48HOURS, the 24th of August.

I actually didn’t hear this was happening while I was at the meeting, just a bit of oversight on my part. The gear test was a small thing held with only a handful of people, even less than the initial meeting. We set up computers, talked gear and equipment, and were out of there in no time at all. We were so close to starting!

Macbook for writing, Duck computer for doing any audio, editing, or VFX

The table is moved out of the pit

Co-director doggie at his last supper. Wait...who is that on the poster above him?

And with that, I left. I left my duck laptop there and had to wait just one more day. 

The big night arrives. There’s always the usual excitement of getting all the gear out of various cars and into the house. There was also something about Ned’s Declassified? 

Ned! NED!

In the background there you can see all the gear which Donald brought in, and off camera is Oscar’s electronic drum kit which he brought in as well, which turned into the drum kit of choice for the weekend. It was a total blast to use.

There’s heaps!

After everyone piled in, we sat down at the big table, sending Joe and Sharn off to pick up the genre from Hollywood cinema in Avondale. We all waited in anticipation, with the livestream of the event up on the big TV. While we waited Max and I finished off the team intro clip which goes at the beginning of a 48HOURS submission, we had actually been working on it for some time and only on the night had we actually gotten the time to finish it off. We had that done and exported pretty quickly and we got back to the big table. Ant Timpson, big boss of 48, had been teasing about changes to the required elements of the film. They were pretty different from last year. No required line, no required prop. This year there was a selection of 20 different narrative themes which you had to pick one of. Our details for the weekend were:

GENRE: Action

THEME: Transformation (which we eventually came to pick)

CHARACTER: A female

PHYSICAL ELEMENT: A collision

TECHNICAL ELEMENT: A smash cut

SOUND EFFECT: The Wilhelm scream

The required sound effect was new too, and we all groaned when we found out it was the fucken Wilhelm scream. Once we had all the required elements we set off for 10 minutes to think of as many ideas as possible. When we came back we all sat around the big table and in a circle went around everyone’s ideas. After hearing many ideas we came down to two main ideas. The 18 Dollar Man and Reaction Woman. The 18 dollar man is about a powerful android being created my a master engineer, only to have the powerful android best the engineer. With only 18 dollars left in pocket, the engineer creates the 18 dollar man, who must train his arse off to beat the powerful android. Reaction Woman was about a world where everyone is fighting, except for this one person. We eventually went on with the latter. We had meter long pizzas for dinner, then while Max, Felix, and I went into Max’s room to write the film in separation from the noise, Ruby, Donald and Sharn figured out cinematography, and everyone else figured out choreography for fight scenes in the film, as it was going to have a bunch of hand to hand combat. They figured out an awesome looking fight, choreographed entirely in The Pit, and the camera people figured out some brilliant shots despite only having random snippets of the script and story to go off of. Us three writers actually managed to produce a full script by our deadline of 3am on Saturday. It looked pretty solid, and had everything we were required to have. Shortly after we all found places to sleep and got ready to wake up by 6am.

Figuring out story beats

These shots are only from 11pm on Friday, we had a long night ahead of us. 

6AM came fast, and we got up feeling peppy and ready for shooting. Donald and Sharn had completed the shot list, and the choreography was nailed down. After a classic breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and bread pretty much everyone got ready to go out and shoot. This included the two directors, Sharn the camera man, Max as the on set editor advisor dude, Zarina as our main character, Joe the supporting role, and the parent which took them, which I remember to be either James G. or Ruth. That was the longest shoot of the day, and the whole time Felix, James, Oscar, Harry, and I were back at the house. Hereafter Felix and I are the “Resident Editors”, and to prepare for the first batch of footage to come in we made our master premiere project with the team intro we had completed on Friday evening, our team’s title card, a blank video with a length of 5 minutes to show the maximum time allowed, and then 5 seconds of black. It was up to the competition’s standards in no time at all, so the rest of the time was just milling around for us. 

James on the other hand had been tasked with making music composition ideas despite not having any idea of what he was meant to be scoring for at that point. It more so provided the opportunity for his gear to come out, my bagful of gear to come out, and also to dig out some of Max’s instruments which he had hiding in his closet so that people wouldn’t get audibly abused by everyone during the weekend. We didn’t clearing off any of the writing guff from the previous night, we just set laptops, keyboards, synths, audio interfaces, and a bunch of cables onto the big table alongside pens and refill pads. It was chaotic but it worked! We also moved Oscar’s drum kit over from beside a couch in The Pit to beside the big table. It was a musical banquet! It also proved to be an opportunity to test out the gear which I hadn’t gotten around to using. Us playing music continued until around 12:50PM when everyone got back from filming the office scene.

A text from the Big Cheese, with a bunch of strange hieroglyphics littered between mangled text

Harry at the Casio, Oscar in the back at the drums. James on the Microkorg, which was plugged into the Scarlett, which was plugged into the macbook through logic 9, out to a tinny burger speaker which turned out to be useful for making loud noises. 

The full music table, taken shortly after everyone left to film the next scene. 

When the office crew got back, everyone started rushing around getting ready to go shoot the big opening scene up the road. James, Oscar, and Harry gapped it too so it was just the resident editors at home. While we imported footage I took a bit of time to rearrange the desk, then Felix and I got going. There were three scenes shot at the office, a short fight scene between Sharn and Max, which was part of a montage, a dialogue scene between Joe and Zarina, and a short scene of Zarina and Sharn. We reviewed the footage, and were super happy with the amount of footage and coverage which had been taken. It didn’t take us long to cut together a rough edit for the three scenes. After a bit more milling around, people began to make their way back to the house. Felix and I started importing the footage once it arrived, and we got to work. This scene was fun, and because it was only roughly 6 shots it didn’t need that much editing out. The coverage was fantastic, and only a small reshoot for a shot of a phone was needed. It was more a case of what we wanted to put where. 

By this point the crew had gone off to another shoot, this time down by Wynyard quarter. Problem being that it was starting to get dark. By now James had some pretty solid ideas about what to do music wise, so we locked the edit on the opening scene and made a low quality video export of the scene. James got to work making music along to the beats of the opening, while I dug into sound effects. In the opening scene alone there were a fucken tonne of sound effects. Most of them I found on the spot from freesound.org, which is a fantastic website. The crew got back with the Wynyard Quarter footage and Felix mostly dug into that after importing it, I kept going with SFX, and James kept going with music. By this time it was around 7PM. Things started mellowing down, some people had gone to sleep. James had pretty much done the composition for the first scene, we bounced that in 3 separate parts to use in the opening and eventually in the outro. At what was probably 10pm a small collection of non-sleepers had gathered in Max’s room, and I was looking to record some actual sound with a microphone. Felix had gone up the road to his house to get his mic and audio interface, the latter of which turned out not to work with the duck computer. So, we grabbed the M-audio from the back room and for the first time I got to press the phantom power button, which was just super exciting. It glows orange! I was fucking stoked, and a blue light turned on upon Felix’s mic too. We got multiple hilarious recordings of people making grunting noises, a bunch of which got used in the final piece. We then started finding objects to use for foley, one of which was a nerf sword. Oscar tried swinging it but we weren’t quite getting the noise we wanted. A bunch of people tried, inching it carefully closer and closer to the mic. Then, Donald volunteered, and with one fell swoop he topped the microphone off onto the floor. He was thenceforth banned from swinging near anything significant. I don’t have any photos of this, but Oscar did have the brilliant foresight to take a fast one of us in the room:

In this photo of Oscar’s is myself, Max behind James, James, Felix, and Sharn. This was when we were bouncing James’ tracks, before we got into audio recording

As the night went on past 12AM on Sunday, more people began to fall asleep, and eventually Max went to sleep and requested I vacate his room, so I quietly took all of my shit into the back room to find the big table had been filled with extra cables and game controllers from people playing smash to pass the time. It felt like some kind of stealth mission trying to move loose game cube controllers off the table. One of them fell of at one point, that caused me to freeze up. At this point it is probably around 2:00AM on Sunday, i’m the one person awake as I was determined to make it until 3:00AM without sleeping. We were out of V at this point as well, as we had somehow managed to drink it all by Saturday at sunset. 

In previous years we always had a surplus of V, but not this year. As a matter of fact, there came a point I think on Saturday where we were running out of drinks. We had slammed down all of the Lift, both cans and bottles, most of the cola bottles were gone, especially the vanilla stuff. There was also the odd drink out, like a single bottle of iced tea or bottles of juice, but even they got drunk at some point. Donald, Ruby, and possibly Max had to go on a quick drink run at the local countdown to refresh the supplies. Everyone was doing something at all times, and it really showed in the quota of drinks consumed over the weekend. 

So I actually made it past 3AM doing the audio, but by that point the smallest delay in doing literally anything caused me to lower my head and close my eyes, and I was lucky the ridiculous grunting recordings got so loud at parts, because I would quickly scuttle though the 50 or so different sounds we had to find a certain one, often to be awakened by one of Donald’s fucking loud noises. Hootin’ and Hollerin’. The opening was mostly done, and the need to sleep was gnawing at me without the caffeine, so I mindlessly climbed onto the nearest unoccupied couch, which was a single leather sofa was Donald has taken up post on the double, and fell asleep for 4 hours. 

By the time I woke up Eamonn had come back from being at home, and had just snuck inside at 6am when everyone was failing to wake up on time. He mentioned just how uncomfortable my sleeping position looked, which was completely true. Nonetheless, we all got going pretty quickly. William arrived not long after we had woken up, and we couldn’t afford to wait around for long at all to people just scoffed down some bread pull aparts and were off to Wynyard Quarter to shoot the next major scene. I got back into audio work in Max’s room after transferring most of the equipment back there from the big table. Joe and I to record radio announcements, and not long after that the crew got back from Wynyard Quarter dripping with rain.

Joe recording his radio announcement, also this is the best view of the VO and recording setup. I didn’t get a good look at the phantom power light which is a bummer. Duck computer really pulled through during this 48HOURS

Felix once again imported the footage, I was somewhat distant from editing at this point as I was completely immersed in sound editing. After Felix got that scene together, we had a segment without any good sound to use, so he sent over the edited scene and a copy of the room tone. That was a pretty quick job and I got back to fine tuning the first scene’s audio. By now the crew had gone off to record the final piece of the montage over at Browns Reserve.

Photo credit to Donald, a shot of smooth operator Sharn holding both camera and boom whilst donning the HD-201′s and slick shades. Meanwhile, Zarina is psyching herself up for the next shot of hooligans launching kicks at thin air.

We got Joe to figure out some music for the montage earlier, and now that James was back he was able to refine it. We kept on making small edits to what we had and added in music and sound where we could. The crew got back from Browns and we imported the footage again. This meant we had all the footage for the montage and we were able to refine that further. The only footage left to do was the ending and the pickup shot of the phone. We completed the montage fairly quickly while the crew left to do those last shots. 

Turns out that Donald had been putting in our name for the text-in sweepstakes which had been going for the entire weekend, and we finally managed to score a prize of a chicken lunch from Bird on a Wire, thing being that they didn’t get back to us about it until after Donald had already made an arse of himself in the cafe. Then we ended up having lunch from the house which consisted of chicken. Then an HP rep got back to us saying that we could go and pick up our lunch from the place under his name, so that was just ridiculous. We had it for dinner in the end. 

It was around now that this beautiful image arose, credit to Oscar for the photo

After we had the last scene completely filmed it was approaching crunch time. Things were tending to become a little bit more tense, stakes were rising. We quickly got the final scene cut together so I could do some fast audio done on it. Then we all went through it to make some changes to the sound, and adjust things we needed to do. We placed all of our sub sequences into the master sequence, made more changes, then people began to be kicked out of the room. I was one of the last to go before Max and Felix got down to the knitty gritty and did the final checks on the cut. Max was the last person to come out and say that it was all done. So, we quickly got onto exporting it which didn’t take too long. Despite things going so smoothly, it was still slightly stressful if literally anything messed up. People stopped playing smash out the back when we were done, and we quickly transferred the film to two different USBs. One which we bought and the one HP gave to us in our goodie bag. With the films on the USBs, we jetted off from the house over to Hollywood cinema for the hand in. We left shortly after 6PM. 

A view of the pit just before we left to Hollywood Cinema. Looks like a battle happened in here

The chip packets had returned to the music table once more

My last photo from the weekend, standing outside the house as we’re about to leave

We raced off the Avondale, and despite our car leaving second we actually made it to Hollywood Cinema first. Got there at around 6:30, only a small crowd had gathered there at that point. Got the usual applause as we walked up and handed in our film. Hooray! Always such a rewarding feeling being able to walk up to the tables and have your name ticked off. Mach One had done it. Once the others got there we set up shop on the second floor and amongst giving people signature seal pup congratulations, we were screaming, shouting, clapping, and overall just having a great time. When the countdown to 7:00PM was done, we headed off back to the house to watch the film and have dinner. We ate our bird on a wire lunch, watched the film a couple of times, then the frantic rush to pack up and charge out the door began. We all said our farewells to each other, many sweaty bro hugs were in order. I was one of the last to leave as I had brought so much shit in my bag. And just like that, it was done! I had lost my voice from screaming, and I could see that I had a long sleep ahead of me. However, this year’s 48HOURS had been absolutely heaps of fun.

So that’s it. We came third in our heat and didn’t win any significant prizes. We were proud of the film though, as it had been our most solid 48HOURS production to date. In retrospect we thought that the world we had to set up in less than 5 minutes may have been a bit far fetched, but the story was clear and everything else about it was fabulous. The acting from Zarina and Joe was super solid, all the supporting roles were funny and really added to the film. Sharn’s camera work, with the help of both Donald and Ruby, was absolutely fantastic. All the work done in post was heaps of fun to do. As always I loved the musical efforts from James, and even though Oscar didn’t have as much involvement in the actual compositions this year, I really valued his input too, as with Joe’s help on drums for the montage. I think the one thing I regretted the most from the weekend was not taking enough photos and videos. I absolutely love looking at them, and there are large parts of this write up which are lacking photos entirely as I didn’t get around to thinking about them. If Ruby uploads her photos from her 35mm I wouldn’t mind crediting her on those in this post.

Finally, looking back upon the weekend, I never realised how much fun 18 dollar man would be to make. I wouldn’t say I regret not going with it, as both of the ideas were fantastic. Eamonn was the genius behind 18 dollar man, so sometime these summer holidays him and I are going to write it, and from writing this post I realised that I would really like to nab Sharn to do cinematography again. The idea has absolutely HUGE potential and i’m slowly going to get things in order for that to happen during the summer summer holidays. I have to hold myself back from getting too excited about it! 

Oh and just a last thing, there is now a site for any compositions I’ve made:

rhinctustunes.tumblr.com

I’ll be posting there again soon.

[buddyrabrahams]

10 key questions surrounding the 2017 NBA Draft

Seemingly as soon as the Finals ended, the NBA dove right into silly season, with rumors, breaking news, and questions popping up all over the basketball landscape. With the draft quickly approaching, the entire league feels in flux, grasping at ways to compete with the Warriors or make a leap for the future.

Big names like Jimmy Butler and Paul George are rumored to be available, the Cavaliers mutually agreed to part ways with general manager David Griffin, and the Celtics already traded away the top pick in Thursday’s draft.

With still tons of time for moves, schemes, and unexpected changes, this could be one of the wildest draft nights in recent memory. Here are some key questions surrounding the draft.

1. Are the Celtics done dealing?

Boston reaped another major score from the highway-robbery trade that sent Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett and others to Brooklyn, and a host of draft assets to the Celtics. After winning the top seed in the East and reaching the conference finals, the Celtics won the lottery and sat atop the draft, on the clock with their pick of the litter.

For most evaluators, the choice was pretty simple: Markelle Fultz is the consensus top prospect and would certainly be able to find a place in Boston’s lineup.

Danny Ainge saw things differently, choosing to send the top pick to Philadelphia for an extra first round pick (either in 2018 or 2019, depending on protections). Logically, the reward doesn’t seem like enough to pass on the chance to take Fultz. In essence, it feels like the Celtics traded a quarter for two dimes.

Perhaps the best reason to have made the trade is in an effort to stockpile pieces to swing another trade. The Celtics may be interested in building a package for George, Butler, or another star. More assets might look better on paper, but Fultz would have been a more attractive trade chip than the two picks Boston swapped for him. If the Celtics do try to make a trade, they might be interested in hanging on to one of the pieces they received from the Sixers to build their ever-evolving roster.

2. Is “The Process” over in Philly?

The Sixers will take Markelle Fultz with the first pick on Thursday and add their third generational talent under the age of 23. After surviving four seasons near the bottom of the league, Philadelphia is poised to grow into one of the most exciting young cores the NBA has seen in recent years.

Amazingly, the Sixers were able to move up to take Fultz without sacrificing any of the foundational pieces of their roster. Trading two marginal European stashed prospects (likely never to play in the NBA) for Nik Stauskas, some dead money, and tons of draft capital lesd the Sixers to swap the 5th pick for the 3rd pick in this year’s draft. The pick they’ll send to Boston in the future came to Philly either via that trade (from Sacramento) or in exchange for lowly Michael Carter-Williams (from the Lakers via Phoenix).

The wheeling and dealing of former GM Sam Hinkie gave the current front office the tools to acquire the perfect guard to fit with their budding young stars in the frontcourt.

3. What direction are the Lakers going?

Philadelphia will certainly take Fultz first, after the Washington guard visited team headquarters to meet the team and run through some physical and medical tests. After that, the Lakers are on the clock and could drastically change the course of the rest of the draft.

The most likely scenario probably ends up with local product Lonzo Ball staying close to home – convenient given the amount of baggage that will accompany Ball to his pro career. The Lakers didn’t need a point guard, until they shipped D’Angelo Russell in a trade to Brooklyn.

Now Ball’s path to his hometown team seemed perfectly paved for his arrival. TNT’s David Aldridge, however, reported that the Lakers discussed trading the second pick to the Kings for both of Sacramento’s top ten picks.

Lakers, per sources, engaged Sacramento in talks that would have sent the 2nd pick to the Kings for Sac’s two 1st-rounders (5 and 10) (1/2)

— David Aldridge (@daldridgetnt) June 21, 2017

That would certainly contradict the idea that Los Angeles is in love with Lonzo Ball. Of course, this is all part of the Lakers’ efforts to acquire Paul George, who has expressed interest playing near his childhood home, without a contending team swooping in with a better offer for Indiana. It’s really enough to make anyone’s head spin, let alone a newly constructed front office that includes first time executives Rob Palinka and Magic Johnson.

4. Who will linger in the green room?

Even after the Lakers make their selection, there are no obvious player and team fits throughout the top 10. There is a consensus that the top eight or nine prospects are a ways ahead of the next tier, but the margin between each of those players is seen as microscopic. Each team could have a radically different draft board, causing chaos with each name read by Adam Silver.

This could leave one player believed to be a top five talent sliding into the back of the lottery. Two years ago, Justise Winslow received interest as high as the third pick before finally coming off the board as the tenth pick.

If the Lakers and Suns pass on Lonzo Ball, he could still be available as late as the Knicks’ pick at number 8. With teams nitpicking Malik Monk’s size and defensive potential, the Kentucky guard could slide into the double-digit selections. Dennis Smith Jr. has a super high ceiling and a relatively low floor, meaning we could see him taken by Phoenix fourth or not until Miami with the 14th pick.

5. Are the injury prone players worth the risk?

Recent seasons have been flooded by top draft picks unable to play due to injury. Nerlens Noel, Joel Embiid, Ben Simmons, Jabari Parker, and Dante Exum have all missed entire seasons in their young careers. Some of these players suffered freak injuries, while others had obvious medical issues when they were selected on draft night.

This year’s draft has three players that stand out as possible rolls-of-the-dice medically.

Harry Giles was the top recruit in the nation coming of high school, but after three knee surgeries, he failed to show any explosiveness in his one year at Duke. His game was predicated on his athletic ability and freakish tendencies, though he looked decidedly human at Duke. He may never bounce back from the wear and tear on his knees.

OG Anunoby also suffered a knee injury at Indiana, namely a torn ACL. He’s likely to be ready for opening night, yet he could be severely hampered as he rehabs back into his former self. Anunoby made his living in Bloomington as a blur on the court, streaking around for blocks, dunks, steals, and highlight package plays. If he can only perform at 80 percent of his former athletic capacity, his game would really suffer until he can develop his jump shot and some other fundamental skills.

Lastly, Dennis Smith Jr. showed a lot of promise at North Carolina State last year in the first year after an ACL tear. Generally, players take two full years to return fully from that injury. If Smith has another gear from what he showed as a freshman, he could be a gamechanger as a pro. If his athletic ability has peaked, he could slide down the draft or prove to be a bust.

6. Which veterans could move on draft night?

The draft usually revolves around the young rookies hearing their names called by their new franchises, but occasionally veterans crash the party and a trade is the big story of the day. With every front office on high alert and making constant phone calls, there will be tons of rumors bouncing around this week.

Draft picks lose value once a player is actually selected (and that player’s value plummets once he takes the court as a rookie). Picks derive their value from the hope and promise of the unknown. Teams looking to unload veterans could be enticed to move on in favor of picks and packages of young talent.

Jimmy Butler and Paul George will dominate the conversation, as they did at the trade deadline, though we’ll also hear plenty about Kevin Love, Avery Bradley, Jae Crowder, Eric Bledsoe, Jordan Clarkson, Jahlil Okafor, and even Kristaps Porzingis. Dwight Howard, D’Angelo Russell, and Brook Lopez are already on the move and won’t be alone.

7. Will Phil Jackson make Knicks fans happy?

New York crowds are notoriously tough to please, and Phil Jackson has not quite endeared himself to the fans in the Big Apple in his time at the helm. Porzingis is disgruntled, Carmelo Anthony has always been difficult, and the rest of the roster is full of holes and question marks.

The Knicks should be positioned to land a strong player with the 8th pick, particularly a guard to pair with Porzingis. Reports out of New York’s recent draft workouts have centered around prospects learning or being tested on the triangle offense, causing serious concerns about the team’s motivations. Even scarier, reports say the Knicks are at least listening to trade offers for Porzingis. Nothing at Madison Square Garden seems out of the realm of possibility.

Thursday night Phil Jackson could shake-up the entire league with a trade or simply pick the best player available when on the clock. We won’t know until the commissioner reads the 8th pick, but all eyes will be glued to that selection.

8. Can Sacramento successfully move past the DeMarcus Cousins era?

The Kings are still suffering from years of incompetence in the front office, though Sacramento has a real chance to make noise this week. The Kings own two top ten selections, thanks to the DeMarcus Cousins trade during the season.

Those picks will be crucial for the Kings, without a first round pick in 2019 due to the Stauskas trade with Philadelphia. A core built around Buddy Hield, Skal Labissiere, Willie Cauley-Stein, and these two picks doesn’t seem like the beginnings of a contender, yet it is at least a plan and a path to a better situation than the team has been stuck in for the last decade.

This draft is the first major moment in the post-Cousins era for Sacramento, with a chance to really re-direct the franchise.

9. How much will we see from the Ball family?

As much as dedicated NBA fans want to shake off the effects of Lavar Ball as a sideshow, the Ball family will be front and center Thursday night. We could see Lonzo Ball selected as the second pick to his hometown team and the next chapter in a bizarre storybook unfolds. The Lakers are still wheeling and dealing, with Paul George, not Lonzo Ball, seemingly as their main target. There’s a healthy chance the pick is moved or taken for another team, leaving Ball’s future uncertain.

Teams near the top could be scared off by Ball’s strange jump shot, non-existent defense, and the circus that comes along with Lonzo’s skills. If Ball somehow passes by Phoenix at the fourth pick and Sacramento at fifth, we could be treated to the Knicks on the clock in New York City with Lonzo Ball available at number eight.

That’s the dream for NBA Twitter diehards, but no matter where Ball is selected, everyone is expecting quite the show.

10. Will a college senior be drafted in the first round?

In a bit of a quirk, this year’s first 30 picks may all be underclassmen or international prospects. Each of the last 10 drafts have included a senior chosen in the first round. The latest we’ve seen the first senior off the board in the last 10 years was Trevor Booker as the 23rd pick in 2009.

This year either Villanova’s Josh Hart or Colorado’s Derrick White will likely be the first senior taken, and both are considered fringe first rounders. It is completely conceivable that neither player, or any other four year collegian, is taken before Adam Silver passes over pick announcing to Deputy Commissioner Mark Tatum for the second round.

Shane McNichol covers college basketball and the NBA for Larry Brown Sports. He also blogs about basketball at Palestra Back and has contributed to Rush The Court, ESPN.com, and USA Today Sports Weekly. Follow him on Twitter @OnTheShaneTrain.

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