#i had to actively work to keep my american accent

[snoopythemage]

went out and got tipsy with a couple of people i was nervous abt and tbh im glad i did it even when i had a bit of a panic abt it

[coco-loco-nut]

Miami

Pairing: Logan x reader

Summary: Logan finally asks the girl he has seen around Williams out

A/n: I kinda hate this, but here it is😬

requests open masterlist

———————————

“Y/n!” You boss calls your name from a few cubicles down. You were new to Willams, having just moved from America and the Baseball industry into Motorsport.

“What’s up?” You ask, leaning against the frame of her cubicle.

“Erica is out sick, can you do her sponsorship activation in an hour?” She asks, looking a little frazzled, holding out a folder with some papers to you. You nod and take them, reading the summary sheets on your way to the car.

Your first assignment working with the drivers, thankfully you are used to ad shoots. They were relatively easy, taking pictures for the portfolio, schmoozing the sponsor, and helping marketing keep things in order.

“Coffee?” One of the sponsorship interns offers you, and you furrow your brow.

“Mark, that’s not in your job description, you don’t have to bring me coffee,” you take it anyway.

“BOGO deal. Figured you would like it since you weren’t planning on being here,”

“Favorite intern, right here. I’ll hook you up wherever you want to go after this,” you laugh, navigating through the site. Mark reads the briefs you brought along as you introduce yourself to the media team and the sponsors.

“Hi, I’m Logan,” One of the drivers introduces himself to you, his American accent making your ears perk up.

“Y/n, nice to meet you,” you extend your hand, your mother taught you manners.

“Georgia?” He shakes your hand, curious on placing the accent.

“North Carolina born and raised,” you smile, ignoring the pleasant warmth of his hand.

“Not many Americans around here. What do you do?” He asks. It’s a relief to you, everyone assumes that you are a sports journalist or work in marketing, but he had the decency to ask.

“Corporate partnerships. Getting the team money so you can race,” you explain briefly.

“That’s so cool, I wish I could ask more, but Albono is calling me over,” he waves goodbye.

“You’re in looooove,” Mark teases, standing beside you.

“Shut up. Offer rescinded,” you blush slightly as the blond driver glances back at you.

A few months later you are in America for the Miami GP. Williams did a competition with one of your accounts, so you flew in a week ahead to make sure everything was set, and the working remote was a plus. One day you took advantage of an old connection and got a free ticket to the Marlins game, and got to tag along with them as they worked. The real bonus was the better food and suites, but you didn’t expect to see a certain blond driver throwing the first pitch.

He wasn’t expecting to see you either. Ignoring the marketing intern, he jogs over to where you and your friend are talking.

“Logan! Hi,” You smile, quickly turning to introduce him to your friend, but Logan is one step ahead of you.

“You are here early,” he smiles back at you.

“My account is sponsoring a VIP trip to Miami contest for Williams, so I’m making sure everything is ready to go,” you explain and he nods.

“Have you seen your family?”

“Yeah, they flew down the other day, I got them grandstand tickets,”

“What are their names? I can get them a paddock pass for FP1 and FP2,” Logan says and the marketing intern looks antsy beside him.

“Here’s my number, text me,” you hand him your business card and apologetically smile at the intern.

For some reason, it didn’t take a second thought to accept Logan’s invite. You had the day off tomorrow, your parents were busy, and there was really no reason not to. Your bag was packed and you were in Logan’s pickup truck before you knew it. The radio is on the top 100 station, and the windows rolled down slightly on the highway, the ocean air washing over you both.

“What do you miss most about America while in England?” Logan asks and you pause for a second.

“Peanut butter and jelly’s, they don’t taste the same. What about you?”

“That’s not what I miss most, but it’s a valid answer. I think I miss the Florida beaches, especially at dawn,” he says, letting a calm silence settle in.

“I would agree with that, but make it North Carolina,”

“Thanks for agreeing to come with me, the house feels so empty,” Logan looks at you. You nod, pushing some stray hairs out of your face.

“I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be shown around by a local,” you grin, locking eyes briefly with him.

“I know this great place for dinner,” he says as he turns off the highway. You learned about him on the drive, including that he owns a beach house and doesn’t live with his parents.

You both walk into the small restaurant, his hand instinctually going to yours before he quickly stops before you notice. You don’t see the way his heart races when you smile at him. You don’t realize that he’s noticed you around the track and sponsorship events, and how he finally built up the courage to introduce himself. He is so excited to take you to a restaurant that specializes in southern comfort food.

“Logan, you didn’t,” you gasp as you look over the menu, your heart swelling.

“I thought you probably missed a taste of home,” he smiles sheepishly.

“You are the best,” you quickly decide on your childhood favorite. The both of you get to know each other more over the meal and flirt a bit while you’re at it.

“I forgot how good that restaurant is,” Logan says as you both walk out of the restaurant, his arm gently going around your shoulder. You blush, but make no attempt to move it. The ride to his house is short.

“Get changed, Logan, we are going for a beach walk,” you tell him after he shows you the guest room. No more than five minutes later, you are both barefoot on the beach, you in a Williams hoodie and shorts, Logan in an unbuttoned shirt and shorts.

You don’t really know when your hands first brushed and connected, but you didn’t attempt to stop it. Logan admired you against the moonlight and soft crashing waves.

“Lo?” you ask as he seems elsewhere.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly, turning towards you. All you do is nod, his soft lips brushing against yours as you pull him closer, properly kissing him.

“Wow,” you breathe, a blush covering both of your cheeks.

“I guess I’m not immune to your southern charm,” he teases, causing you to giggle.

“I guess not,” you agree. The walk back to the house is comfortable, and he kisses you goodnight outside your bedroom door. You wake up early for a run, quietly heading downstairs only to find a shirtless Logan doing the same thing.

“Morning run?” He asks with a smile.

“Yeah, you too?” You ask back and he nods. You both finish tying your sneakers and put on headphones. He leads your morning run, knowing the streets better than you. You both stop into a coffee shop a few blocks away for breakfast before heading home.

“I’m gonna shower then head out to the beach if you want to join me later,” Logan tells you before heading to his room. Once you finish your coffee, you do the same. There are two towels out on the beach in front of Logan’s house, Logan occupying one. After grabbing your book and applying sunscreen, you join him.

“Blue is a good color on you,” he compliments your light blue bikini.

“What are you reading?” You ask him as you lay down.

“The Great Gatsby,” he observes your book cover.

“Good choice,” you hum as you get immersed in the book. Fifteen minutes later, you see Logan set his book down out of the corner of your eye. He rolls over and you quickly bookmark your book.

“Do you know how hard it is to read while next the a beautiful woman?” Logan asks and your lips quirk up into a smile.

“How hard?” you ask, smiling as he pulls you closer to him, happily kissing you.

“Logan, look at this,” you show him your phone, as you lean over the kitchen island. He sets down his water bottle and takes a closer look.

“I’m surprised they even care about me,” he says, brushing it off. There is a public beach a few houses down, so it isn’t uncommon for someone to stray off it.

“I didn’t think about what would happen within Williams,” you sit on one of the stools. Logan moves to sit beside you, grabbing your hand.

“It’s fine, we can fill out the necessary paperwork. There isn’t a conflict of interest, we are in the same department, it will be okay,” he reassures you. You peck his lips and sigh.

“I’m sorry someone saw us, that makes it harder for you,” you frown. His hand moves up to your cheek, rubbing soft circles with his thumb.

“I’m not. I’m happy to be seen with you,” he smiles before going to start lunch.

“I’m glad I met you,” you tell him, happy to be with someone who isn’t afraid to be in public.

“Me too. Would it be too early to call you my girlfriend?” Logan asks, finishing the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches you both have been craving.

“Normally yes, but with you, I would be more than happy to be your girlfriend,” you squeeze his hand. Logan kisses you briefly before starting to eat.

A few hours you make your way back to Miami, Logan having a team meeting that evening. The two of you didn’t see each other much the rest of the week until free practice.

You lead your parents into the Paddock area, taking them to Williams hospitality. You had told them about Logan and they were very excited to potentially meet the driver.

“Hi Babe,” Logan hugs you when he enters hospitality, stopping to say hi before grabbing coffee.

“Hi Lo, ready to meet the parents?” You ask nervously, he kisses your forehead. The rest of the weekend flies by, he charms your parents, you meet his parents, and before you know it you are in England again.

By the time Austin rolls around, you both are inseparable. The team finds it cute how Logan will follow you around like a puppy dog when you are at the GPs and he is free.

“I’m so glad I saw you at the Marlins game,” Logan whispers, his arms wrapped around you.

“I love you,” you whisper back, tilting your head to kiss you.

“I love you too,”

[phantom-0-writer]

*standing menacingly at the door* i made u something

anyways lol. i had a lot of school work and was really busy freaking out and stress studying for a singular test that was 4 questions and would be over in like an hour and then i proceeded to cry about it in my car for various reasons.

but yk what that means!

time for our irregular and unscheduled update of

Gotham Academy's Mentorship Program

this episode featuring a fan favorite: Duke Thomas (aka The Signal - but thats kind of irrelevant for this)

you were supposed to read that like it was from a '90s sitcom and the off screen crowd cheers rly loudly.

some house keeping updates: this scene happens in the beginning of the school year (going by the american system should be september) danny meets damian (and upsurges tim on the same day) around midterm which is around october and then the stuff with jason and damian's drawing happens around december. i kinda accidentally burned the irl timeline for anything dc first scene so now im just gonna do whatever i want.

anyways with out further ado:

table of contents

scene 04: after school activities for normal kids

Duke stood around the corner of the classroom awkwardly, wondering if he had made the right call. Sure the bats and the birds had a plethora of hands on deck any time, but most of them specialized as night time heros. Not to say that they were incompetent or anything, they were some of the most skilled and innovative people Duke had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Sure if anything happened, they could handle it, at least until Duke could slip away and show up as the Signal- Alfred and Bruce had assured him so much. But Duke couldn’t slip the guilt of busying away more of his time to after school activities when he could be patrolling or studying instead, 

But Duke had wanted to do something outside of those things, which was specifically why he had made the difficult decision to join a few clubs and after school activities. He could use a break from being surrounded by people who worked the vigilante life-style just to remember how to be a normal civilian. Let himself take a break from constantly be consumed by one case or another, one disaster or another, not being able to do enough no matter how much he tried or how much time he spent patrolling. 

Duke needed to feel grounded, like his feet were on the ground and he could press the brakes and smell the fragrance of life. Even if the fragrance was a forgotten pile of dog s-

“Alright,” The instructor for their culinary club started with a weird German accent that sounded really fake. “I am Herman. You can call me Chef or Chef Herman or just Chef. I will not bore you all with the boring introductions, and let's head right into the cooking, yes. On this paper here I made the partners for all of you to cook with for the rest of the year. If you have problem with it then quit.” 

This Herman guy seemed like quite the character, and was definitely not helping any of Duke’s previous anxieties. Many of Duke’s clubmates seem to think so too, sending their friends various looks. But no one spoke out, and instead shuffled to the front to look at the singular sheet of paper that would assign them their partners. Duke finally made it to the front and saw that he was paired with a Daniel Fenton at Station 7. 

Crossing his fingers that Daniel had at least only a half-rotten personality, Duke made his way over to station 7. The station was already prepped with an assortment of ingredients and cooking equipment. Duke had already set his stuff down claiming the seat closer to the exit (in case) when a lanky kid comes over, “Uh, your Duke Thomas?” He asks hesitantly looking back at the front counter the partner assignment sheet was. 

It took Duke an awkward second longer to realize that this kid was probably his partner. “Oh yeah I am.” He laughed apologetically, “You must be Daniel.” 

“Danny’s fine.” The boy smiled, absentmindedly brushing his messy black hair out of his face, his glacier blue looking at the equipment. Duke couldn’t help but feel like there was something off about Danny. Not in Gotham’s usual psycho-maniac-out-to-terrorizer-the-city-and-kill-innocent-people kind of off, more in a he’s not in sync with the rest of the world off. While Chef Herman explained the general structure of various types of kitchen and kitchen hierarchy that Duke was already familiar with, Duke tried to get a read on him. 

Weird did not mean threat, after all many of the Justice League- heck even the local Wayne/Batclan were pretty weird- and they (usually) didn’t mean any harm. It wouldn’t be fair of Duke to jump the horse like that. 

Deciding he should try to be friendly with him, Duke leaned over, “Is it just me or is Chef Herman’s accent totally fake?” he whispered. 

“Oh, Ancients,” Anciets? “I thought I was just going insane.” Danny sighed in relief with a small chuckle. There was a moment of silence between the two of them where no one said anything for longer than socially acceptable and Duke debated using his powers to see if he could find a clue or something. That seemed kinda invasive, though. 

When the Chef had started instructions on making today's recipe, Chocolate Chip Cookies, Danny helped Duke measure out the ingredients. “So,” Danny tried again, “What are you in for?” 

“What am I…” Duke repeated confused, 

Danny chuckled awkwardly, “Like why you joined the club.” 

Duke seriously needed to get his head in the present; this was getting embarrassing. “Oh.” He nodded in understanding, “I’ve always liked cooking,” Duke shrugged, “When I was little my parents and I would always cook together, and it was always one of my favorite things to do. And I’ve kinda always liked it, but I fell off of it for a while with school and stuff,” emphasis on the stuff “I thought joining a club could help me get back into it and get away from… everything.” That was a little more candid than Duke had planned on being with someone he had met quite literally a few minutes ago, but it felt good to have that out of his chest. The pleasant memories of his parents swimming in his mind. Mixing the dry ingredients, “Sorry that was kind of a lot.” Duke laughed genuinely this time. 

“Dude, no it’s actually so cool that you like to cook.” Danny said admiration was easy on his face, and Duke couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed. 

“What about you, then?” 

“Ugh,” He groaned jokingly, “You can’t seriously be asking for my lame ass reason after you pulled out the flashbacks.” Danny whined, letting the oven preheat like Chef told them to. 

“C’mon, it’s only fair.” Duke played along, already ahead of the other groups. 

Danny sighed, “Promise you won’t laugh.” 

“Okay, it can’t be that bad.” Duke could already feel the smile cracking on his face. 

“It is.” Danny drawlled, “So I live in the dorms right, and I got to pull some strings and room with one of my friends from back home this year. And well, let’s just say my family has a bit of a reputation for causing problems, and the kitchen definitely wasn’t an exception. One time my dad tried to make some soup for my mom because she got sick.” Duke nodded approvingly, that was a sweet gesture, “It was all fun and games until the bomb squad had to show up and long story short we had to move.” 

“You’re joking.” Duke gaped at the bizarre story, but at Danny’s solemn expression, Duke couldn’t help but be appalled, “A bomb squad over soup.”

“My parents were never really heavy on lab safety,” Danny added, as if that explained everything, “But I burn one pot of water and maybe make a few extra-crispy eggs, and suddenly its all ‘Danny you’re not allowed in the kitchen unless you start taking actual classes’ and ‘Danny that's a biohazard’.” 

“You burned a pot of water.” Duke echoed, Danny nodded innocently, “Water doesn’t burn.”

“Well, maybe you’re just not trying hard enough.” Danny sneered, trying to crack an egg on the corner of the bowl only for all the shell to fall in the bowl and the yolk on the counter. 

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true.” Duke said, taking the bowl from him and expertly cracking an egg single handedly. Danny looked on in awe. “You said you live in the dorms?” Duke asked easily. 

“Oh yeah, all of the non-local scholarship kids have to.” 

Before Duke could respond, a girl from the station in front of them whips her head around, “You said you’re here on a scholarship?” She asked almost oppressively. 

Danny just as taken aback as Duke felt, “Uh, yeah.” 

“Me, too. Have you heard anything about the Mentorship Program here? Apparently we all have to join.” The girl’s partner was looking between Duke and Danny confused, but returned to their cooking uninterested. 

“Oh, yeah. They make us all join.” Danny nodded. 

“I heard from some of the older kids, that no one actually gets picked for that. It’s just like a weird formality thing.” The girl spoke animatedly, “What department are you in?” 

“Applied physics and engineering design.” The oven beeps that it was ready but no one moved. 

The girl seemed to deflate that answer, “Oh, I’m doing culinary science.” And with that solid conclusionary statement, she turned around and got back to her work station. 

Danny blinked, processing what just happened and slowly turning to look at Duke for proof that just happened. But the second the both of them met each other’s eyes, they burst into a fit of silent laughter. 

Bent vunuralably over the table, trying to catch their breath, they were accosted by Chef Hermon. “The two of you are having a comedy club, not a cooking club.” Chef crossed his arms at the edge of the table. Duke was pretty sure he was trying to sold them, but the fake accent was making it hard to tell. 

Danny cleared his throat and striated up, “Sorry, Sir.” He apologized quickly. 

“Chef.” Hermon peered at them, his hat looking comically large and lopsided on his head now that Duke was getting a closer look. 

“Sorry, Chef.” Duke amended, trying to keep his cool. 

“Yes, finish cooking your cookies.” He nodded satisfied, leaving their station. 

“Okay so,” Duke tried to recount what the last thing they did was, but one look at Danny trying desperately to hold in his laugh had ruined all of Duke’s efforts as well. Barely managing to get their cookies in the oven, over Chef’s fake german accent and floppy oversized chef’s hat. 

“So scholarship for applied physics and engineering design, huh.” Duke recounted from earlier, impressed. 

“Yeah…” Danny trailed off embarrassed, “It sounds kinda snotty.” 

“Dude. That’s literally one of the hardest departments to get into, and the scholarship is no sneeze either. There’s no doubt you worked your butt off to get that.” Duke assured Danny as they sat in their stools waiting for the cookies to finish. 

“Thanks,” Danny smiled sheepishly. They sat in a much more comfortable silence now before Danny spoke again, “What grade are you in by the way?” 

“I’m in 10th. General studies for now, but I was thinking of doing medicine. You?” 

“I could totally see you as a hot-shot doctor.” Danny nodded approvingly, “11th. Technically, I’m your upperclassman then.” 

“Technically?” Duke asked.

“I mean, how old are you?” 

“15.” Duke supplied confused. 

“Me too. I skipped a grade in elementary school, so we’re actually the same age.” Danny explained, sheepishly. 

“Dude, you're actually way smart.” Duke gaped in awe. 

“Hey medicine isn’t a day walk either.” Danny nudged his arm playfully, “I’m glad the mentorship thing is just for show, though. Now that we’re upperclassmen, y’know. I would not want my hands full with some random rich kid.” 

Duke laughed, “Yeah, that definitely sounds like a lot of work.” 

Easily unfolding the conversation into various topics and interests Duke found that he didn’t mind that the cookies were burnt. Or that Danny was definitely weird. But in a good way. Duke was glad they met and would get to hang out and cook with their weird not-German Chef every week. And if Danny and Duke exchanged numbers and planned to hangout outside of club activities, then well who was going to stop them.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

CULT OF VAGABONDS: PROLOGUE

NAVIGATION || COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER I ||

PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: It all began with a white van, a gun to the spine, and five smooth words. It ended with death.

WORDCOUNT: 4.07k

WARNINGS: Abduction, blood and gore, high stress situations, angst, major character death, vomit, descriptions of wounds, canon typical

A/N: I apologize to the people who hate reading all italics - I had to do it for my own sanity since this is a flashback, lmao. I promise it’s not sticking around. Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*  

OPERATION: KINGFISHER

OVERSIGHT: STATION CHIEF KATE LASWELL, TS/SCI

OPERATIVES: CLASSIFIED

STATUS: ACTIVE

MISSION REPORT: MONDAY, 0823, CHICAGO, USA: THREE YEARS PRIOR:

It would have been kinder to take the bullet.

Your mind runs as you’re placed into a wooden chair roughly, the bag over your head obstructing everything but the thin beams of light passing through the itchy ramie fabric. Bits are glimpsed—people moving, shifting large bodies; tapping feet, and muttering voices like a grim party of ghouls.

You’re going to hyperventilate, you admit with a startling calm that bleeds into induced shock. Under the binds, your hands shake so violently in your lap that you wonder if they’ll break apart like glass—the skin fragments shattering as bones turn to sharp dust. Air gets thin. Black dots start dancing.

“Sir,” a voice to your left speaks, American, and you’re flinching away before the word is fully out, head whipping to the side as if you could make out more than a blob of black and gray. A sob lays heavy in the bareness of your throat as sweat slicks your neck. What was going on? “I…I can’t—”

“You’re excused.” 

The sound of receding footsteps and the slam of a door is scarcely heard above your own breathing, a deep inhale to help push back the void, and a wheezing exhale to welcome the next. Bare membranes of your throat reek of bile, and you think you threw up in the van that had driven you here, though you don’t remember much of that. 

Just the gun in the base of your spine and a low, smooth, voice with a British accent into the shell of your ear.

“Head down and stay quiet.” Someone had said, sternly.

Oh, it would have been kinder to take the bullet. What was it that those shows always warned you about? Never let someone take you to a second location? Your eyes wrench closed as the muscles of your numb fingers tense and loosen in an anxious pattern.

Along the floor, your feet shimmy, not able to keep still despite your mind screaming at you to try—try and disappear into molecules of oxygen and carbon. Everything had a sheen of hypersensitivity. The lights buzzed in your ears like bombs, the rope peeled back atoms of your epidermis, and the tiny groans coming from the left of you were like screams as your senses burned with a thousand suns.

But the British man had said to stay quiet—so stay quiet you did. What other choice did you have? You knew they had weapons, you shouldn’t doubt that they would use them. 

But you really wanted to start screaming your head off.

When the heavy hand landed on the top of your head, only a soundless sob fell from the strained noose of your esophagus. The bag was ripped from you with a flurry of hair and dribbling tears, sweat flying down your neck faster than Pegasus sprang from the Gorgon Medusa’s blood. 

Immediately wrenching your small-pupiled eyes closed with a whine, an invasive overhead light composed of knives stabs into your already blurry vision; your hands jerk upwards to attempt and cover the attack. Silence reigns above all, besides from the single source of that muffled groaning from beside you.

“Mhm…Erm…Hem,” it seemed like the sounds were gasping breaths of your name, hidden behind layers of gagged fabric, swathed in saliva and distress. But…how?

Who else was in this room with you and your kidnappers?

Blinking away the shock to your senses, your chin rises from your chest and your hands lower back down hesitantly. You’re ashamed to admit it, but the first thing you noticed was the state of the room.

Namely, how tiny it was. 

Peeling blue paint hides a slideshow of broken drywall, a layer of indiscernible wallpaper hanging off like broken limbs that reach to the concrete floor. Although this might have been a beautiful basement in the past, now your flickering eyes lock onto the newer additions. 

Swallowing saliva through a closed airway, the tray of silver metal doesn’t fully register with you, nor, then, does the revolver and the six bullets placed beside it. That dying innocent speck in your heart tries to persuade you to a state of fantasy. 

‘If it’s not pointed at you, it can’t hurt you…If it’s not pointed at you, it can’t hurt you…If it’s not—’ The sentiment replays over and over in your head when you rapidly look away from the weapon like it was on fire and begin to notice the statue-like men instead. 

This can’t be real…it has to be a joke. Some sick, twisted, joke.

Five of them, all dressed in black; balaclavas over slate faces tainted with grim determination. You glance over the lot of them and feel your intestines bunch, the beasts shuffling from one foot to another with a predatory gleam to the laced boots. Not one of them was lacking combat gear—vests, holstered weapons, and packs filled with God-knows-what—they looked like soldiers, but that wouldn’t make any sense. 

Your hysterics only increase when one speaks, body flinching back.

“Let’s get this started, then, shall we?” You can’t even tell which began the uttering, but the accent is undeniably British. Gruff, tainted with sharp gravel; not to be ignored if that authoritative edge was anything to go by. 

The individual with crossed arms takes a step forward, buff and taller than all of the others except for one. That gargantuan creature watches you with numb light-blue eyes and pale lashes from a place against the wall. A shiver travels up your spine, and your shirt sticks to you, but you can’t look away. 

They are the eyes of the living dead.

 “This can’t be happening…” Your lips twitch, but only you can hear your words.

The one who appears to be the leader—Buff—tilts his head, but the dark cerulean orbs don’t even look at you. They keep to your left, at the sounds of panicked scuffling and scraping wood. “Gaz.” 

Another man advances, not as robust as the first, but nonetheless built with violence. Tall. Steady. He bleeds contained purpose in the sinuses of his long fingers.

Biting your lip, number two — “Gaz” — stops near the metal table, but he doesn't look at you when your tear-flooded eyes bore into him. Your tongue is lead. 

Who are you? You want to scream. What do you want?! 

From the side of your eye, you see a flash of a navy blue suit, and your vision snaps to it aggressively. The air gets heavy and a stone sits in your guts. 

Gaping, a familiar visage stares right back at you, the build of the face and the structure of the bones reflected back onto you––slated in the very genetic makeup that builds your frame. 

A nice suit. A hurried goodbye in the morning as the butler made breakfast in the kitchen—A kiss to your forehead. Your tears slap your clenched hands, and you think you’re digging your nails into your flesh, but the thing that hurts the most is the hopelessness in your chest.

“Dad?” You sob and stare at the ragged form as your father struggles to speak around a gag, eyes running from one scuff and cut to another as the lights suddenly get ten times brighter. Damn not speaking, this was your father!

But if he was here along with you…

At that moment, all you can describe is the way your own heart was going faster than it ever had, to a point that the world swirled around you in shades of blue and red. If there was a time reminiscent of events that had never happened to you, getting into a deadly car crash or hanging onto the edge of a cliff as torrent rains battered your head, this would be it. 

The alarm in your still head was telling you that this is the end of the road. 

Your father’s hands are tied behind the chair, and you can see the signs of crimson dotting the floor from the binds, skin torn and weeping. His eyes are bathed in fear, the fast rise and fall of his lungs telling you all that needs to be unsaid. 

And his blatant fear only increases your own.

“Dad…what’s going on?” One of the men in the front shifts, standing beside the dead-eyed individual, looking away to glance in the corner with shades of blue in his orbs and a fixing of his stocky biceps. “What is all this? Where…where are we? I was just walking to school—p-passing through the old neighborhood—” 

You’re rambling through panic, and everyone just watches. They watch and watch and watch. Was this a game? A sick, twisted prank? How could they do this and just watch you panic like a bear in a trap?

A hand snaps to your father’s gag and you yell when he rages, body shifting forward feebly before a shadow descends upon you. A swift force keeps you back, and your head snaps upwards. 

You’d never thought that eyes could stay with you for all eternity—when you had a friend that moved away in sixth grade, the first thing you forgot about them was their eyes. The voice was much more important to remember; their gentle touch when they pulled you up at recess after an unfortunate collision when playing tag. But at that moment…

Never would the image of sepia-colored eyes like those leave you again. Inlaid in brown skin and below dark eyebrows. Like a meadow, brown was encircled by light—a ring of amber around the pupil and flecks of emerald, though most of that was lost by numbness.

The hand digs into your shoulder, forcing you to stay in your seat as your lips quiver. It’s not delicate, the hold, and when your eyes scrunch in pain, he somewhat lessons it though not enough to stop the sting. The man everyone called Gaz was incredibly strong. 

Something swam in the recesses of his gaze, some hidden emotion of sorrow or pity that showed as hesitation. He clears his throat and takes a glance at your now-raging father. You shake more violently than a house in a tornado; frozen and unable to speak. What was he going to do to you?

Gaz turns back to you and whispers, blinking through long eyelashes as the fabric of his face covering slightly moves, “It’ll be over soon.” British as well, but a tone smoother than the previous. The hand squeezes your flesh, and you flinch as far back as the seat allows.

He was the one that grabbed you this morning; your legs seize up like a dead deer at the familiar speech pattern. 

The man moves back without uttering another word on sure feet, and you stare after. The sentence Gaz had given you was anything but reassuring, and with your state, it was more of a threat. 

“Get your fucking hand off of her! What the hell is going on? Why is my daughter here?!” Your father’s voice fractures your gaze away from the menagerie of masked abductors, and you turn to watch him growl out in hatred; shell-shocked. “Are you after money? Ransom…? Answer me!” 

“I’d think this would work better,” Buff grunted out, dropping the gag to the floor carelessly, “if you answered me, instead, eh?... Now, where’s the shipment?” 

“Sweetheart,” your father turns to you, but your eyes always filter back to the gun—the men. The last out of the five strangers was one that you hadn’t seen move from the far corner yet. His hands were constantly readjusting over the black metal of a large assault-style rifle that you had only seen in movies. “—Sweetheart! Hey!” 

Snapping to the feral expression of your father, you suck down air you’d been taking for granted and push away the dark spots. You’d forgotten how to breathe properly. Staring into his burning eyes, a plea is stuck to your tongue and a hunched build of your spine. But making yourself smaller wouldn’t help you like it would a rabbit hiding from a circling hawk.

“What’s going on? Please, Dad, what’s happening?” The world is swirling with technicolored lights.

“It’s all going to be alright, okay?” He gasps at you, head swiveling to all parties faster than a racehorse. Buff seems to listen intently, arms loose over his chest and huffing under his breath. His deep blue eyes swivel to you, glinting darkly. “Everything is going to be alright—”

“Pick it up, Sergeant.” The command is cold, numb, and the clinking of a silver barrel connecting to a tray as it was grasped was enough to set your atoms on fire. 

The gun lays loose in Gaz’s hand, hanging at his hip as Buff moves closer to your father and bends down to look into his eyes. 

“The shipment. Tell me. I don’t make a habit of repeating myself.” In the corner, the isolated man hunches his shoulders, eyes darting from you back to your dad—but your own stare stays stuck to the gun. Ears twitch at the loud conversation as the black wave of overwhelming delirium gets larger. 

Shipments? Your fast mind runs as your eyes dart from the weapon to your father, your wrists now raw and skinned from the constant movement. 

Your dad grunts and his desperate eyes look at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. 

“I–I don’t know what you’re talking about, what shipments? Who are you?! If you’re after ransom money just call my wife—she’ll get you what you need.” The leader chuckles lowly while shaking his head in exasperation, pulling back as his gaze goes hard. Your father strains forward after him and repeats the same sentence as before. “What is my daughter doing here you son of a Bitch? You don’t need her.”

He turns to you, his nice suit ruined with sweat. You’d never seen your father scared—not when you’d broken your arm when you were younger or any moment later. Not until now. His pupils are small; pinched in and glossy. Like a fearful animal trapped in a corner. 

You doubted you looked any better as you blink back with a thousand-yard stare, choking back gasps and biting a cut into your lip. Constantly thinking that if you speak your head will get blown off in a shower of crimson.

“Sweetheart, this is all some big misunderstanding, alright? Don’t worry, we’ll be back home soon and this’ll all go away.” 

“Yeah, you’d like that then wouldn’t you?” Buff growls, “Go back to a cush life while your weapons and drugs fund terrorists, eh?” 

Terrorists?! Your eyes widen, turning back to the men with horror. So this wasn’t about your family's money?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Your lips move, mouth parted and eyebrows tight as your very blood seems to cool over. Everyone looks at you and the one second of courage vanishes. “‘D-dad?” 

“Ignore them,” the patriarch hisses, trying to get your attention back on him, “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They—You’ve got the wrong people!” 

“I…I don’t understand why–”

“Sergeant.” Dread seeps like poison one drop at a time to corrupt you. There was never a moment in your life where you had ever felt like you were going to die before—an innocent sentiment of invincible youth. 

But the gun being loaded puts the sense of watching a train crash right into the forefront of your mind; a sudden knowledge of your own morality. Your jaw goes slack as you hold back a scream. Steady, gloved, fingers pick up bullet after bullet and place the copper metal into a steel chamber, brown eyes hard as the stunned silence from your father physically hurts. 

Clink-shunk, chink-shunk.

“What are you—?!” 

“Last chance to change your mind.” The leader interjects, sighing, and you wonder as you hunch into yourself just how cruel this man really is. “Best pull the memory to you quick.”

“What?” Your father laughs in pain, throat getting choked up as he looks to every person, “Are you going to shoot me? In front of my kid?” 

At this point it would be more accurate to call you ‘checked out’ if the blank look on your face was anything to go by; tears were falling and mixing with sweat, but your eyes were far away. As if about to fall asleep as you watch the world pass you by from the car window. 

The leader shakes his head as Gaz finishes loading the revolver, flicking the barrel back with a deft movement of his wrist. Those brown eyes stay firmly stuck to the back wall. 

Dead Eyes sends a long look to your father, and the wide-gazed form beside him tightens his grip over his biceps, shifting large hips. The man in the corner only snaps his head down and tries to disappear. 

Electricity sizzles the air.

“No,” Buff answers casually, “we’re not…We’re going to shoot your daughter.” 

Bile hits the floor as it rockets from your mouth; hissing through the lines between your teeth and splattering to the concrete in a sound of viscous liquid. Breakfast from this morning was unrecognizable as you blink down at it. 

Someone’s shouting pleas—you’re sure it’s your father, because who else—and while you stay half-bent over the chair as your side leans on the arm, everything starts to ring. Feet struggle to stay steady on the ground below you, shoes stained with stomach acid and saliva as it drips from your chin. Over the rageful screams from your dad, the leader continues and you sputter.

“Gaz, it’s all you.” 

“Yes, Sir.” The gun raises to your head, and your face tightens as you spy it from the corner of your eye, not registering beyond words and colors fading out before wafting back in. 

Were you going to die in this basement? It seemed your body knew the answer even as your brain tried to disagree. There was no running or escaping, not a chance with all of these people. Even if you did manage it, how far would you get before a bullet was in your neck?

“Hey!” Your father yells, voice fracturing; arms twisting and feet splaying. The hammer of the revolver is clicked back and your pulse mirrors. “Hey, no, no, no. That’s not—She…She has nothing to do with this!” Your eyes slowly widen, face tilting as you still try to break through your dizziness. “I swear, she doesn’t know anything!” His face peels back, yet his eyes seem to focus on nothing as his attention hops from one person to another in distress. “Let her go and I’ll tell you all of it, okay? I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

Tell you all of it? What does that mean? You want to ask, but the knowledge that your body had chosen neither fight nor flight but freeze was heavy in your heated and pounding brain as it pulses against your skull.

Thump-thump, thump-thump. 

You count the flood of blood that spreads through your body as the taste of vomit sticks to the back of your throat. Rats squeak from behind ventilation grates but wait eagerly for a meal as particles of dust fly past your wide vision. 

Your father doesn’t look at you as you gape, and you’re not sure what to think. 

Shipments? Terrorists? What could your Museum Director dad have anything to do with that? He had to be lying to save your skin—giving these people a false reality. Yes, yes, that was it. He was trying to save both of you, you just had to trust him. 

Your chest rises and falls swiftly.

“I–I swear! I promise, let my little girl go and I won’t—!”

“I think she’ll stay right here.” The leader grunted, hooking his arms into his vest collar, pale eyelids half-closed. “Speak. Quickly”

“Okay! Just put the gun down—please!” The gun is lowered immediately, but it doesn’t make you feel any more present. Brown eyes surrounded by dark lashes meet yours for a few seconds before blinking away to the wall behind you; eyebrows minutely pulling tight.

You’d never hated a look of shielded pity more. 

“They come in at night and stay by the dry docks—I don’t know how they get here so fast,” your father speaks as a man possessed, and, strangely, the individual in the corner starts to hang onto every word. Sending your form quick glances with rapidly moving eyes. Not that you noticed. “The products all just sit there until I can come by and take inventory! Two fifteen in the morning! It’s all under my name, I pay off the inspectors every month. Check dock number seven-one-three and the blue cargo containers.”

“What?” You mutter, trying not to gag and shake as if pushing away the instinctual actions would help you focus on the bitter revelation. “What are you…” 

This is more than a lie—these are details. In-depth. 

No, your mind tells you, no he’s just lying. Everything’s a lie.

“I swear it’s only me, no one else knows about it.” The man in the corner’s feet are shifting, leg muscles testing and relaxing as his fingers twitch over the metal of his gun. Your dad looks at you from the side of his eye, guilt in his bones. “God…I–I sell everything over the auctions held at—” 

A gunshot pierces the air. 

Liquid splatters your face, warm and heavy, and before you even know what’s happening you’re releasing a scream so loud it echoes off the walls. Snapping your chin down to your chest and bound hands over your head, a great yell erupts from the men, and a clamber of skin on gear follows the dragging of feet. Grunted breath and calls of alarm. All the noise scares off the scavengers in the vents with shrieks.

“What in the fucking hell are you thinking, Private?!” The leader's voice yowls and grunts as you slowly open your eyelids, lashes fluttering over your cheeks. “We needed him alive, you Muppet!”

You find a slumped figure in the chair your father had just been in with a shuttering inhale. Slack-jawed, you look over the crater that was left of his face numbly; lips and teeth ripped apart and a caved-in skull. His hair was strewn about, and without a cohesive thought, your fingers itched to smooth it down. 

He hated when his hair was unruly. 

A navy suit you’d seen at breakfast was stained—irreparable—with brain matter and blood that cascaded down a massacred face with a head tilted forward. His nerves jump with activity, spurring fluid to the ground until a puddle forms. 

Your father was a good man. You—your father was a…good man. 

The rest of the men continue to scuffle, barking orders as more feet suddenly race from the other side of the door. Your ears tune it out. You can’t look away, not even when a hand is placed on your shoulder and you’re suddenly being forcefully turned in the opposite direction of the corpse. 

Unresponsive, your far-away look meets creased amber and dark lashes—eyes you had decided you’d never forget and now that sentiment was forged with steel and tempered to perfection. Just like you’d never forget that your father’s body was just a reach away, and it was never supposed to happen. His blood was staining your clothes; your face and hair. A bath of gore.

Dead…? No, he was just alive a second ago. He—he can’t be. How? I just saw him this morning. We were going to go into the museum tomorrow to help set up a new section.

Your mouth moves, but no words escape.

A smooth voice tries to speak to you, but all you do is watch the fabric of a black balaclava shift and strain as the noise sounds like car sirens. Gaz is attempting to shake you, lightly, and when it doesn’t help he looks around stiffly, pausing on the body before looking away to the ground in search.

Without much thought behind the action, your loose lips pull back and utter only one word. Weak. Fractured and horribly hoarse.

“Oh.” 

It was somewhat of a mercy when the itchy ramie fabric of the previous bag was refitted in one swift motion. And all the while you sit there, shaking, a hand never leaves the top of your head, holding it down.

TAGS:

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(sorry if some of these don’t work)

[dragonnarrative-writes]

WIP Wednesday

I have so many ideas for this OC, but none are cooperating with me.

Meet Bricks!

Simon notices, immediately, when the American girl enters the bar. First of all, she’s loud. Announces her arrival with a blast of laughter that rings through the room, for all that she’s surrounded by a group of rowdy people. Secondly, she’s dark-skinned, voluptuous, and seems to want everyone to know it. She’s dressed for the clubs more than a side street bar. Two guys she’s arrived with are obviously vying for her attention, but she floats over to one of the active pool tables and immediately starts flirting for the next game. Simon’s not immune to a soft woman with miles of leg, so he can’t blame any of them for welcoming her and her posse.

“Damn,” Kyle mutters, giving her an appreciative once over from his seat.

“What?” Johnny asks, looking over his shoulder like a fucking muppet. “Oh, damn.”

Price arches an eyebrow at Simon. “That good?” When he gets a nod, he turns to look. “…Damn.”

She has to know that everyone at the bar is looking at her, but she doesn’t seem to care. Just talks and laughs, flirts with the men and women around her like breathing. Simon never loses awareness of her. She’s in his sight line. But eventually, he’s integrated her into his awareness of the space. She’s a bright spot, but not rowdy enough to cause issues.

And then she passes their table on the way to the bathroom with her friends. She meets Simon’s eyes, gives him a quick up and down look, then winks with a little smirk as she disappears from view.

“What about you, LT?” Johnny’s voice breaks in.

Simon replays the conversation in his mind for a moment. Recruit performance. Lance Corporal Bennett. “Don’t much care for him. ‘S cocky and mean.”

“Good scores,” Kyle points out.

“He talks shit about the others,” Simon counters. “Good scores don’t mean shit if no one wants to work with him. We’ll see how he does with coordinated drills.”

“Now, Bakshi,” Price says, “he’s got promise. Scores are decent, and I can’t find a single person to say anything bad about him. Except Bennett.”

Johnny snorts. “Except Bennet.”

Simon lets the conversation fade away again. The pool tables are getting a bit rowdy without the American and her girl friends to dilute the testosterone. A couple of the boys over there are from the base, and they keep throwing glances over to the 141s table, and a table of other officers across the room. They’re keeping things cool. For now.

Just as chests are starting to puff enough that even Johnny and Kyle are paying attention, the girls reappear and diffuse the tension. The American says something that knocks the wind out of one boy’s sails and laughs as she takes his pool stick. She buzzes a kiss against his cheek, then playfully shoves another guy to rack. Just like that, the energy settles.

Simon lets himself be coaxed back into the discussion, especially now that the topics have strayed away from work. He can’t turn the hyper-vigilance off, but he likes going to the bar with his team. Likes talking books and TV shows with Price and mocking Johnny’s taste. He likes listening to Kyle talk music. He’s entering an artist’s name into his notes app, which is why he doesn’t notice the American strutting over until she’s right between Johnny and Kyle.

“Hey guys,” she says with a grin, leaning onto the table. “I thought about asking if any of you have a light, but my friends are leaving to get laid and the pool boys are boring. Can I hang out here until they lose interest? I’ll buy you a round.”

Price snorts into his whiskey. “They stop buying you drinks, then?”

“All they want to buy is drinks,” she laments, fluttering her eyelashes and pouting. “I’ve had three, but they’re not getting any more interesting. I’d rather have some fries and sit and chat.”

“Pull up a chair, bonnie lass,” Johnny says, which predictably gets the girl cooing over his accent.

She introduces herself as Ericka, an American student working on her Masters. She talks with her whole body, and doesn’t seem to know how to have a conversation without flirting. She hates the gym. She likes riding horseback, and winks at Simon when she mentions it. She “kind of pegged you guys as military. It’s the muscles.” She prefers whiskey over scotch, and her friends were supposed to take her clubbing tonight.

“But Tracy’s boyfriend hates going dancing, and she’s got a spine of a jellyfish,” she says, rolling her eyes. She’s waving a fry for emphasis. “So of course, we ended up here after I dressed up-up. Trust me, I know this is not a casual night at the pub type dress. I didn’t get the change of plans until the uber dropped us off out front. But I guess it turned out alright. I have no idea what kind of music I’d have been subjected to. Devon has shit taste, so I probably dodged a bullet.”

Even with as much as she’s batting her lashes and sending him interested glances, Ericka doesn’t try to make Simon talk more. With the rest of the table, she’s an excellent conversationalist. As he scans the bar again, he listens to her pick up the music topic with Kyle, drawing Price into a light hearted disagreement. Turns to Johnny with a pout for a tiebreaker. Which somehow gets them all into discussion of the best rock and roll genres. She talks, she listens, she engages. It’s refreshing. Most of the Americans they have to deal with are pushy and self-important officers and mercenaries.

Simon’s not above admitting that it helps that she’s beautiful.

After a couple of hours, it’s nearing 1am. Right on schedule, Kyle yawns. “Sorry, sorry. Not a night owl like some.”

“’S late,” Price admits. “Should probably head out. You have a ride home, Ericka?”

“Yeah, I’ll call a car,” she says, easily. “Thanks for hanging out with me, I’ll have to come back some time.”

“If we’re in town, we’re here,” Johnny says, grinning.

Outside, Erikca’s car gets delayed a couple of times, so Simon sends the boys ahead home and stays to wait with her. Price claps him on the shoulder and Johnny gives him an exaggerated wink. Ericka rolls her eyes and shoos them away when their car arrives.

“So,” she says, when it’s just the two of them. “Was I too subtle before, or are you interested in coming back to my place?”

“Barely spoke to you all night,” Simon points out.

“Come over and you can tell me about your tattoos,” she purrs. Then she smirks. “Or not. Up to you. But I figured I’d shoot my shot.”

[Super sexy sex happens here. Probably.]

Monday morning, Ghost sips a fresh brewed travel mug of tea and listens idly to Soap’s chatter on the way to one of the smaller briefing rooms. He’s looking forward to seeing Laswell, who’s on their side of the pond for a change. It’s always good for him to lay eyes on allies and confirm for himself that they’re alive.

It’s a shock, then, when he and Soap open the door to be greeted by Kate in deep discussion with Ericka.

Soap, of course, is more than happy to say what they’re both thinking. “What the fuck?”

When Ericka looks up and sees them, she grins. “Hey there, boys.”

Price and Gaz, when they arrive, are similarly gobsmacked. Once everyone is settled Lazwell stands.

“From your faces, you’ve all met,” she says. “So I won’t beat around the bush. Say hello to your new infiltration asset. Meet Bricks.”

All of them are speechless as Ericka lays four gray USB sticks on the table. They’re all the ones Price had distributed Thursday, with instructions that the keep one on them at all times. Plus an extra one. If Simon had to guess, Gaz was the one to have a decoy on him.

“Bullshite,” Soap says, pulling an identical USB stick from his pocket. “I’ve had mine on me the whole time.”

“Decoy,” Ericka, Bricks, says. “Slide the port out, you’ll see a pink dot.”

Simon pulls his from his pocket, pushes the little slider. Faded, but present, there’s a pink spot of permanent marker. “Fuck.”

“She’s one of the best infiltration assets we have,” Kate goes on. “She’ll be joining you to get information from Jacó Barboza. We have reason to believe he’s the link between Moscow and Rio, which opens the door to Bogotá.”

[mattzerella-sticks]

My Idea for a Live-Action X-Men Movie...

Thinking... how can we introduce the X-Men into live action, whether through movie, tv show, limited series, etc. ... and I have an idea.

Let's start in media res.

Charles Xavier's School for the Gifted has been active for the past few years, however with a small class size of seven. Scott. Jean. Bobby. Hank. Warren. Alex. Lorna. Despite only consisting of seven students, due to Xavier's wealth he has been able to keep his school open and thriving since the beginning.

However that has changed as the size of his class has dropped from seven to one after a botched mission led to the capture of his students save one, Scott Summers.

And the opening scene is Xavier sitting in his mansion, worried, waiting, until Scott kicks his door down, tells them his team is gone, and passes out due to exhaustion.

We then pick up on our narrator for the movie, the character whose eyes we will be seeing the entire movie take place through, stepping off a plane and into JFK airport...

Ororo Munroe. Storm.

She had travelled from her home in Africa seemingly on a whim, as if drawn there by fate, and - unsure where to go or what to do next - she goes to a nearby bar to make her next plan.

Who should happen to sit next to her but a short, hairy man in a cowboy hat and a thick, Canadian accent?

Ororo, meet Logan. They do not hit it off.

She does happen to hit it off with the soft spoken Russian man who is reading poetry at the other end of the bar - Piotr Rasputin - and the bartender, a Native American man - James Proudstar - who wasn't supposed to be working that day but traded shifts with his roommate.

While they are all gathered there they hear a voice in their heads and turn around to see Charles Xavier, a man they all recognize and all soon realize is the reason they are now gathered together in this bar. At first they all want to leave but Xavier implores them to at least first hear him out, which they agree to do, but he tells them he won't start until the final member of their group is here.

Cue shouts and gunfire as Kurt - Nightcrawler - runs, leaps, and teleports across the airport in all his blueness.

Xavier manages to calm the crowd however not before one of the security guards manages to call in that the threat is a mutant and it's a race to grab Kurt before reinformcements arrive. But wouldn't you know it the group is not the best team yet and the reinforcements do arrive in the form of Sentinels.

It seems like all hope is lost when, out of nowhere, a stray quartz-colored beam blows one of the Sentinels apart and allows the group a moment to escape. They regroup in Xavier's car, which had been where Scott was waiting while Xavier gathered the others.

They return to the mansion where Xavier explains what happens to his team, that they were responding to a mutant in distress on an island that had ultimately been a trap - with only Scott escaping. The group has been gathered together to help Xavier and Scott rescue their teammates.

It's mostly a resounding no. Piotr would rather be at home on the farm. James has to go searching for a new job since he undoubtedly got fired from the bar for leaving during shift hours. Logan is "not a team player" and believes that the team is most likely dead anyway. Kurt is game but he is also "not the best fighter".

Ororo also agrees to help.

That surprises everyone. She says that while the circumstances that brought them together were underhanded, she cannot sit idly by while innocent people, people like her with a mutant gene, are in danger. Not just those on the island, who they are tasked with rescuing, but around the world especially since Sentinels have become standard issue around the world. While she does not see herself being a full-time member, she knows that the team Xavier had protected mutants like them from these threats and, with them gone, who will protect their community now?

Xavier tells them that, after they help rescue his original team, they would be free to leave and do what they want with their lives as they please.

Piotr is in. So is James. Logan sighs and agrees, "Since I don't want to be the odd one out." They agree to go save the others. Scott says, however, that before they can mount the rescue mission, they need to become a team first - referencing their battle at the airport and how they need to improve.

They agree to train.

Meanwhile, on the island, we see that there is a Master Mold along with Trask and scientists working on creating the next model of Sentinels in their ongoing war against mutants using the captured mutants from Xavier's Academy as test subjects. The scientists are just as much as prisoners as the X-Men, however, as they were led to the island on false pretenses and forced to work for Master Mold who had, unbenknownst to everyone until the final act, had taken over Trask and controls him as a puppet.

A few of these scientists came with their families. One of these families were the Prydes. Katherine Anne Pryde is seen as a non-threat by both Master Mold and Trask, and is able to freely wander the island as well as speak with the prisoners because, since everything is monitored and she is twelve, she cannot do anything to disrupt the mission. We learn from this scene that Master Mold is on the cusp of unveiling a new breed of Sentinel that, using the schematics pulled from Jean's mind, would be able to track mutants anywhere without needing to be called in. It was luck that the X-Men arrived on their island, fell into their trap.

Meanwhile back in Westchester, NY, this new team of X-Men are having a hard time at coming together to work as a team, which is making Scott mad. He and Logan almost come to blows if not for Piotr stepping between them to break things up. They both step away to cool off.

Ororo decides to speak with both of them. First, she goes to Scott, and tells him that he is not being a good leader. They have a heart to heart where he confesses that his friends are his family, and Jean... he has a lot riding on this being a success, and this is as new to him as it is new to them. He is not used to working with people he hasn't grown up with. Ororo tells him that he needs to lead from a place of love and courage, and not fear. Then, she goes to find Logan to see that he is brushing off Kurt rather coldly and Ororo does not wait to take him to task on his loner attitude. They clash a bit before Ororo tells him to get his act together or just leave, as it shouldn't matter to him what they think if he really doesn't care.

They all agree to do another training session, only they never get the chance as Xavier tells them it is now or never as there was a spike of pain from the same island his first team was lost, and that cannot mean anything good. The heroes go to get suited up and fly to the island base.

Master Mold is ready to create his new breed of Sentinels and it looks like they are a success, as they have been fitted with new upgrades. He activates a few and they immediately power online with the alert that there is a mutant among them.

All eyes turn to Katherine Anne Pryde. Kitty.

Her father and mother object but are restrained as the Sentinels begin to pursue her, only able to tell her to run before they are knocked out. Kitty runs and manages to escape the Sentinels after discovering her ability to phase through solid matter. The escape is not fullproof as they burst out the bunker in full pursuit. When she reaches the beaches with what looks like no place left to go, the clouds part and reveal the Blackbird jet which Ororo had just exited from and is now flying down to confront the Sentinels she spotted chasing the little girl. The Sentinels sense her power and lock onto her, only to get blasted by lightning and turret fire.

The X-Men land and confront the Sentinels but, unlike at JFK, they are able to work together and take them down. Even Logan finds himself being a team player. They rescue Kitty and she tells them where the prisoners are and also what Master Mold is planning.

The team decides to split up - Scott, Piotr, and James will confront Master Mold while Ororo, Logan, and Kurt follow Kitty to the prison area.

Of course we stay with Ororo because, again, she is who we are relying to guide us through this story.

We get to the prison area and it's Ororo, Logan, and Kurt going HAM on these guards taking them down while Kitty uses her powers to free the X-Men. She manages to get to the main control room and hits the button that releases all the prisoners who do their best to help, despite being weakened from experiments and torture.

We learn from Kitty that there's a prisoner missing, and they admit that it's Jean. She was taken by Trask.

So the group races to the main room where Scott, Piotr, and James are and see a BUNCH of Sentinels on the loose and pure pandemonium. Piotr and James are on the ropes and Scott is putting up his best fight, however just as the group arrives the Sentinels converge and blast him, with a woman across the room watching calling out his name as he 'perishes' (we'll circle back on this later).

Without their leader and shocked, Ororo steps up and takes command, leading the group into battle like she's been doing it all her life against the Sentinels while Kitty and Kurt evacuate the scientists. She cuts across the room almost instantly to get to Trask and Jean where we finally learn that the former has been completely taken over by Master Mold and is now a Sentinel cyborg. They battle it out but it's a tough battle given the numbers they're against until there's a moment where Ororo and Jean are tucked away, shielded from incoming blaster fire from Trask and the Sentinels, when Jean places her hands to the ground and closes her eyes. Ororo asks what she's doing and Jean tells her she's asking for help.

"From who? Xavier only sent us?"

"From the mutant we came here to help in the first place. From the island."

BOOM! We get the reveal that the island. Krakoa, is a mutant and has been weakened by the experiments run on it by Master Mold and the Sentinel. Jean tells the group that they need to let Krakoa 'feed' on a piece of their energy to recupe its strength for it to help them and they all look to Ororo as it's her call, and she says they should do it. They do and the ground rumbles and shakes and we can see the island begin to terraform as it fights back against Master Mold and the Sentinels. It takes out MANY of them while the X-Men pick up the slack on the rest.

Ororo takes on Master Mold/Trask hybrid as the island begins to sink back into the ocean, with Trask, damaged, spouting nonsense. That he is there to save the world, that he is the FUTURE, the INEVITABLE, that the X-Men cannot prevent the world falling apart in the future, that they will be responsible for the apocalypse. However, with a lightning zap and some timely telekinesis, the group escapes back to the Blackbird as the rest of the island has already been evacuated.

The X-Men return to Westchester without Scott and inform Xavier of what happened.

Time moves on. They recover. They mourn. A memorial service is held for Scott. Xavier's original students, Warren, Bobby, Alex, Hank, and Lorna, decide to leave the school afterwards as they believe they need to come at the Sentinel problem another way. They form X-Force.

Xavier comes up to Ororo after the service and asks her to stay on, despite her having no obligation to do so. She watches Logan and Kurt keeping Kitty entertained while Piotr and James speak with her parents, about Kitty staying on at the school and learning from Professor Xavier, and decides that she would like to stay and lead the X-Men. Jean joins them and says that she'd be happy to be on any team Storm is leading, revealing that -of the original students - she is the only one who is staying with the X-Men. The three look out onto the horizon as there are endless possibilities for the X-Men now *play the theme song*

END CREDIT SCENE NUMBER ONE - Magneto watches Xavier's new team of X-Men in action and converses with Mystique, saying that, "If Charles has put together a new team of recruits, we should, too."

END CREDIT SCENE NUMBER TWO - A blonde woman in all white speaks with a raven-haird men with red eyes and a crimson diamond embedded in his head. "You pulled a lot of favors to get him, are you sure he's worth it?" "Believe me. He is." The duo, Emma Frost and Dr. Sinister are looking over the body of Scott Summers, very much NOT DEAD, held in stasis as the camera pans out and reveals the Hellfire Club.

And that would be how we introduce the X-Men, and mutants, into live action movies.

[miilkybnn]

I know these have been requested already but I adore your 09 and cowboy Ghost/Roach/Soap art and would love to see more!! Also, do you have any cowboy/gunslinger headcanons for the three??

I, too, adore ’09 GhostRoachSoap AND cowboy/ranch life GhostRoachSoap so you absolutely WILL see more of them, I promise!!

As for ideas/hc for the cowboy au, it’s a lot more “ranch life” based than gunslingers so if you are into that, keep reading below the line!

If not, then you are more than welcome to skip over this :}

Disclaimer: Most of my ideas are a bit scattered so I apologize for the messy layout, I’ll try my best to keep it coherent. Also, this is not all of them I don’t want this to be overly long

Background:

The AU takes place in Roach’s family ranch where all three members have been discharged from duty.

In this AU, because I like happiness, there is no war over the horizon and is simply a group of people living their lives out on the rolling plains of either Texas or Tennessee— I’m leaning more towards Texas just because I know more about the agriculture of the Texas plains.

In this AU, the 141 & Co simply live their lives from either being retired/discharged/etc. While everyone is involved (except for Shepherd, eat shit and die Shepherd), they all do their own thing but primary attention is mainly on GhostRoachSoap

Roach (+ extended background):

Roach and his other 5 siblings have the ranch under their and their parent’s name. He and two of his siblings, the youngest and the second oldest, are more active in taking care of the ranch's needs now that their parents are well into their ages. The other three help ever so often with more minor things but they have their own families to tend to and his parents don't actually live in the ranch anymore (again, due to age) and live closer to the city.

Roach, however, is the main caretaker for the ranch. He spends the most time on the land and is often alone, that was until Ghost and Soap came

Headcanons;

His accent left when he joined the army. Came back tenfold after a week on the ranch.

Has a collection of cowboy hats and each one serves a purpose (although his favorite is his very worn-out Cattleman that he leaves by the front door to take on his way out)

Expert horse rider. I'm not saying you would see this man at the Rodeo, but he’s had his fair share of bucking broncos, and not ONCE has he been bucked off.

Though there are horses on the ranch, his horse is Estella— a Chestnut American Quarter Horse with three white socks (forelegs + right hind leg) and a star + stripe. She loves to chew on people’s clothes if they turn their backs on her.

Has slept in the barn before (multiple times) and regrets it every time (wouldn’t recommend it, very lumpy and you WILL wake up with straw in places you don’t want it to be)

LOVES cattle work, and hates paperwork 💀 (he lets Ghost, and his two other siblings take care of it) due to this, he is good at reading the animals and knowing when something is wrong!

Are good friends with the vet! (It’s his ex 💀) (They broke amicably though so it’s okay!!) (“So, like, when I kiss you??…. it’s gross” “OH thank God, I thought it was only me")

Gets SOOO distracted when Soap is picking the hay bales. Bff short circuits for a good minute before Ella gets miffed at him and throws her head back

Cows > sheep (will make an exception for baby lambs tho)

Soap:

Along with Ghost, realistically both would not actually retire in some rural Texas town but because I can, let's say they decided to retire to some rural Texas town.

Soap is the most recent member to the farm and took to it like a duck to water. (We'll ignore the times he forgot to lock the chicken coop). He was on active duty but after a close call that was too close to comfort, he decided that maybe it was time to retire. Price is the one that mentioned the ranch to him, although at the time he did not know it was a ranch.

All Price told him was “if you are looking for something a little different, take a look here" and looking he went.

Headcanons:

Not on the friendliest terms with the cattle dogs but boy do they LOVE him (they’ve tried to herd him multiple times and have succeeded) (he cusses both Ghost and Roach out for watching and letting it happen)

Loves the nitty gritty work. Hay bales? Check. Cleaning the stables? On it. Shearing the sheep? The Clippers are all warmed up already. If there’s a job that involves getting his hands dirty, he is the first in line

Sheep > cows

His horse is a Buckskin American Quarter Horse that he very proudly named Buck. This name came after Roach told him the color of his coat but was reinforced when Soap tried riding him and was almost bucked off. They became the best of pals after that, and Buck occasionally tries to nibble Soap’s mohawk for fun.

His favorite chore is feeding the animals! He loves watching them all flock to their food and munch away. He doesn't find it much of a chore as it fills him with such joy to see all the creatures he cares for flourish.

Gagged the first, second, and third time he saw a sheep give birth. Man has seen a soldier’s leg come clean off from a bomb and recovered in less than 5 minutes but BIRTH? Get the bucket ready.

Ghost:

Discharged after a mission had gone wrong, Ghost had no idea where to go. With no family to go back to and no friends to crash with, civilian life was looking very bleak until Price came to him with a plane ticket and an address to some rural town in Texas.

Ranch life was… different for Ghost. It wasn’t bad per say, and he can’t really find much to complain about, but it was just different. It is... steadier? softer? he's not too sure but at least it lets him sleep easier at night.

It took him and Roach a while to find a rhythm. It wasn’t easy and it was very awkward at first but eventually they were able to settle on something unique for them that worked out.

Headcanons:

Sheep > cows

He likes to roam around with the LGDs. He greatly respects their jobs and has grown a soft spot for them. He knows he’s not supposed to distract them, but he just can’t help himself and always gives them a good belly rub.

Became good friends with the farrier. Farrier does most of the talking but Ghost will join in here and there. He really likes learning about the Farrier's different methods and likes to watch him work on the horses. (Lowkey thinking about making Jackson the farrier bc why not)

One of my favorite personal hc's about Ghost is that he is shit at naming things so yeah, he named his horse, Horse. Roach almost took his horse privileges away because of it but anyway, his horse is not an AQH like Roach/Soap but is instead one of the two draft horses the ranch has! His horse is Blue Roan Clydesdale with a very splotchy coat that loves peppermints and loves napping her days away (she’s had three kids alright she deserves it)

Genuinely enjoys doing the ranch paperwork. Sure, he has to ask Roach here and there where some of the stuff is at but honestly? Could spend hours reading and organizing the books and such. He's very interested in the topics discussed.

Earliest riser. His favorite time of the day is just before the sun peaks over the horizon where everything is blue and foggy, where condensation sits on his skin, when the crickets are still chirping, and when the mourning doves are softly cooing. Roach wakes up soon after him.

[imqueerandadeer]

Not so small rant about assimilation

Okay quick disclaimer, all if not most of this rant will be about MY experiences as a white passing asian person (with some commentary from my non mixed friend), and remember my experiences don't speak for the whole asian american community (although I will admit there are some similarities between what I have experienced and what other people like me have experienced) because asian people are not a monolith!! This rant is also mainly centered around being asian american and being forced to assmilate but I think most of it applies to other cases of assimilation.

Okay with that out of the way lets start with some context about myself and my life.

Hi, I'm Oliver or Cupid and I'm half thai but white passing. My mom immigrated here with her parents in the 1970's when she was around three. My mom grew up in the valley (or the San Fernando valley) in the 80's and 90's when asian hate and racism was a lot more prevalent than it is now. She was one of the only asian kids at her Christan school. I remember her telling me there was this boy who made fun of her for having an accent when she didn't have one (my mom is fluent in both English and Thai) the same guy (I think) also made a racist comment about two Chinese pandas and connected it to my mom somehow idk she told me this a while ago.

My mom only spoke thai at home with her parents and because she was the oldest child and she was fluent in both Thai and English she had to translate everything for her parents. She only knows thai because she had to speak it at home and because she doesn't use it anywhere else, she married my dad (a white guy) and had me (I am only fluent in english) she didn't see the use in teaching me thai. She also barely knows anything about thai culture because her parents just refused to tell her because they wanted to assimilate and be "real americans."

This stops me from knowing anything about my culture or language, I had to google thai mythology. I had to google my own cultures mythology. Thats just depressing. This also just makes me feel more isolated from my own community than I already am because I'm white passing.

From a very young age I've always sensed that I don't fit in with other asian kids or fit in at all with other asian people and the community as a whole. It feels like I'm not asian enough to call myself asian american, theres always an asterisk of hey I'm also white passing so I'm not really aisan. Which mind you isn’t true but doesn't stop me from feeling like that in general.

It's so hard trying to keep your culture alive when you know nothing about it, I want to talk about being thai, I want to talk about my mythology, and I want to know more than 4 words in thai. All thats keeping me from that is assimilation and a false promise of "if you try hard of enough to fit in you will," the american dream was never a thing and it actively hurts people like me. people who want to know about their culture but can't because is stuck under years of oppression and trauma that our grandparents and parents just won't work through.

And now over to my friend @pansgoobernonsense for it's comments on just asian hate as a whole and some of its experiences with how normalized it is:

"So this one time my mom was at the DMV I believe and some lady yelled at her to go back to China since her English was bad and that encouraged her to learn more English, but her English still isn’t that good (it’s understandable but not grammatically correct sometimes) and she used to get bullied for it and was self conscious

my dad was raised in Hong Kong when it was a British colony and when he went to America for boarding school a kid physically attacked him, called him a slur, and tried to hit him over the head with a snowboard because he was Asian

I was raised in a very sheltered Chinese environment (bilingual school and all that jazz), but as a kid I always wanted to be that white it girl, to the point where I would lie and say I was bipoc 💀 lowkey funny asf

I’ve also been called slurs before and have been told by my parents to avoid talking about being Chinese so I wouldn’t get hate crimed when I went to middle school (public middle school) thankfully that didn’t happen but someone said konichiwa to me once so… erm"

Wow this was longer than expected mb sorry if this made zero sense/jumps around a lot I tried to make it coherent as possible (and have the spelling and grammar correct) but it's 1 am for me and I'm already shit at articulating my thoughts and sleep depravation does not help

[thevapingsufi]

Scottish people really hate the 23andme diaspora, and I'm guilty of this too. A lot of hatred comes from these people having a disconnect from modern Scottish culture, and making a parody out of what they think it is i.e. kilts, mixing up Gealic, Gaelic and Scots, weird worship of generic ancestory. All of it seems at odds with actual Scottish culture.

The make up of Modern Scottish culture is defined by two major events one good and one bad. The good is the spread of civic nationalism, the modern idea of Scottishness is mostly based on are you born here, or did you spend a long time here? Then you're Scottish. My mum spent a long enough time here to culturally integrate, but never lost her accent and she was accepted as Scottish. Anywhere else I would only be considered half Scottish but I have been told firmly by people that I would have otherwise expected to be anti immigrant that I am most definitely Scottish, whether they or I like it. It's simply a fact.

The second is the Highland Clearances, a genocide on highland Scots but lowland Scots which has left the central belt the cultural heart of Scotland, and nearly wiped out most of the cultural and historical traditions people in the diaspora associate with Scotland, the clans, the kilts, the celtic poems.

Many of those people who are claiming Scottishness through blood are probably descendents of people ethnicly cleansed off their lands. Is it fair to deny them their ancestoral identity, an identity stripped off their ancestors, because the idea of Scottishness itself has moved on into something far more active, and tied to the land of the country itself.

Is it fair? I don't really know. Can we dismiss what might be a branch of a culture cruelly excised from its home because it's current examples are annoying Americans? Is it fair?

The story itself is also a lot more complex since another part of the Scottish Diaspora aren't victims but perpetrators. Time was the idea of Scottishness wasn't tied to civility and an open culture but cruelty. "Cruel as Scots" used to be a popular turn of phrase, and one our ancestors earned in spades. Where ever the British had a plantation, from India, to Ireland, to the Americas and the Caribbean a Scotsman was happy to hold the whip. Even the Scottish culture hero Rabby Burns once accepted a role as an oversear in Jamaica, before one of his poems became the talk of the town in Edinburgh. If that burst of fame had never came, or even came two weeks too late the great ideal of Scottish working class liberalism, a man who celebrated the American revolution and wrote poems humanising the victims of Slavery wouldn't has missed his boat and instead have been out there defending Empire and keeping enslaved people in chains.

This part of the Scottish Diaspora would go on to largely run the Confederacy and even before that formed the base of that Southern American pseudo-aristocracy. There's a reason the Confederacy flew the cross of Saint Andrew when going into battle.

Maybe these annoying Americans aren't the victims of ethnic strife, but the perpetrators? Does that mean it's easier to dismiss them?

A further kink in the story is the on going conflict between Scottish and British identity. In modern times this is largely tied to loyalty to the UK or desire for an independent Scotland, but religion and ethnicity also comes into this to add their own unique flavours. Can people with no ties to the land, having never once set foot in it identify as Scottish? Can people born and raised here deny their Scottishness? Can we really seperate out British and Scottish identity into two seperate things cleanly? Scotland struggles to do this now, define what is Scottish and what is British.

Glasgow is definitely seen as the Scottish City, while Edinburgh is the British, some times referred to as an English city by people on the West Coast (not as a compliment) but if you were to look into the history of either of these cities you would be puzzled as to why. Glasgow was once the second largest city in the British Empire, the second city of empire, it's shipyards growing to accommodate the empire's needs, it's geography defined by the wealth flowing into merchant square. Edinburgh on the otherhand had been the seat of power for Scottish kings, the cultural heart of the lowlands, and Scotland as a whole.

Scotland is also the birth place of the Enlightenment. Sounds silly but largely due to a mix of education access provided by the Church of Scotland, and wealth and opportunities provided by the British Empire Scotland emerged as the first major place in the world to support a middle class. Class, culture and identity all being interlinked this further divorced the diaspora from Scotland, and helped create a second great wave of Scottish emigrates, ready to administer the empire, with at varying times around 2/3 of employees of both the British Raj and East India Company being made up of Scots.

This also created a well educated but low income class of Scots who suddenly had the chance and ability to find employment abroad, something that developed into a tradition kept up to this day, and largely why I exist. Maybe these 23andMe Scots aren't the result of ethnic cleansing, or the remnants of the evils of empire but simply people that left their homes to find work, who found new homes away from Scotland.

I don't really have a nice conclusion to this rant, culture isn't a dead thing drowned in formaldehyde that can be studied and examined in stillness. I don't really know, and these are all very big questions to be brought out because I saw a very annoying American tourist.

[oillydiya]

Things Between Us | Cillian Murphy x OC

Chapter 5 : Get to Know

Summary: Sansa, a 26-year-old graduate student, who unexpectedly encounters a twist of fate when she comes across an actor she never knew before!

Sansa led the four actors into the living area. They all sat down on the large sofa that was prominently placed in front of the bookshelf. She sat on the sofa opposite them. The girl was extremely nervous at this moment. She’s not acting right. Because this was the first time she had brought a stranger into her apartment. All four of them were also men. That doubled the nervousness.

This was not normal for her to blindly bring someone into her own safe space. Even though she knew they could be trusted, it still made the girl feel very nervous.

“Why did you choose to study art?” Cillian asked.

The young woman thought for a moment.

“Um…. It’s a continuation of when my parents passed away.” She said with a sad look in her eyes. “I was only seventeen at the time. I didn’t know how to deal with various feelings. How did that come to me? I’m not a good speaker and don’t express myself much. One day, I sat down to draw a picture. At that time, I painted it with every emotion I had. So it made me know Art has no voice. No need to sit and talk. It is a space for us to easily express our feelings. And when that work is finished, paintings are able to communicate the emotions of the owner of the piece. Without speaking. Just looking at it, we can understand that What does the owner of this work want to convey? And how are you feeling? So that’s what I chose to study and pay attention to.”

She tried to explain her feelings to Cillian, who asked, and other people who are sitting and listening intently to understand as easily as possible.

“Wow, you explain the word. The art is really good, I can understand that,” Fin said.

“I’m just explaining my feelings. Art is the ultimate in emotional fluidity. There is no definition.”

“Are you English? Or did you just come to study here?” Stephen asked.

“I’m English,” She continued. “But I’ve only been back in England for two years. Before that, I went to study in America.”

“Oh, I guess that’s why you have an American accent. Because of this,” Joe added.

She laughed.

“Yes, I have an American accent. It’s much easier to speak and listen to than a British accent.”

Everyone laughed in agreement at her words.

“True!”

“You all work in the film industry in the same way? You mean they’re all actors?” She asked them, curious.

“Uh… No! I am a screenwriter and director. But we work together. In the series Peaky Blinders,” Stephen replied, gesturing to Cillian, Joe, and Fin.

“These three people. Who are the main actors of the story” The three male actors turned around and smiled at her in a friendly way.

“Oh wow… am I hanging out with celebrities? Guess I’ll have to look into this!” She excitedly replied to them.

“I’m still very surprised. When you say to your friend, ‘Don’t know Cillian,’” Stephen said and laughed.

The person being talked about, “I’m not that famous!” Cillian interrupted his screenwriter friend.

“Sorry, I don’t really watch many series or movies.” Sansa bowed her head in acceptance. She immediately felt anxious. Because since her parents passed away, she had never been to a movie theater or even looked for other entertainment. The young woman could only keep to herself and study the three courses. She has to divide her study time every day between the two universities, with no days off.

“I study quite hard. So I didn’t have much time to do any other activities during that time. I had never been to a movie theater in the five years I studied in America. Because I have to read a book and deliver work every day. That’s why I didn’t get to know the actors much. I just came back to watch movies or series when I was back in England.”

She replied with a sad, remorseful look on her face.

“No need to apologize. We understand that you study very hard. It’s strange that you don’t know us,” Cillian told her understandingly.

“I studied really hard. Sometimes I used to sit and think, ‘Why did I do it?!’” The girl laughed at what she had done.

“Final period for each major. I haven’t slept at all. Especially if it’s the same time as submitting work or taking exams. I’m like a walking pudding.”

She stood up. Wobbling around in her chair to show them her condition then.

“It’s terrible!!!” She moaned under her breath.

“We can imagine.” They laughed at the girl’s expression a moment ago.

“Are you alone, or do you have siblings? Can I ask?” Finn asked.

The woman was a little fumbling at the question, until Stephen noticed.

“Hey, you’re making her uncomfortable, Fin,” he admonished his fellow actor.

“I’m fine. I just don’t know how to say it. I’m an only child.”

She added, “I’m quite an introvert. That’s why I don’t get to meet anyone or talk to anyone much. Except for friends in class who study together. But I only talk during class. Didn’t hang out or talk outside either. I have only one close friend, Gigi, who I met at Mr. Louis’ shop only today.”

She was extremely nervous. Because it is quite a personal matter. And they were strangers. But when she thought about it, each person was very good to her. Plus, they helped her even though they didn’t even know each other. That’s why she decided to tell them her personal story.

Cillian listened intently to the woman. He felt a lot of sympathy for her. With her personality he saw from the first time. And from the fact that he overheard her and her friend’s conversation in that restaurant. Let him know that she is peaceful and likes privacy. The more her parents and family left. In life, there is only one close friend like this. He felt sad for her.

“It must be pretty lonely, right? Being all alone?” Cillian asked her.

Sansa’s eyes flickered slightly to the owner of the voice.

“There are some, but I’m used to things like this…I know that I look rather strange,” she laughed.

“Oh, not at all,” he hurriedly protested, along with the others as well.

“Well, I’m a rather boring person. It shouldn’t be much fun to talk about. And shy too. It was very difficult for me to get to know or talk to people. Makes me not have many friends. And I don’t use social media either. That made me less likely to get to know people.”

She was still nervous like that.

“You are very fun to talk to. We confirm,” Fin said.

The young woman smiled in response. Before changing the subject because now she was starting to feel uncomfortable with being the one being questioned.

“Do you guys like listening to the piano? I’ll play it for you. The wine will taste better.”

“Good. We’d like to hear it,” Stephen replied.

Sansa sat in her usual position in front of the heartwarming piano, prominently placed next to the sofa where they sat. She raised a glass of wine to enhance the emotional luxury. Her slender, beautiful fingers were skillfully and gracefully following the notes, playing the composition expertly. The young woman delighted in the sounds and those musical notes. Sansa didn't need to look at the sheet music at all; she simply let her feelings and expertise guide her, as she did every time she played. The young woman wasn't sure how long she immersed herself in playing those notes until she heard the rising sound of applause.

“Wow, that is so sweet,” said Stephen. Everyone gathered around the young woman around her piano at this moment.

“You play smoothly. Without having to remember or even look at the notes,” Cillian praised.

She smiled at the compliment.

“Do you know how to play? Do you want to try it?” she asked Stephen, the oldest man. He looked like he could play the piano.

“That’s enough. I think I can.”

“Then let’s collab. I play the violin. You play the piano.”

“Sure. I’ll probably have to retake the course, haha,” he laughed.

“What songs can you play?”

“Hit The Rock Jack, then. It would go well with the violin.”

“You chose the songs well.”

Stephen began to play his fingers on the piano as Sansa started to passionately perform a violin solo. Both of them seamlessly played into each other, creating a smooth harmony. The young woman never forgot the feeling; she had never had a friend to play the piano or do something like this together. It was the first time she felt the joy of having friends who shared the same passion. Meeting a group of people with similar interests felt truly special. Tonight's musical session with them was incredibly enjoyable.

“Awesome, you’re so talented, Sansa. I never thought I would meet someone as multi-talented as you.” Stephen stood up and applauded the woman appreciatively, including the other people.

Sansa stepped back, bent her knees, and bowed her head at the flattery, with a shy face but full of a smile of happiness.

Meanwhile, Cillian was staring at a young woman’s bass. It was very beautiful and caught his eye. He could only touch and rub it, but he didn’t dare to pick it up or try playing with it.

“That was the first bass my father bought me. It’s so beautiful and classic,” a young woman’s voice next to him said.

“True. I agree. It’s very beautiful.”

“Do you know how to play?”

“He’s the best,” Stephen interjected, adding, “He was a musician before he was an actor.”

"You're exaggerating, Steve," Cillian replied, turning to his friend with a shy smile.

"Give it a try, go ahead. It's absolutely fantastic. You'll love the sound of it," the bassist girl invited.

Cillian thought for a moment. Should he be rude and pick up her things to play with? But there might be some encouragement or encouragement, and the owner has given permission.

“Okay.” He picked up the bass and adjusted the strings, trying a few notes. Cillian thought for a moment. What song should he try with this bass? ‘Ah… that’s his favorite song,’ he thought, before starting to strum The Beatles’ Hey Jude.

Sansa observed the performer in front of her as Cillian played her favorite bass. He looked even more charming when he held that bass. He was skilled, playing it smoothly. She thought he must really like that particular bass; it was fascinating to watch.

“Would you like to try playing together?” she offered, just to add to the fun.

“Alright.”

The young woman picked up another one of other favorite bass. She sat and competed with him. And there were three audience members sitting and cheering for the two musicians.

"Don't Let Me Down, okay?" she said to him.

Cillian nodded in agreement.

She started strumming the first two chords, and he followed it up with the back chord part. The two played together smoothly. It’s like they’ve practiced together before. Both of them play very well together. Their hands were extremely agitated. Sansa glanced at Cillian slightly, thinking to herself, ‘Tonight’s bass playing for you and him, what a night to remember.’

“Sansa, you are amazing. So you’re going to be good at everything? And you did well too, Cillian.” Stephen praised the two of them.

“You play so well, Sansa, I can’t fight you. Did you train yourself?” Cillian asked her curiously. He thought it was strange that a girl with such a sweet exterior looked like her could play bass aggressively like this.

“I have been practicing playing since I was a child. My father taught me. So it gave me some basics. So I played enough,” she answered him humbly.

“This is not enough. How can you be so good at everything?” Joe said with an appreciative laugh.

"I just do well in what I'm interested in," Sansa replied with a genuine sentiment. She never considered herself exceptionally talented. She didn't have specific goals in life; she just did what she wanted to do, pursued her interests, and tried to learn and excel in them.

“You are amazing.” Everyone praised her again.

The young woman saw that by now the bottle of wine was empty and it was getting dark outside.

“Are you all going to leave now? It’s already evening. I don’t want to disturb you too much. I’ll send it down right now.”

She cut them off so they didn’t have a chance to reply, whether they want to stay or whatever.

“Okay.” Everyone seemed to understand what the girl was thinking.

Sansa led the four men into the private elevator to descend to lobby of the apartment. While in the elevator, the young woman felt the need to say something to Cillian since he was standing beside her.

“Thank you very much about helping find the gallery.” She turned to thank him.

Sansa was feeling incredibly nervous because her face was now very close to Cillian. With both of them being about the same height, around 5'7 and 5'8, their eyes locked onto each other at precisely the right angle.

“Congratulations. You deserve it.” He smiled kindly back at her.

She walked them to the apartment door. Stephen was the first who came to say goodbye and hug the beautiful young woman. “Today we had a lot of fun. I’m glad I got to know someone as wonderful as you, Sansa.”

Followed by Fin, Joe, and Cillian, who came in to say goodbye and hug one last time.

Sansa felt incredibly nervous because she had never been hugged by so many men before, even if it’s just a casual hug. But it was strange to her anyway!

“Bye, Sansa. I hope we can meet again,” Fin said before leaving the door.

“Bye, everyone.” She waved goodbye to everyone and walked into the elevator back up to her room.

After a group of four people coming out of that strange woman’s apartment, Cillian couldn’t help but feel happy. He hadn’t had a fun night like this in a long time.

“Oh, damn it! Her smell so good when you hug.” Fin’s voice said suddenly.

“Her skin is soft too,” Joe added.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as versatile as her. And more than that, she is very beautiful. I can’t stop looking at her. Today’s talk. It was the most fun day In months. I really want her to be in my script,” Steve said, looking thoughtful.

 ‘It’s not just himself who’s happy’ Cillian pondered in his heart. He looked at his screenwriter friend who seemed quite delighted with the young woman.

“I agree with you. She is very beautiful and fun to talk to,” Fin and Joe said.

“I’m starting to like her. I really want to get to know her more… Hey! Cill, you have her business card, can I have it?” Steve asked him.

The forty-six-year-old young actor glanced at his friend’s face.

“What is it, Steve? You can’t even see a pretty girl. She keeps saying that she likes her privacy. If I give you my business card without your permission, how much will her criticize me?”

He is evasive. “You’ll ask her yourself. You go to Mr. Louis’ shop often. You’ll meet her yourself.”

Cillian humorously rejects his screenwriter friend. But in reality, it’s just an excuse! Because he’d rather keep her business card for himself.

“That’s true of you,” Stephen replied. Before everyone walked their separate ways and returned to their respective residences.

[spidertalia]

Alrighty, meet my girl Pennsylvania !!!

Her human name is Rebecca Ida Franklin, and she's physically 23. She's the 13th oldest state, and celebrates her birthday on December 12th.

Rebecca has an interesting personality. She's hardworking, intelligent, calm, industrious, observant, patient, down-to-earth, level headed, loyal and slightly curt at times, though usually unintentionally. She's typically no-nonsense and serious when it comes down to it, and she's a very hard worker. She's good about getting stuff done and does dislike laziness, but she's not one to berate others for it. Some more fun facts about her:

She's 5'10 or 178 cm in height. She's one of the tallest female states, only being shorter than Alaska and California.

She has roughly type 1C hair

She's Delaware's little sister, though ironically she's a full six inches taller than him.

Outside of the Indigenous languages in her state, she speaks English, Spanish, Dutch, German, Hebrew and Pennsylvania Dutch fluently. She speaks Swedish quite well, and speaks some Cantonese, Mandarin, French and Yiddish.

She's religiously Jewish.

She played the biggest role in the American Industrial Revolution, providing a lot in the way of steel, iron ore and textiles. As such, she has a deep love and skill for mechanics, engineering, construction, technology and anything of the sort. She can repair cars, remodel homes, fix broken wiring, design vehicles and many other things. It's a skill she's kept to this day.

She loves dogs, and exclusively owns Great Danes and German Shepherds.

She will actively complain about literally any type of weather. Outside of the weather, however, she hates complaining and will avoid doing so.

She's overall the 13th oldest state, but among the 13 colonies, she's the 10th oldest. She was physically 15 during the American Revolution, and stole two houses from England during it.

She's generally pretty respectful and keeps to herself. She always minds her own business, and dislikes getting wrapped up in other peoples drama or problems; however, she's always willing to lend a hand with anything mechanical.

She's the go-to car mechanic for many of the states, and Alfred himself.

She gets along well with Germany, Netherlands and Sweden, but she will argue with England pretty much on sight. She's friends with a few of the other states, such as Virginia and Rhode Island.

She argues a lot with New Jersey, though he starts most of it.

She doesn't necessarily dislike high-tech things, and will use super high-tech things if they make her life easier. However, she is generally wary of new technology and prefers to use her old, tried and true methods.

She does use technology and such quite often, but she does like doing things without technology when she can.

Like many of the other 13 colony states, she remains quite close to Alfred. She actually hosted his first official birthday party, and continues to often host his birthday parties.

She's one of the physically stronger states, thanks to her hobby of working with heavy machinery.

She's surprisingly very into snacking and junk food.

Her accent actually tends to switch depending on where she is. If she's staying in Philadelphia she tends to take on a Philadelphian accent, but outside of the city her accent leans towards Appalachian.

She had long hair up until the Industrial Revolution, when she cut it short to avoid any accidents.

She has at least one scar- a burn mark on her shoulder from the burning of Pennsylvania Hall.

Her likes include: Mechanics, hunting, hershey's chocolate, dogs, beer, cheesesteaks, chocolate, Wawa, Sheetz, tastykakes, ham, scrapple, molasses, shoofly pie, chicken pot pie, being outdoors, fixing things, cars, the outdoors, german food, snacks, swimming, reading, libraries, movie theaters, ferris wheels, tinkering, machinery, inventing

Her dislikes include: The weather, humidity, England, drama

This is all I have right, now, but I will be posting more about her later. If I have anyone from Pennsylvania here, please feel free to leave suggestions for her !

[andnowanowl]

Since "Palestine Speaks: Narratives of Life Under Occupation" is suspiciously not available in the US in the form of an e-book, I purchased a physical copy and wanted to share it here for anyone else also unable to get access.

IBTISAM ILZOGHAYYER

Director of cultural center, 54

Born in Battir, West Bank

Interviewed in Bethlehem, West Bank

During our dozen or more meetings with Ibtisam Ilzoghayyer in her office, her black hair is either pulled back into a slick ponytail or falls to her shoulders in tight curls. She speaks with us in English, and she has a distinct accent influenced by her time studying at Newcastle University in northern England. When she stands, she adjusts a clamp on a knee brace in order to walk. This is due to a childhood bout with polio, which she contracted when she was two years old.

Ibtisam is the director of the Ghirass Cultural Center, which she helped found in 1994. Ghirass, which means "young trees" in Arabic, serves more than a thousand youth annually in the Bethlehem region through enrichment programs in reading, traditional Palestinian arts, and more. The center also provides literacy programs for women - generally mothers who are learning to read so that they can take a more active role in their children's education.

The walls of Ibtisam's office are decorated with awards and framed drawings by children who have passed through the center. Throughout her day, children stop by to share their successes - an improved test score or a list of books read during the month. Ibtisam takes time with each one to congratulate and encourage them, and to laugh with them. She spends most of her time at the center she works five or six days a week, though she can often be found at the center on her days off as well. When she isn't at the center, she is likely to be at home with her elderly mother, tending a large garden of fruit trees, flowers, and vegetables.

I was born in 1960, in Battir.¹ Life in the village was simple. Most of my neighbors were farmers, and when I was a child, people from Battir would all travel into Jerusalem to sell produce in the markets there. My parents had some land that they farmed, and my father was also a chef. When I was very young, he worked at a hotel in Amman, Jordan, and we'd see him on the weekends.² Then, after 1967, he began working as a chef at the American Colony Hotel in Jerusalem.³

My mother stayed home and raised me and my siblings - there were nine of us. We didn't have TVs, and there were no computers and no plastic toys to keep us distracted. I think we were lucky to have those things. Instead, we used nature. We'd play in the fields, climbtrees, make toys ourselves out of sticks and stones. It seemed then there weren't divisions then between neighbors, despite religion or other differences. We were all part of one culture in many ways. I remember my mother coloring eggs every Easter. It was something that had been passed down for generations - it wasn't a Christian thing or a Muslim thing, it was a Palestinian thing to mark Easter that way.

I must have joined in all the games when I was very young, but then I developed a disability as an infant. When I was two and a half years old, my mother was carrying me past a clinic in town one day. A clinic nurse stopped us and told my mother she should come in, that she should get me the vaccine for polio. So I was given a vaccine. That night I had a fever, and I couldn't move my right arm and left leg. Over the next few years, I was able to regain function of my limbs, but my left leg grew in shorter than my right. At age four, I started wearing a brace to help me walk. It was just bad luck that we walked past that clinic.

I had to get used to people treating me differently because of my disability. Even people's facial expressions when meeting me were different they didn't react to me as if I were a normal child. When I was at school, I was excluded from physical education activities, and some field trips that required a lot of walking. That was really difficult.

I also had learning disabilities. My teacher beat me once in fourth grade because I was nearly failing all subjects. Education was important to my parents, so they were unhappy that I was struggling. My father had only gone through fourth grade, so he could read and write. My mother had never been to school. But they wanted more for their kids. Especially me. Because I had a disability, they wanted me to do well in school so that I'd be independent when I grew up, and not need to rely on anyone.

Then in the fifth grade, I succeeded on an exam, and the feeling was very strange. The teacher handed back the paper and said the work was "excellent." I couldn't believe I'd done anything that would make her say that. I couldn't believe that it was my paper that was excellent. I thought she'd made a mistake. I think that's common for children who aren't used to success-they don't realize it's their effort that leads to excellence. They think it's by accident. But I tasted success just that one time, and I realized I loved it. I just had to convince myself it wasn't a mistake! Then I continued to try hard at school, and I started to realize my potential.

In 1977, I was accepted into a boarding school in Jerusalem. It was actually right next to the American Colony Hotel, so I could see my father sometimes. I'd also go home on holidays. It was still relatively easy to travel into and out of Jerusalem then.

I did well enough in high school that I got accepted into the University of Jordan in Amman. I started there in the fall of 1979, and I studied economics. I loved university, and I wasn't lonely. Other than college students who became friends, I had a lot of family living and working in Amman. But I still felt homesick sometimes, and I started to understand what made Palestine feel special. In my last year at university, the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish came to read at a theater on campus. I got tickets to go, but when I arrived, the theater was absolutely packed. And the streets outside were full. There were so many Palestinians in Jordan, and we all wanted to hear this poet remind us what it meant to be Palestinian.

IT RAISED A LOT OF EMOTIONS FOR ME

I returned home in 1984, and I had one of the hardest years of my life. I had just spent many years working extremely hard to make something of myself, to become independent from my parents - economically, emotionally, socially so that I wouldn't be a burden to them. Then I returned to Palestine and found I couldn't get a job. Because of my economics degree, I wanted to work in a bank, but there weren't any jobs in that field available, and I couldn't find any other sort of work. So I lived with my parents for a year and they supported me. I was very depressed during that time.

Then one day in 1985, I read a classified ad put up by the BASR.⁶ They were offering to train workers in a field called community-based rehabilitation, which was about helping people with disabilities overcome them by working with the family - the whole community, really - to integrate the disabled into daily life. At first, I wanted nothing to do with that sort of work. I had an economics degree, and I had spent my whole life trying to get away from any limitations imposed by my own disability. I simply didn't want to think about disabilities. But I desperately wanted a job, so I applied.

I trained with the BASR for a year. It was hard. I worked with children who had hearing issues, blindness, mental health issues. The work brought up a lot of emotions for me, and it took some time to become comfortable around the children. But I kept receiving praise from my supervisors, and they made me feel like I was useful. In 1986, I began working in some of the refugee camps in Bethlehem as well, and that helped open my eyes. I got to see some of the real traumathat was happening in the community. That same year, BASR opened a community center for people with mental health disabilities, and I helped to run it. It was a very busy time for me.

Then the following year, in 1987, the First Intifada began. I remember it started just after I got my driver's license. I bought an old used car on November 30 of that year, and I was really proud of myself. I was starting to feel quite independent. Then I set out to drive to work for the first time on December 6, and I ended up driving through streets littered with stones and burning tires. It was the first day of the Intifada, and I couldn't make it to work that day - there was too much happening in the streets. So I spent the day listening to the news with my family.

THINKERS BEFORE FIGHTERS

The idea of starting a community center came to me in 1990. It was the middle of the First Intifada, and the streets were dangerous places to play for children. Aside from the threat of getting caught in fighting, children were sometimes targeted by soldiers. Sometimes children threw stones at soldiers, but other times soldiers would find children simply playing traditional games with stones. Many children, even young children, were arrested by soldiers who saw them playing these games. So the idea of the center started as a way to give children a safe place to play.

Also, at that time many schools were frequently closed by military order, so children had to stay at home for long stretches of time. Sometimesthe Israeli military would even use schools as checkpoints to control the area. The school in Battir was used as a military camp. These realities came together to make us want to start the center.

The BASR was able to establish the Ghirass Cultural Center in Bethlehem in late 1993, early 1994. In the West Bank at that time, the school curriculum was Jordanian. In Gaza, it was Egyptian.⁸ So when I went to school, I studied a Jordanian curriculum. We never studied anything about Palestine or its history. We never saw a Palestinian map. We studied the history of Jordan, of China, of Germany, of England - I remember learning about all the families who ruled England-but nothing connected to our history, nothing connected to our geography, nothing connected to our culture.

When we started the center, we wanted to educate children about Palestinian culture, Palestinian music, Palestinian poetry. We have famous poets like Mahmoud Darwish, but it was forbidden for us to read from them or read other Palestinian writers. If the Israelis caught us with a book from certain Palestinian writers, we might end up in jail. We couldn't have Palestinian flags, political symbols, anything considered propaganda for a Palestinian state-everything could get us into trouble. My family, like most in the West Bank, had a hiding spot at home. For us, it was at the back of the cupboard. When we heard there were going to be raids on houses, we'd quickly hide our forbidden books of poetry or flags or whatever behind a false wall at the back of that cupboard.

With these restrictions in mind, one of our first goals at the center was to provide a sense of Palestinian culture to children. We wanted the center to be inclusive, so we didn't allow any religious symbols or symbols of any specific political parties in the center. We had children from Christian communities and Muslim, urban and rural, from refugee camps and from relatively well-off neighborhoods. I also continued to work with children who had disabilities, but we integrated them with other kids in the classroom, whether they were blind or hearing impaired or had learning disabilities. They were all integrated.

After working this way in the cultural center, I even began to forget my own disability completely. I had other things to worry about or work on. One day, I saw myself in a reflection in a window while in the street, and I remembered I didn't walk as other people do - I had simply forgotten for a time that I had any disability at all. And I was happy for myself! Overcoming my own disability was no longer my focus.

In the center, I tried to make students thinkers before fighters. I did everything I could to keep them in the center, or make sure they went straight home to keep them from dangerous interactions with the soldiers. We lost some children - some had a strong feeling that they wanted to fight. It was very difficult. Of course, they didn't always understand what they were doing. But they weren't just imitating other people who were fighting in the streets, they were expressing their own anger from experiencing humiliation and violence.

Not long after the center was established and I had begun working there, I had the chance to travel abroad for the first time. I went with a friend to help her apply for a scholarship offered by the British consul to study in England. While there, I applied myself, sort of on a whim. But it turns out I won the scholarship. When I got the call that I had won, the consular office gave me two weeks to get ready for travel. So for the first time, I got to leave Palestine - other than my college years in Jordan. I studied for a year at Newcastle University⁹ and learned administration and counseling. It was a good experience, even though it was hard.

I felt homesick from the moment the plane took off. I was away from home from the fall of 1994 to the spring of 1995. I got to travel a lot throughout England, and that was interesting, but I wanted to go home the whole time. I remember I had very little money, and what I had I'd use to call my family. I'd spend hours asking my brothers about neighbors I barely knew - old men who hung out on the street that I never talked to, for instance - just because I wanted to know everything that was happening at home. When I completed all my coursework, I was expected to stay for the graduation ceremony and some parties. But I told the school administration I didn't want any parties, I just wanted to go home and see my family!

CHILDREN SEE THAT THEIR PROTECTORS ARE SCARED

The Second Intifada began in 2000.¹⁰ During that time, I had to get around a lot of crazy obstacles just to continue my work. From late 2000 to 2003, I used to practically live in this office because I couldn't always go back home. I remember the first time I tried to go home to Battir from Bethlehem in 2000, just after the Intifada started. It was just a couple of miles, and the checkpoint was closed. Nobody could cross to or from the five villages on the other side of the checkpoint. The soldiers refused to let anyone go back home. Children, old men, workers - imagine, all these normal people who wanted to go back home at four p.m., the end of the working day. Hundreds of people! We were surrounded by soldiers, and I remember thinking that nobody had any place to hide if shooting started. I waited that day from four p.m. to seven p.m. At seven p.m., I was so angry and depressed I started talking to myself. I said, "God, are you there? And if you are there, are you seeing us? And if you are seeing us, are you satisfied with what is happening to us?" Finally, a little after seven p.m., I gave up and came back to Bethlehem and stayed at the center.

Another time that same year, I tried to walk home past the checkpoint. The Israelis had blocked the road with large stones. I wanted to go around the stones, because I couldn't climb over them with my leg problems. It was also slippery, because it was wintertime. But a soldier, a man less than twenty-five years old, stopped me from going around. When I tried to explain, the soldier said bad things to me - nobody in my life has said these things to me. He called me a prostitute. I can't repeat all the things he said. I became angry and I started to argue, and at that moment, a young man, Palestinian, tried to calm me down and asked me to stay quiet. He took my hand and helped me pass the checkpoint. At that moment I couldn't talk. I passed the checkpoint, and my brother was waiting for me on the other side. He took me by my hand and led me to his car, where my nephews and nieces were waiting. Normally I would talk to them, but I couldn't say a word. I knew that if I spoke, I'd start crying, and nobody would be able to stop me. I reached home and I threw myself on the bed. I felt I was paralyzed completely.

I saw the soldier the next day. I had a feeling that if I'd had a gun, I would have killed him. You know, I can't kill an insect, but in that moment, I felt my anger was more than it's been at any time. When he saw me, he began swearing at me again. It was very humiliating. I saw that soldier many times-usually soldiers would stay one week or ten days before they changed the group of soldiers at the checkpoints. I had to see him every day. And every day I looked at him and wished that someone would kill him in front of me. I wanted him to suffer.

One more occasion stands out from that checkpoint during the Second Intifada - I'm not sure exactly when. I remember a little girl was crying. She needed to get to school to take exams, and the soldier wouldn't let her. It's not guaranteed that a child is able to go to school. And it's not guaranteed that the child will be able to come back. Of course, this kind of helplessness has a psychological impact on kids as they grow up. Many parents have told us that their children have nightmares and achievement problems. Children look to us adults as people who can protect them, and when we can't - in many situations, we're scared! To see the child recognize that his mother is scared, his father is scared-it's not an easy thing.

When you move around Bethlehem, it's very restricted. We don't travel long distances. When you face a checkpoint or a wall, you might need to travel only a mile or two as the crow flies, but your destination is far away behind the wall. The children I teach don't have a good sense of distance because of the restrictions. They might say they live "far away," and I'll ask, "How far?" And it's a ten-minute car ride away, if not for checkpoints. That's far for them, because that fifteen minutes might actually be an hour or two most days. Sometimes I try to put all the obstacles in the back of my mind - the checkpoints, the harassments - to try and keep up my energy for my work, to keep my optimism for the future. But when I'm waiting at checkpoints, I have to face the hard realities of our lives. And the children I deal with they also have to face these realities, and before they're even fully grown they have to face them without guidance, without someone to protect them.

THE SIGN JUST SAID "OTHERS"

Back in 1994, just after we'd started the center, we used to take students to Jerusalem for trips, to spend the day in the city. It was possible then. Since the Second Intifada, it's not possible to take the class to Jerusalem.

I think this is the first generation of Palestinians that isn't able to see Jerusalem easily. Now we only talk about Jerusalem. At the center, when we ask the children, "What is Jerusalem?" they only know about the Dome of the Rock.¹¹ That's all Jerusalem is for them. They've never experienced the city - to see it with true senses, to feel it, to smell it. They only know it through photos. I think it's really demoralizing that this experience, something that used to be essential to being Palestinian, has vanished. I think the Israeli government wants other parts of Palestine - Gaza, Jerusalem - banished from our minds. The new generation, these children might never come to Jerusalem. After years, how will it be in their mind? They won't think of it as Palestine.

Here in the center, we try to keep students connected with the different parts of Palestine, even if it's only through photos, movies, films anything. For instance, I want our students to understand that Gaza is part of Palestine. This is my hope for all Palestinians in the West Bank, that if they have the opportunity, even if it takes a lot of effort, to go and visit Gaza. I think it's our duty. Many people have lost their lives to keep Gaza and the West Bank one land. I'm not losing my life, but I have put in some real effort to go there.

In 2011, I went to Gaza to facilitate an outreach program. I was with a German colleague who worked for a German NGO that addressed international development projects. The German NGO was trying to fund a cultural center in Gaza that used our center in Bethlehem as a model. The Israelis keep a tight control on who gets into Gaza, so the permits to visit were not easy to get. I had to go through a lawyer and the court to get the permit. First, the Israeli military rejected my request for the permit, but I was able to appeal and get permission from the court to go for one night. It took me some time to get permission. But even then, I had to go through checkpoints - a checkpoint to get out of the West Bank, and then another checkpoint to get into Gaza.

To get to Gaza, we took the car of my German colleague. When Palestinian workers in Israel talk about the checkpoint, you can't imagine - you hear about it, but you need to live the experience to understand it. We went through the checkpoint nearest Hebron, because from Bethlehem it is the most direct route to Gaza.¹² It was the first time I was at that checkpoint. I can't imagine the mind that designed that checkpoint. It's a kind of torture. We tried to pass through the checkpoint in her car. We thought we might have an easier time in her car since she was an international. She passed right through in her car at first, but then a soldier stepped into the road and stopped us. They checked my ID, saw that I was Palestinian, and I was made to get out of the car and walk back to the checkpoint building a fifteen-minute walk! It was difficult for me to walk all that way with my brace. When I got back to the checkpoint, I was put in line with the rest of the Palestinians. It was around seven a.m., so most of the people there were workers. We were herded in lines through cages, and all around us were young soldiers with guns. There were only three or four other women in line, and they all passed through with no extra delay. But not me.

All the Palestinians have to pass through metal detectors. I failed the detector because of my metal leg brace. The soldiers had to examine me personally because I couldn't just take off the metal and pass through the detector. Soldiers behind security glass told me that I'd need to be taken to a special cell. The whole time I was at the checkpoint, I hardly ever talked to a soldier directly - it was through microphones, since they were always behind glass.

I was taken to a cell with no chairs. The walls were all metal with no windows, and I couldn't see anyone. I stood waiting for half an hour. I thought they might have forgotten about me. Because of my disability, it's difficult for me to stand for long periods of time. I knocked, and nobody came. Later, I knocked several more times, to remind them that there was somebody here.

Then I was taken to another room, also like a cell - just five feet by five feet. Here there was a soldier behind security glass. She was young, in her twenties. Otherwise I was alone in the room. The soldier was dealing with me as if I didn't exist. She ignored me and didn't bother to explain what would happen next. She just sat there behind the glass. From time to time I would knock, or ask her to please search me so I could leave the cell, and she'd say, "I'm just waiting for someone to come." For an hour she left me standing there.

Then another soldier joined her behind the glass. They told me to undress. I said, "I can't, there's a camera." She looked at it and said flatly, "Yes, there's a camera in the room." Every checkpoint has a Palestinian mediator, someone to translate and do chores for the soldiers, and I made them get him for me. This took a long time. Eventually, he arrived and I talked to him. He put his jacket on the camera and then brought me something to put on. I got undressed and then the soldiers told me how to move so they could examine me. Then I put on the clothes the mediator brought while he took my other clothes for them to examine. More waiting. After everything was over, the mediator took his jacket and left, and then I was taken to pass through the metal detector again.

The whole time, my colleague was outside in the car waiting for me. It had been hours. Then, once we made it to the Gaza border, it was the same procedure. My German colleague was allowed to pass quickly through the checkpoint, while I had to go through procedures strictly for Palestinians, not for foreigners. At the Erez checkpoint, we were not in the car.¹³ We had to park, and after you pass through the checkpoint, everyone has to walk through a mile-long tunnel to where the taxis are.

The tunnel was an open-air tunnel, with fencing on both sides. It was narrow-not big enough for a car to drive through. Outside the fence was a barren, treeless security area. My colleague had waited for me so we could walk the tunnel together, but a mile is very far for me to walk. I had to sit on a luggage cart of another Palestinian who pushed me the whole way. It was a struggle for me. I like to think of myself as strong, independent. I do things on my own. It's not easy for me to sit on a luggage cart and be pushed!

We finally made it to Gaza after hours going through the checkpoints. We went directly to the organization because we couldn't waste time. They only issued me a permit for one day! It's ridiculous to not be able to visit your own country. We can move freely in other countries, but not in our own.

After I finished my trip to Gaza, I had to go back through screening at Erez. This time, at the start of the checkpoint, I saw the two signs-one for "Israelis and Foreigners," and the other just said, "Others." You know, it's like they want us to feel that we belong to nothing. They could write "Palestinians," they could write "Arabs," but "Others"?

Going through the tunnel, there were open-air cells along the way. They were more modern than the Hebron checkpoint, but the same principle. The soldiers were all on high scaffolding with guns. They looked down on us from up high and talked into microphones. They would say things like, "Open gate number 2. Open gate number 10." And they'd tell us to move along. The whole time, we could see soldiers on the scaffolding, but we could never see exactly who was talking to us and ordering us onward to the next cell. The last cell had a ceiling and a grated floor. A soldier behind the glass was there. She asked me to take off my clothes. We negotiated what I could take off and leave on. I took off my trousers and my brace and put them on the conveyor belt. She checked them and then put my things back on the machine to send back to me. I waited for them to contact the people who got me a permit. It took a long time. I thought I had already negotiated all the permits I needed, so it would be fine, but no. They made me wait anyway.

I've spoken with some friends and some people at the Bethlehem Arab Society for Rehabilitation. They go through the same thing, the same conditions. They have the same procedure. It's not because of me - they target Palestinians anyway - but they could show more understanding. They could not make me wait so long, or bring me a chair to sit on, to be humane. I understand they need to check, but they could do it without humiliating the person. If this were just about security, they wouldn't need to humiliate Palestinians and not others. It's to show that we're a lower class of people. The Israelis and foreigners are first-class, the Palestinian people fifth-class. And people don't understand why we are fighting. I want to be equal! Equality! Not one of us is better than the other.

Someday I want to go back to Gaza to keep working on developing a cultural center that is like Ghirass. But by then I hope I can find an easier way to get there than through the Hebron and Erez checkpoints as they are now. Still, I'm happy that I passed that experience, really. Now I know what it's like for Palestinians who have had to travel through the checkpoints day after day for work.

ALL THINGS INDICATE THAT THE FUTURE WILL BE MORE DIFFICULT

I am very proud of being Palestinian. I have never thought of living in another country. I've traveled across Europe, but I prefer to live in Palestine. When I was abroad and something bad happened in Palestine, it would be very difficult for me to sleep. If people I love die, then I want to die with them; if they live, I want to live with them. If they face a difficult situation, I want the same thing to happen to me. I want to be a member of this society. When I think of Palestine, I think of the struggles we've had. We have to keep struggling for our rights, and there's no end to the struggling for me - some days it's for rights, some days it's to improve education. We are all fighters. When I do work with the children at the center, that's fighting. When I work to improve their quality of life, that's fighting. And working against the occupation, that's fighting as well.

Day by day, it becomes more difficult. All things happening in Palestine indicate that the future will be more difficult. Twelve years ago we did not have the wall, the settlements were fewer, the harassment was less. Everything bad is increasing. Usually I avoid going to the checkpoints, because it makes me sick - physically, emotionally, all kinds of sick. It usually takes me time to come back to normal.

My goal now is to expand the center - to extend it and spread it to other places. We're working on outreach programs, to reach schools and other communities that are struggling just to continue to exist. Some villages are surrounded by Israeli settlements and are cut off from important resources. We are looking to support these communities and improve the quality life through education. I believe a lot in education if you want to rebuild the nation.

At the cultural center, we try to keep our students as children as long as possible, to protect them. When they reach a certain age, we can't protect them anymore, they have to face the reality of the streets by themselves. And this is very sad. I can think of many times I've been out walking with my nephew, or with other young boys and girls who are nearing the end of childhood. Suddenly I would get very sad, because when they reach fourteen, fifteen years old, they are children under international and national law, but the soldiers don't think of them as children. They deal with them as adults. And it doesn't matter if they're following the law or not. How they're treated depends on soldiers' moods. I use many strategies to manage. My strategy is that I love life. I want to protect my life, and the lives of others, as much as I can. Life, even with all these difficulties, deserves to be lived. And I like to look for nice things. Even the smile of a child, or flowers-I try to find something.

I'm not optimistic about the future for Palestinians. Israel is strong, and the Western powers give them their support. On the other hand, I don't think Israel can continue this forever. The world will not support Israel forever with all their behavior towards Palestinians. One day, changes will happen - history proves this. One day, sooner or later, the Palestinians will have their rights.

When the world looks at Palestine I do not think they see the full situation. If people want to see the reality of the situation, they will see. If they want to hear the reality, they will hear. But if they don't want to know the reality of the situation, they won't, even if it's right there in front of them.

---

Footnotes

¹ Battir is a village of around 4,000 people located four miles west of Bethlehem and three miles southwest of Jerusalem. It is a site of ancient agricultural terraces and was named a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2014.

² Amman, the capital of Jordan, is a city of over 2 million residents. Jordan administered the West Bank between 1948 and 1967, and many Palestinians worked in Amman during this time.

³ The American Colony Hotel is a luxury hotel in Jerusalem. It was built in the 1950s on the site of a former utopian Christian community started by an American couple from Chicago in 1881. The hotel is well known as a gathering spot for influential people from diverse political and religious backgrounds.

⁴ The University of Jordan is considered one of the most prestigious universities in the Arab world. It was founded in 1962 and currently serves over 30,000 undergraduates.

⁵ Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008) was considered Palestine's leading poet and helped lead a movement to promote Palestinian cultural heritage. Darwish was also a leader of the Palestinian liberation movement and part of the executive committee of the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) from 1973 to 1993.

⁶ The Bethlehem Arab Society for Rehabilitation (BASR) was originally founded in 1960 as part of the Leonard Cheshire Disability project, a major charitable organization in Great Britain dedicated to global disability care.

⁷ The First Intifada was an uprising throughout the West Bank and Gaza against Israeli military occupation. It began in December 1987 and lasted until 1993. Intifada in Arabic means "to shake off."

⁸ Jordan administered the West Bank and Egypt partially administered Gaza until 1967. Textbooks developed during those administrations were used even during the Israeli occupation after 1967, but when the Palestinian Authority assumed administrative control of the West Bank in Gaza after the Oslo Accords, it developed its own educational texts.

⁹ Newcastle University is a public research university in northeast England. It serves over 20,000 students.

¹⁰ The Second Intifada was also known as the Al-Aqsa Intifada. It was the first major conflict between Israel and Palestine following the Oslo accords, and it lasted from 2000 to 2005.

¹¹ The Dome of the Rock is an Islamic shrine built on the site of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem.

¹² From Glossary -

checkpoints: Barriers on transportation routes maintained by the Israeli Defense Forces on transportation routes within the West Bank. The stated purpose of the checkpoints in the West Bank is to protect Israeli settlers, search for contraband such as weapons, and prevent Palestinians from entering restricted areas without permits. The number of fixed checkpoints varies from year to year, but there may be as many as one hundredmthroughout the West Bank. In addition, there are temporary roadblocks and surprise checkpoints throughout the West Bank that may number in the hundreds every month. For Palestinians, these fixed and temporary checkpoints-where they may be detained, delayed, or questioned for unpredictable periods of time-make daily planning difficult and can make cities or villages only a few miles away seem like distant points on the map.

crossing points: Crossing points are the gateways into Israel from parts of Palestine, or between Palestine and neighboring countries such as Egypt and Jordan. There are currently five crossing points by land into the Gaza Strip, and most of them have been closed or significantly restricted since the Israeli military blockade was imposed in 2007. There are seventy-three barrier-gate crossing points from West Bank into Israel, and Palestinians with permits have access to thirty-eight of them.

¹³ As of 2014, the Erez crossing is the only remaining crossing point between Israel and the Gaza Strip accessible to Palestinians. The crossing is tightly restricted since 2007, and special case-by-case permits granted by Israel are needed.

[pink-strawberry-kissess]

tumblr keeps exposing me cuz every time i get a notification it says “your crush is at it again” “mind-blowing post from your crush. they’re a favorite of yours, we’ve noticed ❤️”

and i be like WHO tf IS MY CRUSH??? i don’t even have a crush, and i click and it’s you😐

is me drunk anon.

i’m not sure if you talked about this before. you may have, and i have a feeling you did. i just don’t remember, but what are your hcs/theories for Ada’s back story and how she became a merc? (maybe you might want to do them FAQ shit lmao, hehe just a suggestion because i understand it can quiet get a bit tiring answering repetitive questions)

let’s get very deep with this. let’s not glide the surface of the water. i do believe that she started at a very young age. maybe around 9 or 10. and for this whole mercenary thing to work? there is no way she went to public school. was Ada born in China then gained US citizenship, or born in the US? i hc Ada’s parents as immigrants FOR SURE. maybe her family came to the US to escape economic hardships in China? maybe her parents are US citizens but her grandparents are immigrants? i’m only saying this because i believe it’s canon information that Ada is Chinese-American (and honestly i don’t remember seeing where Vietnamese came from), so she can’t be Australian or Canadian lmao

i would go on but this question is for u and not for me lol

k bye (YOU DRINK WATER too FAWK 🫵😤 and eat a something. u need reminding too 🖐️😌)

"they're a favourite of yours," YOU HAVE OTHER FAVOURITES????? >:((((((

im jks dfjkbfdjkssdjkfbskf

HIHIii

sdjkfjskfjksbfs honestly i have answered lots of things and i keep forgetting to link them to my masterlist and im also lazy

OKAYOKAOKAYOKAY so i think the "Ada is Chinese/American" has been a huge misinterpretation based on that one "Ada Wong facts" vid from ink ribbon? the video states that she's Chinese-American and for some reason I think people interpreted that as she's half Chinese / Half white. (i've always interpreted it as just she is Chinese AND lives in America and has grown up partially in America.

also for some reason it seems like Ada (to me) is the only fully asian character because jill has always supposed to be half japanese and they just COMPLETELY got rid of that imo. i refuse to acknowledge that she's half japanese considering they just don't do anything alluding to the fact that she is. she's always been modelled after white models too.

And also a lot of sites including capcom just state that's Ada's "of Chinese descent" and don't specify anything else.

ALSO capcom FUCKED UP REAL BAD IMO by modeling her with a WHITE PERSON'S FACE. ada, a chinese woman, should've NEVER been modelled after a white person. i know that for a bit of damnation? courtenay taylor stated that they modelled it a bit after her because of her face/voice???? but i don't know if it was confirmed, it was just from an interview and she wasn't even sure herself

i think because we have no idea for her backstory and there's no canon backstory there's so much to go on for DDDD: i just have so many thoughts about what kind of life she could've had.

god i just reread this and im rambling a lot just a lot of YAPPING

okay uh

i don't really think she was born in the states tbh. i do think her parents were immigrants or at least she had something that made her go to the states. i like the idea of her having to at least grow up a bit in the states (particularly in her teens) and that's also why i think she doesn't have an accent.

also YEAH i do know a lot of people who have come over from china or some part of asia and they RARELY lose their accent if they come over in their 20s. (most people have defined vocab at this point and unless they actively try to lose their accent or change their vocab, it tends to stay kinda the same. their english will get better, but i've also known people that lost a lot of their english after leaving uni for example) i've only see people lose their accent/never develop one if they have lived in america for 15+ years or grew up for a lot of their childhood/teen years

i know that's confirmation bias lol but considering ada's always had perfect american english, i (personally) can not headcanon that she moved into the states in her 20s. i think that she could've been in the states by the time she's like 7-11.

i'm not a huge headcanon-er of ada having siblings (particularly younger siblings.) also it being the 70s, (if her family complied with the law) she should not/would not have younger siblings (look up "one child law" if you're confused) i can see her having a younger friend that she "wanted as a sister"

i can maybe see ada having an older sibling, but i also hc that her family (similarly to leon and the rest of the re cast lol) have all lost their families in their entirety. (also i KNOW that the "leon lost his entire family" thing hasn't ever really been confirmed, it's just heavily headcanoned)

also

ada is not a chinese name. WONG is, but ada isn't. i've struggled with this and trying to find a reason for this lol other than it just being a fake name. iirc ada is a german name (from it's origins)

NYWAYS SORRY FOR YAPPING

THAT'S MY SECRET, I'M ALWAYS DRINKING WATER

hehe i go eat something sweet hehe :3

[fixfoxnox]

"Please ask me more about Jackson I love him sm"

I, for one, would love to hear more about Jackson (and Gaz).

I will always drop more information about Jackson and Gaz, they honestly deserve all of the love they're both so underrated

Gaz, unlike Jackson, comes from a small family. He's an only child, his parents are divorced

He has a good relationship with his parents and his parents get along pretty well still despite being divorced so they usually did like 1 Christmas together, 1 birthday, 1 new year, etc.

Realized he was queer in middle school, had his first boyfriend in highschool, hasn't really dated much since joining the military

Gaz latched onto Price within like two days of knowing him. He liked that Price didn't underestimate him, but still took the time to walk him through different things to help better him

Gaz was lowkey scared of Roach when he first met him. He hid it super well but he definitely talked to Soap about it

"His name is Roach, he managed to out cryptid Ghost, he was shot and was back up and around within like two weeks, his accent? I'm telling you he has to be a demon"

Was still somehow the first person that Roach befriended on the team. Like fully believed Roach was the devil in disguise and was still within two days like "new bff alert :)"

His love language is gift giving

Primarily he gives food, as can be seen when Roach is injured.

This is from his grandmother who used to stuff him with food when he was sick as a child. He picked it up from her

But usually he'll also pick up knick-knacks for the teams while on missions. When he Ghost, and Soap were on their mission with the bombs in Russia, he bought some cigars for Price to try from the local town and picked Roach up a little roach shaped stress ball

Sometimes he'll come back from missions with rocks to give the team because they "reminded me of you guys"

Price keeps all of the knick-knacks Gaz gets him around his office for everyone to see. Ghost has a little box he keeps his in. Soap's are usually placed on a shelf for display. Roach keeps his spread around everywhere. Some are on display others are actively being used (stress ball)

When he, Soap, and Ghost came into the cafeteria while Jackson was visiting he literally stopped right in the doorway to the cafeteria after seeing Jackson

Soap literally ran into him and he nearly face planted because he was so shook

Heart eyes on Jackson the entire night. Price is the only one who really noticed.

Jackson, hid his reaction to Gaz like a billion times better

But in his head it was essentially: "mouth falls open, eyes bulge, tongue out of mouth, panting, awooga noise"

Was flirting with Gaz all night at the bar, dropping just the worst pickup lines all night, each of which he thought was incredible

"So, Gaz, aside from taking my breath away, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm in the military??? You didn't realize?"

"Do you have a band aid? I scraped my knee falling for you?"

"I can go ask the bar tender if he has any"

"I would never play hide and seek with you, cause someone like you is hard to find"

"I am really good at hide and seek"

Gaz was literally so oblivious all night. Jackson was crying out of desperation for one of his lines to stick. Price was embarrassed for Gaz.

Gaz is just a tiny bit of a himbo sometimes, mainly when it comes to pretty guys which is exactly what Jackson is.

Its mostly okay? Because Jackson is also a himbo when it comes to pretty guys, which Gaz is

So they're just both very dumb together at all times

However when they finally to get set up on a date/work things out, they're like the cutest fuckers ever

Jackson brings/sends Gaz flowers like once a week

They're both sports guys so they Watch American/European Football together. Gaz has no idea what is going on in American football, likewise Jackson has no idea what is happening in European football. They are still both super supportive.

Jackson, after he gets his prosthetic leg, immediately swings Gaz over his shoulder to prove that he could do it

Gaz is both surprised and turned on by his boyfriends strength

Jackson was not joking to Roach when he said he would move to England for Gaz. He gets attached fast so when the team get moved to a more permanent home base in England, Jackson follows them and sets up a new gym location there.

Soap and Ghost don't realize Gaz and Jackson are dating at first so they keep seeing Jackson on base and talking to Roach. They're both jealous

They only find out when they inevitably walk in on Jackson having Gaz pressed up against any available surface kissing the hell out of him because Gaz did something adorable (so literally anything in Jackson's eyes)

Jackson gets the shovel talk from Price

Gym boyfriends

Like these two go to the gym together and flirt over the exercise equipment.

They fully take advantage of the fact that Jackson owns a gym and do private workouts together (where they actually work out don't worry)

Gaz joins one of Jackson's yoga classes at one point to "try something different"

Jackson literally has to cut class short that day cause he's so distracted and from that point on him and Gaz do private sessions together

Definitely call each other "dude" and "bro" cause they think its hilarious to call each other that then kiss

"Dude, sick rep"

"Thanks for the spot bro"

*immediately kisses the other*

Do it a lot in front of Roach because it literally makes him want to pull his hair out

"Your ass looks great today bro"

"Thanks bro"

"I literally hate both of you"

Just the cutest like most in love boyfriends on the planet (outside of the ghostroachsoap trio)

[newyorksrose]

gonna post this on rosie's blog since sandra's still gonna keep up that theft accusation and tumblr's block feature is hiding my response👏🏾

Hi @k4ndall, I’m aware this isn’t the first time you posted about me “stealing from Jessica” and because I no longer consider myself to be an active roleplayer, I thought I would confront this narrative head-on. Yes, I did use Marisa Abela for my OC Rosaria and no, that is not theft. Marisa is not from a super rare or old show. Industry was streaming on HBOMax the same time that Euphoria was.

Did you ever think that maybe I saw the program, considered using that FC for a new OC, but hesitated from bringing them to the roleplay community? Furthermore, Marisa is not the only FC you use for Jessica. If I recall right, when we were mutuals you used…

Melanie Scrofano

Olivia Cooke

Annie Murphy

Sydney Sweeney

Marisa Abela

You even entertained using Juliette Lewis for Jessica.

And let me be frank when I say none of these women look like the same person. Which is why I felt that using Marisa would ultimately NOT diminish your portrayal of Jessica.

I largely wanted to use Marisa Abela because Rosaria Scozzari is the sister to Salvatore Scozzari, since their FCs looked alike through their similar eyes and noses. I was already using him for Sal at the time of my “theft.”

Now, FCs aside, your belief that I copied you is honestly a shallow, surface-level examination of Rosaria Scozzari. Let’s go over the similarities of Rosaria and Jessica.

They both have office jobs. 

I’m inclined to portray Rosaria doing more average/low-paying office work. In the recent writing I’ve been doing, I depict her as a secretary. In the RPC, I depicted her as working at a bratva-owned insurance company that isn’t glamorous at all. But, this work is ultimately temporary for Rosaria, as she becomes a lawyer by the time she’s in her forties. In contrast, Jessica works on Wall Street which frankly, seems significantly better and higher paying.

They’re both Italian-American.

Jessica is a quiet girl who lives at home with her conservative family. Rosaria is extroverted, neurotic, and lives alone because she doesn’t want to live with her rambunctious family. Jessica is the older sister to her younger brother. Rosaria is the younger sister to Salvatore and Sonia.  Since leaving the RPC I’ve been exploring the paternal side of Sal and Rosaria’s family, which is composed of Italian-Brazilians. Which is interesting because I heard you had a OC who was Italian with roots from Argentine…

You act as though I stole the fundamental family headcanons of Jessica. Which I would consider the headcanons about the family-run candy store, the abundance of cousins, the cousin in an abusive relationship, or an office romance.

But let me say another thing: your depiction of Jessica on Wall Street isn’t original whatsoever. When I capped icons from that show for Rosaria I saw how many elements you actually stole from Yasmin, the character Marisa plays.

I recall you posting that this variation of Jessica spoke with a posh accent when at work. That’s an odd coincidence, considering the FC is an upper-class British woman.

The secret horny side for her co-worker. That’s an odd coincidence, considering you use the same character as a NPC that Jessica crushes on.

In fact, all the NPCs in Jessica’s life are from Industry.

So, all you did was portray Yasmin as an Italian-American woman. There’s nothing original or unique to your portrayal. If I used a new FC for Rosaria, you would not be claiming I stole from you. They would just both be white women who worked at an office, but MUCH different offices. In fact? They would probably be meeting at a bar getting drinks together and talking about the things that piss them off.

If Marisa was the sole FC you used for Jessica and I used her? That would be fucked up. But she was just one face in a collection of women who looked absolutely nothing alike.

[shadowthestoryteller]

So, while it may NEVER actually curse Wattpad, I still like this little snippet from my TF2 series “Murder Uncle Mayhem”. The basic premise is that between the events on Umbara and the final fight with Palpatine, Shadow and Trevor both jump into the TF2 universe while dreaming so Shadow can get some last training. I really wanna start posting more bits, but I don’t know how they’ll be received so I guess this is also a tester ✨

Enjoy the first meeting between Shads and RED Snipes!

A death gasp sounded behind him, and Sniper spun to see the BLU Spy with blood gushing from his mouth. A figure in dark black and red armor stood behind him, a full-faced cat-eared helmet hiding their features. A multicolored tail swished behind their legs, the lower portion of which were also furred, as the attacker yanked some type of wrist blade from the back of BLU Spy’s neck. They watched as BLU Spy slumped to the ground, sheathing their blade with a jerk of their arm.

Heart pounding, Sniper’s fingers inched toward his kukri blade. Humans and even beasts were easy kills for him. Years spent in the bush saw to that, and he wasn’t one of the top nine deadliest men on the planet for no reason. But a mix of human and animal? A different issue entirely. 

“Right then, mate,” he said cautiously. “Who ya playin’ for?”

He could see the insignia of a skull and two identical symbols beneath it on their shoulder pads, as well as a modified one on the face of their helmet, but he hadn’t the faintest clue what they stood for. 

Their ears twitched, proving the ear sleeves on the helmet weren’t simply cosmetic. “Ain’t playin’ for no one but myself, mate.”

Female? Male? He honestly couldn’t tell.

Slowly picking up the kukri, watching the tail for signs of agitation, Sniper gestured at the extra limb with the blade. “Some kinda mutated bloke?”

“I ain’t human if that’s what gotcher panties in a twist.” 

An American judging by that accent.

But what kind of American had a bloody tail? Even if their accent was familiar, similar to Engineer’s, their body was not and that was reason enough to treat them with utmost caution. 

A straight stab to the chest or back was out of the question thanks to their armor, and with that hidden blade plus two weapons of unknown damage on their belt he didn’t want to risk aiming at their neck and missing. They stood taller than him as well, with broad shoulders and an extra heavy limb to aid in fighting. The last thing he wanted was to enter a physical altercation, which was sure to end badly for himself. Not to mention if they were part cat, their hands hid some nasty claws. He’d dealt with claws before, but not claws guided by a human or human-like mind. 

“If it helps,” they said slowly, crossing their arms and pointing at the kukri. “No, that blade won’t cut through my armor and no, you won’t win at close range.”

Sniper blinked. “Who said I was plannin’ on attackin’ ya?”

They chuckled. “I ain’t stupid,” they said, tapping their helmet. “I see you sizin’ me up. You think this gear is for civvies?” They gestured at themselves. “I didn’t survive the last six months in active warzones by bein’ an easy target who couldn’t tell when someone had it out for ‘em.”

Warzone? What warzone? Aside from Teufort’s conflict, Sniper didn’t know of any wars nearby. And certainly none fought by weird blokes with a tail. 

“That warzone bein’?” he asked, weight still on his toes. 

“You ain’t got the mental capacity for that yet, Snipes.” They flicked their tail. “But don’t worry, I ain’t after you anyway. Think of me as a good luck charm. Or a rattlesnake that likes you and therefore won’t bite ya in the ass.”

A good luck charm, huh? Well, in his line of work, he certainly wouldn’t turn it down. Not to mention they could have killed him already if they wanted to, since they must have been hanging around for a while to catch BLU Spy sneaking in. That alone gave him reason enough to trust them, or at least not keep a weapon always pointed at them.  

Sniper grunted, glancing down at BLU Spy. “Then thanks for the save, mate,” he said, kicking his corpse with his boot. ”Figure I owe ya one.”

“Anytime, Snipes,” they chuckled, giving him a two-fingered salute.

“Wait,” Sniper called as they turned to leave. “Who’re ya?”

They stopped and faced him again. “Some folks call me Scar. You can, too.”

“Well, Scar. I’ll be sure to repay the favor if I see you around.” 

They bowed. “Can’t wait.”