#i signed your shirt as the whole year drank in a field on the last day of high school three months ago

[boyduroy]

Shave and A Haircut

Fandom: It (2017/2019)

Characters: Bill, Richie, Eddie, Stanley

Word count: 2,044

Genre: slice of life, hurt/comfort

Warnings: language, mentions of bullying

Synopsis: Just another day of being bullied by Bowers. Luckily Richie knows what to do.

{Not beta’d/proofread, sorry for any typos}

Bill, Eddie, and Richie are all sitting at the Tozier dining room table, waiting for the fourth member of their party to arrive. Their geometry homework is spread out across the wooden table, most of it unsolved, along with an array of snacks, most of which have already been devoured. Bill looks at the old clock on the wall as Richie and Eddie bicker over who gets the last of the barbeque-flavored potato chips. Stanley should have been done with baseball practice 30 minutes ago, and it doesn’t usually take him this long to bike to Richie’s house. Bill briefly considers riding up to the baseball field to check on him when a knock comes from the front door.

“About time,” Richie mutters, quickly swiping the final few chips from Eddie’s hand as he gets up to answer the door.

“Richie, you turd!” Eddie screams as

“Y’snooze, you lose, skeddi-boy,” Richie calls back to the dining room with a mouthful of chips. He rubs his hands on the edge of his shirt as he reaches for the door handle. He doesn’t remember locking it, and Stan knows he can let himself in, but Richie figures his friend is just being his usual polite self.

“Stan the man,” he announces loudly, swinging the door open. “Where’ve you been? You know we suck at math…”

Richie trails off as he takes in the sight of Stanley on his front porch. The other boy’s head is hung, defeated, and his baseball cap covers his face completely. Still, Richie can see the faint outlines of tear tracks running from Stan’s chin. His knuckles are paper white as they clutch his gym bag, and aside from the usual dirt stains on his uniform, he doesn’t look too roughed up in any apparent way.

“Stanley?” Richie asks, tilting his head to peek up under the baseball cap. Stan’s face is red from either crying or from exercise, or possibly a combination of the two. “What’s wrong?”

Stan sniffs, his dark brown eyes refusing to meet Richie’s. “May I come in please,” he asks, his voice a bit raw.

Richie pulls him inside, taking his gym bag from him. “Go sit down on the couch, I’ll grab you a glass of water.” As Stanley quietly kicks his cleats off near the front door, Richie races to the kitchen, tosses the bag down haphazardly, and grabs a clean glass from the cupboard. Any other day he would’ve just grabbed one of the dirty ones from the sink, which would’ve earned him an earful from both Stan and Eddie about how gross that was – “I drank from it earlier, so why should it matter?” – but right now was not the time to instigate. As he fills the glass from the kitchen sink, Eddie and Bill poke their heads in.

“What’s going on, Rich?” Eddie asks. “You drop something?”

Richie hurries back to the living room, trying not to spill the glass that he accidentally filled up with too much water. “Something happened to Stan,” he calls over his shoulder. “Come on, he’s in here.”

“What h-happened?!” Bill asks worriedly, he and Eddie hot on Richie’s heels as the three of them come to gather around Stan, now sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch. Richie offers him the glass, which spills a little onto the couch cushion, but Stanley accepts it and takes a drink. Eddie perches next to him, his hand on Stan’s shoulder, and subconsciously starts checking his friend for any signs of outward injury.

“You alright, Stanley?” Eddie asks. Stan swallows the water eagerly and gasps, handing the now half-full glass back to Richie. He nods but continues to look down, his face still obscured by his baseball cap.

“What happened?” Bill asks again.

“Bowers and his gang…” Stanley answers quietly. He suddenly shrinks into himself, unwilling to reveal any further information. “I can’t, it’s embarrassing.”

Bill kneels, putting a gentle hand on Stan’s knee. “It’s okay, you can tell us. W-why don’t you take off your h-hat so we can hear you better.”

“I can’t.”

“Huh?” Bill blinks, confused.

“I can’t take it off,” Stan repeats.

Richie smirks. “Don’t worry about your hat hair, Stanley, we’ve all been ther—”

“No.” Stan sniffles and looks up finally, his brown eyes swimming with tears. “I can’t take off my hat, Richie, because Henry Bowers and his asshole friends put krazy glue in it,” he enunciates sharply. “My hat. Is glued. To my head.”

The three of them stare stunned at their friend, whose head falls back down sadly. Bill can feel his own face growing hot with anger. Fucking Bowers… It was one of the cruelest pranks you could do to someone: paint the inner brim of their hat with krazy glue and just wait for them to put it on.

Eddie is the first to break the silence. “Oh Stanley,” he whispers, his own eyes threatening to mist. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” He rubs Stanley’s shoulder and looks to the other two. “What should we do, guys?”

Bill strides towards the door. “I’m guh-gonna got kick the sh-sh-shit out of Bowers,” he says matter-of-factly. Stan is on his feet in an instant.

“Please no, Bill! Don’t, he’ll do something worse to you,” Stanley yells, grabbing Bill’s shirt. Bill tries to shake him off as he opens the front door. “Please, it’s okay—”

“It’s not okay, Stan! He hurt you!”

Stan hardens. “Fine, I know, it’s not okay. It fucking sucks. But I don’t want you to get hurt fighting my battles for me! Bowers is going to get what’s coming to him eventually, but I don’t want you or anyone else getting hurt today.” He loosens his grip and sighs, rubbing his face. “Just… leave it alone, okay? For now, at least. Please?”

Bill huffs but eventually closes the door again.

“Fine,” he says, resting a hand on the offending baseball cap on Stan’s head. “But we still need to figure out what we’re g-going to do about th-this.”

“You’re gonna have to cut it off, I guess,” Richie offers.

Stan frowns. “No, I can’t. It’ll look so stupid.” He tries gently tugging the cap, but it doesn’t budge. “There’s got to be another way.”

Eddie approaches and carefully inspects where the hat and Stan’s hair are connected. “He really did a number,” he admits. “It’s stuck to your scalp in some places.”

Stanley groans. “Great,” he sighs.

“It’s just hair, it’ll grow back,” Richie insists. “My dad has some clippers in his bathroom, we can take care of it right now.”

Stanley shakes his head. “I especially don’t want to shave my whole head, Richie!”

“Why not? It’s just hair.”

“It’s my hair!” Stan argues. “Excuse me if I don’t want to look like Sinead O’Connor the rest of the school year!”

“It’ll grow back, Stanley!”

“I don’t care!”

“Oh my god, you are so sensitive,” Richie grumbles as he marches off and slams his parents’ bedroom door. Bill is about to suggest something when they hear the telltale buzz of an electric razor. The three of them are frozen in place.

“He wouldn’t,” Eddie says, looking wide-eyed at the other two.

They stumble past one another as they race to the bedroom and Bill pounds on the bathroom door. “Richie, what are you doing?!” he yells over the loud buzz of the razor. He tries the doorknob but it’s locked.

“Hey dumbass, you proved your point,” Eddie shouts at the door. “Cut it out, you’re freaking us out!”

Finally, after a few more bangs on the wood and jiggling the doorknob, does the buzzer click off and the door swing open. Richie stands there proudly, glasses off, clippers in hand, and with a freshly (and poorly) buzzed head.

“See? I told you it’s not a big deal, you wuss,” he says, gesturing to himself. The other three just stare at him in utter shock until Stan finally sputters.

“Richie, you… you--” Stanley says, then dips his head down into his hands, his shoulders beginning to shake. Richie frowns, worried for a minute that he’s crying again, but then Stanley tosses his head back and he’s laughing so uproariously. “You idiot! What the hell is wrong with you,” he asks through gasps.

The tension broken, Bill and Eddie also begin to laugh while Richie just smiles stupidly.

“You missed like so many spots, dude,” Eddie snickers. “Geez Richie, were you even trying?”

“Hey, I had to take my glasses off,” Richie protests. He tosses the razor to Bill and points to the back of his head, where tufts of black hair remained in messy patches. “Mind cleaning me up, Bill?”

Bill smirks and gets to work shaving off the rest of Richie’s hair. He actually didn’t do too bad of a job, just missed a few places here and there. At least he put a guard on it so he wasn’t just freehanding it.

“There you go,” Bill says once he’s finished. He hands Richie back his glasses and dusts the loose hair off his shirt. Richie examines himself in the mirror, his hands running over the short buzzcut.

“Looks a hell of a lot better than Sinead, if I do say so myself,” Richie remarks, satisfied with his handiwork. He throws a look to the other boys and grabs a pair of mustache scissors, snipping them threateningly. “Your turn, Stanley.”

Stan shakes his head quickly. “Not from you, four-eyes.” He takes the scissors and hands them to Bill. “Please be gentle.”

Bill nods and carefully starts cutting away the worst of the glue/hat/hair combination until the hat is freed, along with a substantial amount of hair. Eddie throws it unceremoniously into the trashcan. Stanley shuts his eyes, not wanting to see how ridiculous he looks with half his hair missing. Then Bill methodically shaves away the rest of his golden curls and it’s over before he knows it.

“Okay, you can look, if y-you want to.”

Stanley peeks one eye open and looks in the mirror. His face looks back at him, now sporting the same crewcut as Richie. It’s… not as bad as he thought it would be.

“It’s different,” he admits, touching the short prickly hairs gingerly. His heart aches for just a moment. It sucks but Richie was right: it’s just hair, and it’ll grow back. He glances at Richie. “I think I pull it off better than you, at least.”

Richie feigns a wounded look, clutching his chest dramatically. “Hey, whoa, watch yourself there, Staniel! Don’t forget, you copied me. I started this trend.”

They all laugh at this, then Bill looks at himself in the mirror, shrugs, and buzzes a line right down the middle of his head. They watch with amazement as he gives himself a haircut to match, smiling the whole time. Afterwards he clicks the buzzer off and turns to his friends, offering another shrug.

“I wanted to f-fit in with the cool k-kids. This look is v-very in right now.”

Stanley beams and throws his arms around Bill and Richie. “You guys are so dumb, but thank you,” he says. The three of them hug, then Richie looks mischievously at Eddie, who suddenly pales.

“Eds,” he states. “Snip, snip.”

Eddie glances between the three of them who now appear to be ganging up on him. He sighs and digs into his fanny pack. “My mom’s gonna think I joined a cult,” he mutters to himself. He pulls out his inhaler, takes a big puff, and looks to Bill. “Do it.”

Soon brunette hair joins the piles of auburn, blonde and black on the floor of Maggie and Wentworth’s bathroom. The boys take turns dusting each other off and inspecting one another for any missed spots, but Bill was careful and thorough and they all look good, if not a little bit off for the current fashion. Stanley felt grateful for his friends, idiots though they may be, for always making sure he was never alone in his suffering. They return to their long-forgotten snacks and homework, enjoying the pleasant company of one another – until the cry of “RICHARD TOZIER, WHAT IN GODS NAME HAVE YOU DONE TO YOURSELF” from Richie’s mom interrupted their time together.

[okageshadowkingfannovel]

Book 1. The Boy Meets the King

Chapter 1.

In a normal unsuspecting kitchen, a former adventurer stands before a stove, stirring the contents of a pot and humming to herself. In her early forties, she’s a warm, pleasant looking woman with pony-tailed reddish brown hair and soft brown eyes. She might have been the hero of this story about two decades ago, but her adventures are long since passed. The only adventures for her today are those of being a devoted wife and mother, and that means preparing dinner.

It’s just after lunch and suddenly, the younger of the woman’s two children bursts into the kitchen. She is a slender pretty girl with strawberry blond pigtails and vibrant green eyes. She is Annie, a teenager, but also, not the hero of this story. In fact, she has very little interest outside of keeping herself popular amongst the teenagers of Tenel village and finding a satisfactory boyfriend.

“Hey Mom, what’s for dinner?”

“Oh Annie,” Mom starts while casting a smile over her shoulder, “you just had lunch not too long ago and you’re already thinking about dinner?”

Annie twists a dainty finger into the strands of one pigtail. “I was just asking. It smells so good. Tell me, Mom. I wanna know.”

At this moment, the woman’s eldest child enters the kitchen, but it takes her and Annie a too long moment to notice him.

“Well, I’ll say that- Oh! Ari!”

“See? Ari’s come to find out too.”

The boy called Ari is 16 years old. He has a sapling like frame - slender, scrawny, almost seeming bendy. Shaggy red hair falls in long locks around his face and across his forehead, and his large eyes are emerald green. He’s wearing a blue striped sleeveless shirt, a black vest with gold clasps and a skull patch on the chest, and long khaki trousers. He doesn’t speak up much for himself and the whole town of Tenel agrees that his most notable quality is how unremarkable he is.

That being said, this quiet ordinary boy is the hero for this peculiar tale.

“Come on, Mom! What is it? It smells like stew … or steak?” Annie carries on.

“Well, what do you think it might be, Ari?”

Ari courteously sniffs the air, shrugs, and answers. “I don’t know.”

Mom looks slightly disappointed that her son gave no guess, but she smiles anyway and says, “well, tonight’s dinner is … a secret!”

Annie rolls her eyes. “Mom! That’s so unfair.”

“Oh! That reminds me, Ari. Your dad found a funny bottle on his way home last night. It’s right there on the table.”

She gestures towards the kitchen table where, seeming very out of place upon the normal white table cloth and next to the three branched candelabra, there indeed sits a strange looking bottle. It is a gaudy purple with an intricate green pattern necklacing the thinly tapering opening. Two handles spring out and curve down to the bottom to make for easy carrying. Four large, candy like turquoise gemstones are embedded into the bottle’s curves.

“We can’t get the cap off,” his mother admits, “don’t you think it’s strange?”

Observing more closely, Ari notices the cork very firmly shoved into the opening.

He reaches out a finger and pokes it.

A low muffled moan sounds from deep within the bottle.

Ari leans in and sniffs at the cork.

All he catches is an overwhelming waft of mold.

Finally, he firmly grasps the neck of the bottle and pulls at the cork.

But it won’t budge, not even a wiggle.

“See?” says his mother, abandoning the stove to draw closer to the bottle, “I wonder what’s in there.”

There’s a sparkle in her eyes, a far off wandering look, a hint of the curious adventurer she used to be.

“Mom!” Annie breaks her mother’s reverie, “it’s pointless to keep a bottle we can’t open. Throw it away.”

To strike her point, Annie flips a pigtail on the last word.

“Ah! Well, let’s see … What should we do?”

Their mother hesitates a moment in thought. And then, she lights up with realization.

“Oh! That reminds me! I forgot to pick up bread! But I can’t leave the stove. What should I do?”

Before Ari can make any sort of suggestion, his sister steps over him.

“Oh darn, I wish I could help you out, Mom, but I have a test tomorrow and I really need to study. My future is on the line!”

With that, Annie turns around and makes a dash out of the kitchen.

Unsurprisingly, Ari notices the sounds of her footsteps are heading out the front door instead of up the stairs to her room where her school books lay waiting.

“Well then, Ari,” says his mother, “go down to the bakery in the village and pick up a loaf of bread for me. They’ll just put it on our tab, so you can just run in and grab it. Thank you, dear.”

His mother turns back to her stove and her humming. Ari is about to leave the kitchen when she whips around again.

“Oh! While you’re out, why don’t you stop by Town Hall and see your father.” She turns back to her cooking, wistfully, “ah, my love, hard at work. If only I could see your father in action. Such rapture …” she trails off to herself.

Feeling repulsed and uncomfortable with his mother’s personal musings, as teenagers ordinarily do, Ari finally leaves the kitchen.

The family home is a mansion that lays like a sprawled out reptile just south-east of the village of Tenel. It sits fatly in a clearing of pine trees, just a stone’s throw from the village road. It wears jagged stones in various states of grey, reaches tall, dizzying pointed towers up to mingle with the tree tops, and caps itself with crooked blue shingles. It keeps itself company with a dried up fountain in the front courtyard, a tiny, but ancient ancestral graveyard, and a huge, thick, wooden gate at the entrance to keep all of it in.

Ari steps out into the courtyard, shielding his eyes from the sunlight already beginning to sharpen through the trees as afternoon slips into evening. He notices Annie waiting for him at the top of the stone steps that snake down to the front gate.

“So, did she tell you what’s for dinner?” she asks, blocking his path, “come on, tell me.”

“What happened to your homework?”

Annie starts to tease her pigtail with a wiggling finger.

“Well! I’m going out on a twilight date with Morris before dinner. To polish my feminine airs, I have to build up experience while I’m young. My book says so too …”

“What kind of book says that?”

“It’s one of Mom’s old books. What was the name again? … Oh! ‘Controlling Guys Made Easy.’”

Before Ari can protest, Annie spins around and skips on down the stairs.

“Anyway, enjoy your errand, Ari!” she calls before disappearing through the wooden gate.

Ari sighs, figuring there was little he could have said or done to make things play out differently.

With hands in pockets, he lazily makes his way over to the small graveyard by the pathway. He likes to say hello upon passing the three residents. The stones are so old that most of the lettering has been worn away, but Ari makes out what he can and makes up the rest:

‘RIP Nameless Hero - Well, we think he must have a name, but nobody asked him.’

‘Man who drank, gambled, and died from poisonous fish - just as he planned. RIP’

‘Person who touched the knowledge of the Library.’

After 16 years, Ari still knows nothing beyond these half-deciphered inscriptions, but he gives his regards all the same. When satisfied, he heads on through the big wooden gate that leads him to a meandering dirt path. It winds through the grass, between rotted logs and small rocky hills, untangling Ari from the clusters of trees until it finds the main road. A nearby sign helpfully points out to any casually passing tourist:

‘North: Tenel Village/Church

West: Tenel Field & Madril

East: Nameless Dwelling’

Ari wonders if his family will ever decide to name their house so the sign could be a bit more specific.

“Hmmm, Nancy? Or Connie?”

At the crossroads stand two boys about Ari’s age, Levi and Nathan. Dark haired Nathan is the pudgier fellow, while Levi is lanky and alight with flaming orange hair.

“Huh?”

“Whoa!” Nathan exclaims, his fat frame jumping, “Oh! It’s you. You scared me, Ari! When did you get here? I didn’t even notice.”

“Ari, you look real gloomy,” says Levi, “hey, you know what? The circus is coming to the field over there tomorrow night!” He gestures vaguely in the direction of Tenel Field.

“Really?” Ari replies noncommittally.

“I, I, I’m definitely gonna ask Julia out this time! I, I, I will do it! And me and Julia are gonna go out on a romantic date!”

“I wonder who I should ask out,” Nathan muses in the face of his friend’s determination, “Ari, why don’t you ask somebody out too? It’s the circus!”

Ari chuckles and shrugs his shoulders in what he hopes is a ‘cool, but not caring too much’ display. “Sure, I’ll just narrow down my list a bit and ask one out.”

It doesn’t come off as cool as he hoped.

“Ha!” Levi bursts, “I bet he doesn’t have the guts to ask a girl out! Ha ha ha! Chicken!”

The skinny boy goes the extra mile and begins flapping his arms and clucking.

“Anyway, I better get on over to the village,” says Ari before the soul crushing embarrassment can descend, “got an errand to run.”

“You’d better go quick then,” says Nathan, “they’re closing the town gates earlier and earlier. The ghosts and monsters from Tenel field have been wandering closer to town, I heard.”

The hauntings and prowlings of Tenel Field are nothing new to Ari’s ears. All his life, he’s heard the townspeople complaining about the beasts and deadly things that roam wild and how it’s getting worse every year. Ari hears most people, especially the older ones, blaming it on something evil going on out West in Madril that’s driving the wild things nutty. It’s gotten to the point where Tenel’s posted a sentry on the path between Tenel and the field to keep kids and the like in town and to warn everyone if something should wander in. Ari never gives the matter much thought, reasoning that interesting things like monster encounters only happen to interesting people. And it’s so rare to see ghosts come floating in out of the field.

But the sun does seem ever so slightly lower than it was when he first stepped out of the house.

“Right, I’ll be quick.”

With that, Ari leaves them to their great girl debate and heads toward the main gates of Tenel. For now, the entrance is wide open, yawning its welcome to any passerby bored enough to visit the little town. But later, as it gets darker, the gates will eventually be shut and locked, as Tenel residents cling to the illogical belief that doors and locks can keep out ghosts.

As he enters, he notices a pretty blond girl in a white dress standing by the inn and looking absentmindedly off into the distance. Further putting his errand on hold, Ari walks up to her.

“Hey Julia.”

She doesn’t respond.

Ari waits patiently.

It’s alright. I’m used to being ignored.

Julia looks on for another moment or two. Ari continues waiting.

Any day now …

“Huh? Oh, Ari!” she says, her gaze finally shifting onto him, “I was daydreaming. Sorry about that. Hey, did you know the circus is coming tomorrow night?”

Julia and Ari have been friends since childhood, and though time and puberty have pulled them in different directions, they still consider themselves at the very least good friends. Typically, Julia isn’t so spacey - it’s just an ‘Ari thing.’

“Yeah, Nathan and Levi mentioned it.”

“Isn’t it great? It’s the circus!”

“Yeah, it’s pretty great.”

She looks at him, blue eyes wide and expectant.

“I mean,” he continues, “really great. Very exciting.”

She still says nothing. He waves a hand in front of her eyes, wondering if she’s sunk into another daydream. He does have that effect on people sometimes.

“So, aren’t you gonna ask me to go to the circus with you?” she says suddenly.

“Oh! Well, yeah,” Ari stumbles, “um, I mean, I need to check in with my folks, but … would you … would you like to …”

Before Ari can finish his bare minimum of a question, Julia takes a step back and giggles.

“Sorry, Ari.”

Without even knowing the rest of the sentence, Ari can tell she doesn’t seem very sorry.

“Somebody else already asked me. If you’d have asked me earlier …”

Ari thinks about maybe saying something in protest or in his own defense, but decides it’s not worth it as she makes her way past him.

“Um,” she says, pausing before she walks away completely, “Some time soon, Ari, I … I need to tell you something important … so … see you.”

She takes off running, disappearing fast into the town - an impressive feat given its small size and even smaller populace. Ari isn’t sure what to make of Julia. Teenagerdom is difficult enough to navigate for himself without the complex enigma of teenage girls thrown into the mix. As with most problems, puzzles, and peculiarities, Ari shrugs and carries on with his business.

As he passes it, Ari notices the sign on the Parm Inn door:

‘CLOSED due to water shortage - not that we get any guests anyway. Ha! - Parm Inn Landlord.’

The posting has been there for several weeks. Similar notices decorate the doors of ‘Tinkers,’ the blacksmith and ‘Gulp,’ the bar:

‘Can’t do business without water. I’ll be sleeping. - Tinkers Owner’

‘Closed due to shortage! And for those who owe me money, PAY UP QUICK! - Gulp Hostess.’

Ari can only wonder how much longer before these places will have to close for good. Tenel is already pretty small. Any smaller and they’d have to start calling themselves ‘a small cluster of houses and shops’ instead of a town.

“Ah! Ari!” someone suddenly exclaims.

Ari turns to see the butcher standing outside his shop, just across from the inn. A man with an egg like figure and neatly parted brown hair, the butcher breathes out a heavy sigh as he clutches at his chest.

“You gave me a fright, Ari. I didn’t notice ya standing there at first.”

“Sorry, Mr. Kellogg.”

“Shame about the water shortage, isn’t it? Thankfully, we’ve got some stored up for emergencies like this, but we’re getting mighty low. Can’t say how much longer we’ll be able to stay open.”

“Yeah, I wonder what’s caus-”

“You like beef, Ari?”

He is a little startled by the question.

“Oh, well, I don’t dislike it, sir.”

“I’ve got a great deal on ground beef. One pound, 20 sukel. Figure you might not be able to get any tomorrow - if we can’t open, I mean.”

A few minutes later, Ari walks out of the butcher shop with a wrapped up pound of ground beef under his arm and his wallet 20 sukel lighter.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” calls Mr. Kellogg as he locks the door to his shop to leave for the day, “get home safe.”

Ari waves as the butcher turns to make his way home. He doubts he’ll have business there, but Ari hopes the butcher is open tomorrow. As he makes his way towards the bakery, he passes by two men deep in conversation and nervousness.

“Oh dear, this just won’t do. The water supply has stopped and almost all the stores are closed. It’s under investigation now … do you think it might be related to ghosts?”

“All I know is they’re saying there are tons of ghost problems in Madril. And they’re a big, machine town. Totally different class than Tenel. If they can’t handle the ghosts and monsters, we don’t stand a chance.”

The other man nods weakly, looking very pale. “We’ll be in big trouble.”

Ari remembers his mother’s suggestion couched in wifely affection and decides to go visit his father. He passes Gulp, Tinkers, the miscellaneous shop known as ‘The Other One’, and several homes. All the way in the back of town, atop a small hill, is the church and right beside it the Tenel Village Office. The church sits quietly and patiently, having been unused and unvisited for several weeks now. Ari thinks the cream color of the tall rounded church towers is starting to look like spoiled milk. Green stains are creeping up the sides and the forest surrounding Tenel is starting to reclaim it.

A sign before the tightly shut door reads:

‘Until further notice, please do not enter the church. - Tenel Village Office’

Feeling helpless in the face of such a polite, pathetic notice, Ari walks over to the Tenel Village Office.

Inside, the village office is busy and hectic. Immediately, Ari spots his father sitting behind his usual desk at the front, but all around him, people rush and run and flitter about like a swarm of frustrated, inconvenienced bees. Even their talk sounds like buzzing.

Ari carefully navigates his way towards that front desk. Ari’s father is a short, stringy sort of man. He parts his dark brown hair straight and neat down the middle, and he looks at the world through thick, soda bottle glasses. He has the look of a man who believes in aliens and psychic phenomenon. If one were to ask him about such things, he could easily go on for hours. Ari can attest to it. His father stares intently into a stack of pages in the middle of his desk. He stares as if staring hard enough will burst the pages into flames or cast them into an alternate dimension where he doesn’t have to look at them anymore. Ari is sorry to see these efforts aren’t working.

“Oh! Hello there, Ari. Here to see your cool father at work?”

Ari rolls his eyes, but still smiles.

“What d’ya think? Too cool for words, huh? I redefine ‘cool.’ Ha!”

Now the smile is starting to fade. Ari’s father has perfected the art of being too corny.

“Sorry, sorry,” his father chuckles, “as you can see, the office is in a bit of a panic over the water shortage. We’re doing everything we can to find the cause, but …”

As his father trails off, Ari sees his shoulders slump and behind the happy-go-luck dork that is his father, Ari can see the exhausted Assistant Manager.

“On top of that, the Classification Tables will be arriving soon from the Royal City. That always puts the office on edge.”

Ari knows vaguely about the Classification Tables. His father has cursed it multiple times throughout the year. Supposedly, the village office sends a character report of each Tenel resident to the Royal City and then the city sends back a huge packet of tables that identify and categorize each and every citizen. Ari frequently asks his father how he is ‘classified,’ but his father usually responds with some corny joke.

‘The Assistant Manager’s son.’ ‘The eldest child at the Nameless Dwelling.’ ‘Some Shady Guy.’

So, Ari doesn’t really ask about it anymore. He just accepts that the Classification Table causes his father a lot of headache and woe. Once, Ari tried asking one of his father’s coworkers what the purpose was of the Classification Tables. Her response was unsatisfactory.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there! You’re the assistant manager’s son, aren’t you? Well, the Classification Tables, they … well, they … they maintain order of course! They help the town run smoothly. Why else would the Royal City have us do all this? Now, please leave me alone. I’m quite busy.”

So, Ari understands the weight when, on top of the water shortage problem, his father says he also has to deal with the Royal City’s Classification Tables.

“Anyway, what’s for dinner?” his father asks suddenly, the joy lifting his shoulders back up from their slump, “Ah, I wanna go home. I miss your mom.”

Ari chuckles. “No idea. She wouldn’t tell me. Says it’s a surprise.”

“Ha, yeah, that sounds like your mother.”

“She asked me to pick up bread.”

“Oh! Well, you better get moving, son. It’s getting dark out. The town will be closing soon.”

“Great seeing you, Dad,” says Ari as he turns to leave, nearly crashing into a speeding intern.

Ari steps back outside and, just as his dad said, the dark is noticeably beginning to descend on the town. He rushes down the hill to the Bakery, hoping the owner hasn’t decided to close doors early due to the dark looming in. The bell above the door clangs to life as he rushes in. Despite that, the husband and wife who run the Bakery carry on with their personal business, not seeming to notice Ari standing in the doorway. He steps up to the main counter where the wife stands, her back to Ari as she sorts through the baked goods on the back shelf.

The smell of freshly baked bread is intoxicating, filling Ari with warmth until the harsh pang of hunger in his stomach drives it away.

“Excuse me,” he says.

The portly Mrs. Bakster is singing to herself as she counts and pokes at the remaining pastries. It’s not a very good song and Mrs. Bakster isn’t very good at singing it.

“Hello? Mrs. Bakster?”

“Huh?” Finally, she whips around. “Oh! It’s you, Ari! Don’t I always tell you? A boy should speak up!”

These types of reprimands are nothing new. Mrs. Bakster has many opinions and is very keen on sharing them.

“Now, now, don’t harangue the boy, dear,” calls Mr. Bakster from across the shop, “don’t mind her too much, Ari. She’s got a sharp tongue, but a soft heart really.”

Ari smiles good humoredly, simply wanting to get the bread and get home for dinner.

“You’ve come to pick up bread for your mother, right?” says Mrs. Bakster as she reaches over to a shelf and pulls off a fine, golden colored loaf. With speed and finesse, she neatly wraps the loaf in paper and then, gently hands it to Ari. “Here you are. Don’t squeeze it too much. Don’t want to crush it.”

“Yes, Mrs. Bakster, thank you.”

“By the way, Ari, before you go, I wanted to ask - anything bothering you?”

“Now, dear!” chides Mr. Bakster.

“Come on! Keep your chin up, boy!” Mrs. Bakster carries on, ignoring her husband, “girls like the assertive ones, you know? And I know you’ve got a lot of potential, Ari. You can be anything you want. You just got to assert yourself, and girls will be all over you.”

Ari smiles and nods, backing away slowly.

“Alright, alright. Get on home and get that to your mother. I’ve got a dinner to get ready and a husband to feed, you know.”

“Yes … thank you, Mrs. Bakster. You too, Mr. Bakster. Have a good evening.”

Ari turns and whips out the door before the baker can be inspired with another round of opinions. Once outside, Ari is surprised to find Annie waiting.

“Ari, you done with your errands? You’ve been gone forever.”

“Sorry, yeah. I’m done.”

“What’s the matter?” she asks, and then eyes the bakery, “oh, did she lecture you again?”

Yeah, sure, make me relive it, why don’t ya?

The thought translates into a shrug.

“Let me guess,” says Annie playfully, “Oh, Ari, you’ve got to speak up for yourself more. You practically blend into someone else’s shadow.”

Ari gives her a brotherly glare.

“Oh well, at least there are some people around here who see some good in you … Julie, for instance.” Annie giggles mercilessly. “You lucky guy.”

All the way home, Annie teases her brother about the baker woman’s “advice” and Julie’s “affections.” But Ari takes it all without a word, wondering to himself about lots of different topics from that busy afternoon. He thinks about the water shortage and about his classification from the Royal City and about Julie picking someone else over him and about what it actually means to ‘blend into someone else’s shadow.’

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5 • Chapter 6 • Chapter 7 • Chapter 8 • Chapter 9 • Chapter 10 • Chapter 11 • Chapter 12 • Chapter 13 • Chapter 14 • Chapter 15 • Chapter 16 - Finale

NOTE: Okage Shadow King is owned by Sony Computer Entertainment and Zener Works. This novelization is purely a fan-work and the writer claims no ownership over the characters, general plot line(s), etc.

[softbiker]

Bucky Barnes Oneshot

Warnings: a couple of bad words

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: After being injured on a mission, Bucky winds up spending a day with the Avengers newest recruit. Bucky x Reader

A/N: This is my submission for @nacho-bucky ‘s writing challenge! My prompt was ‘the smell of freshly baked bread’. As a side note, I drank a whole pot of coffee yesterday and wrote this in one afternoon, so it’s also unedited :) As always, let me know what you think! 

By the time the quinjet is an hour out from New York, Bucky Barnes is in an irredeemably foul mood.

Breaking up terror cells in Germany was supposed to be an easy mission - in and out, with the practiced ease of their well-oiled strike team. Really, they took the mission to spare German special forces the trouble...that, and a potential connection to an old Red Room contact of Natasha’s. With their “dream team” (Sam’s words, not Bucky’s) of Cap, Bucky, Sam, and Natasha, this should have been a light op, a scrimmage, Nerf ball.

Turns out superheroing is a contact sport, and they’ve got the bombs and broken ribs to prove it. A train station, a decoy, and an explosive device Natasha failed to disarm. With Sam coordinating civilian evacuation, there had only been a couple dozen injuries, but the suspect had slipped away, leaving them bruised and empty-handed.

Bucky had taken a brutal hit as he pulled Nat to safety, and now he is curled in his seat on the jet, metal hand holding his ribcage. He watches Steve scowl in the cockpit, jaw unflinchingly tight as he goes over the mission in his head. The captain doesn’t know how to let things go - never has, never will. Sam is actually piloting the quinjet, making unreturned small talk about a basketball game he went to last weekend. Natasha sits across from Bucky, a Stark tablet in her hands, dissecting bomb schematics and diagrams of diffusion techniques. There’s a little scab of dried blood on her bottom lip that she pokes at with her tongue, red brows lowered in concentration.

Bucky is exhausted - his hair smells like dust and smoke, his mouth is tangy and dry. There’s dried sweat underneath his uniform and he itches and his feet are hot in his boots and his ribs really fucking hurt. He lets his head fall back against the seat, and wishes they were home already.

**********

She pops her head up over the back of the couch when she hears them. What a sight they make: Bucky, propped up on Steve’s shoulder, Natasha dust-covered and buried in her tablet, Sam still sweaty and tugging at the harness on his suit. She still smiles, tentative but kind.

“Hi guys.” She lifts her fingers in a little wave. “Everyone okay?”

Bucky grunts in response; Natasha says nothing, making a beeline for her room and a shower. Sam, without doubt the most talkative person on the team, props himself on a stool and blows a harsh breath past his lips.

“We’re alright, yeah,” he sighed. “Barnes is a little beat up but he’ll get over it - he’s just  dramatic.”

“Fuck you, too, Wilson.” Bucky flips Sam off over his shoulder as they hobble towards the elevators.

She winces, not yet used to their harsh banter.

“Hey man, be nice in front of the rookie, alright?” Sam hollers, mock-offended. “You’re creating a hostile work environment!”

Steve chuckles a little at that, jostling Bucky’s tender ribs, which makes him scowl at his best friend.

“Bucky is a hostile work environment,” Steve deadpans. They’ve reached the elevator, and shuffle inside, turning to face the common room. Bucky catches the rookie’s eyes as she giggles behind her hand.

“She’s fine,” he rolls his eyes, sparing a wink for the rookie. “When I make it hostile, bird brain, you’ll know.”

The elevator doors close, and he leans on Steve a little heavier, and jabs his elbow into Steve’s stomach.

“Thanks a lot for that, by the way,” he huffs.

“What?” Steve feigns innocence, and very poorly. “Didn’t know you were so worried about making a good impression on the rookie.”

“I’m - I’m not.”

“Uh huh.”

“Shut up.”

They meet Dr. Banner in the medical wing where his lab adjoins the clinic; Sam had messaged him half an hour ago that they were inbound with a broken supersoldier, and Bruce had taken the liberty of setting up some of his supplies. Of all the doctors on staff, Bucky favored Dr. Banner - he was mild and soft-spoken enough to not trigger Bucky’s anxiety, in spite of the needles and IV drips and the snapping of latex gloves.

An X-ray and some bandages later, Bucky is removed from the active duty list for two weeks.

“Even with your advanced healing factor, I wanna be careful with this,” Bruce says, taking off his glasses to scratch the side of his nose. “I mean, your medical history is a little blurry, to say the least - and with all the shit HYDRA pulled, who knows what kind of stress your bones have been through before.” He taps away on his tablet, notifying FRIDAY and the admin system to remove Bucky from the roster. “In the meantime, take it easy - no missions, no training, no lifting weights. Probably avoid the motorcycle, too. I’ll check on them again in two weeks, and we’ll go from there.”

Steve is nodding - he never leaves Bucky by himself in medical - and crosses his arms. Neither of them have changed out of their uniforms yet, and in this sterile observation room, Bucky can finally smell the layers of grime and sweat clinging to them. His nose wrinkles when he gets a little whiff of himself, feeling bad for the nurse who bandaged his ribs.

“Oh I almost forgot -” Bruce turns around and reaches for something on his lab bench. A little blue bottle, full of round white pills. “Here. I developed these for the two of you - since you metabolize normal painkillers so quickly, I figured we might need something that would work in the event you sustain heavy injuries which…well, seemed likely. Take 2 every 4 hours, okay?”

His metal fingers grip the little bottle, rattling the tablets inside.

“Sure thing, doc.”

**********

She lifts the hem of her shirt, wiping at the sweat on her forehead, and leans against the wall of the gym. Her breath comes in short pants as her chest heaves, trying to cool down from her last bout with Agent Romanoff.

“Heads up.”

Her hands barely make it up in time to catch the flying water bottle headed for her face.

“Good catch,” Romanoff smirks a little. She’s sweating, too, but in a way that’s decidedly more sexy, little red curls hanging by her face. She looks fresh from a Pilates class, not a suicide workout - the rookie can feel the heat of her own face, the sweat drenching her clothes, and knows she’s not nearly as glowing as her trainer.

“You did really good today,” Romanoff continues. She keeps saying to call her “Natasha” but that is so hard to do with a woman so intimidating her alias is one of the world’s deadliest animals. “Really good. You’ve shown tons of improvement since we started. I’m going to recommend we start letting you shadow on missions in a couple more weeks.”

“Wow, really?” Her face lit up in spite of her exhaustion.

“Sure.” Natasha smiles. “I know it’s gotten a little boring, having you go through all of this.”

“Boring” was an understatement. Despite having a few years of experience under her belt - well, according to Tony Stark, vigilantism barely counts as “experience” - the rookie was assigned to a training program for her first couple of months on the team.

“Too much of a risk to put you in the field right away,” Stark had rattled off, handing her forms to sign and an official t-shirt (‘Look Mom! I’m an Avenger!’) and a tablet with a map of the compound. “Legal says we can avoid liability issues with a training program before we gradually phase you in, and I’m inclined to agree, so! Welcome to the team, but not officially!”

Her days consisted of early morning workouts, followed by combat and tactical training with Black Widow herself, and then...well, not much. There was research, of course, and she stayed on top of the intelligence briefings with the rest of the team. She went to meetings and official dinners and unofficial karaoke nights, but the rest of her time was mostly her own. Frankly, she was chomping at the bit to get back out there, in the action. Helping people.

“Well, hopefully it’ll pay off,” she sighs, giving Agent Romanoff an exhausted smile. “I wouldn’t want to be the weak link on the team.”

“You won’t be, believe me,” Natasha shakes her head. With a glance at her watch, she picks up her own water bottle and heads for the door. “Now I’ve gotta run, Skype meeting with Fury in 5. I’ll see you later, Rookie!”

**********

Bucky Barnes was feeling good.

Like, damn good.

Like, ‘Banner should label his controlled substances’ good.

Thing is, post-HYDRA and post-fugitive and post-cognitive reconstruction therapy, Bucky was more mentally okay than he had been in decades. He had the occasional rough day, and he definitely wasn’t perfect by any means, but with the shrinks that Stark had on retainer, he was getting better at dealing with it all. His physical health, however, was more of a moving target. In spite of receiving a bastardized supersoldier serum, he had been pumped full of so much other shit and gone through so much physical stress that his body had fundamentally shifted equilibrium. Multiple appointments with Dr. Cho and Shuri revealed that his chronic pain may never fully heal - if it did, it would be a very gradual process. Normal painkillers in reasonable doses did nothing for him, so Bucky settled in to his discomfort, carrying it the way he carried his knives and his scars - always.

24 hours into his medical leave, a few doses of pills down, and he couldn’t feel a single ounce of pain in his body - he shifted his awareness to each part of himself, like that guided meditation thing Wanda did sometimes, and he couldn’t find the pain, not even lurking behind the muscle and metal. He might be a little miffed at being off the active duty roster, but if his whole vacation is going to feel like this? Well, he doesn’t mind to let Steve handle the next threat to world peace.

With his schedule suddenly wide open, Bucky wonders what he’ll do with his day. He can’t remember the last time he truly had nothing to do - it’s an exciting prospect. So he lets himself ease through his morning, sleeping in, long hot shower, slipping on those plush Black Widow pajama pants Nat gave him as a gag gift. He knows everyone else will have had their breakfast and moved on to morning briefings and training drills by now, and he wanders down to the kitchen in the hopes that they’ve left him some coffee.

He sees her there, perched on a stool at the island and frowning at the tablet in her hand. There’s a little scrunch to her nose when she does that, he notices.

“Good morning,” he says softly, trying and failing not to startle her.

“Oh, hey Bucky,” she smiles, watches him round the island to the coffee pot on the counter. “I didn’t see you there.”

“S’okay. I’m quiet.”

“You didn’t get tapped for the recovery mission? They’re going after your suspect from Berlin again, I think.”

“Oh, I’m off missions for two weeks.” He turns, giant ‘Don’t forget to be awesome’ mug gripped in his metal hand. “Banner’s orders. You didn’t hear about my smashed ribs?”

“Oh no, I guess not - are you okay?” Suddenly she’s concerned, and a little sheepish. “Sorry, I’m still a little out of the loop I guess.”

He feels guilty for that - she’s eager, bright, kind, a brilliant recruit. But it can take a while before you’re ‘in’ with the team. Not because they exclude her, but, well - a group made up of outsiders has a hard time adding new faces to the mix.

“Don’t apologize. Not your fault.” Bucky digs around in a jar on the counter for a few sugar packets, dumping them into his mug. “Anyways, I’m off the roster for now. Gotta figure out something to do with myself, I guess.”

Her smile is slow, ducked under pretty lashes - he really needs to stop noticing these things.

“Would you - I mean, you can hang out with me if you want?” She chews on her lip. “I’m done for today - my training with Natasha ended early and they didn’t need me in on the briefing so…”

The rookie was lonely - he could see that, anyone could. The fact is, between their own training and missions, it had been a little hard for the team to spend very much time with her. Bucky himself was often a bit of a loner in his free time, preferring to hole up in his room with books and movies rather than go out for drinks or another karaoke night. And yet, he found himself feeling eager at the thought of spending a relaxing day with the new recruit, getting to know her a little, hearing that funny little laugh through her nose.

“Sounds great, Rookie - what did ya have in mind?”

**********

“Okay, I just wanna go on the record and say I called it. I called it!” She’s grinning. “I knew you would love this.”

“Well, hey, in my defense, I’ve never hated beautiful women.”

She just rolls her eyes, kicks her feet out to rest on the coffee table in front of them. There’s a pile of DVD’s, all hers, laying across the surface, picked through and ranked in order of what was most important for Bucky to see. His film education was obviously lacking, considering he missed out on 70 years of movies, and didn’t even know what he liked anymore, so he was content to let her pick. After raiding the kitchen for an array of snacks, they settled in, opposite ends of the same couch with a bowl of popcorn and dark chocolate M&M’s between them.

Approximately 20 minutes into the movie, Steve appears, just passing through for an apple from the fridge. He stops in his tracks behind the couch, the crunch of the fruit in his mouth just above their heads.

“What is this?” he says around his mouthful. If his Ma could see him now, Bucky thinks.

“It’s called ‘How to Marry a Millionaire’ - came out in 1953,” she answers, smiling over her shoulder at him. “It’s one of my favorites honestly.”

“That’s - that’s Lauren Bacall!” Steve perks up, smacking Bucky’s shoulder.

“Yeah, punk,” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Betty Grable’s in it, too.”

“No shit!” Steve is grinning now, and he gives the rookie a conspiratorial look. “Y’know, Bucky used to have her pin-up poster. The one in the white bathing suit? Had it in his suitcase when he shipped out.”

“Oh, really?” She’s looking at him now, eyes sparkling at the rosy blush climbing up Bucky’s cheeks. “Betty Grable, huh?”

He clears his throat. “Well, everybody had that picture, I mean...it’s famous for a reason. All the boys had ‘em.”

“No, no, I get that,” she shrugs. “I just had you pegged as more the Rita Hayworth type, that’s all.”

It takes him back for a second, Steve too, that she knows these starlets, that they could’ve been having this same conversation 75 years ago. He can see that look in Steve’s eyes, sly and knowing as they slide towards him. Bucky works his mouth, tries to control his smile.

“Well, nothing wrong with her either,” he drawls, spreading his arms along the back of the couch. “But did you see Grable’s legs?”

“I just thought you might’ve had a thing for redheads!” she laughs.

“They’re alright, I guess - now Dugan on the other hand…”

Neither of them notices Steve leave the room, tossing the apple in his hand and a huge dopey grin on his face.

**********

“Tell me again what the recipe says?”

“One cup of pumpkin puree.”

“Oh - shit, I thought you said one can.”

She smacks her forehead. “No wonder the batter is so goopy!” She rolls her eyes playfully. “You’re trying to ruin my bread, Barnes.”

“I swear I’m not, doll - it was an accident.”

“Okay, new plan - we just make a double batch since the can has two cups in it.”

She shuffles around behind him, grabbing her flour and sugar and sour cream and other ingredients, hands flurrying to measure and fix the dough. It’s mid-afternoon now, a couple of movies down, and they (she) decided they needed to get in the fall spirit by baking a ridiculous amount of...breads. The banana bread is already in the oven, the pumpkin will be on its way as soon as she fixes his mistake, and a blueberry bread (made from muffin mix) is next on the list.

“But...what’s so special about making it into breads?” He had asked, causing her to look at him like an idiot.

“Ask me that again after you try them, Bucky.”

So he shut up and cracked eggs and sifted flour, stirring when her arm got tired. He was already regretting his words now that the smell of the banana bread was drifting towards him from the ovens, and he had to admit the pumpkin and cinnamon from her bowl was making his stomach growl. With all the bowls and measuring cups laying around, they were making enough sweet breads to feed an army, but hey - the Avengers are practically a small army of their own. And besides, Bucky intends on taking an entire loaf - baker’s privilege.

He decides that he likes watching her work, bouncing around the kitchen, some oldies playlist on the speakers, her tongue poking out between her lips. She’s got her sweater sleeves pushed up over her elbows - he had to help with that, after she got dough on them. This song is good, too, and he wants to ask her who wrote it-

“Are you gonna stand there staring at me, or are you gonna help?” she quips over her shoulder. He has no idea when he last smiled so much.

“You’re the boss, Rookie.”

**********

She’s got her feet in his lap now, and they haven’t said a word in an hour, and Bucky doesn’t even remember taking his last dose or two of his pain pills but he doesn’t feel a goddamn thing.

There’s a huge book in her lap, Stephen King - a favorite, he’s learned.

“I read at least one of his books every year in October,” she tells him. “You know, to get ready for spooky season.”

“Spooky season? What the hell is that?”

“You know, Halloween time!” she smacks his arm. “It’s Halloween first, Buck, you gotta get in the spirit.”

“I’m -” he sputters, face drawn in the most adorably confused look. “Halloween first?”

She hands him a book of his own and now here they are - he’s 20 pages into The Shining, but he’s stopped paying attention because she’s yawning behind her book and her eyes are fluttering shut, and it shouldn’t be as distracting as it is.

He forces his eyes down to his own page, to Jack Torrance and haunted hotels, but they’re drawn back up when her book finally drops the rest of the way to her lap. Her head slumps sideways onto the back of the couch, mouth open just a little. He draws the blanket down around her feet and tucks it in a little tighter, but other than that, doesn’t move a muscle. He’s just fine right here, thank you.

He’s sinking in again, driving up the twisting mountain road to the Overlook, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Carefully - in the way highly trained superspies can be careful - he lifts his hips up and pulls his phone from his pocket, managing not to dislodge her feet or wake her up. She merely sighs in her sleep, nuzzling her face into the couch pillow. A text notification from team group message lights up the screen.

It’s Natasha. A photo, a photo which she somehow managed to take without him knowing, of him and the rookie, practically snuggling on the couch and reading together. Her legs are propped over his lap, and Bucky’s eyes are staring straight at her over the top of his book. Nat has captioned the photo: “looks like Barnes found a good nurse.”

He snorts a little. Natalia. Glances up at her, still sleeping, and tilts his phone upwards a few degrees and snaps a picture to send back.

“She sleeps on the job” he types, thumbs still slow on the phone keyboard. Instantly, his phone starts buzzing with more texts from the team, but he mutes it and lays his phone on the coffee table. He doesn’t feel like talking now. Well, talking to them.

“Hey...Rookie,” he whispers, reaching out and shaking her shoulder a little. She hums in her sleep, but makes no other move.

“Rookie, I gotta ask you something.” He wiggles her leg a little, shaking her feet in his lap, and whispers her name. He’s rewarded with her eyes fluttering open, her mouth drawn down in a pout at being woken up.

“Whatisit,” she sighs, still slumped into the cushions. He clears his throat. Here goes nothing.

“So, there’s a charity gala for the Stark Foundation coming up next weekend,” he starts bravely. “And - and the whole team is going anyway, so I know you’re gonna be there, but - well, maybe you would consider going...with me?” Courage runs out, and his brain backpedals. “I mean, just as a friend?”

She huffs. “I can’t believe you woke me up for that.”

“Oh.” He looks down, hair falling in his eyes. “So...you don’t want to go with me?”

“Of course I’ll go with you, Barnes,” she sighs. “Now shush. I was napping”

His face hurts from the stretch in his cheeks when he smiles. He’s gonna give Bruce those pain meds back.

[lannee]

even my phone misses your call (by the way) - part 1

jo yeong x koo seo ryeong fanfic

AO3: link

_

It’s only 9:30 and the Prime Minister is already on the verge to implode.

If she has to endure another unnecessarily stupid conversation with the men existed within 10m of her seat, she might truly lose it. So she shuts them up, and walks towards the door. She can hear it vividly in the air, through the look in their eyes, “What a cocky brat, leaving again in the middle of an important meeting, with so many elite people twice her age”. As if she actually cares, as if she has the time to ponder over whatever nasty things they think of her.

She gave up doing that years ago. Koo Seo Ryeong did not crawl her way out of a fish market and become the youngest female Prime Minister of Corea to put up with some 60 year old men’s bullshit. So of course she leaves, whispering death threats to Secretary Kim for not doing his job properly and forcing her to attend another useless meeting that can just be a goddamn report on her table.

Back to the office, she walks straight to her private balcony after taking out a pack of cigarettes she secretly keeps in the room. Seo Ryeong is not a regular smoker, not silly enough to sustain an addictive habit that can damage her impeccable skin. But here she is, stressed out of her mind, holding the lighter so very close she can almost feel the nicotine coming in like waves. Then out of nowhere, she thinks of him.

She thinks of 20 year old Jo Yeong, to be exact. Standing in front of her under the heavy July rain while carefully taking the cigarette out of her soft lips. Jo Yeong with his navy umbrella. Always managed to find her at her worst, always be there next to her without saying anything because words were usually wasted when you talked to Koo Seo Ryeong.

God, he really ruins cigarettes for her. She throws the whole pack into the trash bin along with the one on her lips.

She hates him so much, it almost makes her want to see him just to say that to his face.

But they do not do things like that anymore.

_

When Yeong passed the entrance exam of Corea National University, Seo Ryeong was books deep into her Master degree in Political Science and International Relations. He instantly became popular in the campus for being the King’s closest friend, with rumors about him floating around every lecture that she attended. She studied with Lee Gon for years and never met him or his friends outside, but whenever they talked he always mentioned Yeong’s name and stories about what they did together in the palace.

She listened tentatively to everything he said not because she had a huge crush on him and wanted to be his Queen, as every jealous fangirl in the campus always thought of her, but because she needed to know every deep dark secret of the King of Corea. She knew it would tremendously help her career as a politician in the future. That was the reason why she followed him around like an innocent puppy, the pretty girl with a lovely figure who came from the dirty market and scored the highest grade on the insanely difficult entrance exam. She beat out Gon fair and square, sometimes late at night she even dreamed about taking the throne of his to herself. If people knew about her thoughts, they would laugh at her and spit on her face but frankly, she thought if she wanted it enough, she could be the Queen of Corea. With or without Gon by her side.

When Gon introduced Yeong to her for the first time, she could not read his face at all. She was used to be so good at knowing people after the first meeting, but Yeong stirred her curiosity and she felt strangely intrigued by him. Maybe it was because he did not talk much, he had an incredibly calm expression and most of the times he only looked at Gon. He acted like a well-trained bodyguard around the King, which she found quite hilarious. Gon already had an army walking around him every step, and with Yeong by his side it felt even impossible to her how she could still hang out with them so casually. She and Gon both knew they worked perfectly together as a team. Even when they had zero interest in each other romantically, she earned her place to be by his side and let’s be honest, he would never pass any group project without her insights and intelligence. It took Yeong a while to understand this, he was always careful and silent when she was around. She could feel him trying to crack her facade, as if he was able to see through her 10 year plan of becoming the Prime Minister of Corea.

He did not trust her, and it annoyed her how she cared about that more than she thought.

-

It started out with Seo Ryeong simply wanting to earn Yeong’s approval. She tried to ask him personal questions, which he only gave out vague answers that did not satisfy her at all. They even went together to a few field trips exclusively for the university’s top students, and girls followed him around all day hopelessly asking for his phone number. Sometimes he intentionally tried to find Seo Ryeong and asked her to go out for a walk in order to escape their horny fellow students. Everybody seemed to be intimidated whenever they saw her. She made fun of him every single time, “How desperate you are to come to me for help”. Gon never went with them on those trips due to security reasons, obviously. It surprised her how much she enjoyed having Yeong all for herself. He bought her food after their walk and one time somehow they ended up drinking beer together in Gyeongju. He told her about his family, mostly to subdue the awkwardness between them, and even asked her about things she never cared to share with anyone. They were both not a fan of getting deep and personal, their stories ended quickly and strangely left her longing for more. She did not know how to talk to him without sounding premeditated. Only with him did she feel like maybe she was not good enough. Maybe she needed to live life differently, to drop the act and let him see all of her calculations.

That was when she unknowingly started flirting with him a bit. She tried that with Gon years ago until they both realized the true intention of being in each other’s life. Then she did it with Yeong because there seemed to be no other way to get closer to him, she was kind of impatient and definitely not herself. She started drinking a lot around that time because of all the essays she had to write, relationships with important people she had to maintain while staying alert around Yeong and waiting for him to be under her control.

A week before she submitted her final thesis, she did the most stupidly cliche thing ever, and that was drunk calling Jo Yeong while she was out drinking alone. She was fed up with reading and writing and living alone in the city. Most nights she could not sleep peacefully and had no idea when the last time she ate a proper meal. So she drove to the closest bar she could find and drank half a bottle of expensive whiskey which would cost a lot of the money that she made working part time. She counted in her head how many days were left before she could stop with the pretentious studying and actually start working on her long overdue plans. Five glasses led to nine, then some guys came over offering to buy her drinks. She remembered being sober enough to drop mean words and scare most of them away. One guy stuck around for so long and was shamelessly insistent about bringing her home, she had to pull the boyfriend-coming-here-very-soon card. She knew she was completely intoxicated when she pressed his name on her phone. There was no way she would come out of the bar safely if she didn’t call someone she could trust.

“Noona, it’s 2 AM. What’s going on?”, he picked up after a few seconds and said boringly. Like he was about to fall asleep but she appeared out of nowhere and prevented that from happening.

She chuckled, regretting whatever she was doing in the back of her mind, “I don’t know, why don’t you come here and find out?”

“And where are you exactly?”, he signed.

She told him the address, and imagined him wondering why he even answered her call. She was so drunk, the thought of him not coming at all actually scared her. The guy next to Seo Ryeong kept on persuading her to go with him, to leave her fictitious boyfriend behind and stop acting hard to get. She laughed in disgust without batting an eye and continued drinking. The funny thing was none of the guys dared to touch her for too long, she guessed she had that kind of power. Time passed slowly and she was convinced Yeong did not care enough to drive all the way here from the palace to deal with someone he never really trusted. So when he called out her name from behind, she almost fell from the stool where she was sitting. Then everything suddenly happened too quick, too fast.

Yeong held her upright, one hand caressing her face, the other tugging her messy hair behind her ears. He asked for the bill and paid for it. She leaned her head on his chest during the whole card transaction, when he had to sign the bill his arms surrounded her. He was wearing a black linen shirt and dark jeans. Did he always smell this good? She buried her face in his neck absentmindedly and inhaled his scent. She could feel Yeong stopped abruptly in the middle of asking the bartender about something related to her drunken state. He wanted to know if she was alone the whole time, and she kind of imagined him not wanting any guy near her. Then he carried her out the front door, the early summer heat was suffocating and she told him she wanted to lie down somewhere. He quickly put her on the passenger seat of his car and she tugged on his shirt to pull him closer while he was trying to secure the seatbelt.

Seo Ryeong woke up in the morning with the worst headache ever. Her room smelled faintly of vomit. She panicked for exactly 10 seconds while everything from the night before flashing through her mind. She did not remember anything at all after entering Yeong’s car. She still wore the same clothes from last night, covered by her warm blanket. Her room seemed pretty clean, maybe he helped her to the bathroom before she made a mess of herself... For the first time in her life, she wanted to end her existence right there. While trying to grab the phone she saw a bottle of hangover cure on her bedside table. There was a text from him, sent 2 hours ago, “Drink it, cook some soup, text me when you’re awake.”

Could a heart ever get swollen? Because it felt like hers kind of did. She prayed to all the Gods above she did not say anything stupid to him during the drive home.

.

.

.

it’s been awhile since i wrote a fanfic. i didn’t know i needed to write a fanfic for these 2 incredible characters until i read this by @rain-hat​ - thank you for inspiring me dear. writing this is fun because i kind of know they’ll never be canon lmao. so i just went wild with my imagination. i’ll post part 2 maybe this weekend after the new episodes come out. hopefully there will be some scenes of them together. i literally only watch Eun Chae and Do Hwan’s scenes and skip the rest of this drama. please tell me i’m not the only one! 

title is from From the dining table - my fav song by Harry <3

hope you enjoy this!

[golden-deer-dear]

The Weight of a Name, Claude x Byleth AU Fic, Chapter 4

Summary: One decision can change the course of nations. When King Mahtab brought home a baby from Fódlan, he gave his own son someone to stand at his side. Byleth grows up side by side with Claude, surviving the hardship of Almyra together. For each, they are the other’s only friend.

Notes: This chapter took forever. I couldn't quite make it feel right, so it got rewritten multiple times. And it's very long, so I hope that makes up for the wait.Now that we're actually out of NaNo, I'll probably be slower on updates for this story. I'm going to switch between updating this and History on Repeat (and whatever little one shots catch my attention, because let's be real, I get distracted super easily).

I just realized I completely forgot the links to previous chapters, and to AO3 in the other chapters. I’m going back to fix that right now. I always try to include these, so if you notice I forget them, please yell at me. 

1162, 1167, 1169 Read on AO3. 

The Weight of a Name 1170

Moving from the summer palace back to the capital city was always more of a show than Byleth thought necessary. Under normal circumstances the trip would only take two or three days, one on the back of a wyvern, but with the entire royal entourage in tow the entire process took five days at the least. With the king deciding on the third day that pausing for a hunt was a sensible thing to do, it meant they would linger in the wilderness even longer. Byleth really did not wish to listen to the complaints of spoiled nobles longer than necessary.

Which was how she found herself off to the side of the proceedings, sharp eyes watching as nobles gossiped and drank, and servants rushed to refill those drinks and check provisions. Byleth did not feel as if she fit into either group, and wanted to join Claude. He would have some weird quip that would have Byleth fighting that odd sensation that made her want to smile. But Claude was mounted beside his father, taking a place of honor in the hunt. It was a wholly inappropriate place for a Fódlan orphan. His wyvern, almost a year old, was still small enough to fit on his shoulders, and had wrapped itself around Claude’s shoulders. Shamil watched the whole proceedings with the same annoyance Byleth felt.

Naima stepped into Byleth’s field of vision, drawing the young girl’s attention away from her friend. You are not excited? Naima signed, the smile on her lips betraying her knowledge of the answer she would receive.

Byleth shook her head, the thick braid Naima had woven her hair into bouncing against her back. “No. This seems unnecessary. Look at Nader. He’s got that smile on his face, but it’s fake. He hasn’t set up security for this situation.”

Naima looked thoughtful, tapping a well manicured nail against her lips before she answered. True, but we are also in the heart of Almyra. There is not much here to harm us besides ourselves, and that is a threat the king and Nader are both very used to looking out for. 

Byleth still did not look satisfied. “I’ll feel better when we’re home.”

Naima sighed silently and shook her head. If you are so worried, then once the hunt begins find your way to his side. 

As Naima adjusted the bow on her back, Byleth blinked at her caretaker. “Where will you be?”

Where I always am, Naima answered simply, her eyes drifting toward her brother. Wherever he needs me.

/

There were times Byleth hated being right. This was very much one of them.

The rampaging wyvern had come out of nowhere, screaming in pain and rage when it encountered the royal party. The bandits came next, cursing when they saw just who they had run into. They were bad actors. Byleth did not believe their ploy for a moment. But as to why they decided such a show was necessary was not the issue at the moment. 

No, Byleth was much more worried about the injured wyvern. Mahtab had placed himself between the creature and Claude, protecting his son from the first attack, but with the bandits joining in, the king’s attention was now divided.

“Claude!” Byleth charged toward her friend, pushing her way past the confusion the royal party had fallen into. Nader was shouting orders, quickly getting a handle on the situation. As many of the nobles were soldiers as well, they were falling into formation with a terrifying grace and swiftness. 

Claude glance for a brief second in her direction, but his focus was on the wyvern still going berserk at the head of the party. He drew his bow and knocked an arrow. Byleth saw him take a deep breath in, releasing half of it as he aimed, only fully exhaling as the arrow flew from his bow. 

The wyvern screamed in pain as the arrow sank into its open maw. It was an impressive shot, a wound that would kill over the course of a few minutes as the creature bled out, but the wyvern was so enraged it did not seem to realize its life blood was pouring out onto the ground below it. It screamed, snapping the arrow in half as it gnashed its teeth together, its attention now fully focused on the young prince.

Byleth sprinted forward, her legs aching with effort as she dodged hooves and blades that stood between her and her friend. She watched Claude pale as he reached for another arrow, but the wyvern was charging fast. By the time Claude had aimed his next arrow it would be too close. 

Please, please, please! Byleth had no idea who she was pleading with, no idea if anyone could actually listen. But beneath the sounds of battle, the screams as men died around her, Byleth could have sworn she heard someone yawn. 

She had no time to ponder it. Her legs pumped, putting on a speed that would have surprised anyone paying attention to her, and placed herself between the wyvern and Claude. Claude cried out, but Byleth’s sword was already raised. Her sword tore into the berserk creature’s neck even as its claw came crashing down onto her shoulder. 

Claude jumped from his horse, axe in hand, and rushed to her side. Byleth bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain when Claude grabbed her, attempting to pull her away, but the wyvern had just enough fury left to sustain it a moment longer. The creature’s tail swung around, catching both children and knocking them through the air, and right into the river the party had traveled alongside all morning.

Byleth scrambled as water closed in over her head, knowing that the scent of her blood in the water would attract predators. Claude. She needed to find Claude. Where was he?

Something wrapped around her, pulling at her. Byleth wanted to scream as the action aggravated her injured shoulder, but she saw the green of Claude’s tunic and kicked her feet, helping as he dragged them both to shore.

She breathed deeply when the water broke over her head, coughing and sputtering on the shore as Claude did the same beside her. 

“Ugh,” Claude finally managed, his voice hoarse.

Byleth shared the sentiment, but they did not have time for a break. “Come on,” she said, forcing herself to roll over and push herself to her feet. “We need to go.”

“Ugh,” Claude moaned again. After a moment though he too pushed himself up. Shamil poked his head out of Claude’s shirt, hacking and looking no better than his master.

“Do you still have your bow?” Byleth asked, eyes scanning their surroundings. The tall grass of the plains they were traveling through would be easy for someone familiar with the area to hide within, and not so easy for them. Plus, so long as they were near the river, there would be predatory animals to worry about as well.

Claude shook his head, stumbling a bit at the motion. Byleth reached out to steady him, hissing softly at the stress it put on her arm. “No, lost it in the river. And my axe as well it seems.”

Byleth thought rapidly. There was no telling how far away they had been swept downstream. The easiest way back would be to simply follow the river, but if there were more bandits, they were likely to be close to the only water source around for some miles. Claude without weapons was not good. Byleth without her sword arm was not good. She gritted her teeth and handed the sword over to Claude.

Her friend blinked at the weapon shoved into his hands before looking up at her in confusion. “Byleth?”

“I can’t use it with my arm like this,” Byleth said, nodding toward her shoulder. “But I still have my daggers. I’ll have an easier time using those in my off hand than I will the sword. And I’ve seen you practicing with Nader. You’ll do better with that than short blades.” The sword would also keep him at a longer reach from any enemy they might encounter. An adult could easily outreach Claude, but every little bit helped at this point. 

“All right,” Claude said softly, wrapping the sword belt around his waist. “Let’s get out of here.”

/

Mahtab clicked his tongue in disgust as he wiped his blade clean. The attack had been foolish and unorganized. In mere minutes the group of bandits were dispatched, their blood soaking the earth. Nader already had people moving the bodies away from the water so that the river would not become contaminated by their filth. 

He turned, intent to find his son, when the sound of more horses racing down the path toward them caught his attention. Mahtab readied his sword, Nader swinging his axe back into a ready position, as they turned to face whatever was coming. 

The sudden burst of adrenaline gave way to relief as he recognized Odette charging toward him on a bay mare. The rest of the royal entourage that had stayed behind at camp streamed behind her, all battle ready. Mahtab frowned when he saw blood on their weapons. 

Odette swung down from her horse, running the last few steps to her husband and quickly looking him over. “You weren’t hurt?”

Mahtab shook his head, doing his own once over of his wife. “What happened?”

“Goli had scouts near the wyvern breeding grounds that did not report back. She went to go check herself, and found her people dead,” Odette explained. “It seems the bandits were attempting to steal some of the royal herd, but only managed to piss them off. Goli saw the main group on her way back, heading toward you from behind. So, we came up from behind them before they could trap you.”

Mahtab smiled at her, wrapping an arm around her waist and kissing her quickly. “My beautiful warrior queen,” he whispered against her lips. 

Odette rolled her eyes, but did not push him away. Before she could say anything, however, Naima was beside them. Where are they?

Mahtab and Odette both frowned, heads whipping around to look for their son. There was only one ‘they’ Naima could be referring to. Mahtab’s heart pounded furiously in his chest as the seconds grew longer without sight of his son. “Claude!” he cried out. 

At his shout, several courtiers near him looked up in surprise, all seeming to realize that the prince was missing at the same time. The prince’s name was shouted, dead bodies moved aside to make sure he was not trapped. But Claude was nowhere, and neither was Byleth.

It was Naima who found Claude’s bow tangled in the reeds of the river bank. She had only to point before Odette was on her horse again, Mahtab not far behind. Behind him, Nader barked orders, splitting up trusted soldiers to join their king and queen.

Mahtab could only pray that wherever the river had taken them, they were together. Protect my son, Byleth, he thought, so desperate it came out like a prayer. Once more, please be by his side and protect him.

/

“Byleth, we need to do something about your shoulder before we go any further.”

Byleth paused and looked at her wound, studying it with seemingly uninterested eyes before nodding. Claude let loose a quick sigh, glad he would not have to fight with her on this. Together they peeled back the material soaked in river water and blood. Shamil once more emerged from Claude’s shirt, making high little chirps of concern as the wound was revealed.

“Shh, Shamil,” Claude shushed the wyvern. There could easily be more bandits around, and they didn’t need that kind of attention right now. The wyvern whined once more before wrapping itself around Claude’s neck to sulk. 

“It’s not as bad as I thought,” Byleth said. She winced slightly as she poked at the three vertical gashes on her shoulder. “They’re not even really that deep.”

That was true, but the slow leakage of blood was still concerning. He took the waterskin from his hip and popped it open. He hoped he was doing this correctly. Healing had never really been a strong skill of his. 

“We don’t have anything to wrap it with,” Byleth pointed out.

Claude blinked, realizing she was right. All the had were the clothes on their backs and the two weapons Byleth had managed to hang onto. If they were out here for much longer they would need to find food, but Claude shoved that thought away. He needed to focus on Byleth right now. 

He handed her the waterskin and removed the scarf tied around his head. It was the least damp of all their materials. Claude reached out, and Byleth handed over her dagger without him having to ask. He cut a short length off, and used it to clean the gashes, pouring water over Byleth’s shoulder occasionally to help. The rest of the scarf was cut into a series of makeshift bandages that Claude did his best to wrap around the wound. The result was workable, but looked absolutely tragic.

He glared at Byleth as she fought back a smirk, the corners of her lips twitching upward. “Hey, I did my best,” he protested.

“You did,” Byleth agreed. “Thank you, Claude.”

Claude nodded and got to his feet. “We’ll need more water. I’ll be right back.”

Byleth’s face immediately became concerned, and she reached out with her good arm, her hand catching his. “Claude.”

“I’ll be fine,” Claude tried to reassure her, but he could tell the smile on his face was too forced. Byleth would see right through it. “The river is right over there. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Be careful. There’s most likely more than bandits in the area. And scavengers won’t be afraid to pick off a single child by himself.”

If anyone else said it to him, Claude would be offended. But this was Byleth, and he had grown used to her bluntness by now. Instead, he nodded to her. “I will.”

/

Shamil's surprised squawk was all the warning Claude had before someone was grabbing him by the hair and dragging him to his feet. 

"Well, well, look what we managed to find after all," a calm voice drawled. 

Claude immediately clawed at his attackers hands,  but the man shook him hard enough to make Claude's teeth clash together. He tasted blood and the back of his mind noted that he had bitten his tongue. 

"Enough of that now." 

Claude finally looked up at the man who held him. He was tall, with fine features and dark hair. His black eyes glinted in amusement, like a snake who had cornered a rat, with a deep scar running across his cheek. His clothes were something a merchant would wear, not a bandit. 

As the man leaned in, Claude smelled a cloying sweetness, a scent he had only ever heard described before. He didn't look like a tribesman, but the two men flanking him certainly did.

Claude struggled anew, but the man slammed him into the ground. The riverbank gave way beneath the harsh blow, and Claude splashed into the water for the second time that day, landing on his back in the shallows. 

There was a cry of outrage from another of the men and the high pitched screech of a baby wyvern, but Claude had no time to focus on it. The obviously not a bandit jumped into the river after him, shoving Claude's head beneath the water. 

He struggled, arms flailing and feet kicking. He managed to break through the surface a few times, taking giant lungfuls of air, but mostly ended up with water in his mouth and up his nose. The riverbed churned beneath him, dirt clouding the water and stinging his eyes. 

When his fingers wrapped around something smooth and hard, Claude did not stop to think. He slammed the object into the side of his attacker's head. The man's hands loosened, allowing Claude to shove him back. 

He aimed what he could now see was a smooth river rock for the man again, but he raised his arms to deflect Claude's attack. A swift kick to his side sent Claude sprawling in the reeds. Different hands grabbed him, lifting him into the air. Claude continued to lash out, managing to connect with something solid. There was a spray of hot blood over his face before he was falling forward. He landed on top of his assailant, and hit him again and again with the rock, fear driving him on even after the body had stilled beneath him. 

Someone uttered a word Claude had never heard before, but based on its tone he could only assume it to be a curse. Another hand grabbed at him, smaller and shaking, trying to tear him away. Claude shouted, screamed in Byleth's face as she pulled him to her. His mind briefly registered that her right arm hung limp and useless at her side, and there was blood covering her left hand almost up to her elbow. Shamil was wrapped around her neck, and squeaked in fear at the harsh noise that ripped its way from Claude’s throat.

That unfamiliar word was repeated, Claude's eyes snapping to the first man who had attacked him. But the man was not looking at them. He was staring further up river. He shot one last glance at the two children, calculating eyes weighing the risks. Apparently deciding to cut his losses, the man turned to run.

Claude could hear them now, horses hooves pounding against the plains. An arrow flew by them, catching the man in the leg. He went down on one knee, unable to move with the shaft pierced through his muscles. He snapped the arrow in half, pulling it through injured flesh, but by the time he stood on unsteady legs, the horses were on them.

"Chain him," a voice barked, one used to giving orders that were immediately obeyed. "I want him tied to one of the spare horses and on his way back to His Majesty immediately."

Basir stopped his horse in front of Claude and Byleth, looking them over with a critical eye. Claude knew the general was traveling with them, but had not seen him up close since Keveh had thrown up all over his tunic last year. Now, with a weapon on his hip and a storm in his eyes, Claude saw why his enemies had taken to calling him Storm's Fury.

"Looks like you're in one piece. Are you hurt at all, little prince?"

Claude bristled at the blatant disrespect, but kept his temper. He nodded sharply, but Basir was already dismounting, his eyes locked on the body they stood next to. 

Another horse drew up in front of them, Naima leaping from the saddle. Her bow was still in her hand, the feathers in her quiver the same color as the arrow that had pierced the not bandit. She immediately swept both children into her arms, moving back only to look them over. 

Are you hurt? she signed to both of them.

Claude shook his head, while Byleth tilted her shoulder toward Naima with a blank face. Naima’s quick fingers checked over Byleth, her eyes hard as she removed the makeshift bandages. She stood straight and motioned for someone to join them, only stepping away from Byleth when a young man joined them and began to look her over. White light glowed around his fingers, Byleth’s flesh closing shut beneath his touch. 

And you? Naima signed to Claude, genuine concern in her brown eyes. Are you sure you aren’t hurt?

Claude nodded. “No, Naima, I’m not hurt.”

“You can drop the stone, Your Highness.” Basir’s voice was still far from kind, but there was something resembling respect in it when he addressed Claude again. He stood from where he had been squatting next to body of the tribesman, stroking his perfectly trimmed beard as he regarded Claude. “Your first kill?”

Claude stiffened, but nodded. It would do no good to lie to someone like Basir about something like that. “Yes, sir.”

Basir stared a moment longer before nodding sharply. A heavy hand landed on Claude’s shoulder briefly, making Claude’s heart leap. It was a small sign of approval, but one that caught him completely off guard. 

And then the weight was gone. Basir’s voice boomed out once more. “Gather these bodies to take back with us. Five minutes, and then we leave.”

Claude found himself suddenly lifted up in the air, deposited on Basir’s horse before the man swung back up in the saddle. Next to him, Naima was doing the same with Byleth, the healer helping them due to her injured arm.

“Let’s get you back to your parents,” Basir said, his deep voice causing his chest to rumble against Claude’s back. “The Queen looked like she was about to scourge the entire plains if we didn’t find you soon.”

/

Mahtab reached them first, and if Claude was not so surprised, he would be annoyed that so many people were simply picking him up and dragging him around today. His father’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him off Basir’s horse. Claude found himself crushed against his father’s chest, Mahtab’s strong hand on the back of his head.

“Claude,” Mahtab breathed out, relief palpable in his voice. Claude could almost swear he heard the edge of a sob at the end of his name. It frightened him. “I was so worried.”

“Claude!” His mother’s voice echoed across camp, followed by the pounding of her feet as she ran toward them. “Claude!” Odette wrapped her arms around his husband and her son, pressing kisses to Claude’s forehead. 

He was at a complete loss. More than anything, his parents’ actions enforced what he had gone through. They had never held him like this before, never showed such concern. It was too much. He had survived an attack, killed his first man, almost lost his best friend, and now he was simply confused. 

/

Byleth sat up when she heard the tent rustle, knowing only one person would be lifting the back of the canvas than entered through the front flap.

“Is your arm going to be okay?” Claude asked as he climbed onto the sleeping cot next to her. Shamil, separated from his master since they were rescued, uncurled himself from Byleth’s pillow and leap into Claude’s arms. The wyvern made happy little chirps, covering the prince’s face in licks with his rough tongue.

“It will be,” Byleth answered, glaring down at the sling that cradled her arm. “I’ll have to wear this for at least a week.”

Claude winced for her, shoving Shamil down. Shamil, however, was not about to be stopped, and ended up licking Claude’s eyeball. “Ugh, Shamil! Yes, I love you too. Please calm down!”

Shamil whined, but settled for curling up around Claude’s neck, giving occasion licks to Claude’s cheek. Byleth covered her mouth with her good hand, stifling a giggle. Claude’s eyes went wide, and he stared at her as if he had never seen her before.

“What?” Byleth asked, hand dropping away from her face.

“I’ve never heard you giggle before,” Claude said in wonder. 

“It’s not that strange,” Byleth muttered, suddenly feeling uncomfortable under his gaze.

Claude was silent for a moment, before apparently deciding to let the topic go. (At least for the moment. Byleth had no doubt it would come back around sooner or later.) “I think someone organized those tribesmen against us. For the most part, my father has left them alone. And I don’t think they’re stupid enough to attack a fully armed royal contingent unless encouraged, even with a mad wyvern on the loose to distract us.”

“You’re so sure they were tribesmen and not mere bandits,” Byleth pointed out, before quietly waiting for an answer to her statement.

“It was the man who led the ones that attacked us by the river, I smelled his breath when he tried to strangle me,” Claude explained quietly. “The tribes to the southeast brew a special beer, supposedly very strong, that leaves the drinker’s breath smelling of day old flowers. It’s exactly what his breath smelt like.”

“But he isn’t a tribesman,” Byleth counted. “So, you think he is part of those who organized the effort?”

Claude nodded, stroking Shamil’s snout. “Not a very important part. They never would have let anyone like that be put in a position to get caught.”

Byleth nodded back in agreement. “So, what are we going to do about it?”

“Well,” Claude said evenly as he curled on the cot beside her, “we need to figure out who is willing to attack us, and who might have influence over the southern tribes.”

Byleth frowned as she settled in beside him. “I feel like there will be more overlap between the two than you are expecting.”

Claude shrugged. “Probably, but it’s a place to start. And we’ll keep an ear out for anything Goli and her crew might find from the man they brought in.” He sighed, unconsciously leaning into Byleth’s warmth. “It’s too much to hope it’s simply my uncle and stupid cousin, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Byleth answered simply. “And if it was, Kadir is too smart to leave any trace of his involvement. Keveh might let something slip, but Kadir isn’t about to entrust anything like that to his son just yet.”

Claude sighed again and closed his eyes. Byleth stared at him for a moment, letting the silence of the night linger around them, before reaching out to pet Shamil. “Are you really okay?” she asked.

Claude’s eyes opened slowly, looking much too serious for a boy so young. Byleth knew the answer before he spoke. “Was that the first time you’ve killed someone?”

“Yes,” she answered with her usual straightforwardness. 

“It feels...odd,” Claude continued after a long silence. “I don’t feel bad that he’s dead, but it doesn’t feel like it all the stories we’ve been told. So many warriors come home and brag about how many enemies died upon their blades. It’s this grand thing, something to be celebrated.” He paused again, twisting the corner of her blanket as he gathered his thoughts. “What if they’re right? What if my Fódlan blood makes me weak?”

“If you were weak, you would not have done what needed to be done today,” Byleth pointed out. “You’re blood has nothing to do with that. And besides, what would your mother say if she heard you insinuating she was weak?”

Claude blanched at the idea of an upset Odette. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the woman was unmatched when it came to weilding an axe. “What about you?” Claude asked. “You don’t seem upset that I insinuated the same thing about you.”

Byleth tried to shrug, but winced as pain lanced through her right side. “I know you don’t think I’m weak. You’ve looked up to me for years now.”

She could not be sure with how dark it was in the tent, but Byleth was pretty sure Claude was blushing. “Oh, shut up,” he mumbled into her pillow, turning to bury his face.

“Claude? Are you in here?” Odette’s voice came from the front of the tent. A moment later the flap was thrown open and the Queen entered, raising a lantern for light. She frowned softly when she caught sight of the two of them curled up together, but there was a kindness in her eyes as she walked to the cot. “Claude,” she whispered, brushing his hair back with gentle fingers, “if I let you stay here will you promise to get some rest?”

“Yes, maman,” Claude answered. His mouth opened in a large yawn for extra effect.

Odette just shook her head, leaning down to kiss her son’s forehead. “Just this once,” she whispered. 

“Thank you,” Claude answered back, which only caused Odette’s smile to turn sly.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” she teased. “I’m not the one who will have to deal with Nader’s snoring all night.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next chapter I will have a link to a list of all the ocs appearing in this fic. I know I'm introducing at least one or two a chapter, so I wanted to give you guys a convenient way to reference everyone.

[an-annyeoing-writer]

mafia!Suga x Reader: curiosity killed the cat.

It’s kind of dark, especially at the end, so please don’t read if you’re triggered by themes like death or violence.

Tagged: @allypasta. 

HMU if you’d like to be tagged in my fics. You can specify whether you’d like to be tagged in EXO or BTS stories, or even for specific members!

A part of you knew that whatever you were doing, was what you shouldn't start in the first place. You stared at the man sitting in the almost empty coffee shop, unable to tear your gaze away for a long while.

The page you opened on your phone showed something that should give you the biggest of concerns, and every time you glanced at it, your fingers itched to call the police, to let them know that a criminal they're looking for is literally in front of them, sitting unarmed in a coffee shop like any other young person could do.

But in fact, it wasn’t the first time you were itching to do that, and you definitely should do that with how many times you’ve come to see him in the past weeks.

Yet, the attraction you felt prevented you every single time.

You would always look up at him, and your wish to do anything about it would suddenly dissolve, exchanged with some sort of lethal curiosity, and you'd feel a strong need to act on it, to stand up and sit next to the man, ask him something as silly as weather, and deeply memorize every word of answer he'd grace you with.

What a wanted mafia member would say if asked about weather?

You forced yourself to glance outside. In fact, the weather was really nice. It was early evening, with the sky slowly covering in red hues, with the shadows getting longer and longer, with the warm light barging into the small space of the shop without a sign of remorse, through the inviting glass that covered its whole wall.

Orange shades fell upon the man's face, and only then, have you noticed that he finally reciprocated your stare, silently observing your movements, which had your breath stuck in your throat for a moment, before you forced an awkward smile onto your face, but at which he didn't even flinch, his eyes swallowing your whole composure, ripping you apart and open to his own curiosity.

You slowly reached for your phone, but a small head tilt you noticed made you quickly resign from the idea. Had he figured you out? After years in this field, he should have. Such ability was probably what saved his life all along, and without such perfect instincts he wouldn't survive for so long, unnoticed by the police even though the coffee shop was literally on the opposite side of the road as the police office.

You forced air into your lungs and then held it there, slowly reaching for your phone. Without sparing it a glance, you put it in your bag, quickly zipping it closed in a clear statement. I mean no harm.

The man only kept staring though, not letting you know that he acknowledged it in any way, obviously distrustful, which you couldn't really blame him for. The gaze grew heavy, and you felt yourself trapped in it, as if it put some kind of weight on your already strained shoulders. Lack of comfort was disturbing, and it pushed your curiosity aside, giving you a new wish: to just get out of there as soon as possible.

You drank the last bits of your coffee, and then stood up, hanging the bag over your shoulder and holding onto it as if you were holding onto your sanity. You stared down at the tips of your shoes as you threw the empty cup to the nearby trash can, quickly stepping in the door's direction.

As soon as the door closed behind you, you heard it open again, soft, almost inaudible steps following your nervous ones. The presence stopped right behind you, making your fingers clench around the bag's strap.

“I-I won't tell anyone” you quickly announced, not daring to look behind, yet clearly aware of who it was behind you.

“Ah, so.”

You felt an urge to shrink, to curl up into a ball that would be considered harmless enough to just leave alone.

“I-I'm sorry...”

“For what? Watching me for all these days? You don’t know a sorry is not enough to make up for stalking. It’s a crime, haven’t you been told that before?”

He knew.

“As an office worker, you should know that much, [F/n].”

He knew... more than you’d ever expect him to know.

It was a fact, you’ve noticed him sometime ago, and you always felt tempted to follow him wherever he went, your curiosity peaking every time he appeared, excitement rushing through your veins when you learned to predict his tracks, because he often used the same routes.

Yet, you’d never think that just as you watched him, he watched you, too, learning about you, figuring you out to find out whether you were a threat to him.

“P-please, don't kill me” you whimpered.

A short laugh echoed behind you, but this time, it sounded almost genuine.

“You're freaking out so much. Cute.” His words mocked you, clearly not caring much about your state. “You’re pretty... chaotic as for someone who’s been playing with fire for so long. Did you really not think you may get burned if you keep doing it?” His breath hit the nape of your neck when he came even closer, and you flinched at that. “But I know your type” he added with contempt. “Have you heard that curiosity killed the cat?”

He emphasized the word “killed”, surely not by accident. 

“Meow” you answered blankly, almost slapping yourself right aftermath. He probably just thought you’re making fun of him. Except for the noise was automatic, you didn’t really think it through, your brain heard cat and the stress seemed to have completely messed up your brain cells.

To your utter surprise, the man burst out with laughter.

“Seriously?” Even though it should sound threatening, he seemed genuinely amused with you. “Chill out, you’ll get a heart attack if you keep stressing this much.” He leaned, hovering above your shaking frame. “I’m actually somewhat flattered. For once I’m being followed by someone who’s not trying to get to my throat. Though, who knows. “His hand ghosted over your waist. “Maybe you’re just trying to get to my pants instead?”

You flinched when his fingers brushed a small piece of your exposed skin there, where your shirt lifted up a bit. You turned around, backing away in panic.

“Oh, don’t fret. My interest in you only reaches as far.”

A small smirk graced the corner of his lips. He stepped towards you, and you automatically stepped back, trying to keep the safe distance.

“But I was honest when I said that curiosity killed the cat.”

His words made you back away even more.

Straight onto the road. Straight into the way of a racing car. A loud bang echoed in the empty streets.

Yoongi stared for a short while at the blood splashed on the darkening pavement, the car driver’s frantic attempts to save your life, and your wide eyes, fading so fast, as he’d seen many other people’s do before in his life.

“Unfortunately for you... 

...satisfaction won’t bring it back this time.”

[theculturedmarxist]

This book will concern itself least of all with those unrelated psychological researches which are now so often  substituted for social and historical analysis. Foremost in our field of vision will stand the great, moving forces of history,  which are super-personal in character. Monarchy is one of them. But all these forces operate through people. And monarchy is by  its very principle bound up with the personal. This in itself justifies an interest in the personality of that monarch whom the  process of social development brought face to face with a revolution. Moreover, we hope to show in what follows, partially at  least, just where in a personality the strictly personal ends – often much sooner than we think – and how frequently  the “distinguishing traits” of a person are merely individual scratches made by a higher law of development.

Nicholas II inherited from his ancestors not only a giant empire, but also a revolution. And they did not bequeath him one  quality which would have made him capable of governing an empire or even a province or a county. To that historic flood which was  rolling its billows each one closer to the gates of his palace, the last Romanov opposed only a dumb indifference. It seemed as  though between his consciousness and his epoch there stood some transparent but absolutely impenetrable medium.

People surrounding the tzar often recalled after the revolution that in the most tragic moments of his reigns – at the  time of the surrender of Port Arthur and the sinking of the fleet at Tsushima, and ten years later at the time of the retreat of  the Russian troops from Galicia, and then two years later during the days preceding his abdication when all those around him were  depressed, alarmed, shaken – Nicholas alone preserved his tranquillity. He would inquire as usual how many versts he had  covered in his journeys about Russia, would recall episodes of hunting expeditions in the past, anecdotes of official meetings,  would interest himself generally in the little rubbish of the day’s doings, while thunders roared over him and lightnings  flashed. “What is this?” asked one of his attendant generals, “a gigantic, almost unbelievable self-restraint,  the product of breeding, of a belief in the divine predetermination of events? Or is it inadequate consciousness?” The  answer is more than half included in the question. The so-called “breeding” of the tzar, his ability to control  himself in the most extraordinary circumstances, cannot be explained by a mere external training; its essence was an inner  indifference, a poverty of spiritual forces, a weakness of the impulses of the will. That mask of indifference which was called  breeding in certain circles, was a natural part of Nicholas at birth.

The tzar’s diary is the best of all testimony. From day to day and from year to year drags along upon its pages the  depressing record of spiritual emptiness. “Walked long and killed two crows. Drank tea by daylight.” Promenades on  foot, rides in a boat. And then again crows, and again tea. All on the borderline of physiology. Recollections of church  ceremonies are jotted down in the same tone as a drinking party.

In the days preceding the opening of the State Duma, when the whole country was shaking with convulsions, Nicholas wrote:  “April 14. Took a walk in a thin shirt and took up paddling again. Had tea in a balcony. Stana dined and took a ride with  us. Read.” Not a word as to the subject of his reading. Some sentimental English romance? Or a report from the Police  Department? “April 15: Accepted Witte’s resignation. Marie and Dmitri to dinner. Drove them home to the  palace.”

On the day of the decision to dissolve the Duma, when the court as well as the liberal circles were going through a paroxysm  of fright, the tzar wrote in his diary: “July 7. Friday. Very busy morning. Half hour late to breakfast with the officers  ... A storm came up and it was very muggy. We walked together. Received Goremykin. Signed a decree dissolving the Duma! Dined  with Olga and Petia. Read all evening.” An exclamation point after the coming dissolution of the Duma is the highest  expression of his emotions. The deputies of the dispersed Duma summoned the people to refuse to pay taxes. A series of military  uprisings followed: in Sveaborg, Kronstadt, on ships, in army units. The revolutionary terror against high officials was renewed  on an unheard-of scale. The tzar writes: “July 9. Sunday. It has happened! The Duma was closed today. At breakfast after  Mass long faces were noticeable among many ... The weather was fine. On our walk we met Uncle Misha who came over yesterday from  Gatchina. Was quietly busy until dinner and all evening. Went padding in a canoe.” It was in a canoe he went paddling  – that is told. But with what he was busy all evening is not indicated. So it was always.

And further in those same fatal days: “July 14. Got dressed and rode a bicycle to the bathing beach and bathed enjoyably  in the sea.” “July 15. Bathed twice. It was very hot. Only us two at dinner. A storm passed over.” “July  19. Bathed in the morning. Received at the farm. Uncle Vladimir and Chagin lunched with us.” An insurrection and explosions  of dynamite are barely touched upon with a single phrase, “Pretty doings!” – astonishing in its imperturbable  indifference, which never rose to conscious cynicism.

“At 9:30 in the morning we rode out to the Caspian regiment ... walked for a long time. The weather was wonderful.  Bathed in the sea. After tea received Lvov and Guchkov.” Not a word of the fact that this unexpected reception of the two  liberals was brought about by the attempt of Stolypin to include opposition leaders in his ministry. Prince Lvov, the future head  of the Provisional Government, said of that reception at the time: “I expected to see the sovereign stricken with grief,  but instead of that there came out to meet me a jolly sprightly fellow in a raspberry-coloured shirt.” The tzar’s  outlook was not broader than that of a minor police official – with this difference, that the latter would have a better  knowledge of reality and be less burdened with superstitions. The sole paper which Nicholas read for years, and from which he  derived his ideas, was a weekly published on state revenue by Prince Meshchersky, a vile, bribed journalist of the reactionary  bureaucratic clique, despised even in his own circle. The tzar kept his outlook unchanged through two wars and two revolutions.  Between his consciousness and events stood always that impenetrable medium – indifference. Nicholas was called, not without  foundation, a fatalist. It is only necessary to add that his fatalism was the exact opposite of an active belief in his  “star.” Nicholas indeed considered himself unlucky. His fatalism was only a form of passive self-defence against  historic evolution, and went hand in hand with an arbitrariness, trivial in psychological motivation, but monstrous in its  consequences.

“I wish it and therefore it must be —,” writes Count Witte. “That motto appeared in all the activities  of this weak ruler, who only through weakness did all the things which characterised his reign – a wholesale shedding of  more or less innocent blood, for the most part without aim.”

Nicholas is sometimes compared with his half-crazy great-great-grandfather Paul, who was strangled by a camarilla acting in  agreement with his own son, Alexander “the Blessed.” These two Romanovs were actually alike in their distrust of  everybody due to a distrust of themselves, their touchiness as of omnipotent nobodies, their feeling of abnegation, their  consciousness, as you might say, of being crowned pariahs. But Paul was incomparably more colourful; there was an element of  fancy in his rantings, however irresponsible. In his descendant everything was dim; there was not one sharp trait.

Nicholas was not only unstable, but treacherous. Flatterers called him a charmer, bewitcher, because of his gentle way with  the courtiers. But the tzar reserved his special caresses for just those officials whom he had decided to dismiss. Charmed beyond  measure at a reception, the minister would go home and find a letter requesting his resignation. That was a kind of revenge on  the tzar’s part for his own nonentity.

Nicholas recoiled in hostility before everything gifted and significant. He felt at ease only among completely mediocre and  brainless people, saintly fakers, holy men, to whom he did not have to look up. He had his amour propre, indeed it was  rather keen. But it was not active, not possessed of a grain of initiative, enviously defensive. He selected his ministers on a  principle of continual deterioration. Men of brain and character he summoned only in extreme situations when there was no other  way out, just as we call in a surgeon to save our lives. It was so with Witte, and afterwards with Stolypin. The tzar treated  both with ill-concealed hostility. As soon as the crisis had passed, he hastened to part with these counsellors who were too tall  for him. This selection operated so systematically that the president of the last Duma, Rodzianko, on the 7th of January 1917, with the revolution already knocking at the doors, ventured to say to the tzar: “Your  Majesty, there is not one reliable or honest man left around you; all the best men have been removed or have retired. There  remain only those of ill repute.”

All the efforts of the liberal bourgeoisie to find a common language with the court came to nothing. The tireless and noisy  Rodzianko tried to shake up the tzar with his reports, but in vain. The latter gave no answer either to argument or to impudence,  but quietly made ready to dissolve the Duma. Grand Duke Dmitri, a former favourite of the tzar, and future accomplice in the  murder of Rasputin, complained to his colleague, Prince Yussupov, that the tzar at headquarters was becoming every day more  indifferent to everything around him. In Dmitri’s opinion the tzar was being fed some kind of dope which had a benumbing  action upon his spiritual faculties. “Rumours went round,” writes the liberal historian Miliukov, “that this  condition of mental and moral apathy was sustained in the tzar by an increased use of alcohol.” This was all fancy or  exaggeration. The tzar had no need of narcotics: the fatal “dope” was in his blood. Its symptoms merely seemed  especially striking on the background of those great events of war and domestic crisis which led up to the revolution. Rasputin,  who was a psychologist, said briefly of the tzar that he “lacked insides.”

This dim, equable and “well-bred” man was cruel – not with the active cruelty of Ivan the Terrible or of  Peter, in the pursuit of historic aims – What had Nicholas the Second in common with them? – but with the cowardly  cruelty of the late born, frightened at his own doom. At the very dawn of his reign Nicholas praised the Phanagoritsy regiment as  “fine fellows” for shooting down workers. He always “read with satisfaction” how they flogged with whips  the bob-haired girl-students, or cracked the heads of defenceless people during Jewish pogroms. This crowned black sheep  gravitated with all his soul to the very dregs of society, the Black Hundred hooligans. He not only paid them generously from the  state treasury, but loved to chat with them about their exploits, and would pardon them when they accidentally got mixed up in  the murder of an opposition deputy. Witte, who stood at the head of the government during the putting down of the first  revolution, has written in his memoirs: “When news of the useless cruel antics of the chiefs of those detachments reached  the sovereign, they met with his approval, or in any case his defence.” In answer to the demand of the governor-general of  the Baltic States that he stop a certain lieutenant-captain, Richter, who was “executing on his own authority and without  trial non-resistant persons,” the tzar wrote on the report: “Ah, what a fine fellow!” Such encouragements are  innumerable. This “charmer,” without will, without aim, without imagination, was more awful than all the tyrants of  ancient and modern history.

The tzar was mightily under the influence of the tzarina, an influence which increased with the years and the difficulties.  Together they constituted a kind of unit – and that combination shows already to what an extent the personal, under  pressure of circumstances, is supplemented by the group. But first we must speak of the tzarina herself.

Maurice Paléologue, the French ambassador at Petrograd during the war, a refined psychologist for French academicians  and janitresses, offers a meticulously licked portrait of the last tzarina: “Moral restlessness, a chronic sadness,  infinite longing, intermittent ups and downs of strength, anguishing thoughts of the invisible other world, superstitions –  are not all these traits, so clearly apparent in the personality of the empress, the characteristic traits of the Russian  people?” Strange as it may seem, there is in this saccharine lie just a grain of truth. The Russian satirist Saltykov, with  some justification, called the ministers and governors from among the Baltic barons “Germans with a Russian soul.” It  is indubitable that aliens, in no way connected with the people, developed the most pure culture of the “genuine  Russian” administrator.

But why did the people repay with such open hatred a tzarina who, in the words of Paléologue, had so completely  assimilated their soul? The answer is simple. In order to justify her new situation, this German woman adopted with a kind of  cold fury all the traditions and nuances of Russian mediaevalism, the most meagre and crude of all mediaevalisms, in that very  period when the people were making mighty efforts to free themselves from it. This Hessian princess was literally possessed by  the demon of autocracy. Having risen from her rural corner to the heights of Byzantine despotism, she would not for anything take  a step down. In the orthodox religion she found a mysticism and a magic adapted to her new lot. She believed the more inflexibly  in her vocation, the more naked became the foulness of the old régime. With a strong character and a gift for dry and hard  exaltations, the tzarina supplemented the weak-willed tzar, ruling over him.

On March 17, 1916, a year before the revolution, when the tortured country was already writhing in the grip of defeat and  ruin, the tzarina wrote to her husband at military headquarters: “You must not give indulgences, a responsible ministry,  etc. ... or anything that they want. This must be your war and your peace, and the honour yours and our  fatherland’s, and not by any means the Duma’s. They have not the right to say a single word in these matters.”  This was at any rate a thoroughgoing programme. And it was in just this way that she always had the whip hand over the  continually vacillating tzar.

After Nicholas’ departure to the army in the capacity of fictitious commander-in-chief, the tzarina began openly to take  charge of internal affairs. The ministers came to her with reports as to a regent. She entered into a conspiracy with a small  camarilla against the Duma, against the ministers, against the staff-generals, against the whole world – to some extent  indeed against the tzar. On December 6, 1916, the tzarina wrote to the tzar: “... Once you have said that you want to keep  Protopopov, how does he (Premier Trepov) go against you? Bring down your first on the table. Don’t yield. Be the boss. Obey  your firm little wife and our Friend. Believe in us.” Again three days late: “You know you are right. Carry your head  high. Command Trepov to work with him ... Strike your fist on the table.” Those phrases sound as though they were made up,  but they are taken from authentic letters. Besides, you cannot make up things like that.

On December 13 the tzarina suggested to the tzar: “Anything but this responsible ministry about which everybody has gone  crazy. Everything is getting quiet and better, but people want to feel your hand. How long they have been saying to me, for whole  years, the same thing: ’Russia loves to feel the whip.’ That is their nature!” This orthodox Hessian,  with a Windsor upbringing and a Byzantine crown on her head, not only “incarnates” the Russian soul, but also  organically despises it. Their nature demands the whip – writes the Russian tzarina to the Russian tzar about the  Russian people, just two months and a half before the monarchy tips over into the abyss.

In contrast to her force of character, the intellectual force of the tzarina is not higher, but rather lower than her  husband’s. Even more than he, she craves the society of simpletons. The close and long-lasting friendship of the tzar and  tzarina with their lady-in-waiting Vyrubova gives a measure of the spiritual stature of this autocratic pair. Vyrubova has  described herself as a fool, and this is not modesty. Witte, to whom one cannot deny an accurate eye, characterised her as  “a most commonplace, stupid, Petersburg young lady, homely as a bubble in the biscuit dough.” In the society of this  person, with whom elderly officials, ambassadors and financiers obsequiously flirted, and who had just enough brains not to  forget about her own pockets, the tzar and tzarina would pass many hours, consulting her about affairs, corresponding with her  and about her. She was more influential than the State Duma, and even than the ministry.

But Vyrubova herself was only an instrument of “The Friend,” whose authority superseded all three. “... This  is my private opinion,” writes the tzarina to the tzar, “I will find out what our Friend thinks.” The  opinion of the “Friend” is not private, it decides. “... I am firm,” insists the tzarina a few weeks  later, “but listen to me, i.e. this means our Friend, and trust in everything ... I suffer for you as for a gentle  soft-hearted child – who needs guidance, but listens to bad counsellors, while a man sent by God is telling him what he  should do.”

The Friend sent by God was Gregory Rasputin.

“... The prayers and the help of our Friend – then all will be well.”

“If we did not have Him, all would have been over long ago. I am absolutely convinced of that.”

Throughout the whole reign of Nicholas and Alexandra soothsayers and hysterics were imported for the court not only from all  over Russia, but from other countries. Special official purveyors arose, who would gather around the momentary oracle, forming a  powerful Upper Chamber attached to the monarch. There was no lack of bigoted old women with the title of countess, nor of  functionaries weary of doing nothing, nor of financiers who had entire ministries in their hire. With a jealous eye on the  unchartered competition of mesmerists and sorcerers, the high priesthood of the Orthodox Church would hasten to pry their way  into the holy of holies of the intrigue. Witte called this ruling circle, against which he himself twice stubbed his toe,  “the leprous court camarilla.”

The more isolated the dynasty became, and the more unsheltered the autocrat felt, the more he needed some help from the other  world. Certain savages, in order to bring good weather, wave in the air a shingle on a string. The tzar and tzarina used shingles  for the greatest variety of purposes. In the tzar’s train there was a whole chapel full of large and small images, and all  sorts of fetiches, which were brought to bear, first against the Japanese, then against the German artillery.

The level of the court circle really had not changed much from generation to generation. Under Alexander II, called the  “Liberator,” the grand dukes had sincerely believed in house spirits and witches. Under Alexander III it was no  better, only quieter. The “leprous camarilla” had existed always, changed only its personnel and its method. Nicholas  II did not create, but inherited from his ancestors, this court atmosphere of savage mediaevalism. But the country during these  same decades had been changing, its problems growing more complex, its culture rising to a higher level. The court circle was  thus left far behind.

Although the monarchy did under compulsion make concessions to the new forces, nevertheless inwardly it completely failed to  become modernised. On the contrary it withdrew into itself. Its spirit of mediaevalism thickened under the pressure of hostility  and fear, until it acquired the character of a disgusting nightmare overhanging the country.

Towards November 1905 – that is, at the most critical moment of the first revolution – the tzar writes in his  diary: “We got acquainted with a man of God, Gregory, from the Tobolsk province.” That was Rasputin – a  Siberian peasant with a bald scar on his head, the result of a beating for horse-stealing. Put forward at an appropriate moment,  this “Man of God” soon found official helpers – or rather they found him – and thus was formed a new  ruling class which got a firm hold of the tzarina, and through her of the tzar.

From the winter of 1913-14 it was openly said in Petersburg society that all high appointments, posts and contracts depended  upon the Rasputin clique. The “Elder” himself gradually turned into a state institution. He was carefully guarded,  and no less carefully sought after by the competing ministers. Spies of the Police Department kept a diary of his life by hours,  and did not fail to report how on a visit to his home village of Pokrovsky he got into a drunken and bloody fight with his own  father on the street. On the same day that this happened – September 9, 1915 – Rasputin sent two friendly telegrams,  one to Tzarskoe Selo, to the tzarina, the other to headquarters to the tzar. In epic language the police spies registered from  day to day the revels of the Friend. “He returned today 5 o’clock in the morning completely drunk.” “On  the night of the 25-26th the actress V. spent the night with Rasputin.” “He arrived with  Princess D. (the wife of a gentleman of the bedchamber of the Tzar’s court) at the Hotel Astoria.”...And right beside  this: “Came home from Tzarskoe Selo about 11 o’clock in the evening.” “Rasputin came home with Princess  Sh- very drunk and together they went out immediately.” In the morning or evening of the following day a trip to Tzarskoe  Selo. To a sympathetic question from the spy as to why the Elder was thoughtful, the answer came: “Can’t decide  whether to convoke the Duma or not.” And then again: “He came home at 5 in the morning pretty drunk.” Thus for  months and years the melody was played on three keys: “Pretty drunk,” “Very drunk,” and “Completely  drunk.” These communications of state importance were brought together and countersigned by the general of gendarmes,  Gorbachev.

The bloom of Raputin’s influence lasted six years, the last years of the monarchy. “His life in Petrograd,”  says Prince Yussupov, who participated to some extent in that life, and afterward killed Rasputin, “became a continual  revel, the durnken debauch of a galley slave who had come into an unexpected fortune.” “I had at my  disposition,” wrote the president of the Duma, Rodzianko, “a whole mass of letters from mothers whose daughters had  been dishonoured by this insolent rake.” Nevertheless the Petrograd metropolitan, Pitirim, owed his position to Rasputin,  as also the almost illiterate Archbishop Varnava. The Procuror of the Holy Synod, Sabler, was long sustained by Rasputin; and  Premier Kokovtsev was removed at his wish, having refused to receive the “Elder.” Rasputin appointed Stürmer  President of the Council of Ministers, Protopopov Minister of the Interior, the new Procuror of the Synod, Raev, and many others.  The ambassador of the French republic, Paléologue, sought an interview with Rasputin, embraced him and cried,  “Voilà, un véritable illuminé!” hoping in this way to win the heart of the tzarina to the  cause of France. The Jew Simanovich, financial agent of the “Elder,” himself under the eye of the Secret Police as a  nightclub gambler and usurer – introduced into the Ministry of Justice through Rasputin the completely dishonest creature  Dobrovolsky.

“Keep by you the little list,” writes the tzarina to the tzar, in regard to new appointments. “Our friend  has asked that you talk all this over with Protopopov.” Two days later: “Our friend says that Stürmer may remain  a few days longer as President of the Council of Ministers.” And again: “Protopopov venerates our friend and will be  blessed.”

On one of those days when the police spies were counting up the number of bottles and women, the tzarina grieved in a letter  to the tzar: “They accuse Rasputin of kissing women, etc. Read the apostles; they kissed everybody as a form of  greeting.” This reference to the apostles would hardly convince the police spies. In another letter the tzarina goes still  farther. “During vespers I thought so much about our friend,” she writes, “how the Scribes and Pharisees are  persecuting Christ pretending that they are so perfect ... yes, in truth no man is a prophet in his own country.”

The comparison of Rasputin and Christ was customary in that circle, and by no means accidental. The alarm of the royal couple  before the menacing forces of history was too sharp to be satisfied with an impersonal God and the futile shadow of a Biblical  Christ. They needed a second coming of “the Son of Man.” In Rasputin the rejected and agonising monarchy found a  Christ in its own image.

“If there had been no Rasputin,” said Senator Tagantsev, a man of the old régime, “it would have been  necessary to invent one.” There is a good deal more in these words than their author imagined. If by the word  hooliganism we understand the extreme expression of those anti-social parasite elements at the bottom of society, we may  define Rasputinism as a crowned hooliganism at its very top.

[uncommonfauna]

Ernie the Hit Man

If you want to kill your wife, you have to hire the right hit man. You have to hire a man who is knowledgeable enough and experienced enough to do the hit right, and thuggish enough to take the focus away from you if he gets caught. I was looking for just such a man for Celine. Her life insurance had grown as fat as her ass had, in the ten years we’d been married, just like my first and second wives had. Now it was time to literally reap the benefits. Word had got around, in those certain circles, that I was looking again. That was when Ernie tracked me down, in an expensive bar on Manhattan Island. “Hello, Sir! I’m Ernie Deluca, and I’m gonna be a hit! Man! Get it? I heard you were looking for one, Sir, so here I am.” He’d vigorously shaken my hand, smiling and completely oblivious to the fact that I was trying not to laugh at the poor sap. He was balding, had his belt hitched a little too high, showcasing a gut that was a little too big, and his shirt was half untucked. It soon became apparent that it was half untucked because he was constantly using it to clean his glasses. 

“Uh…” I tried to think of something to say to what appeared to be a bumbling middle aged putz right out of a sitcom. I finally gave him the benefit of the doubt and asked what his qualifications were. Ernie happily pulled up a chair, and I ordered him a beer half afraid he’d tell me he didn’t drink. 

“Well, that’s the thing you know,” He took a few sips of the stout placed before him, “I haven’t ever smacked someone yet. Or what do they call it? Whacked. I haven’t ever whacked someone yet, but I figure if I’m gonna get into the biz, I should start with something easy. And I mean, no offense, but how hard can it be to kill a fat old broad who’s half Prozac and half booze?” Celine’s depression would indeed make her an easy kill, and I won’t pretend I didn’t spend the past couple of years consciously making it worse for just that purpose. However, it still needed to be a professional job, and I told Ernie that. 

“I can’t have any of this coming back on me, you know? Not with wives one and two already dead; if this isn’t done well, it would be pretty easy for people to make the connection, don’t you think?” I said. Ernie drank the rest of his beer with a smile on his face.

“That’s why you need me!” He said, “I’ve been watching that show, 1,000 Ways to Die? And let me tell ya, there are all sorts of ways to kill someone without even using a gun. You use a gun and, you know, people are all suspicious, but if a person is killed by a runaway car? Now THAT’S an accident.”

I ordered Ernie another beer. I don't know if I liked the guy, or if I just felt sorry for him, but I didn't mind having him around. "So what makes you want to get into 'the biz' now? What did you do before this?" I asked him. 

"Oh, I've always wanted to do this," Ernie assured me, "but life just kept getting in the way. First I couldn't stand the thought of my Ma being sad that she'd raised a killer, but then she died a few years back. After that I was all set to go, but then I broke my leg real bad in a car accident and after that I had to take a job at a pawn shop to help pay for physical therapy. But I've always wanted to do this," Ernie took a few more gulps of his beer, "I saw a kid die once. I was about five I guess. Kid got stung by a bee during a peewee baseball game I was in, and they pulled him off the field and into the duggout. His mother had his EPI pen in her other purse, and by the time the ambulance got there, he was already gone. Just like that! He wheezed for a bit and his lips went blue, and then poof! No more! Stopped moving. Everyone around me was shocked and sad but I just sat there, and I thought to myself, wow, that's all it is. Death isn't this bigscary thing, you know? It's more like flipping a light switch, and if a little bee can do it, I figured a little guy like me could do it too."

I drank my whisky and couldn't help but be impressed. It was a more honest explanation than I usually heard. Usually hit men were pretty bold about it; they just wanted the money. They acted as though killing people was no different than getting a second job at a bank. 

"What about you, Sir? I gotta ask, especially if I'm gonna take on this job, why you want your wife dead?" Said Ernie.

"No hit man asks that," I said, setting my drink down, "It's very unprofessional." Ernie shrugged. 

"Oh, come on. You're buying me drinks, aint you? I thought that was some sort of trust sign or something."

"It's a sign of being a genial person, and I'm in no way considering you for the job." I said, but sighed and picked up my drink again. I didn't particularly want to go home to the woman I was looking to kill, and Ernie was entertaining.

  "My mother always told me to marry for money, not love, and that's always what I've done. Love is for affairs, so that when you fall out of love, things are much easier; no paperwork. My wives are checks. They start out young and pretty, and when they're old and ugly, it's time to collect their money and get a new model." I took a sip of whisky. The words sounded exactly like I had meant them to; practical, cool, and logical. 

"Oh, come on, that can't be it," Said Ernie. I tried not to glare at him. He didn't need to know the real reason. He was a thug wannabe, and probably had to pay the doorman at the bar a couple hundred just to be let in. He was also still staring at me, with an almost boyish eagerness in his eyes. I looked at my Rolex. I still had time to kill. 

"None of them loved me to begin with." I said, and downed the rest of my whisky. "They all married me for my money and couldn't care less if I lived or died. They're trash. All three of them. They deserve it. They married me for my money and when I kill them, I'll only get more rich."

We sat in silence for a minute. 

"That, I can understand." Said Ernie. 

I looked at my empty glass. I couldn't put it off anymore. 

"I have to go now. Sorry Ernie. Maybe the next wife." I said, as I grabbed my coat and headed towards the door, determined not to see Ernie's face. I felt bad for hurting the man, and that's not an emotion I was very comfortable with. I'd wanted to walk to my car in a nearby parking garage, drive home, and find Celeste already passed out for the night. Ernie had other plans. I was in the parking garage by the time he caught up to me. 

"Hey, come on, man!" Ernie seemed a little winded. He reached into the pocket of his pants and revealed a very small revolver. "Ok, I know that the whole staging accidental deaths thing isn't for everyone. I brought my own gun too, just in case. I don't think it would be in any sort of records system.. It belonged to my grandpa and I think he jacked it from someone in Wisconsin. Please, just hire me. I need to do this."

Ernie had ceased to be entertaining, and I was out of patience for the day. Hell, I was out of patience for the whole damn year. 

"Ernie shut up! What kind of idiot would hire some pudgy, wining, fucktard to be a hit man, huh?!" 

Ernie's face became completely blank, and for a second, I thought he would cry. Then he did something worse. He smiled, pointed the gun at my head, and uttered the last two words I would ever hear.

"Your wife."

[nataliesnews]

Attack on a Palestinian 27.4.2021

Assad Sharaha, a hard-working man who snuck into work in Israel, was held on the floor at a police station for a whole day, with his shirt torn and his wounds bleeding. When neighbors wrapped his body in a blanket and carried him home, his mother thought he was dead. It was Holocaust Remembrance Day.

 It was the last day of the Holocaust. Israeli police officers who shot their large and violent guard dogs at a young and miserable Palestinian de facto, the sole breadwinner of his poor family, who tried to work in an Israeli moshav. After officers released him from the dog bites and grabs, and he was injured in all parts of his body, they began punching him and kicking him in the head. He was then taken to the police station and left to lie on the floor of one of the rooms for a whole day, with his shirt torn and his wounds exposed.

Only late in the evening did the police decide to release him. They took him to the nearest checkpoint and threw him on his way. He lay on the sidewalk on the side of the road and waited until a driver who passed by accidentally picked him up and drove him to his city. He got home close to midnight, neighbors carried him wrapped in a blanket, and his mother thought her son was dead.

 The apartheid regime in South Africa used a lot of dogs that its forces blackened. Local police imported wolves from Europe and bred them with dogs to create a particularly violent and aggressive breed of attack dogs. The IDF and the Israel Police also import some of their attack dogs from Europe, and the historical memory of raising dogs in the weak and helpless does not deter anyone.

Assad Sharaha has not yet recovered from the trauma, and this is evident in his sluggish speech, opaque face and silences. His wounds have not yet healed and are scattered all over his body, including his groin, jaw sores and pituitary sores. A large scar remained on his head from the kicks kicked by the police. He is a handsome 18-year-old, orphaned for ten years by his father. The sole breadwinner of his mother, Priel, and his two younger brothers, and also of the family of his sister, Asmaa, who is married to a man addicted to drugs. The rest of his sisters and brothers got married and left the house a long time ago.

 This is a house of poverty. It stands in one of the poorest and most neglected neighborhoods of the relatively affluent city of Dura, south of Hebron, and the road to the house is littered with rolling rubbish and scrap metal. Even stench is hard. Inside the house there is as much effort to cultivate it as possible. We arrive home at noon, shortly after Sharaha awoke from his sleep. These are the days of Ramadan, the heat outside is very oppressive, and the residents try to spend the day sleeping to ease the fast. He comes out to us in a kind of galabiya which is probably his pajamas.

He left school in the eighth grade and began to support his family. Already at the age of 15, he began sneaking into work in Israel. Due to his young age and being single he has no chance of getting a work permit. He works as a plasterer, and has been caught several times before. In recent weeks he has worked in Rahat and Moshav Brosh, where he built a chicken coop. He stayed overnight at the construction sites where he worked and returned home about once every two weeks. On Thursday two weeks ago he woke up at the construction site in Rahat and drove to Brosh. He thought of working there until the beginning of Ramadan, four days later, and then returning to his mother and family.

Around eight o'clock in the morning he drank coffee with three other workers, before they started work. Suddenly he noticed cops running towards them. Some of the policemen wore uniforms and some were in civilian clothes. They emerged from two directions and he thinks their number has reached about twenty. A few dozen yards in front of the cops ran two formidable dogs, with no clasp on their jaws. The policemen fired in the air, but the other three workers managed to escape and he does not know what happened to them. Sharha managed to run only a few meters until the dogs pounced on him. They dropped him to the floor and began to stick their teeth into his flesh. He cried out in pain and terror. About a minute later the cops arrived, freed him from the grip of the dogs and began beating him.

 They kicked his head and punched him with their hands that were covered in gloves. All this time he was lying helpless on the floor. At one point his consciousness became blurred. The policemen called an ambulance and he carried him on a stretcher. Two masked policemen told him in Arabic that he would not be afraid. After being examined and treated inside the ambulance, he was taken to a police station. He does not know where, perhaps on the horizon.

 They laid him on the floor in one of the rooms. He asked to go to the hospital and the police told him that in two hours he would be released home. He has no idea how long he lay there, but when he left it was already late in the evening. He asked for food and received bread and water.

The policemen took his fingerprints and photographed him for the Israel Police criminal album. Along with him were four other Palestinian workers in the room who were captured on Holocaust Day and had their hands handcuffed. His own hands remained free, due to his condition. The policemen handed him a document in Hebrew that he could not read, and asked him to write his name and sign it. No one bothered to translate the document for him, although it was clear that he did not speak the language. After he was released, a relative told him that he might have signed a statement stating that the police had not harmed him.

 One of the officers asked him what he was injured from, and Sharaha replied, "From your dogs." He remembers that the dogs were black-brown and very large. He was then put in a police car along with three other of the four workers who were with him in the room. The police dropped them off at the Meitar checkpoint and drove away. The other workers went their separate ways and he lay down on the sidewalk. He was weak, exhausted, beaten and injured.

  A Palestinian driver driving a worker noticed Sharaha and asked him what had happened to him. He picked him up in his car and took him to Dura. It was 11:30 pm when he got home. His cell phone was broken the day before and he had no way to call his mother. Priel, 53, was still awake when she suddenly heard shouting from outside: someone had asked for a blanket. The driver who brought Sharaha asked the neighbors for a blanket to carry him home. Priel went outside and saw her son wrapped in a blanket. She was convinced he was dead and the neighbors were carrying his body. She started screaming, almost lost consciousness from panic. "What happened to you? Who hit you?", She asked her son when she realized he was alive. "The dogs, the Jews," he replied.

Sharaha's mother asked the neighbors to take him to the Red Crescent Clinic in Dura, but there they refused to treat him and recommended that he be transferred to Alia Hospital in Hebron. Ba'aliya was sent to Ahali Hospital in Hebron, where he was examined and found to have no fractures or deep wounds. Both hospitals were afraid to treat him, apparently afraid of rabies. He was then returned to Alia, and at dawn he was released after seeking to return to his home. Since he has not left the house key, he is barely recovering. B'Tselem researcher Musa Abu Hashhash, who visited him last week, said that his condition was much worse at the time and he hardly answered his questions. This week he talked a little more, but the signs of trauma were still very noticeable about him.

 The Israel Police reported this week that "Border fighters who worked to locate a suspect in planning a terrorist activity, arrived at the construction site where he was hiding, and noticed a number of people who fled the scene. "During the operation, one of the suspects was injured, and received treatment in the field by MDA staff who were called to the scene. After a medical examination that found the suspect fit, he was brought to the Ofakim police station and questioned on suspicion of illegal stay."

 Will he return to work in Israel? Sharaha says he will no longer do so without an entry permit. His mother Priel, who did not stop interfering during the conversation with him, ruled: "I would rather die of starvation, just so he doesn't go back there." Then he exposed all his wounds, one after the other: a stab on the left side of his chest, another on his right side; A wound in his left arm and a scar on his palm from a bite; Wounds in both legs; A big bruise in the back of his neck from the kicks, or maybe it was the punches. Finally he also removes his pants and reveals between his legs a small and deep wound, which is still red and bleeding from the dog's bite. On Holocaust Day.

 ***************************

 אסד שראחה, פועל קשה יום שהתגנב לעבודה בישראל, הוחזק יום שלם על הרצפה בתחנת משטרה, כשחולצתו קרועה ופצעיו מדממים. כששכנים עטפו את גופו בשמיכה ונשאו אותו הביתה, אמו חשבה שמת. זה היה ביום השואה.

 זה היה ביום השואה האחרון. שוטרים של משטרת ישראל שיסו את כלבי האשמורת הגדולים והאלימים שלהם בפועל פלסטיני צעיר ואומלל, מפרנס יחיד של משפחתו הענייה, שניסה לעבוד במושב ישראלי. אחרי שהשוטרים שחררו אותו מנשיכות הכלבים ומלפיתתם, והוא פצוע בכל חלקי גופו, הם החלו להכותו באגרופים ולבעוט בראשו. אחר כך לקחו אותו לתחנת המשטרה והותירו אותו לשכב על רצפת אחד החדרים במשך יום שלם, כשחולצתו קרועה ופצעיו חשופים.

רק בשעת ערב מאוחרת החליטו השוטרים לשחררו. הם לקחו אותו למחסום הקרוב והשליכו אותו לדרכו. הוא נשכב על המדרכה בצד הכביש וחיכה עד שנהג שחלף שם במקרה אסף אותו והסיע אותו לעירו. הוא הגיע הביתה קרוב לחצות, שכנים נשאו אותו עטוף בשמיכה, ואמו חשבה שבנה מת.

 משטר האפרטהייד בדרום אפריקה הרבה להשתמש בכלבים אותם שיסו כוחותיו בשחורים. המשטרה המקומית ייבאה זאבים מאירופה והרביעה אותם עם כלבים כדי ליצור זן אלים ותוקפני במיוחד של כלבי תקיפה. גם צה"ל ומשטרת ישראל מייבאים חלק מכלבי התקיפה שלהם מאירופה, והזיכרון ההיסטורי של שיסוי כלבים בחלשים וחסרי ישע לא מרתיע איש. עובדה ששוטרי משטרת ישראל שיסו את כלביהם באדם חסר ישע, דווקא ביום ההוא - ומה עוד סמלי מזה.

אסד שראחה טרם התאושש מהטראומה, והדבר ניכר בדיבורו הרפה, בפניו האטומות ובשתיקותיו. גם פצעיו טרם הגלידו והם מפוזרים בכל חלקי גופו, כולל במפשעה, פצעי מלתעות ופצעי לפיתות. בראשו נותרה צלקת גדולה מהבעיטות שבעטו בו השוטרים. הוא צעיר נאה בן 18, יתום מזה עשר שנים מאביו. המפרנס היחיד של אימו, פריאל, ושני אחיו הקטנים, וגם של משפחת אחותו, אסמאא, שנשואה לגבר מכור לסמים. שאר אחיותיו ואחיו נישאו ועזבו זה מכבר את הבית.

 זהו בית דלות. הוא ניצב באחת השכונות העניות והמוזנחות ביותר של העיר האמידה יחסית דורא, שמדרום לחברון, והדרך אל הבית זרועה באשפה מתגוללת ובגרוטאות. גם הצחנה קשה. בתוך הבית ניכר מאמץ לטפחו, ככל שניתן. אנחנו מגיעים לבית בשעת צהריים, מעט אחרי ששראחה התעורר משנתו. אלו ימי הרמדאן, החום בחוץ מעיק מאוד, והתושבים משתדלים להעביר את היום בשינה כדי להקל על הצום. הוא יוצא אלינו במעין גלבייה שהיא כנראה הפיג'מה שלו.

הוא עזב את בית הספר בכיתה ח' והחל לפרנס את משפחתו. כבר בגיל 15 החל להתגנב לעבודה בישראל. בשל גילו הצעיר והיותו רווק אין לו כל סיכוי להשיג רישיון עבודה. הוא עובד כטייח, וכבר נתפס כמה פעמים בעבר. בשבועות האחרונים עבד ברהט ובמושב ברוש, שם בנה לול תרנגולות. הוא נותר ללון באתרי הבנייה שבהם עבד וחזר לביתו בערך אחת לשבועיים. ביום חמישי לפני שבועיים התעורר באתר הבנייה ברהט ונסע לברוש. הוא חשב לעבוד שם עד תחילת הרמדאן, ארבעה ימים אחר כך, ואז לחזור לאמו ולמשפחתו.

סביב השעה שמונה בבוקר הוא שתה קפה עם שלושה פועלים נוספים, לפני שיתחילו לעבוד. לפתע הבחין בשוטרים רצים לכיוונם. חלק מהשוטרים לבשו מדים וחלקם היו בלבוש אזרחי. הם הגיחו משני כיוונים והוא חושב שמספרם הגיע לכעשרים. כמה עשרות מטרים לפני השוטרים רצו שני כלבים אימתניים, בלא סוגר על מלתעותיהם. השוטרים ירו באוויר, אך שלושת הפועלים האחרים הצליחו להימלט והוא לא יודע מה עלה בגורלם. שראחה הספיק לרוץ רק כמה מטרים עד שהכלבים התנפלו עליו. הם הפילו אותו על הרצפה והחלו לנעוץ את שיניהם בבשרו. הוא זעק מכאבים ומאימה. כעבור כדקה הגיעו השוטרים, שחררו אותו מלפיתת הכלבים והחלו לחבוט בו.

 הם בעטו בראשו והכו אותו באגרופים בידיהם שהיו מכוסות כפפות. כל הזמן הזה הוא שכב חסר אונים על הרצפה. בשלב מסוים התערפלה הכרתו. השוטרים הזעיקו אמבולנס והוא נישא אליו באלונקה. שני שוטרים רעולי פנים אמרו לו בערבית שלא יפחד. לאחר שנבדק וטופל בתוך האמבולנס, הוא נלקח לתחנת משטרה. הוא אינו יודע היכן, אולי באופקים.

 הם השכיבו אותו על הרצפה באחד החדרים. הוא ביקש להגיע לבית חולים והשוטרים אמרו לו שבעוד שעתיים ישוחרר הביתה. אין לו שום מושג כמה זמן שכב שם, אבל כשיצא כבר היתה שעת ערב מאוחרת. הוא ביקש אוכל וקיבל לחם ומים.

השוטרים לקחו את טביעות אצבעותיו וצילמו אותו לאלבום הפושעים של משטרת ישראל. יחד אתו היו בחדר עוד ארבעה פועלים פלסטיניים שנלכדו ביום השואה וידיהם היו אזוקות. ידיו שלו נותרו חופשיות, בשל מצבו. השוטרים הגישו לו מסמך בעברית אותו לא יכול היה לקרוא, וביקשו ממנו לכתוב את שמו ולחתום. איש לא טרח לתרגם עבורו את המסמך, אף שהיה ברור שאינו דובר את השפה. אחרי ששוחרר אמר לו קרוב משפחה שאולי חתם על הצהרה שלפיה השוטרים לא פגעו בו לרעה.

 אחד השוטרים שאל אותו ממה נפצע, ושראחה השיב: "מהכלבים שלכם". הוא זוכר שהכלבים היו שחורים-חומים וגדולים מאוד. לאחר מכן הוכנס למכונית משטרתית יחד עם עוד שלושה מתוך ארבעת הפועלים שהיו אתו בחדר. השוטרים הורידו אותם במחסום מיתר ונסעו מהמקום. הפועלים האחרים הלכו לדרכם והוא נשכב על המדרכה. הוא היה חלש, תשוש, הלום ופצוע.

 נהג פלסטיני שמסיע פועלים הבחין בשראחה ושאל אותו מה קרה לו. הוא אסף אותו למכוניתו ולקח אותו לדורא. השעה היתה 23:30 כשהגיע הביתה. הסלולרי שלו נשבר יום קודם ולא היתה לו דרך להתקשר לאמו. פריאל בת ה-53 עדיין היתה ערה, כששמעה לפתע צעקות מבחוץ: מישהו ביקש שמיכה. הנהג שהביא את שראחה ביקש מהשכנים שמיכה כדי לשאתו הביתה. פריאל יצאה החוצה וראתה את בנה עטוף בשמיכה. היא היתה משוכנעת שהוא מת והשכנים נושאים את גופתו. היא החלה לצעוק, כמעט איבדה את הכרתה מבהלה. "מה קרה לך? מי היכה אותך?", שאלה את בנה כשהתחוור לה שהוא חי. "הכלבים, היהודים", הוא השיב.

אמו של שראחה ביקשה מהשכנים לקחת אותו למרפאת הסהר האדום בדורא, אך שם סירבו לטפל בו והמליצו להעבירו לבית החולים עאליה בחברון. בעאליה שלחו אותם לבית החולים אל אהלי בחברון, שם בדקו אותו וגילו שאין לו שברים או פצעים עמוקים. בשני בתי החולים חששו לטפל בו, כנראה פחדו מכלבת. אחר כך החזירו אותו לעאליה, ובעלות השחר הוא שוחרר לאחר שביקש לחזור לביתו. מאז הוא לא יוצא מפתח הבית, מתאושש בקושי. תחקירן "בצלם", מוסא אבו השהש, שביקר אותו בשבוע שעבר, סיפר שאז היה מצבו גרוע הרבה יותר והוא כמעט ולא השיב לשאלותיו. השבוע דיבר מעט יותר, אבל אותות הטראומה עדיין ניכרו עליו מאוד.

 ממשטרת ישראל נמסר השבוע כי "לוחמי מג"ב אשר פעלו לאיתור חשוד בתכנון פעילות טרור, הגיעו לאתר הבנייה בו הסתתר, והבחינו במספר אנשים שנמלטו מהמקום. במהלך הפעילות נפצע אחד החשודים, וקיבל טיפול בשטח על ידי צוות מד"א שזומן למקום. לאחר בדיקה רפואית שמצאה כי החשוד כשיר, הוא הובא לתחנת המשטרה באופקים ונחקר בחשד לשהייה בלתי חוקית. בסיום חקירתו הורחק בגין שהייה בישראל שלא כחוק".

 האם יחזור לעבוד בישראל? שראחה אומר שלא יעשה זאת עוד בלי רישיון כניסה. אמו פריאל, שלא הפסיקה להתערב במהלך השיחה אתו, פסקה: "אני מעדיפה למות ברעב, רק שלא יחזור לשם". אחר כך הוא חשף את כל פצעיו, אחד אחר השני: נעיצה בצדו השמאלי של חזהו, עוד אחת בצדו הימני; פצע בזרוע שמאל וצלקת בכף ידו מנשיכה; פצעים בשתי רגליו; חבורה גדולה בעורפו מהבעיטות, או אולי היו אלו האגרופים. לבסוף הוא מסיר גם את מכנסיו וחושף בין רגליו פצע קטן ועמוק, שעדיין אדום ומדמם מנשיכתו של הכלב. ביום השואה.

 Sent from my iPhone

[keywestlou]

RESPECT FOR TRUMP DIMINISHING

It cannot be denied Trump continues to be a power. Though things are happening that reflect the power diminishing.  As respect for him diminishes, so too does his power.

One example is Truth Social. Trump announced this week his personal social media was in the process of becoming a reality. Its purpose to follow the truth. What a joke!

The site would officially begin in November. However Trump immediately posted a test version where people could sign in merely by providing their names.

The fact that the site will provide Trump with broad access is a disgrace. His large number of followers will subscribe. He will have immediate access to them and the world via the site. It will be Trump’s tool to spread lies.

Though despicable in itself, Trump will reap a harvest.

Trump is doing the project with DWAC, a special purpose acquisition company. DWAC sells stock with the intention of buying private firms. The announcement reported DWAC would invest $293 million in the Trump project.

The announcement caused the price of he stock to triple in one day.

A major DWAC investor SABA Capital announced it was bailing out and selling all its stock. It wanted nothing to do with Trump. SABA’s principal said the the decision was “not even a close call.” Some people will not go to bed with dogs that have fleas.

Another “adverse” occurrence is Trump’s new site has already been hacked. Within hours, the unreleased test version was invaded. A picture of a defecating pig posted to the “donaldjtrump” account.

Truth Social was pulled off line immediately.

The site will return with all the necessary bells and whistles to hopefully protect it from similar hacking in the future.

The House of Representatives voted yesterday to hold Bannon in criminal contempt. Nine Republicans joined with the Democrats in the voting. The matter is now in the hands of the Attorney General as to whether the criminal contempt charge should be presented to a grand jury.

What a waste of time! The matter should be moving swiftly. Not doing so. I worry Merrick Garland will take forever and in effect sit on the contempt charge forever while deciding what to do.

Recall several months ago I warned of my concern when Garland’s nomination for Attorney General was announced. An honorable man without question. However, an appellate judge for more than 20 years. I advised my concern that a judge who served that long was not the best choice to be a prosecutor. His thought process had changed in those 20 years.

My fear was that in crossing every t and dotting every i, Garland would take forever in getting things done. And now as far as Bannon is concerned, decide in the final analysis Bannon should not be criminally cited.

My concern was reflected yesterday when Garland apparel before the House Judiciary Committee. He expressed his concern for the “jail problem” as Bannon’s contempt matter might affect it. He explained something we all know. The jails are full off gangs. Some whose members on the outside may have been perpetrators on January 6.

Were they to be arrested and convicted, the jails would have increased problems as a result.

Not the way to think! The judicial system was not set up to worry about impacts resulting from arresting someone. The way it is done is to arrest forthwith and convict a perpetrator and thereafter deal with the resulting problem.

No one should be permitted to spit in the face of the United States and get away with it. Bannon was and is part of the January 6 problem. The subpoena should have been approved by Justice yesterday.

These are dark days. So many things either not moving in orderly fashion or not not moving at all. Most elected officials by their actions reflect little care for their country. And more. Everything is a mess government wise.

There is a need for joy in the land. A smile. Some kumbaya.

Several months ago, I shared with you the Italian Grocery Store video. A happy work. Provided me with a smile and laugh.

I am replaying the video today. I hope it brings you some momentary joy.

  http://keywestlou.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Italian-Grocery-Store-3.mp4

Enjoy your day!

RESPECT FOR TRUMP DIMINISHING was originally published on Key West Lou

[footprinting]

Tarawera 2020 ✨

"So Emma, how does it feel to have so many people you care about running this weekend?".

In an immensely thoughtful few seconds, Nico zoomed right into the heart of everything.

We were in Rotorua to run Tarawera. Friday had been filled with festivities. Saturday was to be the big one. We had a rare few minutes chilling at our shared house of dear friends, in between one activity to another.

It had been a whirlwind of a week. A week previously I had hopped on a plane to see my sister in Perth - and more specifically, her with her newborn wee girl. Winnie was 11 weeks when I visited. She's perfect. We had precious days together just being, and besotted by this tiny niece. After four days: back to Wellington. Sleep. Drive up to Napier. My brother had arranged for all of us to see Elton John at the Mission, in particular for my Mum. Spectacular. It was a colourful rainbow of joyfulness and festivities - no black t-shirts to be seen - and we immersed ourselves in the warmth and music and drank it all in from the grassy field. Then a through the night drive from Napier to Rotorua, arriving at 2am. Sleep. Up again. The weekend was ready to begin. A few of us headed down to the expo and squeals of enthusiasm welcomed people from far afield, with a particular highlight being Marieve from Canada. We leapt and hugged and exclaimed that this could barely be real. It was a feeling that was to continue. Family had shone bright that week. Treasured friends radiated that same meaningful brightness.

Its been three weeks since that weekend. I keep trying to write a race report. When I think of the weekend the numbers and details fade away. It's the feels that stay with me. Love. So much love. Highs. The highs that were stratospheric. Lows. When I hear someone had to quit from the event, or when my heart falls to my feet with worry for someone else who's not doing well. Thankfulness. For all the helpers. Bewilderment. At learning to accept help. And then: more love.

No pain. No pride. No rah rah rah I'm amazing. I read a book about ultra running this week. It missed a point. It was about pushing and striving and being hard. But nothing of what it means to build a family of people who gravitate toward these same meaningful journeys we go on. And that's the real story I want to tell. Nor is the photo of a medal or a jump or a selfie. It's of a torn up hand, raw; holding two gifted daisies in wonderment from two cheering kids.

(Here's the disclaimer that you're going to need a coffee, an Ultra IPA, or a big swig of electrolyte to last the distance on this read. Settle in!)

Friday was magic. Zooming around the race check in and expo and seminars and friends was like a trail running Disneyland. I could feel myself getting nervous for Chris and for Rachel, both in for the big dance of 💯 with me. Marieve called BS on my thinking: "Hey! You're racing tomorrow! Look out for you too!". She settled my mind for the better. Strong friends know to look out for strong friends. We found quiet oases of time. We had prepared a lot back in Wellington, and this helped gift us spare hours and relaxing. Bed. Early. Reasonable sleep -- never excellent the night before -- and we woke before the 3.50am alarm.

Saturday started with a series of familiar steps. Shower. Coffee. Bircher muesli. Whispered conversation. Our bags for the day re-checked. Out the door we went. In the dark we walked the fifteen minutes to our 5am bus. The drive reminded us the scale of the journey ahead of us. Winding roads took over an hour to the start line. It rained. We were grateful for this: not too hot, and the first rain for this scorched town since Christmas. The start line was a colourful blur of people, many focused on toilet logistics. We assembled on the start line. We were ready. We look into each others eyes, Chris especially, and with Rachel, we grasp each other with meaningful words. We set off.

I was calm. It was surreal, being back in this field, where I had been three times previously. Always a finish line to amazing days. This time was the beginning. We wound ourselves around fields and the trail. Two figureheads were clapping and cheering on the edge of a high up field: Paul, the race founder / beautiful human and Kerry, previous winner / coach extraordinarre / comedian and these guys are two of the biggest hearts around. Both have been gateway drugs for us into trail running and I admire them immensely. "Hey Paul! Hey Kerry!" I yahooed up at them. They both returned with a HEY! EMMA! and Kerry yells "Right folks, run with her today, she's the cheeriest runner around!". On we weave in this dreamlike but focussed state. They are new trails we're running when we get past the fields. Beautiful. I see great whirlpools of deep water alongside the weaving track. It's going to be warm today but we're still comfortable. We get into the foresty road after 5 or so kilometres. I'm excited about this section. My legs start moving more easily, eager to settle in to some happy miles.

And then. Kilometre 9 or 10. On a piece of gravel barely the size of a fingernail. I'm flying. I go down. I'm up and running again before I dust myself off. The guys around me got a fright, as much as I did. "I'm getting the fall out of the way for today!" I jest. Adrenaline keeps me going. It stings. My sunglasses are done for, the front of my clothes dusted up. I wash myself off a bit at the next aid station. This is a return of a shakiness that's bugged me since the end of last year, a previous fall on a trail. It's ok. I recalibrate. I'm feeling ok and I know I'll be fine, alongside the need to be careful.

Kilometres 10 through 35 tick along happily. It's flowing and beautiful. Never boring. The light is already rising over the trees. My phone is purposefully tucked deep inside my bag. I absorb it all instead. The flowy paths. The cheer and vibrancy of the aid stations. The banter. People ask me sometimes what I do not to get bored when I run. So many hours! They say. But this was all encompassing. Connected. I dove into conversations in my mind that I needed to have, and occasional ones with trail friends.

At kilometre 35, Tarawera Falls, it gets a bit more technical, and again going through Tarawera Outlet. It is magestic at the Falls. Those deep, dark whirlpools. I run past one amazing vista after another. At the fifth or sixth jaw dropping viewpoint I relent. It's time to get a picture. The trail running fairies will give me demerit points if I don't capture this magic. And so I do. On we go. Each of these aid stations is such a lift. People! Colour! A hive of activity and people looking deep into your eyes offering help.

Through Tarawera Falls to Humphries Bay to Lake Okataina, kilometres 35 to 58, is the most technical of the day. Gorgeous, tricky, playful trail. I'm slower than usual here. I charge my watch during this section; biffing it into my bag in it's entirety with the charger. I hear it chirrup with each kilometre. But I don't need to see the pace. People are slowing, tired, grumbly sometimes. One person behind me audibly swears every time she hits a tree root. Which is very often. Loudly. Distracting. I zoom on a bit to get ahead. I'm ticking along and managing energy all ok. I realise here that my time goals have galloped on. I won't hit the number I had in mind. And that's ok. I make peace with it. The day is more important. Later I reflect on this: was I not hungry enough? How much more could I have done? But I'm at ease. It's ok. I settle in. I'm more than half way, relaxed, and I've still got some work to do.

I see the sign indicating an aid station up ahead, cruising into Okaitaina at kilometre 58. For the people that have run Tarawera: we recognise this aid station sign in a nanosecond. It is magical. The simplicity of red lettering on white background simply saying 'Aid Station, 200m' brings with it floods of endorphins, a feeling of possibility, and the knowledge that people will be on the other side of that sign. I am floating now, skipping along the end of the trail as I reach it. There's something more here though. A megaphone. A women in a wedding dress yahooing at me through the megaphone. Hallucinations??Nope. This could only be Lesley, spectacularly inspiring fearsome badass lady and coach extraordinarre Lesley! We each leap and embrace and squeal and then she runs in her wedding dress to help me with what I need, talking to me through the megaphone the whole time. What do I need? How am I feeling? Hurry the heck up she says, we'll sort you right out! In a blur of joy I'm getting my stuff, being covered in sun lotion by a lovely lady. ("This reminds me of looking after kids", she says with handfuls of sun lotion and I say it must be my childlike glee). I see a really special colleague at my left elbow, who's supporting a friend. I ask how her day is doing, how her friend is doing, and before I know it I'm being chased right out of the aid station by Lesley. Chop chop she says, get right out of here! On I go to chase the next hill, the last 2 minutes a blur of people and wondrousness and noise and hilarity. That was the first aid station all day of supporters (alongside volunteers) and I realised even more then how much I valued their company.

I head into Western Okaitaina Walkway. The next section is the longest of the day, 16-17 kilometres. It will be a slog. Except it's not. Not too bad. I had literal nightmares after I ran this twice the first year, the first ultra ever and in a tropical cyclone, an apocalypse of mud that was neverending. I would wake for years later being right back there, skiing in ankle deep sludge. I'd remember the feeling of standing in the shower afterwards, all my clothes on and even shoes, the mud still stuck on me. Now? It's a beautiful winding trail. Birds chirrup as do cicadas. There's dense bush and flowy trail. Sure, it takes work. But it's special. And I'm grateful for the tree cover and a reprieve from baking sun. It could be hotter, or more barren. I get it done.

Afterwards someone says to me: you couldn't have a constantly negative attitude running ultras, could you? The positivity must help. And it does. Positivity alongside realism. Sometimes you get tired. You problem solve. You keep on. You're in it for the big picture. You embrace the ups and downs. I realise here what I've got Chris into, and Rachel too, each running their own days behind me. I feel guilty. They'll be so tired. It's so long. I'm tired too. I'm doing the maths on the course and I'm already seeing it will run a little long. But there's work to do: I focus on keeping my feet flowing and running within my abilities. I recognise some of the trail, and always find new bits I'm seeing as if for the first time. Each brings with it sets of memories. And onwards I go.

I reach Miller Road, after 17k through the up and over of Western Okaitaina Walkway. "Heck am I happy to see you!" I exclaim, and I'm not the first that day to say so. I fill myself up with ginger beer, being careful to keep things simple with food, I'm getting closer to the finish line now (at 75k) but there's still a long way to go. I see a couple of running heroes waiting for a friend of theirs: one heckles me, one heckles him for heckling me and with kindness. It feels good to run downhill on the gravel road. I belt it a little bit. These legs still work. My mood has stayed mainly high for the day. There'll be wobbles every so often. But all solvable. I see so much of the beauty. I feel so bloody lucky to be out here. The only thing I have to do is keep moving.

I come into Okaitaina campground where we camped last summer, and on next to the magnificent new boardwalk around the lake. My feet have been scratching at me. You don't mess around with these things: if it's almost a problem now it will be a problem in a few kilometres and then a Very Big Problem a few kilometres after that. I had meant to change my socks at Okaitaina before I sped out of there like a racecar in a highly tuned pitstop (led by Lesley in a wedding dress). I have spares in my bag. So I take a seat at the next opportunity, peel off my shoes and socks, wipe off my feet, and luxuriate in the ridiculously amazing fresh socks. Plus a quick message to Chris (I love you and I hope you're having an amazing day and here is where I am and things are good) and my friend who'll be waiting to join me (I'm running late I say, I'll be there as soon as I can!). A selfie is a must to a group of girlfriends. And: all this takes 7 minutes. Seven. The best. Could I have kept on without it? Of course. Might it have bitten me later by not changing? Likely. Was it worth it for my mind? Hell yes.

Off I zoom (lol - off I creak) further around Lake Okaitaina, then Okaitaina township, then into Tennant's Track, then on to Blue Lake. I'm always in awe of the thousands of hours volunteers are investing into the event. And so many marshalls sitting on corners are doing exactly that through here. I notice and I thank them and I keep on. Tennant's Track is pretty cut up and rooty, and there's lots of concentrating happening. I pop out near Blue Lake - and there are supporters! - yay! Maybe it's 20 kilometres to go now, and this is all feeling more possible. Around Blue Lake I go, maybe slower than ever, with a highlight being when I hear Stu Milne at my elbow. "Gidday Emma!" he says, as he speeds into view. Holy shit! my blurred mind exclaimed, Stu - you're winning the miler?? It wasn't far off: he was the pace runner for the first placed 100-mile runner, and the two of them floated along these smooth delightful trails at a speeding pace that I'd run a fast 10 kilometres in.

I come into the Blue Lake aid station, again to familiar faces, and again so grateful for the people that give up their weekends to help us in ours. There's a photo Julia took of me coming in here and I'm full beam, OMG PEOPLE and in realising the end is nigh. I know the trail from here and I am already looking forward to seeing more people I love. The sun is low as I run through the Redwoods. The light is very special. It's paradise. Still very hard. But there's no doubting it's special here. I look down at my watch and I know that there are more hills to come. But on we go. We got this. Bending around corners and over hills. Onwards. Through here there is a cluster of three people, of an adult and two kids. Each kid gives me a single daisy. Great job! they say. I almost lose it in a flurry of emotion. I high five them and thank them hugely. I promise to carry the daisies with me. They are in my palm for a long time, and then in my pack pocket. These are the things I remember.

On and on deep into the Redwoods. And then. We're getting there. The aid station is further than I remember. Now I can see the cars and hear the music with the people. With this there will be 7 kilometres to go. I am already anticipating seeing Kate's face, her energy as we run together for that last bit, what it means to share that time after she's been waiting. I get there. I see her! But hang on: there are more people. Abi is also going to run. Jaime, Nico, Richard and Julia are all there too. What's happening?? They are there to cheer and yahoo, especially. This lifts me so high that I feel like a whole new person, a new day, a new run. Off we set in our trio. "Tell me everything about your day!! How are you?? I can't believe you're here after already running the 20 today!!" I say, I want to know everything and hear everything and drink in their own achievements of what they've done. (Also fun tip: asking questions is a super great way of getting your breath back a tiny bit). Along we gallop, them steering me in the right direction and cautioning me of all the various bumps and dangers and mile markers of how far to go. I feel cocooned and accept the help. I feel like the luckiest ever.

There's more.

Lindsay and Mel are on a corner. They leap up and down. They have their running shoes on. They are here to join us. We are now a fivesome.

The sun is reaching the lake now and the water is ablaze with pink, reflecting the glowing skies. The light is otherworldly. It's like a storybook. And with these Queens. The best.

Michelle joins us in a field. All these people have already crushed a race of their own - and are running, again, a quietly planned flourish to end this shared day. We're collecting people! Then Mal. Jaime. Nico. The pace is getting faster and faster, we're almost there, and faster still when they tell me the beer tent is closing. (Jokes. But it helped). Nine of us round the corner into the finishing chute. We're there. I leap over the finish line and in the background you can see people. The crew. My loves. Hands held up high in cheers. We did it.

Kerry is on the finish line commentating, a book end to the day. He was there at the beginning and here he is on the finish line. I thank him. This is not a day of sleep for him, nor much even in the month prior. He's a cornerstone to many peoples journeys and has been part of mine in recent years. We share words. I thank him for making friends on that bus all those years ago on the first Tarawera: You think you've come for a run, he said, but you are going to stay for the people.

Around the corner into the aid tent I go and I want to zoom right out to hang with these cherished people (and to lay horizontal in the grass). Want do you want to do now? I say. And I realise there's nothing else to do. Nothing we have to. But to be. And they spoil me like heck, with those minutes and those hours following being about sharing in the day. Of all our days. I get a shower. We go out for dinner. I get a nap. We go back out to that majestic last aid station.

My voice is scratchy from so many hollers and cheers at the 2am cheer party. This is the final aid station where we spend over two hours. I see Marieve in her last few kilometres, and Rachel, and then Chris. CHRIS! We run the end of his day together too, a story all of it's own, and a very meaningful one. He finishes. We leave the finish line as the sun comes up. It's been more than 24 hours since we woke the day previously.

What a day it had been, in between.

It's never about the day. It's about everything that comes before it, and the learnings, and the relationships that flourish to make it what it becomes. That's what keeps us going back. And that - I don't say this lightly - changes lives.

[starsinursa]

Questions for Grown-Ups

No one tagged me but I’m doing this anyways, sorry, not sorry

Tired of those surveys made by high school kids? “Have you ever kissed someone? Missed someone? Drank alcohol?”

Here are 35 questions for Grown Ups:

1. What bill do you hate paying the most?: Probably student loans. I just have so much student loan debt. I will seriously be paying on those loans for the next ten years. 2. Where was the last place you had a romantic dinner?: …does…does by myself count? Because I took myself out for a nice steak dinner and sipped on some delicious margaritas about five months ago. I just take a book with me and read while I eat.

3. What do you really want to be doing right now?: I’m pretty content at the moment. I’m off work, in pajamas, lounging on my bed with the puppers and the kitty. 

4. How many colleges did you attend?: Two. I attended the same university for all four years of my undergrad and I graduated with a Bachelor’s in Psychology, and then I took grad classes in Counseling at another college for a couple of semesters. Didn’t end up finishing the graduate program though because there was a super intensive field practicum required to complete the degree and I was already working full-time at my current job, and I really don’t want to quit my job so I can get the degree, turn around, and then have to find another job. 

5. Why did you choose the shirt you have on now?: …it’s a gray T-shirt with a cartoon cat and it says “R U Kitten Me Right Meow?!” 😂 I picked it because it made me laugh? 

6. Thoughts on gas prices?: Not terrible at the moment, currently $1.99/ gallon here. And I saved $0.30/ gallon the other day by using my Dillons gas card. WOOHOO, saving money on gas like an ADULT!

7. First thought when the alarm goes off in the morning?: “Fuckkk…. if I sleep for a while longer and show up late to work, how late is ‘too late’?”

8. Last thought you have before you go to bed?: “Goddamnit, Tera, you said you were going to bed at 9:30 tonight and now it’s 1 a.m. Are you happy now? ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?”

9. Do you miss being a child?: Nah. Besides paying bills, I LOVE being an adult. Some people say high school is the best time of your life, some people say college is the best, but my 20′s have undoubtedly been the best so far. Living on my own, doing what I want to do, disposable income, no homework… yes, please.

10. What errand/chore do you despise the most?: Washing dishes. I don’t have a dishwasher at my house and I loathe washing dishes by hand. I hate it so, so much. I literally only use paper plates, styrofoam bowls, and plastic silverware. I just throw everything away when I’m done so I never have to wash dishes. Yes, I hate dishes that much.

11. Up early or sleep in?: Sleep in. I love sleeping in but just never get the chance… or if I do, I wake up early anyways!

12. Found love yet?: Not yet, I am a single pringle. Probably staying that way for a while, too, because all I do is work and then go home, I don’t go anywhere to meet new people. Occasionally I sign up for a dating app, but then I panic and immediately delete it.

13. Favorite lunch meat?: Turkey. Actually, that’s like the ONLY lunch meat I like. I don’t like ham, roast beef… but surprisingly, I do like bologna!

14. What do you get at the grocery store every time?: I’m always stocking up on frozen meals to take to work. I am a lazy cook… as in, I don’t cook. I CAN cook, but I don’t. Cooking for one person is just too much effort.

15. Beach or lake?: Beach. Although, considering I’m in Kansas, there are zero legit beaches around here. Unless you count lake beaches?

16. Is marriage outdated?: I mean, not to me? I’d still like to get married someday. I know it’s not necessary and just a social construct and blah blah, but I still really like the idea of it, at least for myself. Under my sarcastic shell, I am a big soppy romantic at heart. No judgment on anyone who doesn’t wanna go that route though, live and let live. 😊

17. What famous person would you like to have dinner with?: Misha Collins, obviously, because he would be hilarious and adorable. Or Keanu Reeves. Or I would really have loved to meet Leonard Nimoy before he passed away. He just seemed like an amazing man and I bet he had some really great stories and life perspectives to share.

18. Ever crashed your vehicle?: My vehicle has been crashed, yes, but it wasn’t me who crashed it, thank you very much. I’ve been hit by other drivers a couple of times. Not in my new car, thankfully.

19. Do you have any regrets?: I mean, nothing that I would go back and change. I have some small things I wonder about occasionally, but I’m pretty content with the course my life has taken. Even the rough patches have helped me learn. I’m happy where I am, so that’s all that matters.

20. Strangest place you’ve brushed your teeth?: In an airport bathroom. Hey, those layovers can be excruciating, and I’d hate to subject my fellow flyers to my airport breath.

21. Somewhere you’ve never been but want to go?: Ireland. It’s on the bucket list, but I’ve decided to see some other places first. Thailand, here I come!

22. At this point, would you want to start a new career?: No, and that’s part of why I didn’t finish getting my graduate degree. I really enjoy my work (most of the time) and working with adults with disabilities actually lets me feel like I’m making a difference every now and then, so I’m not looking to change careers.

23. How old are you?: I’m on the downward slope of 25 (26 in two months, how do I stop this whole ‘getting older’ thing?)

24. Do you have a go-to person?: Probably my aunt. She works in a similar career as me, so I can talk to her about work problems or get advice. We’re also a lot alike, including being single with no kids, rescuing animals, etc., so we have a lot in common and use each other as a support system.

25. Are you where you want to be in life?: Actually, yeah, I’m pretty content. I would still like to get a Master’s degree someday (if I could find a degree without a practicum so I wouldn’t have to quit my job) and I’d eventually like to buy a house instead of just renting, but otherwise, I’m good.

26. Growing up, what were your favorite cartoons?: Rugrats, Hey Arnold, The Wild Thornberrys, and The Fairly Oddparents

27. What do you think has changed about you since you were a teenager?: Oh my god, sooo much. I feel like I’ve come out of my shell a lot, and also become a lot more at peace with who I am. I don’t worry so much what people think of me anymore. I mean, I’m still super introverted and I’ve still got all my faults, but I beat myself up less about all of it, y’know?

28. Looking back at high school, were they the best years of your life?: Pffft. PFFFT. Yeah right. High school was…not bad, I had my little group of friends and went to a really small school where everyone was pretty chill, but I do not miss the teenage hormones and insecurities and constant worry about the future. 

29. Are there times you still feel like a kid?: Sometimes. Well, not really like a ‘kid’, but sometimes at work I’ll notice my age and feel weirdly young if I’m in a meeting with coworkers who are a lot older than me. And even if they aren’t too much older than me, almost all of my coworkers have kids, so it’s hard to find things in common sometimes. 

30. Did you have a pager?: No, I’m not that old, haha. But I did have one of those old-school flip phones that couldn’t even text.

31. Was there a hang-out spot when you were a kid?: Yeah, there were a few. Out at the old Union Pacific railroad bridge. Downtown. A couple of party houses.

32. Were you the type of kid you’d want your children to hang out with?: Depends on my age. 😂 I was mostly a decent kid who got good grades and didn’t get into much trouble, but I went through my crazy, rebellious phase too… drinking, smoking, truancy, sex… ah, yes, being 16 was an interesting time for me.

33. Was there a teacher or figure that stood out to you?: I had a really fantastic school counselor when I was going through that rebellious phase. I was forced to see her and wasn’t happy about it, but she turned out to be awesome. A lot of times, she didn’t even make me talk about school or home, she’d just let me ramble on about things I liked, the books I was reading, my favorite movies, etc. She’d just sit and bullshit with me and didn’t treat me like a kid or talk down to me. I first became interested in psychology and counseling because of her.

34. Do you tell stories that start with “when I was your age”?: Definitely. Kids these days! When I was their age, I was already washing dishes in a restaurant. I started working at age 14 and have never stopped. And my parents didn’t buy me a car, I had to save up and bought my first car by myself for $500. And my parents didn’t pay for my college either, I had to take out tons of student loans and work 30 hours/ week on top of a full course load so I could pay all my own bills (I’m a bitter old woman, can you tell? 😌).

35. Are you religious?: Umm…I used to be, not so much anymore. My step-dad is a pastor though, plus my sister is really religious and attends a private Christian college, so I’m still around it quite a bit. Needless to say, there’s a few things they don’t know about me, including the fact that I work part-time at an adult store.

Tagging: all my “grown-up” friends who would like to do this! Dooo it!

[evanaaml]

EVGN

Chapter 4: On the Road

Gael’s ears twitched at the sound of the birds chirping outside. She tried to ignore it, but the birds were ignorant of her desire to sleep more. One of the downsides to being a faunus; waking up early to every and any noise you hear. She sighed, turned over, and looked up at the ceiling.

She could see sunlight beam through the small gaps of the closed window shades. It was morning at least, maybe she didn’t lose as much sleep as she felt. Her brain felt like it was swimming. She pulled her arm up to scratch her head, only to bump it against something beside her. She grabbed the object to see that it was the wine bottle from last night. It was empty.

That would explain a lot.

Gael turned over to place the bottle on the bedside table. As she did so, she noticed that Eallgréne’s bed was empty. How did he manage to get up without waking her? Few things could be quiet enough to not catch her attention. She could see that Violette and Nickel were still in bed and still asleep, she assumed they had slept through it too.

She was awake now, so she might as well see what was going on. Gael pulled off her sheets and lifted herself up. Her head was still swimming and she felt achey. Hangovers were something she was used to, but it had been awhile since she had one. She smiled to herself; her friends were a terrible influence it would seem.

Or a terrible excuse.

She had noticed that she slept in her regular clothes, forgetting to change out of them before drinking. Catharsis sat on the other side of her bed, resting in its two separate halves with the gear she took off of her. She wouldn’t need it yet, and left it there for now.

Gael raised her arms up in the air and stretched as much as she could, feeling a yawn force itself out. She then stood up and stretched some more, working her legs, back, and arms. It was habit anyway to prepare for the day, but she hoped it’d wake her up more in the process and get her aches out.

Still no signs of Eallgréne. She couldn’t hear anything coming from the bathroom, and assumed he wasn’t in there. He was always a morning person, he must have been up and about somewhere.

Gael slipped on her heels and made her way to the door, (making sure to grab her copy of the room key beforehand). She took one final glance to Violette and Nickel, saw that they were still asleep, and left the room.

She closed the door quietly behind her. After she did, she looked down the hall to her left. It was a short walk that ended at a set of glass doors, which led to a balcony. Gael could see Eallgréne’s back to her on the other side of the closed doors. She smiled. She had forgotten how much he enjoyed waking up to the early morning.

She walked down the hall and reached the glass doors. Gael reached out for the handles, but stopped herself short. Eallgréne looked peaceful out there, did she really want to interrupt him? She stared at his back for some time, having an inner debate over the matter. A part of her felt guilty, she didn’t genuinely know if he wanted to be alone or not. Or, if he did want company, if SHE was the company he’d want. In the end though, her desire to be with her friend overcame her.

Gael slowly opened the door. Eallgréne didn’t turn to the noise, but kept facing forward, overlooking the village and fields of grass. The sun was shining bright over the horizon, causing the sky to radiate in yellow and blue from the cloudless sky. There was dew on the grass yet, which, when shined on from the sun’s rays, made the hills glisten. Gael could see that the archer was holding a mug of coffee as she closed the door behind her.

“Sweet, right? Cream and sugar?”, Eallgréne suddenly asked. Gael’s ears perked in curiosity. The hunter held out the mug she saw him holding while still looking out to the fields. It was for her. Gael smiled and walked forward, taking the mug from him and leaning over the wooden rail of the balcony. She could see now that he had a second mug with him.

“You remembered”, Gael remarked, referring to her morning drink of choice. Eallgréne held his own mug up.

“It’s easy when you take it the same way as me”, Eallgréne replied, taking a sip of his coffee.

“So you just had an extra cup set up just in case I came out here with you?”, Gael asked with a smirk. Eallgréne, still not having turned away from the scenery before them, smiled.

“Well, you always did join me when I watched the sunrise. And it’s not like I didn’t think of the others”, Eallgréne said, making a slight motion to behind them. Gael turned to where he motioned; a set of wooden chairs beside the glass doors. Next to the one closest to them was a small table, with two thermoses on them. “Black coffee and extra sweet tea, for the two sleepy heads”, Eallgréne stated.

“Thought of everything, didn’t you?”, Gael asked, taking a sip of her coffee. She pulled away from it and looked at it perplexingly. “Bit strong, isn’t it?”. Eallgréne smirked.

“Assumed you were still a bit hungover from last night, asked to make yours stronger. And yes, I did think of everything”, Eallgréne answered. Gael smirked.

“Show off. Last I checked, you drank last night too”, Gael recalled. Eallgréne scoffed.

“Barely! Only had the one glass of wine before you guzzled the rest. You were already three glasses in before you started drinking it from the bottle, ya’ lush”, Eallgréne replied with a laugh. Gael giggled. It was just like when they were teens.

Perfect.

“Guess you really do know how to handle my antics, huh?”, Gael remarked.

“Years of experience”, Eallgréne said with a smile. The two sat in silence for a few moments, enjoying the view before them. The same birds which had woken Gael were still chirping in the surrounding trees. In the distance, some cows could be seen, standing around on the hills and taking in the sun’s rays for warmth. The air was only slightly chilly, allowing them to appreciate the sunlight even more. Gael closed her eyes and basked in it.

“You ready for today?”, Eallgréne asked after a pause. Gael opened her eyes and turned to her partner.

“I think so. At least, as prepared as I can be, all things considered”, Gael replied. Eallgréne nodded.

“Yeah, I suppose in hindsight that one can only do so much on short notice like this”, Eallgréne stated.

“We may not be fully prepared yet, but I think we will be when the time comes”, Gael said.

“Are you going to talk to your family? Let them know?”, Eallgréne asked. Gael sighed, looking back over the horizon.

“I don’t know. I’m torn. Part of me wants to let them know, I don’t like keeping secrets from them, and I often tell them about my missions anyways. But…this mission is different; so much so. I don’t want to worry them”, Gael explained.

“It’s not to be taken lightly. Our work as a whole is always risky. But a job this dangerous, this important, there is a legitimate chance that…”, Eallgréne started, before stopping. There was a moment of silence. Gael turned to the archer.

“…That we might not survive…I know”, Gael finished. Eallgréne sighed, he didn’t mean to bring the mood down for her. Gael looked back to the horizon. The sun was getting higher in the sky, warming her more. It felt good, almost like a cleanse of her very soul.

Of course, any morning she got to wake up felt good. Hunters often had that mentality.

“I suppose…my family doesn’t need to know about every mission. The less people outside of this group know, the better”, Gael decided.

“Wise thinking”, Eallgréne remarked. Gael smirked.

“I’m capable of that every now and again”, Gael replied with sarcasm. Eallgréne chuckled. He didn’t mean it to be taken that way, but knew she understood that. “I assume then you won’t be telling Steorra about this as well?“

“Probably not. She’s more…understanding, of the dangers I face regularly. But as you said, the less that know, the better…then again, we’ll probably see her when we arrive in Vale, I wonder if she knows anything about the assailants”, Eallgréne wondered. It was clear he was giving it a lot of thought.

“Well, you’ll have time to think it over, it’ll be a bit before we arrive”, Gael remarked. Eallgréne nodded in response, leaning forward over the rail of the balcony. As he did, Gael caught a split-second glimmer come from an object under Eallgréne’s shirt. It only took a moment for her to realize what the object was. She smiled as she stared at Eallgréne. The hunter turned to see the faunus smiling and looked confused.

“What?”, Eallgréne asked. Gael leaned in closer to Eallgréne and pointed to his chest.

“Is that what I think it is?”, Gael asked. Eallgréne looked down to his chest and then smiled. He reached up and pulled out from under his shirt a gold chain. Attached to the end of the chain was a cross. He held it out for her to see with a smile on his face.

“It is”, Eallgréne replied. Gael’s smile widened.

“I can’t believe you’re still wearing it”, Gael stated. Eallgréne blushed slightly in embarrassment. He held the cross in his hands and looked at it. The gold glistened in the sunlight and felt warm to the touch.

“…I never take it off”, Eallgréne remarked. Gael looked stunned. “It was a thoughtful gift, and it…you know…gives me comfort, keeps the thoughts out. It’s the least I can do”.

“Awww!”, Gael said with a smile. She leaned over and hugged Eallgréne tightly, who tensed up on contact. He was embarrassed to be treated this way over something he felt wasn’t a big deal. But one simply didn’t turn down a hug from Gael. He stood there in silence for a few moments before realizing that Gael wouldn’t be letting go anytime soon.

“So…uh, sh-should we be going to see if Nickel and Violette are ready?”, Eallgréne asked. Gael huffed in annoyance, knowing what he was trying to do, and released the archer.

“I guess so”, Gael complied. She got one last tight squeeze in before releasing him. The two grabbed the remaining drinks and made their way back to their room. Despite the short conversation, about twenty minutes had passed, and the two hoped that their friends were at least moving. Fortune was on their side, as when they opened the door to their room, they saw that both were in fact awake and active.

Nickel stood beside his bed and the desk, loading the ammo drums of his weapon with bullets. His black suit jacket hung over the back of the chair while his black hat hung over the chair’s corner. His sleeveless vest was on, but unbuttoned, revealing his black long-sleeved buttoned-up dress shirt. His black tie hung around his collar, untied and simply dangling. His holsters were strapped around the white vest and his pistols rested on the desk.

Violette sat on her bed, wearing a plain black long-sleeve athletic shirt and black leggings with white ankle socks. Her armor was placed on her bed accordingly, but her weapon was still aside by the bathroom. In her hand, she had a small blade, which she used to whittle a red dust crystal. The two turned towards the door to see Eallgréne and Gael enter.

“Enjoying some private time, are we?”, Nickel asked with a sly grin, knowing it would annoy the two. It did, but they let it be. Eallgréne approached Nickel and gave him the thermos with his coffee in it. Nickel raised it up to him as a sign of thanks and took a swig before placing it back down and getting back to work. Gael handed Violette her tea thermos. The knight placed the crystal and the knife down beside her to accept the drink.

“A dust crystal? But you don’t use dust”, Gael pointed out, noticing the huntress’s little project. Violette, holding her thermos, looked at the crystal with a smile.

“It’s just a little project I decided to work on with all of us together again. Had to borrow some of Nickel’s dust for it”, Violette explained, sipping her tea. Gael looked at the crystal inquisitively. The red crystal shined from the light that came in through the windows. It was thinned out from the whittling, and was shaping more like an elongated wafer than a crystal. Gael glanced to the bed to see that a few other crystals of different colors were there as well, yet to be altered by Violette.

“What are you doing it for?”, Gael asked. Violette grinned.

“Mm-mm! You’re gonna have to wait and see!”, Violette declared. Gael snickered, Violette was excited about this project of hers.

“About how long will it be before you’re all ready?”, Eallgréne asked. He took this time to head towards his gear and prep it, starting with his dust-infused arrowheads.

“I prepped my stuff when I got to the village early, so I’m pretty much set”, Gael replied, sitting down on the side of her bed. She took the time to dump the empty wine bottle into the small garbage can underneath the table, which clanked loudly as she did so.

“Won’t be long for me, some of this I can do on the road”, Nickel answered. Violette sipped her tea.

“Just have to get changed”, Violette said back. Eallgréne nodded.

“Alright. We’ll finish our preps, check out, and move on to Vale”, Eallgréne detailed, checking his arrows.

“How long will it take to get there do you think?”, Violette asked. Eallgréne took a moment to think it over. He was more familiar with the region than the others, having grown up not too far away.

“Couple days maybe, depending on detours and distractions. Could get there in about twenty four hours if we hustle”, Eallgréne replied.

“It’ll be weird, going back to Vale and Beacon after so long”, Gael remarked. Nickel scoffed.

“Yeah, figures I’d end up going back to school, of all places. Least I won't be stuck in any boring lectures this time. But I won’t lie, kinda looking forward to seeing the rookies there. Heard a lot of rumors of this year’s bunch”, Nickel mentioned.

“Oh, really? Like what?”, Gael asked, genuinely interested. She was a student who garnered a lot of attention back in her days at Beacon for her talents. While she didn’t much care for the fame, she did at least appreciate people noticing her hard work. She was interested in knowing if these students were further along at their age now than she was back then. She also hoped that, perhaps, people would’t put them on a pedestal like they did her. No one should be under that kind of pressure.

“Well, for starters, I heard that Pyrrah Nikos will be a first year student at Beacon”, Nickel stated.

“Pyrrah Nikos? I do believe I've heard of her. Isn’t she that star huntress from Mistral?”, Violette asked, now standing up to get dressed. Nickel nodded, continuing to load his ammo drum.

“The one and the same, from my neck of the woods. Decided to transfer to Beacon like me, instead of going to Haven. Won the Mistral regional a record four times”, Nickel explained, showing a hint of pride towards someone with that recognition hailing from his homeland.

“You won that before too, didn’t you?”, Violette asked, reflecting on what she knew of her partner’s past.

“Yep, years ago. One it once, made it to the finals the second year. But not even close to what this girl’s accomplished”, Nickel replied.

“Why did she transfer to Beacon?”, Gael asked.

“Probably for the same reason I did; leave the unwanted attention behind”, Nickel replied. Eallgréne scoffed, screwing an arrowhead onto an arrow shaft.

“Don’t think her reasons were quite the same as yours”, Eallgréne commented. Nickel turned to the archer.

“And what’s THAT supposed to mean!?”, Nickel asked accusingly.

“Pyrrah probably transferred to avoid popularity. YOU transferred to avoid infamy”, Eallgréne said with a smirk. Nickel grabbed a pillow from the bed beside him and whipped it at Eallgréne in response.

“I can understand why she would though…living up to everyone’s high expectations can be…difficult”, Gael admitted.

“And believe it or not, she’s not even the most impressive one this year”, Nickel remarked.

“Someone more impressive than that? Who?”, Violette asked.

“Don’t know! That’s the thing, this girl came out of no where. Friend of mine said she got accepted in like a day before school started. But here’s the kicker: she’s only fifteen!”, Nickel stated incredulously. The other three hunters gasped.

“Fifteen!? And she got accepted into Beacon!?”, Gael said in shock.

“What is Ozpin thinking? She’s still missing a lot of training from her primary school. He must have saw something in her to do something so rash”, Eallgréne stated.

“This class DOES seem interesting. Now I wanna check them out too!”, Gael said, jumping up from her bed in anticipation. The idea of meeting young hunters and huntresses with so much potential excited her. Now she couldn’t wait to get going. The others could see this, and began moving faster.

Nickel had finished loading up and was now getting dressed. Violette placed the last bit of armor on and walked over to grab her lance, still drinking her tea as she did so. Eallgréne screwed on the last of his dust-infused arrowheads and placed the arrows in his quiver.

“Ok…are we ready?”, Eallgréne asked. Gael walked around her bed and grabbed Catharsis. She held the short half of the blade before her, looking at the crystals. Three were still missing from their battle with the King Taijitu. She reached into a small pack beside her gear, pulling out three small crystals she had purchased when they arrived back to the village together; brown, purple, and blue in color. Gael placed the three crystals into their respective compartments, then looked to Eallgréne.

“Ready”, Gael said. Eallgréne nodded.

“Alright then, let’s head out”, Eallgréne decided. Team Evergreen grabbed their gear and bags and left the room. They made sure to check out downstairs and made their way outside. The sun was high in the sky and it was beginning to warm up. It looked as if the weather would be warmer and brighter than yesterday.

Few people were out and active in the village. Farmers were already out in the fields, and shops had yet to open. Gael took a few hurried steps forward and held her arms out towards the sky, basking in the warm sunlight.

“Gaaaah, it feels so good to be outside!”, Gael remarked, spinning in the dirt road. She felt revitalized in the warm weather.

“I’m glad to see you so positive!”, someone called out. Gael turned to her left to see the village leader approach her and the group. He was an older man, in his fifties, with a long black beard and skinny mustache. He wore a light green and gold robe, which matched the fields of grass that surrounded the village. “Am I to assume that you will be departing for that mission you informed me of the other day?”.

“We are”, Gael replied.

“While it would please me to see warriors such as yourselves make our village your home, I understand that your hearts are yearning for more in life. May your way to your next destination be safe, and know that you will always be welcome here, should you decide to visit”, The village leader exclaimed with a gentle bow. The four warriors replied with a similar bow.

“Thank you for your kindness, sir”, Gael replied. Suddenly, Nickel snapped his fingers; having just remembered something.

“Actually, sir, I have a question. Where is your communications building?”, Nickel asked.

“Looking to contact your sources?”, Eallgréne asked. Nickel nodded.

“Yeah, should do that before we leave”, Nickel remarked.

“It’s right down the road. However, I should warn you that the facility may be, perhaps, a bit outdated compared to what you’re used to. I will gladly lead you there”, the village leader explained.

“I’m sure it’ll work well enough, thank you”, Nickel said.

“I’ll go too. I can ask my parents what they know of the case too. They’re connected enough in Atlas to have some information, I should think”, Violette decided.

“Then we’ll wait here for you”, Gael determined.

“We’ll be quick, see ya in a bit”, Nickel said with a small wave. With that, the elder lead Nickel and Violette down the road, leaving Eallgréne and Gael in the town square.

“What are the odds that either of them will get any information that can help us?”, Gael asked Eallgréne, trying more to pass the time than actually being curious.

“Not sure. But given what little we were told by Faramant and Nikko, anything will help", Eallgréne replied. Gael shrugged in response. The two continued to stand in the empty road, ignoring the sound of the doors to the saloon opening behind them. They looked around the quant town as murmurs came from the direction of the building. Their attention was soon drawn to the noises however when the murmurs quickly turned boisterous.

“Whoa-ho-ho!”, someone called out. Gael and Eallgréne turned around to see a group of four men stumbling towards them. They were about their age, perhaps a bit younger, and wore clothes that didn’t seem to match the townspeople. The group looked to be travelers, taking in the sights.

Their “sights” being focused solely on Gael.

They were all clearly drunk; likely having spent the entire night drinking and only just getting up. Their hair was messy and their clothes wrinkled. One of the men was holding up another, but could barely stand himself. The man who had called out to Gael stumbled forward a couple steps ahead of his friends with a sly smirk.

“Lookie here, fellas. Here I thought this town was missin’ out on some fiiine women, and all this time this hot fox was right under our noses!”, the man slurred. The others wolf whistled towards Gael and laughed. Gael sighed. It was hardly the first time she was hit on by drunks, and it would hardly be the last either.

It was a shame, really. With all the amount of discrimination she received her entire life towards her faunus heritage, she would STILL be hit on by men who found her animal traits “sexy”. While flattering to a small degree, it tended to come with more nuisances than anything. But she wouldn’t be much of a huntress if some perverted drunks caused her much trouble.

“I guess I should be impressed you at least knew I was part fox. Usually guys think I’m a dog”, Gael said with annoyance. Eallgréne snickered.

“Hehe, remember when Nickel thought you were a cat? A "fine feline", I believe is what he called you", Eallgréne said, recalling the memory with a chuckle. Gael sighed with a small smile at the past moment. The guys ignored their discussion, as they were too busy goading one another in an attempt to continue flirting.

“S-So, tell me, I uh, hear that faunus are, hehe, animals in the sack…amiright?”, the drunk asked, slurring his words and stepping closer to Gael. This action removed all traces of humor Eallgréne had of the situation, replacing it with genuine agitation. The other boys got closer as well, all laughing and looking at Gael with indecent intentions. “I'mmm thinkin’, that uh, me and you go behind the saloon there, and see if you can-”, before the man could continue further, Eallgréne, (who had heard quite enough), stepped forward.

“Choose your next words carefully…“, Eallgréne growled sternly, unknowingly gripping one half of Folcriht tightly from its sheath. He knew more than anyone that Gael didn’t need backup when it came to dealing with these drunks, but his morality and decent human nature wouldn’t stand for his friend, (or, for that matter, any person), being treated this way. The drunk, taken aback from the sudden threat, stumbled backwards a couple steps and bumped into his friends. He recovered however, and looked at Eallgréne in annoyance.

“What, she your chick or something?”, another one of the drunks asked.

“Whether she is, or isn’t, it doesn’t excuse your attitude”, Eallgréne replied, finally noticing his intimidating stance and relaxing slightly. Despite his annoyance with the group, he didn’t want to start a fight in the village; especially right before they were about to depart on such an important mission. He didn’t want the village leader to have to deal with the repercussions anyway.

“Listen man, if she’s not yours, then I think she has a right to choose herself!”, yet another one of the men blurted out, not seeing the irony of his statement. Gael stepped forward.

“He’s right, Eallgréne, I have a right to choose”, Gael said looking back to her leader, a wide smile across her face. Eallgréne chuckled lightly seeing it; just like Gael to make a joke out of this situation. “And I think…that you all should just walk away, and forget you ever talked to me this way”.

The group of men looked insulted at the statement and started showing signs of hostility. Gael, however, was not intimidated.

“Are you kidding me? Look at you! Why would you wear something like that if you WEREN’T looking for attention!?”, one of the men asked. Gael’s ears twitched in agitation. Eallgréne noticed this and quickly approached Gael, putting his hand on her shoulder.

“Gael, I know what you’re thinking, but they’re not worth it. Garbage is garbage, just let them be”, Eallgr��ne said, trying to calm her down.

“I am allowed to wear what I please! I am proud of my body, and I don’t need anyone’s permission to show that confidence!”, Gael yelled back at the men, ignoring Eallgréne’s pleads. The men scoffed.

“Pft, puh-lease! You wear short shorts to show off your legs and butt, and everyone knows it. You’re just ASKING for a guy to-”, the initial antagonizer started before being cut off by Gael’s glare. Eallgréne could sense the anger in her. But, miraculously, Gael took a deep breath, paused for a moment, and turned around. Eallgréne sighed in relief.

The two hunters headed towards where Nickel and Violette had gone, and made it several feet down the road. The group of men walked to the center of the street and watched them leave, heckling all the way.

“Yeah, that’s right, walk away! Y'know, probably good thing she left, guys; she’s probably got fleas or something down there, hoppin’ in bed from guy to guy, fucking slut!”, the insulting drunk said loudly to his friends.

That did it.

Gael stopped dead in the road, her head looking down at the ground. Upon hearing what the drunk had yelled, Eallgréne sighed heavily. He knew what was about to happen. How could these men be THIS stupid? He turned to Gael, seeing that her ears were straight up and frizzled.

“Gael…”, Eallgréne started. Gael looked up to Eallgréne…and smiled. “…Oh Lord”.

Gael released her backpack, letting it fall to the ground. Then, in an instant, Gael blinked, disappearing from sight. Eallgréne didn’t bother turning towards the drunks yet, he knew what was about to happen. He put his hand to his temple and rubbed it. They just HAD to start something.

The drunks saw the faunus disappear and looked at the now empty space next to the archer in disbelief. It only lasted a moment, as Gael suddenly reappeared right before the man who had yelled the insult. The man barely had time to back up in shock when Gael threw a fist forward and punched the man right in the jaw.

Gael’s superior faunus strength, coupled with the surprise attack, sent the man flying backwards, landing several feet on the dirt road. The other three men looked at their friend in shock and turned to Gael, fists made.

“YOU BITCH!”, one of the men yelled, lunging at Gael. She blinked again, causing the man to punch the air and stumble. She reappeared beside him, swinging her leg across and kicking him in the side of his ribs.

She didn’t give time for the others to react, as she blinked once again and appeared before them, swinging fists in their faces and chests with speed and precision. Gael jumped in the air, blinked, and landed on the back of the man she initially punched, (who was just beginning to get up). The three others looked at her as she winked and blew a kiss to them mockingly.

The men growled in anger and rushed her. She yawned as they shortened the gap between them and dove for her. She blinked, causing the three to land on top of their friend in a heap. Gael blinked back to where the men stood before rushing her, smiling as they tried to stand up and gather their senses.

“You think you can take on all four of us!?”, one of the men asked as they all stood up and raised their fists yet again.

“Well I’m not having any trouble so far”, Gael retorted. The four men glared. They looked to each other, nodded, and separated. One man went to the far left, another the far right. It was clear they were trying to cut off exits, though they intentionally ignored Gael’s back, for fear of being attacked from behind by Eallgréne.

Gael simply watched as the four men looked at her, now all smiling and cracking their knuckles. She thought it was surprisingly dumb of them to fight her with only fists. While she wouldn't bother using it, did they NOT see her massive sword attached to her?

Stupid is as stupid does.

The man on the far right rushed forward, a fist ready to strike. Gael didn’t bother to blink this time, instead deciding to spin and grab the man by his upper arm. She thrust the man passed her, avoiding the punch. The man on the far left now lunged, jumping over the man Gael had thrown.

When he reached her, he fell to the ground and tried to trip her. Gael jumped in the air and blinked, disappearing. She blinked back behind the two men who were standing in front of her originally. She swung an elbow into the side of the head of one man, and stepped on the calf of the other, causing him to buckle and land on his knee.

The man she elbowed swung a fist at her, only for her to blink and reappear behind him. She kneed him in his tailbone. The man was getting angrier and swung his arm around, only for Gael to blink again. The man immediately turned around, expecting to see her, but didn’t. It took a second before he suddenly felt a hard impact on the crown of his head and fell to the ground hard. Gael had blinked in the air above his head and swung her hands down in an enclosed fist.

With the man now down, she quickly turned her attention to the man she buckled just seconds prior, who was still on his knee. He looked at Gael in anger and reached for something on his belt. The man suddenly pulled out a dagger and swung it at Gael. She blinked and reappeared a foot to the side, where his arm reached the end of the swing. She gripped his arm and twisted it, causing him to yell in pain and drop the dagger.

Gael waved her finger in the air with a smirk and then punched the man across the face, taking him down. The other two men, seeing their friends taken down, rushed towards Gael, small knives of their own now drawn.

Watching from a distance, Eallgréne didn’t grow concerned at the increased danger Gael now faced. These men clearly weren’t hunters, and Gael likely would have been a match for them even if they were. He instead looked embarrassed, thankful that it was early yet and few people were watching this fight. The only onlookers Eallgréne could immediately see came from the saloon, and they seemed to be enjoying seeing the new town hero beat up people who he assumed caused some nuisances to them during their stay.

It was at this time that Nickel and Violette approached Eallgréne, both noticing the fight before them. Violette looked shocked at the sudden turn of events since they left, covering her mouth and gasping. Nickel meanwhile acted as if nothing had changed at all.

“Huh, what did they do to piss her off?”, Nickel asked nonchalantly, his hands in his pockets.

“Called her a slut”, Eallgréne replied.

“Hehe, dumbasses”, Nickel said with a chuckle. “Well, we got what we needed, so we’re ready to go whenever she is”.

“Yeah, probably a good thing. GAEL!”, Eallgréne called out. Gael, hearing her name, suddenly stopped and turned to look at Eallgréne. She saw that Violette and Nickel were beside him. “If you’re done teaching them a lesson, we’ve got work to do!”.

“Oh, ok! Think they learned their lesson anyway. Coming!”, Gael replied. She blinked, leaving behind the four drunks. All four were groaning in pain, with severe bruises, black eyes, busted lips and broken noses amongst them. She reappeared before her team, a smile across her face and her hands behind her back innocently, as if nothing had happened.

“I’m sorry that they were so rude to you, Gael”, Violette said, understanding from similar experience the immaturity of some men.

“Eh, what are you going to do?”, Gael asked with a shrug.

“Kick some major ass, apparently. Way to go, girl!”, Nickel said, slapping Gael on the butt in approval.

“Well now that that’s all straightened out, let’s get going, shall we?”, Eallgréne asked. Gael nodded.

“You bet! Did you find anything from your sources?”, Gael asked the group as they began walking down the road.

“From MY sources, nothing. This group Faramant’s all worried about is pretty tight-lipped if my guys don’t hear any whispers. But I asked my folks, and they told me to meet one of their associates in Vale. Someone they’ve worked with a few times before. Seems to think he’ll know something about them”, Nickel explained.

“And my parents are going to see if they can find out anything more about what’s going on. They’re gonna work with the Atlas military police, and see if they can locate Amber through their work associates”, Violette added.

“It’s not much, but it’s a start”, Eallgréne said.

“Wouldn’t be any fun if it was that easy”, Gael said with a wink. The group of hunters walked out of the town, with the sun high in the sky and the wind at their backs, as they made their first steps towards Vale.

Sorry it took so long! Had a lot of re-editing to do on this one. Hope that you all enjoy! Let me know what you think, and hope to see you all next time!

[revpanikbedlam]

Normally Patricia and her friends would actually go to the drive-in on Saturday night. Lizzy's uncle owned the place and he'd always let her bring a carload of her friends in for free since they usually made up for it buying concessions. But Lizzy's steady Jack knew about a happening party just outside of town at the abandoned Kensfield farm. So instead of hitting the movies like Patricia told her parents they would, she sat in the back seat smiling as they blew past the city limits sign and a cool night wind whipped her long hair about her head.

Pat was glad she didn't have to suffer through a double feature of Dr. No and From Russia with Love. Mason had liked the spy thing and was constantly talking about James Bond and John Drake, and always had a cheap paperback in his pocket with a girl in silhouette holding a gun on the cover. But after they broke up a few months ago just after the spring dance, she really had no interest in spies.

“Spies are liars,” she muttered, watching shadows flitting past under a clear sky of stars. A little bit of country air and some beers that Jack's older brother got them sounded way better than indulging in a testosterone-driven male fantasy about secret documents and space lasers.

“Maybe you'll meet someone there, Pat,” Lizzy shouted over the wind. “I heard from Ruth that a whole bunch of people from out of town are going to be there.” Liz paused just long enough to take a hard slug off her beer. “It would be nice if you found a guy to help you get over Mason, then you could go double dating with me and Jack again. I always prefer going out as a couple of couples, it feels more grown up that way.” Trying to drink in between words, Liz drank too much at once and began coughing, but continued to talk anyway. “Not that we mind you tagging along or nothing.”

Jack grabbed the beer from an indignant Lizzy and he finished it in one go. He tossed the can out the window, looked back at Patrica over his shoulder with a wink and said, “Yeah Pat, we don't mind. I kinda like having you hanging around when Lizzy is going down on me, it gives me something pretty to look at.”

Patrica blushed a little, but Liz was quick to punch him in the shoulder and shouted, “You pig! That was only once and I was drunk! It wasn't on purpose, I forgot Pat was there.”

“Don't lie! You're one of those lady perverts! You're one of them girls who likes being watched while you're making it; like the women in those dirty books you're always reading.”

Lizzy responded to the accusation with some degree of moral outrage, and the two continued to banter loudly but she was soon playfully chewing on Jack's ear instead. A few minutes later the car swerved unexpectedly before drifting back into its lane, leading Patrica to assume that Liz's hand had successfully made its way into Jack's bluejeans. Patrica pretty much tuned out what Liz and Jack had going on in the front seat and decided she was more interested in drinking her beer.

Jack had a foul mouth when he thought no one important was listening, but she knew the come on was mostly him joking around. In her opinion, Jack had always been good to Liz and stuck by her when they had a scare. She would have been embarrassed to admit it but she usually didn't mind when Jack and Liz fooled around in front of her. She thought they were both very attractive and actually had spied on them once or twice when they didn't know she was there. A spy herself, just like Mason. She felt lousy to think about it, and it made her sad to remember.

The Kensfield farm was at the end of a long dirt road, and although there was a chain hanging between two posts at the end of the private drive which wove up the hill, there was enough space on either side to drive around the minor barricade. They slowly rolled their way up the path until they came to a field with several large lilac bushes and overgrown crabapple trees. Patricia noticed that there were several cars parked behind these trees so they couldn't be seen from the road. Jack parked in the deep grass with the others and turned off the car.

“Hey Pat, why don't you take the other six pack up with you to the house and we'll catch up in a minute,” Liz said as Jack stifled a grunt.

“Sure,” Patrica said and grabbed the beer. Once out of the car she lingered for a moment to catch a peek, but immediately felt guilty, and with a blush-red face headed up the last little climb before reaching the house at the top of the hill. It was said that old man Kensfield vanished one night about ten years ago and it had been abandoned ever since. A lot of people had said the place was haunted but Patrica never saw anything. When she dated Mason, kids would have parties up here all the time and the four of them would come out here for some fun, but it had been a while.

As she came up to the house she saw more people there than she ever had before. Normally it was maybe ten to fifteen kids at most, but tonight there were closer to thirty people hanging around. She saw a couple of her friends but she was surprised at how many people she didn't know.

Not only did she not recognize many of them, but a lot of the ones she didn't know looked really wild. She had seen pictures of hippies and stuff in the news, but she lived far and away from where most of that sort of thing went on. It was strange to see so many people dressed in such outrageous outfits. Of course, it had been a big local scandal when Jim Harper and that girl Stephanie drove out west together. They were apparently into that whole counter-culture thing, and this was the sort of place that that sort of person did their best to run away from.

“Hey, man! Check it, you have beer, far out!” said a girl with long braided hair and pink sunglasses that she wore despite the dark. “Hey, be cool and give me one before you go in there. The guys in there are animals. They drank all the beers we came with and are working their way through all our reefer. Do me a solid, give me a beer and I'll split a cig I got with you. It's a real one.”

Patricia smiled, pulled the tab off a can and handed it to her saying, “Cheers!” Then she opened one for herself and sat down next to her on an old bench by the front door. “A cigarette sounds great.”

“Man, you're all right. I was worried you would be a square coming out here dressed like Donna Reed, but you're all right,” the girl said, taking a deep swig. She pulled a weathered and bent Lucky Strike from behind her ear and lit it. After a few puffs, she passed the cigarette to Patricia. As Pat took a long hard pull the girl said to her, “My name's Starlight.”

Trying not to laugh, Patrica found herself coughing up a huge cloud of stale tobacco smoke before she struggled out the question, “Starlight? Is that actually your name?”

“Naw, but I decided after I ran away from home that I didn't want anyone calling me Bertha anymore and I thought Starlight was pretty. A boy I was with at the time told me it was hep so since then I've been Starlight. What about you?”

“Patricia,” she said, handing back the cigarette. “My friends usually call me Pat, but I go by either. I think it suits me.” She drank a bit more of her beer and then asked, “What are all of you guys doing out here? If I were a hippy, I really don't think I'd come around here. This place is mostly farms and older people. Even in town there really isn't much going on, just a drive-in, a diner, and a dance hall.”

Starlight snickered at being called a hippy and then said, “Yeah, that's probably true. We drove through earlier and it didn't look too happening. No offense. But some girl we met at the gas station named Reba or Ruby or something, told us about the 'Flower House' on the edge of town. We totally wanted to check it out. And when I saw it, man. I mean, just dig it, it's totally crazy! I never saw anything like this before, do you know how it got this way?”

Patricia had to admit the Kensfield house was pretty strange. Everything was covered indoors and out with a rich, thick sheet of bright green moss which was spotted with the sprouting of pink and white clover. Deep purple morning glories and vines of green grapes coiled around every surface. Even things in the kitchen that were left behind by old Mr. Kensfield were pulled under the carpet of greenery.

“No one knows really,” Patricia said. “I mean there are all sorts of ghost stories about it, but no one knows for sure. It used to belong to a farmer who had kinda become a bit of a hermit after his wife died. Some people say he went a little crazy and would harass people in town, but most people just dealt with him. Well ten years ago or so, people heard a loud shout ring out one night and a few gun shots. His neighbors, wanting to help, rushed up the hill, but it was so steep it took a while for them to get up here. By the time they did, no one could find him and his house was filled with plants. It was like it had been empty for a long time.”

“Far out, this chick is onto what's real! That's totally spooky Dracula stuff,” said a tall and lanky guy with a scruffy beard, long hair, and no shirt. He was followed by a few other guys from inside, but had lurked in the doorway while the girls were talking. As predicted by Starlight, they grabbed the beers up without asking and

proceeded to make fast work of them. No-shirt continued, “If you're into the supernatural we have some stuff that lets you see into other dimensions. I got a whole sheet when we were out west and I have a few tabs to spare. You know, if you want to come feel some love in this spooky flower house.”

Some of the other guys started whooping and dancing around at this. Some guy with a guitar came from inside, immediately falling down on the lawn, and after a moment of fumbling began strumming out some awkward chords. Patricia suddenly felt a little overwhelmed and the guy looming over her made her especially uncomfortable. Starlight smiled at him and said a line of nearly unidentifiable obscenities, to which he responded by smiling back. Then he put a square of paper on her tongue, turned to Patricia and said, “So what about you, Chicky?”

She squirmed at the offer, but lucky for her Liz was running up the path. She was being followed by Jack, who was walking a bit further back with a satisfied grin on his face. “Hey, Patty! What's going on?”

Starlight answered for her without hesitation. “We're having an Acid Test! If you're friends with Pat here, she's my girl and we'll hook you up. Right, Owl?” she said, gesturing to the shirtless man.

Owl frowned at first, but then seeing Lizzy bounce up to him with her shirt half open from parking with Jack, his expression changed and he said, “Yeah sure. Any friend of Patty. She's our chick.”

“Wait! Acid Test? You mean like LSD? Wow! I don't know.” Liz said with a bit of a drunken slur of excitement, “I probably shouldn't. Jack? I shouldn't, should I? Oh, what the heck. You only live once.”

Before Jack could stop her or even respond, Owl had placed the sacrament in her mouth. If Jack was going to say something, Owl decided it was better to keep the peace and offered him a tab as well, which he reluctantly took. Patricia used the moment of excitement to slip away, figuring that her friends could handle themselves.

She was less curious than Lizzy and didn't want to see what acid really did. Jim Harper had claimed to have dropped acid, and though he did seem different after he wasn't crazy or anything. He seemed liberated, or happier, or free, or something like that; and maybe that was what Patricia wanted. But not tonight, and not with that group of people. She had finished her second beer so she crept back to the car to see if there were any more left and was happy to find two. She was feeling pretty drunk but didn't want to have it wear off so she opened one and put the other in her purse and headed to the ridge that overlooked the house.

When she got up there, Pat was surprised at how far away they were, feeling distantly detached as she looked down on them. They had built a fire in an old tire rim, and someone began pounding out a beat on a small bongo that one of the hippies had with them. Between the drum and the guitar, it was enough music that a few of them started to dance. She could smell them smoking weed as the wind carried the odor up to her, and it was about an hour later after Patricia had begun work on her fourth beer when it seemed like the acid was kicking in for the folks below.

Starlight started dancing very erratically, and then took off her clothes to an enthusiastic applause from the guys who were in the general majority. It wasn't long before a few other girls from the group joined her, and Pat was surprised to see Liz among the nude figures circling the fire. Patrica was actually a little surprised at herself at how much she was staring at them all from her perfect perch, watching in silence. Suddenly, several of the men began dancing around naked as well, and her eyes nearly popped out of her head. She tried to look away but couldn't.

It didn't take long before they began breaking off into groups of three and four, rolling in the grass and moaning in the flickering light. Owl and two of his friends seemed to have kept a close eye on Lizzy and had waited for a moment where the mood would be right before showering her with attention, first taking turns and then as a group. Patrica was shocked to see how much Liz liked what was happening; but then again, even if Liz wasn't enjoying it Pat was far enough away she really wouldn't have been able to do anything about it. She looked around to find Jack, presuming he would be furious at his steady getting defiled by all this free love. But when she was finally able to pick him out of the crowd, she realized that Jack was rolling around on the ground with Starlight.

Patricia started getting hot watching, and without thinking her hand moved down and up under her skirt. She watched her friends and the strangers as she moved her hand in small circles and rocked back and forth. But before she was able to get there, she was filled with a tremendous shame.

“What am I doing? I'm spying again!” She stood up but had trouble keeping her feet under her and stumbled back. “A spy, just like Mason. Peeping in where he doesn't belong, lying when it suits him, and running off when there's trouble,” she muttered to herself, tears in her eyes.

It was true, Mason had done all that. She should have known when she caught him watching her mother get changed into her bathing suit during a summer pool party, sneaking a look at the bedroom door. Boys just being boys, she had told herself at the time. When she suspected he was two-timing her, he soothed her worries saying she was his only girl, although she found out later that he was dating another girl at the school on the West End. Not only that but when he finally convinced her to let him be her first, he told her that if anything happened he'd make her an honest woman. But when she was a few days late he dropped her, telling Pat it was her problem to deal with and ran off with the other girl. It turned out that she was wrong and that she wasn't pregnant, but it showed her who Mason really was. Not just a spy, but a no-good, traitorous double agent.

Stumbling through the trees and across the hilltop, she realized she was lost and couldn't hear her friends. Drunk, and with eyes full of tears, she sniffled and dabbed her eyes with a tissue from her purse. She tried to stay calm and get her bearings among the pine trees, but she couldn't tell one direction from the other.

Then, out of nowhere, she heard music softly drifting through the air, and though it echoed all around her she seemed to be able to pinpoint exactly where it was coming from. She made her way out of the forest and back onto the farm, but she had somehow taken a long loop around and found herself on the other side of the property. It was near where they had driven in, but a ways off from the dirt road.

She wandered around the isolated grove of crabapple trees looking for the music and found a boy sitting on a blanket underneath one of them. He had one of those portable record players and she recognized the album as The Zombies with its refrain “Please don't bother trying to find her, she's not there,” whispering hauntingly out of the little collapsing case.

She stared at him as he sat there in profile, his features were soft and beautiful with pouting lips and long lashes. His dark hair was a bit long in comparison to the crew cuts she was used to the local boys sporting but much shorter than the locks of those shouting beatniks having their orgy up on the hill. It actually reminded her of how those chic French girls in the magazines would cut it into short, spiky bobs, but he had slicked it high and to the side to give it a rock-and-roll vibe. He wore a simple outfit that made him look powerful despite his elegantly thin frame: a motorcycle jacket, white t-shirt, and a pair black denim jeans bloused into a set of high gaiter jackboots.

The record ended and he sat in silence for a moment, then without moving a muscle he said to her, “If you like the Rolling Stones, I was going to put Aftermath on next. You can join me if you want.”

His voice was sweet and feminine but assertive, and Patrica found herself drifting dreamily through the grass to sit down on the blanket next to the boy. “They're all right,” she said meekly.

The boy grinned a little grin as he swapped the records placing the Zombies back in its sleeve and a few minutes later “Its not easy living on your own” was singing out of the small speakers as the player hummed. Without looking her in the eyes he said to her, “Do you smoke?”

“Sometimes, sure. I smoke,” she said nervously. She paused for a moment and then blurted out, “My name's Patrica, but you can call me Pat.”

“Hey Pat,” he said with a sly smirk as he pulled a twist of paper out of a metal cigarette case and lit it. He took a few quick puffs to get it started and said, “Most people call me Ed.” Then he took two long drags and passed it. Somehow she didn't realize it was a joint until she was already halfway through a hard drag. Coughing uncontrollably she became embarrassed and tried to quickly hand it back to him. He smiled and finally caught her eye, gesturing for her to take another puff. “Hit it twice and pass it. Just hit it lightly this time. Sometimes it's better when you're gentle.”

She did as he said and quickly began feeling high. She had smoked some about a year ago when a friend of Lizzy got a hold of a 'funny cigar' but all that had done was make her feel dizzy. Something about this was different as it made her feel weightless, she was carefree, and she knew she was beautiful. As they passed it back and forth she began to stare into the mysterious boy's deep green eyes. With a deep sigh, she breathed the words “I'm in love,” and was immediately surprised that she had said her thoughts out loud. She started to apologize, but he hushed her softly with a finger on her lips, and then leaned in and pressed his lips against hers.

Mick Jagger's voice sang, “It's not easy! It's not easy!” as they kissed.

Patrica had never been so suddenly taken with a boy. Mason hadn't been that attractive or smart, just persistent in trying to get her to like him. Once they were dating he was never really nice except when trying to get her to put out. She didn't actually want to be with him, it had just seemed convenient; a person to double date with Jack and Liz. But barely even knowing this strange boy's name, she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything. He was as beautiful as an angel and he kissed like the devil.

He put an arm around her as she leaned in close to him, and she swooned at his embrace. Her hand pressed against his stomach feeling firm muscle underneath, and she immediately wanted to feel them directly so she slid her hand under his T-shirt. Her body felt hotter and hotter as she drew her hand over his abs and slowly pushed up his shirt revealing a subtle washboard from under his black jacket. But when she reached his chest there was a moment of sudden confusion, a soft and subtle curvature and she stopped kissing to look down and confirm with her eyes what she felt with her hands.

A set of headlights shot across the field as a car pulled in behind a nearby lilac bush, and for a brief moment illuminated a small but distinct pair of breasts that had been hidden under the 'boy's' shirt. Patricia was caught off guard. “You have boobs!” she exclaimed in a gasping whisper.

“So?” Ed said nonchalantly as she cupped them in a fleetingly sensual moment before pulling her shirt back down and adjusting her jacket. “Is that a problem?”

“But that means you’re a girl, doesn't it? I mean, you said your name was Ed, that's a boy’s name!”

“I suppose boobs can mean you're a girl, but not always. Besides, Ed is short for Edna, just like Pat is short for Patrica. I'm not trying to claim that you tried to trick me.”

Patricia gaffed at Ed for a few moments, looking at that 'pretty boy' face with its green eyes. Ed might have been a little boyish, but now as Patrica looked at her she realized just how androgynous her face was and realized she could pass as either a beautiful man or beautiful woman depending on what mood struck her. Not knowing what to do Pat simply sat there blushing as the record ran out and the sound of crickets replaced the rock music.

“Pat,” Ed said after a few moments, “I didn't mean to upset you. I have to admit, I was taken with you too. How about I flip the record and you bring your lips back here so I can get back to kissing them.”

“But Ed, I hardly know you. I mean we just, just met, and you're nothing like what I first thought. You're...” Patrica paused. “You're like a spy.”

Ed laughed. “Like a spy? Pat, I have way more secrets than a spy. But if you trust me enough, I'll tell you all of them one at a time. Give me a chance and I'll show you every secret I have.”

“Secrets like what?” Patrica asked reluctantly.

Ed's face became a giant toothy smile. “Secrets like these,” she said as she lifted her shirt to show Pat her chest. “Why don't you show me your secrets,” she said playfully as she began crawling across the blanket towards her.

At first, Patrica tried to back away, but as Ed began to kiss up and down her neck she began to giggle and gave in. She found herself rushing to unbutton her blouse and with a snap unfastened her brassiere. Pat was not particularly endowed in the chest but when compared to Ed's modest bust she felt like they were large and voluptuous. Her breasts heaved heavily and warm as she pressed them against her boyish lover. She began kissing her wildly, more excited than before.

Everything in that moment seemed right in the world, but then Patrica heard a sudden familiar voice shout her name and her blood ran cold. There was no doubt, it was the last person she wanted to see at this moment: her ex-boyfriend Mason shouting, “Patrica! Patrica!” from the dirt road.

“Patrica?! Holy shit! Is that you?!” asked Mason, obviously already drunk from drinking on the ride over. She hadn't seen him in months and suddenly here he was, come out of the woodwork for the big party at the old Kensfield Farm. If he had shown up at a normal party drinking around a small group of their shared friends it would have been bad enough, but this was worse than she could have imaged in her worst nightmare.

He was bigger and more oafish than she remembered, and he stood there staring at the two of them with his big cow eyes; their shirts pushed aside and concealing nothing. His jaw was slack, he drooled luridly at what he saw, and then he stammered. “I thought I saw you in my lights when I pulled up. I thought you were fooling around with some guy in the bushes, so I came to see what sort of loser you were giving it up for. But then I got close and saw! I can't believe it! I never expected you to turn dyke.”

As he spoke he began laughing like a braying ass. Patrica pulled her blouse shut and struggled to button it up, but Ed just crouched down and glared at him. Mason continued to laugh and said, “I guess once you have the real thing no other man could do the job, huh? I bet you'd like a little reminder of what you gave up." He chuckled and began to unzip his pants.

Ed snarled like an angry dog and barked, “Don't you dare! Don't even try. You'll regret it. I'll make you regret it!”

“You left me, ran off to be a spy,” Patrica muttered softly. “I never left you, you ran off when I needed you. I didn't even want you, but you had to have me, then you left.”

Mason didn't give either of their words much regard as he drunkenly struggled to pull himself out of his pants. “You miss it, don't try to lie. I'll give you what you want then give your butch lesbo friend a taste. I mean she kinda looks like a boy but I bet she still has the right parts. I bet she'd still like a taste. Huh? How about it, you want a taste of me?”

For a moment, all went perfectly quiet and everything was absolutely still. Then Ed said, "Fine. If you insist.”

It all happened fast, and Patrica was in such shock to see it she barely believed that it occurred at all. Looking back on it, she remembered how quickly Ed was at his neck, and she saw her teeth grow sharp and rip into his throat.

A hard sucking sound filled the air, like an old garden hose struggling to drain punctuated with popping and gurgling shrieks. Pat watched Mason's skin grow gray and tight across his bones until he looked like those pictures of withered mummies she had seen in National Geographic. As Ed pushed the corpse away from her it looked black as burnt wood and as it hit the ground it crumbled into a pile of dry pulp.

As soon as the heap of dust that had been Mason was on the ground, plants immediately slithered to the spot like snakes and grew in a wild instant. The ground exploded with a verdant roar of clover as blankets of moss piled about. Tangles of vines poured through the spontaneous unfurling of tall grass, and a fully formed crabapple sapling erupted from the very spot where Mason had stood moments before.

Ed turned to Patrica and wiped a film of soot from around her mouth, pulled her shirt down, and she licked the last of the blood from her fangs before they receded into her gums.

“This is one of my secrets. I would have liked to tell you about it in my own time, but here it is. I think it's probably time for me to get going, this party is kinda played out and the mood has gotten weird." Ed tried to smile as she spoke, struggling to make a joke, but her frown was impossible to hide.

Ed gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. "I'm thinking of taking this prick's car and driving west until I find someplace I like. I'm sure you're probably scared, but I would like you to come with me. I'm going to get my things and then go so you have a few minutes to decide.”

Patricia looked around as Ed grabbed a green duffle bag from under the tree, gathered her records and her blanket, then put them in the car Mason had parked behind the lilac bush. As she stood there trying to decide what to do, a still nude Lizzy ran down across the field in the dark of the night holding hands with an equally naked Starlight.

“What's happening, Pat!” Liz shouted looking around with huge dilated pupils.

“I'm trying to decide if I want to go on a trip with someone I just met.”

“Me and Starlight are going to go on a trip too!” Liz declared with excitement. “Me and Owl and Starlight are going to a drive to a place to see a band play. We all just realized we're in love with each other and want to go on adventures. I also think that we all might be birds so we might go flying also because that's what birds do.”

Starlight cut in and said, “Yeah, we're totally birds. But I think Owl knew that already. But we're going to do a bunch of acid and do whatever we want whenever we want, and we'll all live forever!”

Pat looked at the two of them, both naked as day and holding hands while Jack and Owl both yelled for them to come back, neither of them wanting to leave the light of the fire. She smiled and hugged them both. “I hope you do! I love you both. Have fun on your adventures. I have to get going.”

Liz watched as Pat ran over to the car and kissed Ed long and hard before getting in and driving off down the dirt road. She then turned to Starlight and said, “I'm so happy that Pat found a new boyfriend. That guy is way better looking than Mason. Plus Mason was kind of a crazy idiot.”

Starlight laughed. “Man, too many guys are idiots.” She stopped to pick several of the beautiful flowers that had just grown from nothingness moments ago. Then she turned to Liz and said, “She's probably lucky to be rid of that other guy, her new guy seems really sweet.” Then the two went back up the hill to dance around the fire until the sun came up.

[choffsd]

Signs of Spring

When you think time is going too slow think back.  August 1st is my last day of service for the Peace Corps, 4 months away!!  Four months ago was Christmas, and yes, time flew by since then.  Time sometimes gets lost I always think there was nothing to do, then I review the pictures before writing this blog and think, “I did all that?”  This is my last of everything here, the last Maritsor, the Woman’s Day, the last Easter and my last vacation in the Peace Corps.  It is a bitter sweet feeling, knowing my two years are coming to an end feels a little sad, and the thought of being free, brings a feeling of excitement and anticipation.  

If you have forgotten about last year’s post about Martișor, it is March 1st and in  Moldova and  Romanian it’s the celebration of the first day of spring.  You are given a red and white pin, called a Martișor, to wear over your heart.  When the first fruit tree is in bloom, you pin the Martișor to the tree so it will bear a lot of fruit in the spring.  

The following was copied from the Peace Corps news letter.

Mărţişor – Celebrating Spring

Moldovans have a beautiful ancient tradition on the first day of March: Mărţişor (The Amulet). Its name is a diminutive from the name of Martie - the Romanian word for March. There is a similarity between Martie and the ancient Roman God "Mars" or "Marte" in Latin language. In ancient Rome this God was a symbol of revival, green fields, flocks and love. They used to celebrate their God on the first day of spring.

From the ancient time people were celebrated the coming of spring with long time forgotten rituals. They used small pebbles painted in white and red arranged alternatively on a string. It might be curious why they had chosen these two colors: red and white. In those times, many magical rituals involved human or animal sacrifices for determining their pagan Gods to listen to their prayers. So blood was associated with life, fertility and worship. On the other hand, the snow, the ice and the clouds were white. In a single expression the meaning of two colors might be: "let's forget about winter and pray our Gods to bring us fertility".

At the beginning of 19th century the beautiful Amulet was found in all Romanian regions. Especially children and women wore around their necks or on their left hands two woolen yarns (one red, one white) knitted together and a small silver or golden coin hung on them. The belief was that those who wore that Amulet were protected and would have good luck in the next year. It was written in books that young Moldavian girls wore Mărţişor from March 1st till March 12th. After two weeks, they used to tie their hair with that special red- white yarn waiting to see the first spring birds coming to their village. Only after that event, the young girls took out the Amulet and hang it to the first tree they saw in blossom.

Nowadays "Mărţişor" is present in all Romanian regions but you can find a similar tradition in Macedonia and Albania too. In Moldova this Amulet is a symbol of coming spring and joy. Exchanging them is a gesture of love, friendship, respect and appreciation. People wear in the left side on their chests these amulets during March, starting from March 1st, of course. Some were it for 15 days others for the whole month, but after taking them off, they hang them on a tree for good harvest!

In my opinion the folklore story posted last years was much more interesting.  Along with the pinning of the Mărţişor the school put on a concert.  My sister was performing, so I attended and was glad I did.  It is so impressive to see children so proud of their heritage.  This is something we lack in the US.  We really don’t have traditional dances, food, or music to root us in a culture.  The children here take so much pride in the traditional dress, songs and dances.  

Students handmade martisor 

Students perform in cultural dress.

My host sister in the middle with her best friend on the right.  Tulips were given to all the adults in the audience after the performance. 

Peace Corps had a special guest visit this month.  Mary Pendleton, the first Ambassador to Moldova from 1994 - 1998.  The country director ask if I can throw something together in within a 5 day period.  During these five days the Mayor was in France.  Well I did it and the celebration was Over the Top.  The Ambassador wanted something small, just a lunch and a visit with some volunteers.  When showcasing our village, especially to an Ambassador, the Mayor will not stand for “small”.  She pulled out a spectacular lunch in a newly traditionally designed room at our local hotel Complexul Touristic.  It was fabulous, we had our local band play music and the food and wine were delicious as always.  We were all blown away by what was planned.  

Mary Pendleton the first Ambassador in Moldova being greeted at the library by students.  Peace Corps Country Director and the Mayor of Costesti in the background.  

The masa in the traditional room in the Hotel welcoming Mary Pendleton with our local band.

My favorite band in Moldova.  They have been playing music together for over 14 years.  

It was my host grandfather’s birthday this month as well.  We had a small masa at their house and drank the house wine as always.  I am going to miss my entire host family when I leave.  

Mini masa for my host grandfather’s birthday.  They live in the small house in the winter. See the pots that is the soba / stove.

Usually every Lent I fast without sugar, alcohol, and coffee.  Well this year I’m not fasting there are too many obstacles in the way.  My vacation to Athens is during this time and it is the last spring I will be here so I’m living it up.  BUT, I do celebrate Paczki day on Fat Tuesday.  If you don’t know what a paczki is, it’s simply a custard or jelly filled donut.  This year I was going to Chisinau on Fat Tuesday thinking to myself if my favorite restaurant Bouchee would have paczki (pronounced “poonchkee”   The first thing I saw walking in the restaurant was a try filled with beautiful paczki .  I actually had tears in my eyes.  They selected a caramel cream filling for me.  This solidified my love for this restaurant.  Wow they always have everything I want and when I want it.   They will be dearly missed.  

My Paczki and a retro coffee, which is sweetened condensed milk on the bottom, espresso, and a dusting of cinnamon on top.  WOW it is delicious.

Woman’s Day is March 8th, here it is taken seriously.  Women don’t work and are given flowers from the men in the office.  This year I spent this day in Chisinau and was surprised by my host mother, who met up with me and took me to dinner.  My little host sister was with her and during dinner we decided to see King Kong over the weekend.  It was great to be a mom again, treating my sister to a movie then a hamburger, fries and shake at Mom’s burgers after.  

King Kong was in Russian, but King Kong, no problem, king kong speaks a universal language.  

Before the movies we had a bite at KFC my host sister’s favorite.  

My best friend sent me a care package with all kinds of goodies and this awesome t-shirt with a Seattle Seahawks hat!!

I taught a marketing class for adults, here are my participants working hard on building a marketing plan.

Well this brings me to today March 17th Saint Patty’s day!!  I just came home from eating a pizza and sharing a bottle of wine.   Happy St Pat’s day!!