#i will never feel proud to have a degree from this institution in any sense except as a reflection of my own labor and research

[dionysus-complex]

.

[pumpkinov]

Where the Dust Settles

You can read Chap. 1 here and Chap. 2 here

Portia Collins, the sole survivor of Vault 111 has lost more than most. With the Institute defeated, she sets her sights to the next big jobs - unification of the Commonwealth wastelands and the large warship docked at the Boston Airport. More work for the General of the Minutemen, who is finding herself increasingly alone as her companions move on with their lives. John Hancock, the Ghoul Mayor of Goodneighbour is struggling to find his footing in the new political climate of the Commonwealth, and is finding a surprisingly vocal supporter in his local Minuteman General.

Chapter 3. Do you wanna come over, and kill some time?

Portia meets with an adoring audience, Hancock gets high. They walk home together.

Portia’s headache was back, and this one was a ripper.

She briefly considered decapitation, and settled for a stimpak. Two and a half years in the wasteland, and this was still the grossest part.

Well, maybe not the grossest, but she still hated it. She poked the needle through the delicate skin of her elbow and decompressed the vial, feeling the weird cold sensation of something entering her bloodstream. She’d left Preston, Nick and Piper at the Dugout Inn and headed straight home. Not that she spent much time here anymore, but Home Plate was hers and she could relax here, at least a little.

She sat in her arm chair, waiting for the Stimpak to work. It didn’t take long, the headache was already less crushing than it had been before. There was a stack of paperwork upstairs on the desk that she needed to look over before the final meeting tomorrow. And oh Jesus Christ what was she going to do about fucking Hancock.

He was right, of course he was right. She just hated being put on the spot like that.

And there was no way she could skip on the socialization of the night - the General of the Minutemen summons you to walk the dangerous roads between your settlement and Diamond City, and doesn’t even bother to speak to you?

She sunk a little lower into her battered chair, allowing herself a moment to scrunch her face up. She could have a cry later, maybe, as a treat. But right now, there was work to be done. Portia put her shoes on, grabbed her coat and her scarf, flicked off the lights and stepped into the market of Diamond City. It was snowing again, lightly for now. It lay across the ground, shimmering under the string lights running off the roofs in the square. She breathed in the noodle smell wafting in the air, and for a moment she felt a little lighter.

She was greeted at the door of the Dugout Inn by Nick, who was smoking out the front.

“Hey there kid,” his yellow eyes burned bright against the darkness creeping in from the corners of the old park. “How’d it go today?”

Portia sighed, and dug around in her pockets for a cigarette, “It went pretty good.”

“Is that so?” the old synth looked over at her, she could hear the faintest of whirr’s as his eyes focused on her. “Heard John had something to say at the end. He dropped past my office earlier.”

“Oh. Yeah, he did.” Portia lit her cigarette and inhaled, staring up at the sky. The snow was starting to land in her hair. “He’s right.”

Nick nodded slowly. “He is. But folks around here, they like their town the way it is. It seems pretty unlikely anything will change.”

She chewed on her lip a little, rolling her cigarette between her fingers. “Yeah, I tend to agree with you.”

“Most smart folks do.” Nick agreed.

“You knew him when he was a kid, right?” Portia asked suddenly, “What’s the Mayor’s deal?”

“John?” the detective seemed to deliberate for a moment.

“Yeah, is he all bark and no bite?”

More whirring, as mechanisms hidden under the plastic pulled Nick’s mouth into a smile. “Oh no, he bites. But under all that bark and all that bite, he’s a bleeding heart.”

Portia rolled her eyes, and Nick laughed.

Inside was even busier than the Third Rail had been last night. It was hazy inside, steam rising off everyone’s clothes dampened by the falling snow. The coat rack near the door was overburdened, but Portia had no choice but to dump her coat and scarf on top of the pile, it was a million degrees with all these bodies and the fire going. People reached out to her as she passed, she fixed a smile on her face as she desperately looked for a familiar face. But no Preston, no Piper. She almost reached the bar before being cornered by a woman, a trader from The Murkwater Construction Site to the south. There was a Minuteman checkpoint nearby, and they had helped defend the settlement from a supermutant raid a few weeks earlier. She grabbed Portia’s arm, desperate to tell her how her men had defended the farms, how they had saved this woman’s home.

“That’s the Commonwealth Minuteman ideal, to be ready at a minute’s notice,” Portia gritted her teeth, subtly trying to pull her arm out of the woman’s grip but it was a vice. Then came the wash of shame and guilt - this woman just wanted to tell her how much she appreciated the work Portia and her group had accomplished. And all she, Portia, the fucking General wanted to do was get away. It took her fifteen minutes before she was finally released - after which another family wanted to pass on their thanks for the Minutemen’s work protecting Oberland Station. A man touched her shoulder; he wanted to tell her that his son had died defending the Minuteman checkpoint near the entrance to the Glowing Sea, and how proud he was that his son had died doing something so honorable.

By the time Portia’s hands collided with Vadim’s bar, she was emotionally wrent. Vadim placed a glass of whiskey down on the bar for her, stopped and considered for a moment, then left the bottle. Portia stared at it for a moment - tempting, really. But she made the responsible decision, and knocked back the glass instead. She turned to face the room, leaning her back against the bar. There was a flash of red in the corner, and her eyes chased it without really thinking. There was something so distinctive about the mayor. He wasn’t particularly tall, or muscular, but his presence filled a room. He moved with his shoulders - they were broad for his frame, emphasized by the ridiculous frock coat he wore everywhere. He swiveled around, almost if her gaze had summoned him. He looked over, and winked. A wicked smile spread across his face, and he turned back to say his goodbyes to his captive audience, two women with drinks in their hands and fire in their eyes; before making his way towards Portia.

She watched him approach, feeling the heat creep through her stomach as he made his way through the crowded bar. Interesting response, best ignored. There was no time for nonsense like this. She wrapped her hands around the whiskey bottle Vadim had left on the bar and moved away, spotting Piper near the door. Was she avoiding him? Maybe.

Another few hours of greeting people, of being seen, and Portia was finally free. Preston had appeared, and eventually shooed her out the door, bundled in her coat and scarf, hands still wrapped around her untouched whiskey bottle.

“You look like you need a sleep, it’s fine, I can handle this!”

“I need a fucking coma.” Portia replied to him after he’d closed the door to the inn. She leant her forehead against the wooden door for a moment, before turning around and almost screaming.

“Mayor, do I need to make you wear a bell?”

He grinned, “Are you trying to collar me now?”

He was sitting on the stone wall, a cigarette between his lips and a jet canister in his hands. The snow had stopped, but the air was bitingly cold. Portia briefly considered her options, before heaving herself up to sit next to him. She nestled the whiskey bottle between her thighs as he handed her the jet. She turned it over in her hands, glancing around. There was no one else around, and she raised it to her lips and took a quick breath in.

There was the sound of rushing blood in her ears, and everything fell away for a moment. All she could feel was the freezing cold of the stone under her ass, which was steadily going numb.

It only lasted a moment, bit by bit the rest of the world returned. She opened her eyes to the sound of Hancock laughing, almost a growl in his throat. “What?” She asked blearily, pushing the little plastic container back into his hands.

“I’ve never seen someone look like they needed a jet hit as badly as you did when you walked out.” He chuckled, inhaling his cigarette deeply.

Portia hummed a little, the afterglow of the jet slowly working it’s way out of her system. “I fucking miss weed, man.”

“Weed?”

“Cannabis, it was a plant, you dried and smoked it.”

“Oh right, yeah I’ve heard of that.”

Portia sighed. “I smoked a lot of weed back in the day. I can’t believe that fucking scorpions survived the end of the world, but no more pot.”

Hancock slid the jet canister back into his coat, blowing a stream of cigarette smoke into the night sky. “If you’re looking for other things, I have enough daytripper to help you avoid reality until next week.”

Portia chuckled, and shook her head, “Mayor, not all of us can function on jet fumes and mentat dust.”

He grinned at her, “Heh, yeah it’s a skill I’ve spent years honing. I didn’t pick our General as a habitual drug user.”

Portia smiled a little thinly, “You all seem to forget before I went into the deep freeze I had a whole life, you know?” Hancock slid his hand back into his coat, this time producing a cigarette, which Portia took. “Is your coat the nuclear wasteland version of Mary Poppin’s bag?”

“None of that made any sense.”

“It’s an old story, she flew around on an umbrella and put kids up the chimney. It’s, uh, unimportant.” She saw his expression and laughed a little. “I’ve seen you pull a fucking shotgun out of the coat, how do you keep so much stuff in it?”

His eyes flashed again, “You’ll have to get me out of it, General.” He leant over and lit her cigarette, before returning the lighter to the bottomless coat, and sliding off the wall. He held his hand out, steadying Portia as she dropped down to the ground with him. They moved down the street, their breath and cigarette smoke rising in front of them.

“I hadn’t planned on my punch at the entirety of Diamond City,” Hancock said casually. “I was just thinkin’ and I just … said it.”

“Makes sense.” Portia was focused on her boots shuffling through the snow, “I should have realised dragging you back here was gunna stir some feelings up.”

He laughed, low and deep. “Sure stirred something up.”

Portia felt her stomach spike again, and frowned at herself. She lifted her chin and aimed for a professional tone, trying to shake the intimacy out of the moment. “What are you hoping to achieve, Mayor?” She noticed they were walking close enough for their arms to brush against each other; she took a slight step away from him. If Hancock noticed her abrupt shift in energy, he didn’t react.

“Honestly, General? I don’t know. I don’t expect them to go back on what they voted for all those years ago. But I also can’t resist reminding them of who they’re fucking with.” He stared straight ahead, and Portia found herself staring at his face in profile.

High cheekbones, the faint outline of lips still left in the scars of exposed muscle on his face, his dark eyes shone in an otherworldly way. There was a twitch in his set jaw.

When he had greeted her in Goodneighbour two years ago, she’d found his face confronting, upsetting; a constant reminder that she was in a completely different world. Now his face was almost comforting.

They’d reached the front door of Home Plate now, Portia turning the whiskey bottle over in her hands. Hancock glanced at her, the wheels in his head turning.

“Is this … is this your house?”

“Yeah.” Portia was distracted, digging her keys out of her coat pocket and unlocking her front door. Then the penny dropped, as she pushed her front door open and she felt the warmth behind her shift forward slightly. She spun around barring the door with her arm. “No, no absolutely not!”

He was grinning across at her now, leaning an elbow against her door frame. “One drink?”

“In my house? No way.”

He pulled an expression of mock hurt, “Don’t you trust me?”

His body was inches from her, the warmth radiating through the layers of her clothes. “In general? Sure - in my home? Nope. You’ll never leave.” Shit

“Is that a threat or a promise, General?” He grinned slowly, before shifting his weight off the wall and standing up straight again. “Fine, one drink, in the freezing night air?”

Portia stared at him for a moment, he stared back. He was always fucking smiling. Sometimes she couldn’t tell if he was flirting with her, or mocking her. He was still close to her, she could smell him. Smoke, and something heavier. Patchouli, maybe? Or something close to it. She rolled her eyes, and let her arm drop.

“I am going to regret this, aren’t I?”

He followed her through her doorway, reaching his arm out to close her front door behind them. “General, I am nothing but a gentleman.”

She stared over her shoulder at him, “If I catch you in my underwear drawer, I’ll break your arm.”

His laugh drifted out the door, before it snapped closed.

[ourplaceinthecosmosphff]

Chapter 2. The British Inquisition

‘They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.’ F. Scortt Fitzgerald

It’s not that I didn’t like Harry. It was just his.... overconfidence, his relentlessness, his constant smug grin, his general aspect of brazenness - well, maybe I just didn’t like him. I didn’t like saying I didn’t like anyone, I had an honest belief that most people tried to do what they assumed was the best. Most often than not, their personality merely didn’t match ours. Like two puzzle pieces not fitting together. Not every single person should get along perfectly, and that is absolutely fine. I sure wasn’t intending on allowing it to put a damper on the work we had to.

Did I expect him to be there? No, I was surprised. I hadn’t seen him in years. It’s a small circle, being royal. You see people, can’t be helped, but Harry and I didn’t usually frequent the same places in our down time. He was a party-boy with a track record for hell raising, I was… well, a lawyer; an adult; let’s just say, someone who didn’t spend a lot of time in Vegas.

The way he tried to relate to me didn’t help. Not the casual flirting on the wake of his grandmother’s comment about his heartbreaker ways, which was simply confusing. Was he trying to prove her right or wrong? And which option was more freaky? No, it’s the thing he said after, about my cousin, when we were sitting in a procession carriage with his father on our way to Buckingham Palace

“I think I know your cousin!”

I smiled in response, politely. “Klaus of Luxembourg?” 

“No. I mean, I think I know him, too… But I mean the other one.”

“Brown hair? Thin nose?” he seemed more confused, “Always smells of cigarettes?”

“Yes, that’s him.” He nodded. “We met at the Grand Prix in Monaco, I think.”

“That’s Adrien.”

“Great guy.” He said. “Always knew how to party.”

It made sense he would know Adrien, they were both party boys with no thought to future consequences. With one caveat.

“He has quieted down recently.”

Harry chuckled. “Yes, getting engaged will do that do a man.”

The thing about my cousin Adrien was that he had a great heart. Unfortunately, it used to beat a little too much to the sound of parties all over Nordic Europe. And Northern Europe. And Southeast Asia. Everywhere, really. It became problematic for my family to have to track him around the globe to make sure he wasn’t about to do something scandalous in nature. There is no room for individuality or self-exploration in royalty; one mistake, even by a cousin who is not really going to be king, is connected to us all. All that is to say, we were all very happy Adrien had finally, officially gotten engaged to his long term girlfriend, which made him more predictable and reliable. So hearing from one of his old party buddies that said life change was somehow negative didn’t really warm His Royal Highness in my regard. Still, I was prepared to be professional.

“And, of course, I know your brother as well.”

“Edinburgh University is a fine institution.” His father added. “He’s acquiring a master’s degree, I understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what is his intention with it?”

At this moment a chuckle came from his son.

“To stay away from Savoy, I’m sure.”

“Are you, sir? What gives you that impression?” I asked, a lot harsher than I had meant, feeling my heartbeat in my throat at the sound of an implication. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Harry.” His father warned, still politely. “Will you please be quiet for once?”

“I was only kidding.” He shrugged, quickly.

Still, though the moment scared me, I was still prepared for a successful trip. 

And then the questions started.

It started with:

“I’m sure it’s not your first time in the U.K., is it?”, and when I told him that of course not, I visited my brother often enough and came with friends in the past, he wanted to know “Where did you grow up?”, to which I replied, not without some sass, “I thought it was obvious, sir, I’m from Savoy.” Not one to be deterred, he explained he meant if I was raised in the countryside or capital, or if I had gone to boarding school (mostly countryside until my father became king, then boarding school in Belgium). 

I wanted to merely avoid him, of course. But being the spare of the King I sat next to him - the spare of the heir - at luncheon, and so it was unavoidable.

It feels redundant to explain, but growing up in this world means a saturation of things that aren’t common knowledge to the regular civilian, so explain I must: A ‘spare’ is the term designated for secondary children, the ones who aren’t direct heirs. So when it comes to heirs to the throne, or monarchs, for centuries it was advised that they had one heir to inherit the throne, and at least one ‘spare’, one extra child, who would be available in case something happened to the first one. Which, in those days, was often. After the gift of penicillin and vaccines, spares became more of a commodity than a necessity. A trading card to negotiate with other kingdoms for political power. An arranged marriage here and there, a good dowry to a second child, turning an otherwise useless daughter into a queen consort for another country’s throne. 

In the twenty-first century, us spares were… well, even more useless. Monarchies as a whole lost much of their power, and so the spare’s job is no longer to secure the throne stays in the family in the case of a fatality, but only to support the monarch and future monarchs as much as they - as much as we - can. 

So it was natural we were sat together. Though his father was still the heir, he would be king soon enough. So his spare - Harry - was expected to chat-up my father’s spare - me. I don’t think, however, that it had been anyone’s intentions for him to chat me up that much.

I had spent some time admiring the room, it wasn’t a full on banquet room, but a smaller, dining room, with pink arabescos prints on the wall and kings and queens painted inside gold frames hanging from the ceilings, when I realized I hadn’t actually talked to Harry in a  while. Thinking he may have been timid after his father’s warning in the carriage, I decided to take the first step. I was nothing if not professional.

I should have known it would be enough.

“And where did you go to school, sir?”

He looked at me, seemingly surprised and a bit caught off guard. 

“Oh, ah, Eton. Eton College. Berkshire, not far from Windsor.”

I nodded, as though I knew where Berkshire or Windsor were exactly. 

“And, uhm,” he went on, the red cheeks transforming into a small smile, “you don’t have to call me sir. You can call me Harry if I can call you Mary.”

I grinned, resisting an urge to roll my eyes.

“It’s Marie.”

“Marie”, he repeated, forcibly, with a French accent this time. “Please, call me Harry, Marie.”

I shrugged, trying to hold in a sigh at the forced ‘rr’ sound when he said my name, “force of habit.”

“What did you do after school, Marie?”

I looked at him. “After?”

“Yes, did you play any sports?”

“Oh. I played some polo. Volleyball.”

A couple of seconds went by as his smile grew more knowing than polite.

“And what did you actually like?”

And, see, it was that kind of presumption that made him just a little… infuriating. The smile that accompanied the presumption - almost unbearably charming - didn’t help his case, either. 

”What makes you think I didn’t like those sports?”

He took a sip of his water, still smiling in a way I could, inexplicably, almost feel.

“Did you?”

“I hear the Crown Prince will be finishing his studies soon.” His grandmother put, to my father, before I could figure a way to answer him.

“Yes, he, uhm,” Father pondered, “He is very diligent with his academic career. We’re so proud.”

I suppressed a roll of my eyes by staring at my plate. 

The Duke of Edinburgh nodded. “I’m sure it’ll be a relief to have him back in the country.”

“Margueritte has been a great help. But it’ll be nice to have him home again.”

I smiled graciously at them before downing my water, hoping the conversation would have moved on before I had to join it.

After the meal we were guided to the gallery, where Her Majesty proudly showed us some Savoyen relics that the British Royal family had accumulated over the years, as well as their entire collection. 

There, the British Spare wanted to know if I liked art (of course), if I had taken any course about it on Uni (a couple more and I could have minored in it), and told me all about his own feelings on the matter.

“Like what you see, Marie?” He asked, on a whispered low baritone, when I stood in front of a painting of himself and his brother, leaning against a doorframe. He was pronouncing my name wrong again, as ‘Mary’, just placing the stress in the last syllable.

Instead of staring at him in disbelief, however, I took a deep breath and kept my eyes on his painted face. 

"Masterful work. Wonderful physiognomy, even if your right hand looks a little crooked... and small."

"My-?" He asked, confused, removing his arms from where they had been, connected behind his back, and staring at his own hand. "My hands are not small."

Pleased with the unsettled displeasure in his tone, much more amusing the previous flirty intonation, I followed his eyes, seeing again whatever it was he scribbled into them in black ink. His hands were indeed large and, resisting an urge to touch them, or take some time to imagine what they would feel like on my skin, I focused on the painting again. 

"The color in your hair was well captured, though it is depicted understandably bushier than reality."

"Okay." He rolled his eyes, now, as I watched satisfied the corners of his lips slowly curl up in a grin. “That’s an old- it was a long time ago.”

“Don’t worry yourself, sir, it happens to a lot of men. I’m told it’s very natural.”

“Okay!” He let out a silent laugh; interestingly, this time the grin it left behind did not unsettle me, though it did make me feel victorious somehow.

“Do you remember when we had to actually sit through these?” The Prince of Wales asked my father. “Are you old enough to remember that?”

My father laughed, delighted, “I am, yes. I once had to sit in a hot summer day in full military costume, a replica, of course, I was a child. And the mosquitoes just had a feast that day, because I was not allowed to move!”

They laughed, “Nowadays the children sit for a photograph and that is it!”

I looked over at Harry, hoping to see my own exasperation at the exchange looking back at me, and I did. It was accompanied however, by a softness in his eyes and smile that made me feel weirdly seen. As if he knew a secret I was hiding. It felt unsettling. So, leaning over, I said,

“I hope the painter signed a good NDA.” To which he laughed, now more loudly than before, looking back at the painting. 

There, I thought; this feels better.

We were ushered into another room, brightly lit and artfully decorated where we were served tea. I had been telling the Duke of Edinburgh about my focus on senior citizens’ aide when he approached again. And that’s when it got kinda weird.

“Did you have a good relationship with your grandparents?”

“Something you want to get off your chest, Harry?”, his grandfather asked. “I can step away if it’ll make you more comfortable.”

The Duke laughed at his own joke, and I tried to suppress a smile. 

“No, grandad, I’m just- just making conversation, it’s all.”

He then looked at me, expectantly, and seeing as his grandfather did the same I saw no way out other than to answer, “My great-grandmother is still alive, I have some wonderful memories of her from my childhood. And my grandparents, on both sides, are of some age, but still very present in our lives.”

“King Philippe” His grandfather nodded. “Well, Prince Philippe now, I presume, after he abdicated in favor of your father? Wonderful fellow. Still owes me some money from a poker game from a Tour of Savoy I did with the Queen in 1991.”

“Really?”

“How much money, grandad?”

“Oh, that’s between the both of us.” He looked at me, then. “Do tell him I’m expecting it.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Don’t involve Mary in your weird, borderline undiplomatic shenanigans.”

“Marie!” The Duke corrected for me, rolling his eyes. “And look who’s speaking... You didn’t see me preaching when your shenanigans ended up in the cover of The Mirror.”

“Grandad.” The prince exasperated. But, hearing me laugh, he smiled a little more comfortable. “First of all, yes, he did so.”

“I did?!” The Duke exclaimed, aghast, but Harry was now whispery, looking around suspiciously that we weren’t overheard.

“You lecture everyone!”

“Oh, nonsense.” He then turned around, aiming for his son across the room, sharing a couch with the Queen. “Your father will clarify this.”

Harry was shaking his head, eyes shut, but an amused grin rested on his lips. It was… not a bad sight; a thought which may be why I felt myself blush so furiously when he opened his eyes to look directly at me, and I felt like I was doing something wrong again.

“Oh.” The Duke of Edinburgh had returned, apparently with one last thought, and now leaned in to ask me on a stage whisper, “What are your favorite flowers, Ma’am?”

“My-?” I took a second to think on it. “I suppose daisies, sir, after my name. But I don’t really have a favorite. I like… all flowers. The more colorful the better.”

He seemed momentarily intrigued by the answer, then nodded, thoughtfully, before looking at his grandson as if for confirmation.

“May I ask why?”

He smiled at me, dismissively, already walking away again. “Oh, just trying to simplify my grandson’s life. He ought to know what flowers he should get when he inevitably sends your some.”

“Grandfather!”

But the Duke merely waved at Harry, back turned, and continued to walk away from the awkwardness he left behind.

“Good God… I’m sorry.” Harry looked around, searching. For what, I couldn’t be sure.

I just nodded, affording him a chuckle so he knew there was no harm done. Then, simply because I couldn’t exist in the silence anymore, I walked over to the tea table and found a coconut biscuit.

“He is… retired.”

I bit a piece of the cookie as fast as i could, making it impossible to have to join Harry back into the awkward moment he was so clearly still inside. 

“I haven’t… things haven’t-” He sighed. “I suppose he thinks I need… help.”

“Tennis.” 

“Pardon me?”

I turned to him. “At lunch, you asked which sport I actually liked. I really like tennis.”

He stared for a prolonged time, but the redness that had taken over his cheeks and neck began to diminish. Still, I felt mine bright and angry. I suppose I just didn’t want him to tell me what kind of help his grandfather seemed to think he needed. 

“Individual sport.” He nodded. “Shy, Mary?”

“I see we’ve gone back to Mary.”

“You’re free to call me Harry. I like having a nickname for you.”

“It’s… not quite a nickname. Just my name, but wrong.”

He smiled. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I shrugged, non-committal. “I guess I just dislike the pressure in team sports.”

“Hm.” He seemed intrigued. 

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“I didn’t say that. I think I do. I just wonder if that’s all there is to it.”

I had another question ready, but refrained from it, looking away; his smile grew bigger.

“Go on, ma’am. What have you got to say?”

I let out an incredulous chucke. “Why do I have the impression you are playing a game with yourself to see how fast you can make me lose my composure?”

He shrugged. “I am, a little bit. Seems easy enough, since you don’t seem to like me, for some reason. But I’ve begun to see that is a losing battle.”

“Good.”

“Is it?”

“To me? Yes.”

“I’m not so sure it is.”

I downed the rest of the coconut biscuit to stop myself from arguing further, but he kept staring at me the entire time, which was unnerving. 

“Am I right?”

I took my eyes from the others to look at him, again. “About what?”

“You don’t seem to like me very much.”

I gave him a polite smile. “I don’t see why you would think so.”

He grinned. “That’s not a no.”

“You seem nice.”

“Oh.” He put a hand to his heart and closed his eyes. “Please, Mary, calm down, or I might burst with such loud endorsement!”

I laughed, contradicted. Harry remained silently watching me, so finally I sighed and looked out the windows overlooking the mall.

“You don’t seem to remember, but we have actually met before.” I confessed, to his confusion.

“We… have. I thought you wouldn’t remember it.”

Now, however, I was the one confused.

I had met him exactly three times in the past. I was confident he couldn’t remember the first, the second was a birthday party of a friend in common where I’m sure we didn’t speak, and the third was-

“Royal Ascot.” He nodded. “A few years ago, actually.”

I nodded, slowly. “Right. That… one time we met.”

“Yes,” he smiled, seeming genuinely happy I remembered it, “I think it was the second day. I know my grandmother wasn’t there, because she would have known you were and would have asked someone to bring you over to us to say hello, but no one did. It was mostly me and some of my cousins. I think maybe my brother was there, too. He’s the one who pointed out your group to me.”

It was, if I’m not mistaken, a good three years before. He didn’t have a beard, then. I attended Royal Ascot because Louis, my brother, had recently moved to Scotland to attend University and had gone a couple times prior. Despite Harry’s impression from earlier, I do like polo and horses, and was interested. But when we got there, and Louis told us we should go say hello to the British, I had a horrible flashback of the previous time I had met Prince Harry. 

“I did meet your brother a year before, I think? Maybe two. He was new to Britain, when he’d just started Uni, and so in Ascot I went over to say hello to him, but just as I got there, you… sort of, took off.”

I nodded, now feeling slightly… childish.

“Yes, I… I remember.” I risked a look over at him, who was biting his bottom lip. 

“I thought maybe you’d looked at me before I arrived, and ran off because you didn’t want to meet me.”

He laughed, and I joined, somewhat awkwardly, knowing that was… precisely the case.

I shrugged. “I needed a drink, I think? I do remember coming back around and Louis telling me we had just missed you.”

“Yes, it’s okay, of course.” He added, quickly. “He said you had gone off with your boyfriend.”

He added the line so dismissively, and yet pronouncing the word ‘boyfriend’ so specifically at the exact volume so that I could hear it clearly, but still know he meant it to be a dismissive sentiment, that I knew, somewhere inside, that I was meant to address it. It was hard not to be amused. Instead, I just nodded, trying to bite my inner lip to contain a grin.

“Yes, Christopher.” 

There was a pause. An almost comically long pause. He kept looking over at me, but I decided to just poured myself some more tea. 

“And, uh… Is Christopher from Savoy as well?”

I took a moment to think on it before replying. “He’s French, actually. His family is, mostly. But he was raised in Savoy.”

He nodded, slowly. I continued to pour my tea, also very slowly.

“And uhm, what… what does he do?”

I suppressed a smile. “He’s a hedge fund manager.”

He let out a loud sigh, which could have been a sarcastic laugh, and as I finished pouring my tea, I looked over at him as I brought it to my lips, enjoying his reaction maybe a little too greatly.

I wondered, as I walked over to Cadie, if he would leave me alone now. Clearly, the flirtationship would lose its appeal now he thought I was taken. Guys usually only respected other guys, so perhaps he would keep his distance now that I wasn’t as interesting as before.

Cadie was standing by the door, in a corner with the rest of our traveling staff as well as some Buckingham staff. She smiled as I approached and spoke before I even asked,

“His security just sent an update. There was a… logistic delay, but they’re about half an hour from London now. He should be here in time for the Mayor’s ball this evening.”

I smiled at her, knowingly. “Logistic delay? They mean he forgot to pack until the last minute, don’t they?”

She smiled, but no reply came; she knew I didn’t need one, and I wouldn’t force her to incriminate her future king. Instead, she said on a low whisper, looking behind me,

“He seems to like you.”

I rolled my eyes at the wall, so no one but her would see it. 

“He is one of the most annoying people I have ever met.”

“Is that why you blush every time he asks you something?”

I felt my own head snap at her direction against my will, “I do not!”, but I could already feel my cheeks redden.

Cadie smiled. “You’re allowed to move on, you know?”

I rolled my eyes at her, and was abou to reply when Auguste approached us.

“Ma’am,” he said, lowly and very menacingly, “I think your time might be more productive today if spent, perhaps, socializing?”

I sighed, and walked back to the tea table before I could give him the answer I actually wanted.

“Anything wrong?”, Harry asked, approaching again. “You look… annoyed.”

I wanted to say that was a common effect of his presence, but still, I merely smiled.

“Just checking if my brother is on his way; he is.” 

He nodded, and looked over at our staff, who averted their eyes from our direction, though unfortunately, not quickly enough.

“Is that your handler?”, he asked, looking discreetly at Auguste.

I responded by giving him a quizzical look.

“Secretary? Assistant? Aide?”

“Oh, no. My father’s junior aide. He’s… he’s being trained to work with my brother after his… heirdom starts.”

“Heirdom?” He asked, amused.

“You know, when he graduates and starts being a proper heir.”

He nodded. “And why don’t we like him?”

“I like him.” I shrugged, looking resolutely ahead, still feeling him look at me, disbelieving. “He-”

I sighed, turning back around, to the window, hoping no one could see me.

“He seems to think I’m still a fourteen year-old child who doesn’t understand that daddy has a big responsibility I’m getting in the way of.”

Harry was quiet for a long time. A long enough time for me to regret telling him this, and to wonder if there was a casual enough way I could pretend I was joking.

“Does he not know you’re a lawyer?!”

I looked over at him, who looked the most confused I’d seen him all day.

“He does… how do you know?”

He shrugged. “Your brother, and Adrien… I don’t know, I heard it somewhere. Adrien once said you’re the smartest person in your family.”

I turned to him, now, fully confused myself. “He… did?”

“What, does he not seem like the type?”

“The type to puke all over the Christmas tree when he’s drunk on eggnog? Yes. To  compliment people when they’re not around to give him credit for it? Not really.”

He laughed. “Oh, wow. Yeah… I’ll definitely be asking him about that… “

We let a moment pass in silence, and I noticed, somewhat joyfully, he hadn’t allowed the knowledge of Christopher stop him from talking to me. 

“Hey, how did you know?” I asked, and one of his brows corked up. “That I didn’t like polo or volleyball as much as other sports.”

“Oh. Well… I suppose, because it’s a tour.” He shrugged. “And you being...” His eyes traveled down my whole body and back up to meet mine. “Perfect… ly-perfectly poised, and… and polite and professional, you just… you seem like the kind of person who would make sure to give exactly all the answers you’re suppose to at such an -- important job.”

I let my face contort at the sarcasm in the words ‘important’ and ‘job’.

“You don’t think our job is important?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes, which looked over at his shoes as he thought of how to answer me.

“So what was your favorite subject in school?” He asked, very deliberately chipper now.

I stared him down, unrelenting, matching his smile, until he sighed.

“I don’t think we’re ready for this conversation.” He said.

“When will we be?”

“When we’re friends.” He returned, quickly. 

It was an answer he had ready and, although I felt I was expected to say that we were already friends, I respected his self-awareness that we weren’t. So I just nodded.

“I liked classics.” I told him. “In school.”

He nodded, looking me up and down. “I see that.”

I rolled my eyes. “Do I have a face for Shakespeare?”

“Well, your name already sounds like you should be in Hamlet.”

“You mean Mary?”

He laughed. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“And what did you prefer in school?”

He shrugged. “Sports.”

“Hm.” I let out, looking away so he wouldn’t see my second eye-roll. But he still laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing. I also see that for you.”

“Do I have a face for sports?”

I shrugged. “You have the body.”

He raised his brows at that, and I looked away, suddenly realizing my own words.

“I mean-”

“No, no, Mary, no need to explain. I understand.” 

His tone was so insufferable and his smile so knowing, and yet, somehow… I couldn’t help but smile.

“I think it’s your turn, now.”

I looked back at him. “My turn?”

“To ask me a question.”

There something benevolent about his tone, as if he was doing my favor by giving me a chance to change the subject. 

I took it.

“Truth or dare?”, I asked, to his surprise.

“Really?”

“You told me to ask a question. That’s a question.”

He took a step closer. “What happens if I pick dare?”

I faced him, keeping my face as still and intense as I could. “Pick and find out.”

I suppose the half an hour Cadie mentioned Louis would take to arrive might have fit inside the long look he gave me; but in truth, I wouldn’t know how long I stood there as he looked at me. 

Eventually, however, the loud laughter from both our families startled us out of the little trance we seemed to be in, and he cleared his throat, awkwardly.

This was when my father approached.

“Margueritte, your brother is arriving in Clarence House as we speak. It’s time to go.” He shook hands with Harry. “Thank you for having us today. We have to go receive my son who’s meeting us here for the rest of the tour.”

Harry smiled at him. “Of course. And will Christopher be joining you as well?”

I bit my lip to hide a grin, but my father seemed puzzled. “Christopher? You mean, our Christopher?”

“Our Christopher?” I asked my father, who sighed.

“You know what I mean… Christopher Ratté. How do you know Christopher, Harry?”

“We have common interests, apparently.”

“Oh, well, that’s... nice. I don’t think he’s in the country, however.” He looked at me. “Margueritte?”

“I wouldn’t know what Christopher is up to these days.”

“Yes, well, we’ll tell him you said hello if we do see him.” 

As my father left to say his goodbyes, Harry looked at me.

“You don’t know what he’s up to these days?”

“I wouldn’t know.” I shrugged. “Seeing as he’s not my boyfriend anymore.”

I might as well have told him Santa Claus was real and he was getting coal for Christmas.

He nodded, slowly, a few times as his mouth opened and shut, before he finally seemed to settle on, “Oh.”

Before I could turn away to say goodbye to his grandparents, however, he held on to my elbow, delicately. 

“Damn, Mary, you could have said something.” He whispered, breathlessly.

I tried not to laugh, which was not an easy feat.

“You could have asked… you didn’t seem to have a problem asking anything today.”

“I didn’t want to… appear… invasive.”

This was too much, so I did laugh.

“Wow.”

“I’m glad you can laugh about it… does this mean I have permission to keep asking things?”

I sighed. “You didn’t seem to need permission before.”

He laughed, biting his lip.

“Sorry. I… It’s just- I don’t usually meet people who may… understand... What it’s like.”

I gulped. “What it’s like?”

He looked around the room. “What it’s like having to shape your entire life after… all of this, and yet… not to really have a role to play in it.”

I nodded, wondering if that’s all he wanted; someone to understand. Wondering if he did need help; or if Cadie was right.

“...Especially ones with a face like yours.”

“Aw.” I said, emotionless, deadpan, “you ruined it.”

I was going to turn away to go say my goodbyes to his family, but before I did, for reasons still unknown to myself, I turned to him again.

“By the way, Christopher wasn’t the only thing you were wrong about today…”

He was still grinning. “And what was I wrong about, ma’am?”

“Royal Ascot. That wasn’t the first time we met.”

--- --- --- --- --- ---

[A/N: Thank you so much for reading, please let me know if you like it by liking this page or leaving a comment? It’d mean so much to me!]

[avecorviidae]

Fic: mainlining the spiraling spherical truth of the universe

Fandom: Fallout 4 Rating: T Relationship(s): Male Sole Survivor/Nick Valentine, Male Sole Survivor & Shaun Word Count: 5012

Ao3 Link

Toby descends into the Institute to find a son that's old enough to be his father, and despite that, still looks at him with a very careful sort of vulnerability as he walks with him through the pristine white laboratories, introduces him to his heads of staff, shows him orderly living quarters and serene recreational areas, looks at him sidelong like he's always waiting for Toby's reaction, like he wants him to be proud.

And there's a part of him that wants to pull his son close to him, and tell him, yeah, it's fantastic, this thing you've built, I'm proud of you, I love you.

But Toby knows what the Institute does. He's been smuggling synths out of here with the railroad for months, and they're fucking terrified, gun-shy and shaking, watching over their shoulders for the coursers that will surely, inevitably come to reclaim Institute property. and the way Shaun talks about the folks above ground - so dismissive, as though the towns and cities and communities and bonds, the buildings and the families and the love and the art that people on the surface have created, don't matter because it's not pure, not clean,and he just as much wants to grab Shaun by the shoulders and shake him, go, don't you know that I'm one of those people? That you ought to have been too? That it's beautiful up there? That in the face of all this awful fucking shit, I've found people that have, against all odds, refused to be anything but kind?

So Shaun says, "What do you think of my home? Of everything I've built here?"

And Toby says, "I'm sorry. This wasn't what I wanted for you. This place, it's beautiful, but it's not the world I'm from. It's not a world I can ever be a part of. And you can run your lungs dry justifying every awful thing I've ever seen the Institute do by saying it was a mistake, or for the greater good of mankind, but I'm sorry, kid, the mankind you've got down here isn't any better than the mankind I’ve got up there. I love you, and I am so fucking glad I’ve found you, but I can't support you with this. The things you do here - it's gotta change."

"Please," Shaun says, "Father, let me show you- the work we've done down here-"

And Toby just shakes his head, and says, "I've seen the work you've done. I’ve seen the people it's hurt. That's enough for me."

There is a hard, tight hug, and some tears, and Toby leaves the Institute with his son's permission and blessing, and in the seconds before Toby relays out, they look at each other with hard, tight eyes, and Shaun's got a look about him, stubborn and angry, and Toby, with a sinking sense of dread, thinks, that's my boy,'cause if he's a bullheaded little shit, then he got that from Toby and not a damn place else.

.

“Aw, hell,” Nick mutters, as soon as he finds it. “Guerra? Think you might wanna see this,” he calls over his shoulder to the other room of the abandoned house, where Toby and his terrifying friend had been digging through cabinets looking for unexpired food.

Eli appears in the doorway a moment before Toby does, hand already drifting to the holster at her hip. “Christ,” she says softly, as soon as she looks down, sees the baby sitting on the filthy floor at Nick’s feet, gnawing happily on its chubby fist. It’s about the fifth word he’s ever heard her say, he thinks, and definitely the one with the most feeling behind it.

“Nick?” Toby calls, as he rounds the corner, “Everything alri- Oh. Oh.”

In a moment flat he’s crouched on the floor, waving fingers at the little one’s face to catch its attention. “Hey sweetheart,” he says gently, all bright and smiling. “What are you doing alone all the way out here, huh?”

Pointless question, really. Toby knows as well as Nick does that there’s no good answers to it. Whoever the kid was with before was either dead, or ought to be dead for deciding to leave it behind.

Toby grabs it under the arms and scoops it up, tucking it snugly against his hip. It makes a hiccupping, surprised little noise, looking at Toby with wide, guileless eyes.

(He oughtn’t call the kid an it, really. Most of the humans he knows have been nice enough to do him the courtesy of a pronoun, he can at least return the favour.)

“Okay, sweetpea, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.” He’s talking to her in a low, sorta sing-song voice, swaying gently, and it’s right around then that Nick remembers that Toby’s got a kid. Well, it’s not as if he forgot, it’s practically the first thing the guy says to half the people they meet, I’m looking for the man who took my son. But this is the first time Nick’s looked at him and really understood what that means. ‘Cause it’s gotta be some paternal instinct, right? The way he comforts her like he’s not even thinking about what he’s doing, like it comes as easy to him as breathing.

She’s been alone long enough to be soiled, so Toby sends Eli off to look for a metal washbasin, pours some of their purified water in there, warms it over the fire for good measure. Grins when he dips her little feet in there to let her test the temperature and she starts to giggle and kick, splashing him right in the face. She seems delighted with the bath in general - Nick guesses he would be too, if he’d been waddling around in a stinking diaper for however long. (He sometimes gets - phantom memories, he supposes, of what it’s like to have a human body. Sometimes feels a strange nostalgia for the sensation of hunger, or genuine, non-battery-related exhaustion. He has never once missed the ability to excrete.)

Toby’s only got eyes for the kid, all attentive and careful as he cleans her off, and Nick finds himself making an awkward sort of eye contact with Eli, who shrugs slightly, expression as blank and unreadable as it’s ever been. She’s sat herself down cross-legged on the rug, ostensibly relaxed, but Nick’s travelled with enough mercs, knows she’s one of the smarter ones, knows how carefully she’s positioned herself, sat between Toby and the door, rifle across her lap, angled towards the open window. It had used to make Nick nervous, how careless Toby seemed, like he’d never been taught to watch his own back. Guess he gets it better now, the idea of having someone that you trust enough to watch your back for you. He feels safer these days, walking into a room full of strange humans, with Toby at his side, fending off any synth-averse sentiments with a truly aggressivedegree of cheeriness.

“Are you old enough to talk?” Toby asks, to absolutely no response from the babbling kiddo. Still, she’s clearly charmed with Toby, like just about everyone is, and she’s watching him with big, happy eyes as he chats at her. “Can you say... Toby? To-by?”

She laughs, and Toby snorts, swipes a little booger from under her nose, and Nick’s struck again by how unthinkingly he does it, like it’s just second nature to him. “Alright, maybe that’s too hard. Let’s try... Can you say aaaaahhhh?” He goes all dramatic with it, roars like a little deathclaw, and the kid laughs, delighted, and copies him, screeching with all her tiny little lungs can give.

“Awesome, sweetpea! And look at those teeth! You’ve got a whole bunch! Think you can handle some tato stew?”

She’s got no idea what he’s saying, of course, but she’s very agreeable as he lifts her out of the water and pats her dry with one of his clean shirts, dresses her as best as he can given their limited supplies.

Feeding babies is, apparently, a spectacularly messy process, but Toby seems inexplicably delighted to have half of a perfectly good meal splattered down the fronts of him and the kid.

“We’re, what, five hours from Diamond City?” Toby says, eyes not leaving the kid as he waves a spoon enticingly in front of her face, trying to coax her to open her mouth.

“Six, if we take the long way around Hangman’s Alley,” Eli says, almost making Nick jump out of his circuits. She says it real neutral-like, almost careful, makes no mention of the fact that they’d packed for a week out in the wasteland, a job for Nick’s agency, nearly halfway from here to Sanctuary, with no plans to turn back.

“Six,” Toby repeats. “Okay. We’ll catch a few hours’ sleep here, set off at dawn. Someone in the city will be able to take her in.” The kid finally takes her spoonful, only a little of it dribbling down her chin this time. There’s an odd, hard set to his face that makes Nick some weird sorta mix between nervous and sad, a kind of seriousness that doesn’t often touch Toby unless it’s something to do with Shaun, or the gal that Kellogg killed, his life before. Makes Nick almost want to rest a hand on his shoulder, say, look, she’s sweet, but you know you can’t keep her. not now, not here. she ain’t a lost mutt that you’ve found in an alley, and she can’t be what you’re looking for, not when you’re still following leads on your boy. But Toby knows that, doesn’t he? It’s why they’re heading back at dawn. Why he’s going to knock on the schoolhouse and ask around for any families that’d be able to care for a kid her age, why he’s holding her so close on his lap now, his nose and lips pressed into the dark, downy hair on her head. He knows, maybe better than any of them, what he can’t have.

.

Despite that - Toby does go back. Gets a message on his Pip Boy from Shaun, asking if he would like to visit, for coffee. They sit in a careful, studied sort of silence at the table, Toby sipping on the freshest fucking coffee he's had in 200 years and feeling conscious of the fact that he's probably leaving dust and various other wasteland detritus all over Shaun's bright fucking white chairs

"I just-" Shaun starts, shakes his head. “You're from before. When everything was pristine, when humanity was striving forwards. We're doing that, here, now, looking to the future. How can you support the people up there, stuck in the filth and ruins of the past?"

Toby leans back in his chair, sighs. "Forward isn't necessarily a straight line. Sure, back in the day, we had working air conditioning and fancy vending machines, but the way I was- the way I am- was illegal. It was an unkind fucking world, and all the shiny trinkets didn't do a whole lot to hide that people were paying a few hundred bucks a month for medication that they needed to live. Down here—you’ve got the science down, I won't deny it. Clean food and water, medication, synthetic life. The kind of shit we read comics about when I was a kid. But up there? Shaun, they've made art. You can't walk thirty feet in Diamond City without hearing someone playing guitar, there's murals on old billboards, I once met an old church choir made up entirely of ghouls. Here, you're taking care of the body, but Shaun, humanity needs a soul."

The kidbot - Toby can't bring himself to think of him as Shaun, despite the fact that he's got Toby's eyes and freckles and smile - steps into the room with something in his hands, freezes in the doorway when he sees Toby sat at the table.

"I was just-" he starts, looking back at the door like he's thinking of bolting.

"It's alright, don't mind me," Toby says softly, waving the kid in.

"What did you need, Shaun?" Shaun says. Fuck, that's going to get weird fast.

The kid shuffles his feet, something guilty about his face. "I was trying to make my remote control car go faster, but I think I broke it." He holds the little shiny red racecar up to Shaun and Toby for inspection. Toby's actually got a similar one back at the house in Sanctuary, blue paint fading to an off-green, some rust gathered around the wheels. He'd managed to fix up a little motor in it to make it go one night, and he and Hancock had spent half the night racing it against a rat. Good times.

Shaun peers over to inspect the car with a distant sort of interest, but Toby can see where the kid's gone wrong. He's always been good at that shit, fiddly little stuff to do with his hands. Besides, his dad taught him his way around a motor back when he lived out west and they had the truck, and he fixed garage doors for a while when he and Val were trying to get on their feet in Boston.

"Give it here?" He holds out a hand for the car, and the kid hands it over. It takes him a couple minutes of fiddling with the multi-tool he keeps in his coat pocket, but he returns the car with a perfectly functional suped-up battery, and the kid grins when he sets it down and sends it careening off out of the room and down the hall, says, "Hey, thanks!" and runs off after it.

The door slides closed behind him, and Toby finds that he's smiling softy after him, and when he turns back to Shaun, he's looking at him oddly. Do you think you would be capable- Shaun had asked, that first day, Of loving a synth? As though it were a human?

Toby knows he is, as surely and intimately as he knows every crack and tear along the seams of Nick Valentine's face, knows the whirring and clicking of machinery under the skin when he's lying with an ear to Nick's chest, the black metal of his spindly hand tapping an arrhythmic beat on Toby's shoulder.

"Don't you know what you've made, with synths? the Gen 3s, they have free will, they feel.They're feeling for the first time, it's incredible."

Shaun tuts dismissively. "They're just machines. They cannot feel. The Gen 3s have some errors which seem to cause them to behave... erratically. The defects, they are violent and dangerous, and cannot be allowed to roam free."

Toby raises a single, skeptical eyebrow. Shaun wilts, just a little, and Toby realizes that he's just given his son his first ever I’m not mad, just disappointedlook. What an exciting moment in his parenthood journey. "Yeah," he drawls, "so violent and dangerous that they desperately run away from the coursers that want to bring them back to be dissected, and go looking for help and shelter, usually blending in peacefully into human settlements in an effort to live a normal life and find a purpose. Real terrifying. Shaun, jesus, this is what I'm talking about. You've created people, and you have the chance to care for them, to guide them into being a person, and you're treating them like defective equipment! Up there, at least, they can find community. They can find home."

.

You’ve never personally met the General of the Minutemen.

Which, like, you get it. He’s this big important guy, right? Dragged the Minutemen out of ruin and obscurity singlehandedly, spreading goodness and justice wherever he went, and you’re just a farmhand from fuckoff nowhere. You and your folks joined up with the Minutemen because it was your best shot at protection from the local gangs of raiders and other assorted scumbags that tended to make your lives miserable, and all the righteous justice and fun uniforms and shit were just a bonus. Still, you believe in it, right? And you’re grateful. So when the radio call comes through that Garvey and the General want to retake Fort Independence, set up a big fuckoff stronghold, yeah, you want to get involved. You’re twenty-nine and pretty much the most exciting thing you’ve ever shot is a real sad looking radstag, so you’re pretty excited at the prospect of some real action.

When you roll up to the diner across the wharf from the old fort, there’s a few campfires burning all around it, sleeping rolls and tents and scattered packs, folks sitting around on upturned cars and half-rotted benches, cleaning rifles and gnawing on jerky and passing around canteens. Preston Garvey, the biggest bigshot the minutemen had before the general came along, greets you at the door of the diner with a big smile and a clap on the shoulder, tells you to make yourself comfortable, introduce yourself to your brothers in arms. apparently the general’s travelling from pretty far west, and he’d had to detour south to rendezvous with an ally of theirs, so it’d be a few days yet before they mounted the attack on the fort.

There’s folks from all over the commonwealth here, and all sorts. Salt-of-the-earth farmers like yourself, hoity-toity Diamond City types, rough mercenary-looking people, all breaking bread and listening to the radio, singing along to the same five fucking songs, and you’re right there along with them, sipping whiskey and drunkenly drawling Johnny Guitar into the shoulder of one of your comrades.

The General arrives near sunset, and if Garvey hadn’t greeted him as such, you’d never have guessed it. You’re not sure what you expected – maybe a big buff blonde guy waving the star spangled banner, maybe someone more like Preston Garvey himself, big tough freedom type – but it wasn’t the unassuming kid who pulls Garvey into a brief, warm hug, grinning wide as Garvey claps him on the shoulder. You wouldn’t put him at older than twenty-one, and he’s small, got this kinda delicate look about him, all freckles and big puppy eyes and bouncy, curly hair in a cute little ponytail at his neck. He looks soft, and you’re pretty fuckin’ sure that he’s not really the General. Like, okay, maybe he’s got the title, but it’s cause somebody’s his daddy, right? Something like that. Anyways, he’s just some ditzy, pretty kid who smiles at folks and tells them everything’s gonna be okay, and Garvey’s gotta be the real brains of the operation, the one who does all the bloody, dirty work to make it happen.

The attack is being mounted at dawn, and when y’all are gathered round for the strategy meeting, you figure Garvey will take point on explaining everything while the kid smiles and nods along. Still, he seems to have half an idea what he’s talking about as he points to things on the map of the fort, asks questions about fortifications and potential choke points, takes shit into account when Garvey or one of the other more experienced vets chimes in with an idea. It’s just weird to see, you guess. This bright-eyed, smiley kid squatted on his haunches, his pouty, round face all serious as he stares down at a war plan. Fuck’s sake, he’s still got baby fat clinging to his cheeks, he looks younger than your baby cousin.

The plan, such that it is, is not the most complicated thing you’ve ever heard. There’s a bunch of slimy monsters holed up in the fort. You and your comrades will storm the fort, and shoot the monsters. Simple enough. Some of you will be scattered around outside, taking the high ground and moving up to the turrets once the towers have been cleared, to provide ranged support and catch any little bastards who try to escape down the hillside. You’ve all got a nice little stockpile of frag mines to take care of the egg clutches. Gross. You reckon it’ll work, though.

“Gonna let y’all go to catch some sleep before we get this started tomorrow,” the General says, addressing his little crowd of soldiers as a whole. “But just wanted to say one thing, so listen up. If you find yourself shit out of luck tomorrow – if you’re cornered, run out of ammo, get too scared, too tired, too hurt to keep fighting? Run. Scram. Get the hell out of dodge. I know it’s the coward’s move, I know it doesn’t make for a good story, I know it feels like deserting. I know you probably joined the Minutemen because you believed in it, believed in what we do, and you’re willing to die an honorable death doing it – and I’ll be honored to fight and die alongside you. But in the end, that’s just a big old castle with a bunch of mirelurks crawling around in it, and that’s not worth dying for. The fort is a symbol, and in my eyes, no symbol will ever be worth more than people. I’d rather each and every one of you ran away from it screaming and lived to tell the tale, than if we managed to take the fort, but at the expense of half of you getting gutted by some overgrown crabs.”

It is the weirdest damn speech you’ve ever heard, and the weirdest part of it all is, you’re pretty damn sure he means every word of it. He’s looking around at you all like he’s trying to remember faces, nervous sort of energy to the way his fingers tap tap tap on the stained yellow paper of the map at his feet.

“Besides,” he says, smiling ruefully, and you realize that this kid’s carrying an exhaustion that’s older than the fucking war, “If y’all keep on dying, people are gonna start saying that we’re called the Minutemen on account of us managing to lose another man every minute.”

.

They keep irregular coffee dates. Fuck if Toby knows why Shaun keeps inviting him. Fuck if Toby knows why he keeps coming back. Maybe it's the same reason for both of them. Shaun is his son, and Toby loves him, wants to know him, even if he hates him half the fucking time.

The Railroad's suspicious of his intentions, and he has to smile his way into a restricted lab and bring them back some stolen synth research to convince them that he's still on their side, despite getting cozy with the Institute's director. Desdemona's angry that he won't commit to destroying the place from the inside out, but... he's talking to Shaun. It's philosophy and ethics, and even Toby's got to admit that the serene quiet of the Institute is a good place to do it, and Toby brings him little oddities he's found along the way, comics that survived the old word, photographs and holotapes, even shows him some of the sketches he's done of the folks he's met above.

Toby starts bringing toys for the kidbot. They're nothing near as shiny and pretty as the ones he's got down here, but he seems to still love the scuffed up Nuka-Cola van Toby had found in a ruined comics store, goes wide-eyed and amazed when Toby hands it to him.

.

It's a peace that wasn't meant to last, of course. Most of the Minutemen settlements at this point are informally doubling as Railroad safehouses, Dez and the rest delighted to have farms to send newly-escaped synths to, places where they're guaranteed jobs and work and purpose, and folks who will look after them and check up on them like they're family.

Preston flags him on the radio, lets him know that there's been reports of coursers at five different settlements across the Commonwealth. They're going after the escaped synths, and they're more than willing to kill any humans that get in the way.

Nick gives him a dark old look, that, "We've both seen two hundred years of the world going to shit and you and I both know this doesn't end well"look. They recall everyone to the castle, it's the most fortified place they've got, the best shot they've got at defending their people. They all arrive within a couple days, plenty of them with coursers on their tails, and Eli dispatches them with quick, clean shots, the respect that one hunter shows to another. For days, the coursers keep coming, and Toby's people are getting tired. Shaun's not responding to any of his efforts to contact him on the radio, and with grim finality, he lets Preston prepare the Minutemen and the Railroad to invade the Institute and take down the Commonwealth's boogeyman, once and for all.

It's surprisingly quick work in the end, Toby using the access Shaun gave him to relay his little army inside, and they make quick work of the synths that patrol the halls. Ss soon as alarms start blaring, all the humans in clean Institute whites panic and scram, which makes Toby's job a hell of a lot easier. Place the detonator on the central reactor, ignore the frantic ticking of his Geiger counter and the vague feeling that radiation might be making his teethbuzz.

He tells Preston to issue the evacuation order, get as many people and willing synths out as quickly as they can, and he and Nick trek up through the eerily empty halls to the director's quarters.

Shaun's in some kind of biobed, skin ashy and face gaunt, eyes half-lidded as he watches Toby step softly into the room. the kidbot's sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, curled around himself and shaking, and as soon as he sees Toby, he darts up, wraps arms tight around Toby's waist. Toby keeps a firm hand on his back, comforting as he knows how to be, in a situation like this. He meets Shaun's eyes.

I didn't want it to come to this, is what neither of them say, but both of them mean, when Toby blames him for the death and pain the Institute's wrought on the Commonwealth, when Shaun spits back that Toby is destroying his life's work. But what's done is done.

"...You'll take the boy?" Shaun asks wearily, looking at Toby's hand, still keeping the kid close to his side.

"Of course," Toby says, rough with feeling, "Yeah, of course. We're taking everybody, everyone we can get out. We'll take you, too."

Shaun shakes his head. "No. I want to rest now. I don't want to live to see the destruction of my home."

"Neither did I, but I managed, didn't I?" Toby snaps, then shakes his head. That was, well. Mean. Even for him. "You wanted progress. You wanted to move forward. You don't always get to choose the direction that goes. You don't just give upwhen you lose."

Wordlessly, Nick hefts the kid up against his hip, and Toby guides his son to a wheelchair near the bed, pushes him back down the sloping halls to the relay point, where the last party is getting ready to leave, waiting only on their General. Preston and Dez give him hard, unreadable looks when they see who he's pushing, but they've both got the good sense not to say anything, especially with Nick hovering over his shoulder and Eli quickly returning to his side.

.

Later, much later, they return to Sanctuary.

The kid wants to be called Callum. He read it in one of the comics Toby gave him. Toby had helped him to set up a bedroll and a lantern in the upstairs nook of Toby and Nick's home, had tucked him into bed wearing a soft shirt of Toby's that went down to his knees, hugging the bedraggled teddy bear he'd left the Institute with to his chest, and Callum had said, softly, "Night, Dad,"and Toby had smoothed a hand over his soft, perfect, synthetic hair, and said, "Night, kiddo."

At night, Sanctuary's strung up with lanterns and cooking fires, soft orange glows from inside the windows of the carcasses of old homes, flickering lamps in garages and driveways. It's more crowded than usual, on account of it being something of a celebration, the end of the Institute, and all. There's most of the Minutemen from across the state, the Railroad HQ, and the Institute evacuees, scientists, citizens, and synths all. Deacon and Hancock are arm wrestling, and they've drawn... quite the crowd. The Institute evacuees are slowly, surely mingling with the Commonwealth scum, who are meeting them with only minimal suspicion, and mostly good-natured heckling about the ugly white clothes. Someone's playing Johnny Guitar, obviously, and the soft strumming mixes with the gentle, constant murmur of a hundred or more voices laughing and talking and singing.

Toby finds Shaun on the outskirts of the celebration, his wheelchair parked in the dim driveway of the house that he was supposed to grow up in. Toby wonders, vaguely, if that's a coincidence. He's avoided this house, since he woke up. Maybe he's more like Shaun than he's wanted to admit. He's wanted to move forward.

Toby sits beside him on the concrete, follows Shaun's gaze to further down the block, where Preston's got an arm around Desdemona's shoulder, making some kind of triumphant speech, most likely.

"So," Toby says eventually, with a strange sort of serenity. He's got a thin layer of dust and sweat on every inch of his skin, and his fingers probably smell like battery acid from the plasma cell ammo, and his lip is still tingling from the little shock he'd gotten when he kissed the open circuitry on Nick's cheek. He's aching and stinking and exhausted, and he's never been happier. "What do you think of my home? Of everything I’ve built here?"

Shaun sighs softly, and after a long moment between them, says, "I don't know this world. but I suppose I'll have to take after you, and learn to adapt."

He stands, puts a hand on Shaun's shoulder, squeezes. "That's all I can ask for."

[mrssarablack]

I’ve been quiet.

I realize this. I’ve become painfully aware of my lack of voice in regards to activism or hot takes on the news. For the duration of June I stuck to activists posts and news, which has never been a thing I’m super vocal about on this page. I just happened to move my content over at either the exact right time to facilitate the shift of content, or the exact wrong time to keep to my regular scheduled programming running. Either way, I’m not sorry. Nor do I expect I’ll be able to keep my mouth (or rather my keyboard) shut long when things feel overwhelmingly outrageous in the real world. 

My intent going into the month was to back off a little on the political posts and take back the “safe space” I have here for cultivated fun in what is usually a very chaotic day to day life. I would continue the activism but perhaps less so on here. That’s not to say I wouldn’t actively be doing other things. I’m not yielding my support by any means.  I had intended to take this month to mostly focus my support of the BLM community through prioritizing putting my money where my mouth was failing to find words. Shifting from broad political posts about the injustices to instead turning it towards better educating myself, actually getting through the large stack of books I intend to get through, prioritizing purchasing items from black owned businesses where it makes sense to, donating to the charities and organizations that I can. This is the quiet work that is also necessary for good allyship. But then I found myself wrestling with the growing feeling that quiet can lead to appearance that whatever I was presenting in June was instead a performative allyship.

That’s hardly the case at all.

At the end of June I made a joke about trying to mentally prepare myself for whatever July 2020 had in store for us. I was not prepared. 

I met the reality of July 2020 four days later, like so many of us, and I was not even close to prepared for what was coming and I froze in the wake of it. I was not prepared to watch snippets of the Orange Man’s speech at Rushmore. The speech, that without even dicing his words was a hate speech. It was a proclamation, of sorts, against the citizens who were, and are still are, actively protesting for the BLM movement throughout the country. It was a formal declaration of “us vs them” in a way he has not actually done before. The intent is always there, his supporters will forever deny it, but it is. His own history shows he has always been a racist. That this man cares more for tributes, than the people he is meant to govern. Meanwhile, Native protesters were yelled at, by Trump supporters, to “go back to where they came from.” In the wake of this speech and the juxtaposition of it being given on stolen lands while the people who see them as sacred were accosted... I found very little to be proud of on July 4th. 

By the time I processed that moment, we had sped straight into ICE declaring that they would not extend the rule allowing foreign students to continue their education here because of the mandate against online learning. This rule makes sense, if we weren’t in the middle of a pandemic. But we are. 

Everything about this decision was cruel and xenophobic. It didn’t make sense economically, considering how much money Universities get in tuition from their foreign students. It didn’t make sense logistically, when so many students wouldn’t be able to get back home. Our immigration centers are already a fucking mess, but that’s a deep dive for another time. All it was, was an attempt to strong arm schools into accepting the administration's stance that Covid-19 is fully under control and that everything should go back to normal. It is the same reason they are threatening to cut funding for public educational institutions if they do not open completely in the fall. Yeah, kids at school is a far more ideal scenario than online classes, but not at the risk of their or their teachers' lives. The schools see that. The administration doesn’t. They don’t care. They simply want to force their narrative in whatever way they can. 

Upon a lawsuit, they walked back their proclamation of denying foreign students their education but, from what I have seen, there are still a lot of things up in the air. From accounts I’ve read on reddit the administration may choose to apply the former ruling to  first year students who may have invested in a future they now won’t get. They may deny foreigners the right to apply to after graduation work programs that formerly they were allowed to be in provided they had the right visas. If they did this they will claim it is to provide american’s the best chance at new work first. America first is ringing through this whole thing, and millions are left wondering how this is all going to actually pan out. 

Let me reiterate now the fact that we are still in the middle of a pandemic. This is a fact. A fact that the administration wants to deny till every last one of us has encountered this illness personally. The Orange Man is actively swatting Fauci away like he is nothing more than an annoying fly. He doesn’t like the “doom and gloom” truth of this virus so he denies it. He is actively pushing to block new money for further testing and tracing for the CDC because he doesn’t “like the numbers”. The CDC no longer has control of collecting patient data to help track covid-19. Something that has been used so that people in authoritative positions can make adequate decisions in regards to the virus. Less information will lead to more spread. Florida is now the new epicenter and the sunbelt, as a whole, looks bad. Things are not good and we’re still fighting with fellow citizens who don’t want to wear a mask. A simple act to help protect others is a political stance. I don’t understand it, and I’m not going to pretend or even try to. It’s not a hoax. The virus is real and it is deadly. Even those that recover from it have had lasting damage to their lungs among other side effects. 

But I digress, instead I will now get to the reason that brought me to this very long political monologue: in Portland, Federal agents fired tear gas on protesters after declaring it a riot. This is not the first time this has happened and it won’t be the last. Allegedly, these federal agents are part of the customs and border protection agency, and they also took protesters up into unmarked vans and detained them. Citizens who are executing their right to protest were kidnapped by federal agents. Think about that. This is why the declaration of ANTIFA being a terrorist group was a bad omen. They are not a membership based organization, they don’t have meetings, they just kind of are... and that fact alone can be exploited. Anyone can potentially be dubbed ANTIFA if a federal agent deems them acting radically in the eyes of this administration. 

This is the roots of fascism in America. It is masquerading as nationalism and to some degree that's legitimate but the effects of those beliefs are becoming a thin facade for the other.

It’s almost undeniable at this point. This is the reason I started with the beginning of this month because between the hate speech, the stances that support racism, the xenophobic decisions, the active statement that there is no problem with the virus, and now kidnapping citizens are all part of a fascist playbook. Speaking out against a dictatorship is a death sentence. But a dictatorship is anti-American. If you believe in the idyllic America we were taught exists. I am not sure that America has ever fully existed.... but maybe somewhere she does, but, oh, is she flawed… but that’s okay because admitting to those flaws can lead to growth. Owning all of our past will lead to growth. But denial, denial leads us down a path to losing ourselves. 

My boyfriend is right, I’m a fighter. I will get up and I will fight even if there are tears in my eyes. But that doesn’t mean I am not tired. I find myself so heartbroken over the events of the last two months that I fail to have words to express the effect of keeping my eyes open to the world actually has on me. One thing I have figured out is despite what the president says, I don’t hate my country. I am part of the left, yes, but I love it. I can say that because I wouldn’t be so upset about all that is going on if I didn’t. I realize there are fellow citizens who wholeheartedly disagree with me, and they would also claim they love the country, but to me their fear of change says more about them than they realize. They don’t want to accept ugly truths and grow. It’s an oversimplification but here we are.  Everything is so polarized. We are divided. I’ve said this before but I’m not sure something isn’t going to break spectacularly before November, during, or shortly after. Regardless, a new normal is being forged and I do not accept it. I will not accept it. I will fight it, and I hope whoever takes the time to read this ridiculously long post will too. 

[nny11writes]

How do you think Ahsoka actually felt about her betrayal/departure from the Order? I’m hoping the new season will touch on it, but like is she really sad? Angry? Confused? Like the order is all she’s ever known, she doesn’t know how to live a normal civilian life, it was probably one of the darkest periods of her life. How does one teenager cope with that, on top of everything she has seen as a child soldier?

Anon, you KNOW I’m down to rant/ramble!!!!I think she’s feeling basically ALL the emotions at once. She was betrayed by a friend, someone who she thought and believed would turn to her in times of need because Ahsoka had proven she was trustworthy herself. Someone whose life she saved, someone who she shared a traumatic experience with (which can lead to very tight bonding between people). I think she does feel betrayed to a certain degree by the Order itself. She spent her whole life as a Jedi, it’s all she wanted, it’s all she worked towards, and she believed in them. She is culturally a Jedi, the Order and the Temple /are/ her culture. It’s also her religion, and a faith that while she’s had some ups and downs with, it was something she believed in completely.But if the Order could be so blind and so wrong, could turn so quickly on one of their own, could fail what should have been one of their rising stars (Barriss), and they were /wrong/...because I think that Ahsoka might actually understand Barriss’s logic, not completely agree but she can see it now that it’s been pointed out. Ahsoka has been to a degree a blind follower for her whole life. It took a dear friend betraying her and her family seemingly turning its back on her to shake Ahsoka’s faith. Her faith in the Order, the Jedi, their teachings, and ultimately that became a shake up regarding herself as well.Barriss Offee, BARRISS OFFEE, should never have felt so isolated and scared and hurt and angry and bitter. But the Order did not notice, or did not care, and where a safety net of support should have caught her and helped nothing appeared and Barriss fell.Ahsoka wasn’t there when someone she cared about needed her. She wasn’t even aware. The Order wasn’t aware. I think this is where Ahsoka gets so scared and angry and hurt. She knows that she’s a good person and that the Order is overall a good institution to have. I think she still believes in the Republic and the Jedi Order. But if these horrible things could happen first to Barriss and then to Ahsoka herself, then what else could happen? What else IS happening right now? How many people are suffering like this and no one notices or cares because they are vaunted Jedi and famous Commanders?She’s confused. She doesn’t know what to do about all of this, let alone think or /feel/ about this. Ahsoka barely even knows what happened. I don’t think she knows how to process everything she’s realized/had happen, and I also think that Ahsoka struggles between what she was taught to do in these situations and the feeling that if those same teachings failed so miserably why should she trust them.In the Ahsoka novel we also learn that Ahsoka had a lot of feelings of not being good enough. That realizing she didn’t have to be some prodigy with god like skills and knowledge to still be good and important in her chosen career (mechanics) was an awakening for her.I think she probably feels worthless without her position as a Jedi and a Commander. And when she’s not feeling so depressed and anxious, she probably instead just feels lost and cut adrift.On good days she’s hopeful and determined, ready to do some heavy soul searching and go out and experience the wider galaxy. On bad days she thinks about how leaving was a horrible mistake, and how she “can never go back”. (She can, but I don’t think a teenager who has been so hurt and traumatized, and then left everything she’d ever known to seek a better, healthier life for herself would realize that she could change her mind.)I think no matter what she’s feeling at any given time, even when she’s absolutely overwhelmed by all of them slamming into her at once that she cares about people and wants to help. That’s why she goes vigilante on Coruscant for a while (which I believe we’re going to see some of that and I’m stoked!).And I think that at this time Ahsoka thinks her only worth is as a weapon or a tool.So when this all combines, we get a teenager who is living on the edges of society, without support, without a sense of safety and security. A teen who thinks that the lives of everyone around her are her responsibility to protect. Someone who thinks that she must sacrifice everything for others and without support is burning the candle from both ends. She already has the regular teenage hormonal mood swings but now that comes packed with all the shitty extras from her time as a child soldier, a prisoner, a slave, and more. I think when her hope can’t carry her forward, and her confusion and sadness become too much, that Ahsoka can feel her anger burning hotter and brighter and is scared.Because anger and fear are common in her life now, and that’s the first step to darkness right?So what does she do? She copes unhealthily. Between the anger, the belief that she is a tool/weapon, her feeling like her only true skill set is fighting, and feeling the soul crushing responsibility for everyone she even lays eyes on...Ahsoka goes out and finds trouble to solve. Troubles she can beat back and innocents she can protect and help. It’s not healthy for a child, and a teenager is a child, to go on their own to fight /gangs/ because they don’t know what else to do. I know Star Wars is aimed at kids so the stars are normally pretty young. Teenagers to young adults (kids will “read up” and be invested in the stories of kids their age and older, they rarely “read down” and get as invested in stories about children younger than them. That’s why so many YA protags are in the 15-19 age range.). So one could argue that within the text of the Star Wars universe (and there is a specific term for this that I just can’t remember????), that Ahsoka going forth at roughly 17-19 years old and kicking ass while trying to save the galaxy is totally okay and normal. I mean, Padme Amidala was the ruler of a planet at 14! Jedi Padawans go into combat situations usually starting between 12-15! Ahsoka’s at least older!And like, yeah, true. But also that’s still seriously messed up and the galaxy needs to maybe stop putting so much pressure and responsibility on literal children thanks.The thing about unhealthy coping mechanisms (such as “I’m lost in the galaxy, hurt and alone, and all I know to do is punch people. Guess I gotta go take down ALL ORGANIZED CRIME ON THE PLANET”), is that sometimes it’s the only thing you have. I’m not a trained psychologist, therapist, or counselor. But as someone with mental illness, I know that in the past I used terrible coping mechanisms to deal with the pain and trauma and emotions I had. While I didn’t try to take down the mob with my fists, I think Ahsoka is still doing what so many of us do. Trying to pretend we’re ok, pushing our emotions aside, beating ourselves up and then beating ourselves up for beating ourselves up, and then looking for distraction. For me that was video games and alcohol, for Ahsoka it was kicking dudes in the face for the greater good.I think that during this period of time, this is really all Ahsoka has. And while it was not a healthy way to deal with it, it was better than not doing anything at all. I think that as she did this, Ahsoka also began to reconcile some of her feelings and thoughts to her new world. I think Ahsoka came to realize that she still had worth as a person even if she wasn’t a Jedi and even if she wasn’t perfect. I think Ahsoka slowly learned during this period that she didn’t /have/ to be anything in particular. That making mistakes and being afraid are normal. That anger is by itself not unhealthy or bad for you. I think Ahsoka was going through a synthesis of sorts where she learned to trust herself first, and then reaffirmed her faith in the Force. Between having faith in herself and having her personal faith/religion back, Ahsoka became more confident. She learned how to pick apart her thoughts and feelings much better. She began to trust some of her teachings and I think that helped her heal a bit in regards to the Order.I think one of the under appreciated tragedies in Ahsoka’s life is that she was /healing/. She wasn’t just surviving, she was starting to thrive and truly grow into herself as a young adult. I think Ahsoka was on track to get her life going in the best direction possible.And then Order 66 happened.And Ahsoka lost everything again, but this time she had no choice in the matter. This time she had the guilt of wondering if she should have spent more time with everyone before they died. Now she can’t openly be who she truly is. I think that’s why Ahsoka is probably literally depressed at the start of the Ahsoka novel. She had just found her mooring, she’d finally charted a path by the stars, and she was ready to open herself up again- and it was not only ripped away horrifically but then the trauma just continued on and on. Each news broadcast boasting about the Jedi that Lord Vader wiped out this week reopening the wound. Every time she  sees a stormtrooper, every Imperial uniform that she was once so proud to see is a fresh trauma.This time Ahsoka has no way to process anything, she doesn’t even get to develop a coping mechanism at all. Ahsoka is forced into survival mode constantly. And so she shuts down emotionally and that’s where we find her at the start of the novel.Basically: I AM PUMPED AND TERRIFIED AND REALLY, REALLY UNDER PREPARED TO HAVE STAR WARS DESTROY MY SOUL WHEN I GET TO WATCH AHSOKA STRUGGLE AND FAIL AND TRY AND WORK AND FINALLY SUCCEED KNOWING THAT IT’S GOING TO CRASH DOWN AROUND HER IN A MILLION FINE SHARDS OF GLASS. 

[carmenlire]

Higher than the Big Trees Ch. 34

read chapter one

read on ao3

Like Father, Like Son: The Apple Didn’t Fall Far from the Scheming Tree

Byline: Victor Aldertree

Magnus Bane, son of notorious Asmodeus Bane, who is currently serving thirty seven years in state prison for defrauding his clients and shareholders of over one billion dollars in assets, has been spotted out on the town with music’s darling, Alec Lightwood.

Is it love, though, or has Magnus just found a different way to make his fortune?

Dear reader, we at Idris News love good gossip and when a source close to Bane came forward to tell us about the hottest tip in town, we couldn’t resist.

It appears that Magnus Bane, professor at Columbia University, has been hiding an unsavory past.

An insider reveals all. To protect her privacy, she asked that we not reveal her name.

Let’s start the story with one Magnus Bane. Born and raised in Manhattan-- on the upper West Side-- Magnus is the son to notorious swindler Asmodeus Bane.

Bane, who is infamous for his unbelievably successful ponzi scheme that stretched over twenty years.

Asmodeus Bane was a wall street broker from 1980 to his long tumble from his gold-plated pedestal in 2004. Considered far and wide to be a charismatic man, Bane Sr. was a shark on Wall Street, known for having a bloodhound’s nose, always sniffing out the Next Big Thing.

Most accredited his success to sheer luck and hard work.

No one knew that he was swindling coworkers and clients alike out of savings accounts, retirement plans, and talking up potential investments that would become a long string of proverbial gold mines in the Old West.

No one knows for certain just how much money Asmodeus Bane absconded with when all is said and done. Working for twenty years afforded him connections and a sharpened sense of when the chips were about to fall. There were dozens of accomplices and just as many scapegoats as Bane kept his nose clean even as those closest to him were caught and indicted.

Bernie Madoff who? Some estimates have Bane’s scheming amounting to over one billion dollars, most of which has never been recovered.

In 2000, the FDIC launched an investigation with the White Collar division of the FBI. After four years, they accumulated enough evidence to formally arrest Asmodeus Bane of over one hundred counts of fraud and embezzlement. After his lengthy trial-- which was a media circus in and of itself-- Bane was sentenced to 53 years in New York’s State Penitentiary.

Due to good behaviour, that sentence has been reduced to thirty seven years with the possibility of parole after ten more years.

Which brings us to his son, Magnus.

Magnus Bane, now an esteemed faculty member of Columbia University, wasn’t always so sparkling clean.

No, our source reveals that Bane Jr. has quite the sordid juvenile record.

Literally.

Magnus Bane was arrested half a dozen times for petty crime between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, when his record was officially sealed. Our intrepid reporters were able to find the dirty details, though.

After Asmodeus’s incarceration, Bane became part of the foster system where he bounced from home to home in the city. His mother died just a few years after giving birth and growing up, Magnus looked up to Asmodeus as only a son can look up to his father.

By all reports, Magnus was a model student-- at least on paper. That didn’t stop him from regularly skipping class or getting up to no good.

Looking at Bane’s record reveals charges for petty larceny, vandalism, and underage possession. And that’s the mere tip of the iceberg.

Things certainly don’t look good for Magnus, do they?

Still, something changed and Magnus took his SATS, graduated summa cum laude and headed for greener pastures-- Yale as a matter of fact, where he completed his undergraduate degree in three years before moving on to his doctoral thesis, spending part of that time in London.

Magnus Bane will be thirty in just a few months and things have never looked better for him-- he’s the Chair of the History Department at an Ivy League Institution, he’s been published dozens of times and is regularly invited to speak at conferences, both domestic and abroad.

We’ve even heard that he’s been busy working on a new book with an anticipated Summer 2019 release.

But that’s not all. Magnus Bane has been spotted out on the town with Alec Lightwood, the hottest musician in the world right now who just wrapped up a sold out world tour in May.

By most estimates, Lightwood is worth an astonishing 300 million dollars.

That begs the question to any reporter worth their salt: What does Bane see in Alec?

It’s easy to see what could have captured Lightwood’s attention. Magnus is handsome (have you seen his Insta???), successful, and we’re sure charming as hell.

We bet he gets it from his father.

But does Magnus see Alec’s million watt smile and rugged good looks or does he see dollar signs flashing?

Does he see a man who would do anything for his fans or his next meal ticket?

Alec is talented-- he can sing, act, and is well-known for his philanthropic endeavors. Idris News has long since waited with bated breath for the biggest name in the music scene to find his perfect match.

We just didn’t want to see it happen like this.

Our inside source claims that things went cold between them when she refused to keep paying for Bane’s tuition in London. Apparently, the professor was in dire straights and like a good girlfriend, our source had wanted to help-- until it became too much.

As you can see from our photos, it looks like Magnus and Alec have been getting cozy for quite a while. Those pictures at the zoo are #couplegoals and don’t get us started on the two of them enjoying a romantic walk throughout the city.

Is Magnus in love? Are we witnessing a real life fairy tale or has Bane just duped Lightwood into becoming his naive sugar daddy in a move that would make his father proud?

It seems like a dream come true for an earnest professor to meet a polished celebrity. We just wonder if fate had a helping hand and if Alec isn’t being played for a fool.

Shame on you Magnus for breaking our golden boy’s heart. We’ve seen Alec through many a scandal dating back to his pre-album days and we’ve got to say that we aren’t impressed.

Or maybe we are. It certainly takes a certain je ne sais quois to pull off such a trick. Time will tell what’s truth or lie with Alec and Magnus and who wouldn’t miss a seat to potentially one of the biggest scandals this year.

Whatever the case, the staff at Idris can’t wait to see what happens next.

Magnus looks up from the glossy magazine at the knock on his door. He sends Ragnor a wan smile.

“I take it you’ve seen the news.”

Ragnor looks at the magazine like others would a vulture. “If you’re asking if I’ve read that piece of trash then, unfortunately, the answer is yes.” He’s quiet a moment, studying Magnus before asking in a gentle voice, “How are you doing?”

Magnus laughs and it’s a bitter, angry noise. “How do you think I’m doing. I woke up next to Alec feeling great enough to take on the world. I didn’t think I’d actually have to, though,” he says, shaking his head.

Ragnor’s gaze sharpens at the mention of Alec. “And have you talked to lover boy since the story broke?”

Shaking his head, Magnus sits back in his chair. He looks through his office window and everything seems the same. There are students milling about like zombies so early on a Monday morning and there’s the kid that’s always flying a kite in a dinosaur onesie.

On any other morning, it’d be more of the same.

Too bad that Magnus’s world has imploded.

“I left his place less than two hours ago,” Magnus says, gaze unseeing. “I only found out when I came to campus. I was passing the Student Center when their magazine stand caught my eye. I certainly didn’t expect to see myself on a cover.”

He chuckles humorlessly. “I haven’t been in a magazine since I was fifteen.”

“Is your career at risk?”

Magnus shoots him a look. “I have tenure so they can’t fire me, if that’s what you’re asking. Forget that I haven’t even done anything. No, I think I’d go so far as to say that I’ve just become the most sought after guest at conferences for the next little while. What is it they say? All publicity is good publicity?”

Ragnor is quiet and the silence starts grating on his nerves. He can’t believe how fast things went to shit, after all.

“Goddamnit,” Magnus mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s bad enough that my past has come back to bite me in the ass. I always knew it would if I continued this thing with Alexander. What I can’t stand is that I wasn’t the one to tell him.”

Magnus looks at Ragnor, beseeching. “Alec had to find out that my dad’s a fucking con from someone else. From the press? From his PR team? It doesn’t matter-- all that matters is that I’ve probably ruined everything. Sometimes I hate my father so much I can taste it,” Magnus bitterly whispers and clenches his fist where it’s resting on the arm of his chair.

Taking a seat in front of Magnus’s desk, Ragnor takes his time thinking before looking up at Magnus. “What makes you so sure that you’ve ruined anything, friend? Surely if Alec is as great as you’ve been screeching about all this time then he won’t cast judgement so cavalierly?”

“What is there to judge? My dad is quite literally the worst crook Wall Street has ever seen. For Christ’s sake, his nickname is ‘The King of Wall Street.’ How does someone get that reputation,” Magnus demands before answering his own question. “They get it by being a cheat, by swindling hundreds and hundreds of people out of their money. Shit, he took savings from the elderly and college funds from middle-aged couples. He was a greedy bastard and he got what was coming to him.”

“That doesn’t mean that you should pay for what he did,” Ragnor says quietly. “You dad was a bastard. That shouldn’t reflect on you. If Alec is the man you say he is then he will see that, friend.”

“Yeah? And what if he doesn’t,” Magnus asks morosely.

“Then he doesn’t deserve you,” Ragnor snaps back impatiently. Magnus looks up to see Ragnor looking at him with fire in his eyes. “You’re a good man Magnus and I can’t stand that you let your father weigh you down like this.”

Magnus shoots him a dry look. “I think I’m incredibly well-adjusted for the shitstorm that was my adolescence.”

“Be that as it may, you’ve castigated yourself enough. I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you looked at Alec yesterday. From what I’ve seen, Lightwood seems like a decent enough man and anyone with eyes could see the way he’s smitten with you. I’m choosing-- shocking, I know-- to give the boy the benefit of the doubt.”

Thinking over Ragnor’s surprisingly impassioned speech, Magnus reaches for the phone on his desk on autopilot when it starts ringing.

“Bane,” he says, voice clipped.

“Dr. Bane, this is Elle Donovan from Celebrity Magazine--”

“No comment,” Magnus says coldly and hangs up without another word.

“The little parasites have already latched on to you,” Ragnor says easily.

Blowing out a breath, Magnus glares at the phone. “Goddamn rodents.”

“It looks like everything is out in the open now, at least. No matter how it was revealed, at least it’s no longer hanging over you and your relationship with Alec like a proverbial thundercloud.”

“You’re right,” Magnus drawls sarcastically. “Now instead of worrying about Alec’s reaction to learning about my past-- in which I envisioned that we would talk about things and, assuming he didn’t run as far away from me as he could get, we would sit down and formulate a plan to deal with the press-- I get to jump right to the inevitable break-up as well as deal with the fucking media frenzy at the same goddamn time.”

Ragnor raises a brow before standing and straightening his jacket. “I can see that you’re in no mood to listen to reason,” he sniffs. “I’ll leave you to your sulk and trust that you’ll deal with things without too much time spent crying into your damn hanky.”

“Like I have a choice,” Magnus mutters.

Ragnor ignores him. Making his way to the door of Magnus’s office, he spares a glance back.

“I know that this isn’t what you wanted and I know that you’ve been running from your past since the day you stepped foot onto Yale. I know that you had a bit of a misspent youth that’s easily forgiven. Alec makes you happy and I’d hate for you to end things before you even see what your boyfriend is thinking.

“As loathe as I am to admit it, there is rarely a silver lining that can’t be found. Talk to Alec and go from there. It doesn’t do anyone any good to decide the future before it’s even had a chance to play out. Talk to him,” Ragnor repeats and Magnus nods once.

“Thank you, Cabbage,” Magnus says softly.

Ragnor doesn’t say anything, just sends him one last piercing look before leaving Magnus’s office.

Sighing heavily, Magnus scrubs his hands over his face, makeup be damned. Looking at his clock, Magnus laughs a little incredulously that it’s still shy of eight in the morning.

He has class in half an hour and Magnus doesn’t even need to think about it before he’s opening an email and cancelling his classes for the day.

Just the thought of teaching to a room full of twenty year olds with such a white elephant hanging about ominously seems repulsive.

Standing, he picks up his bag-- that he hadn’t even had a chance to unpack-- and calls it a day, leaving his office and locking up.

He heads back to his apartment, hoping to fuck that he doesn’t run into anyone.

Magnus looks up from where he’d buried himself in work. The last of his revisions are due by the middle of August and he still has hundreds of pages to edit and review in the next two weeks.

Seeing that it’s late afternoon-- Magnus has successfully distracted himself for hours-- he stands, working out the kinks in his back from where he’s been bent pouring over his manuscript.

Looking through the peephole to ensure it’s not a particularly perseverent journalist, Magnus opens his door to see Cat and Madzie waiting in the hallway.

“Good afternoon. What are you two doing here,” he asks with an arched brow.

Rolling her eyes, Catarina moves past him as Madzie skips to the living room. “What do you think we’re doing here? The shit has hit the fan and what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t check in?”

“No, ‘I told you so?’”

Shaking her head fondly, Cat goes to sit down in the living room as Madzie goes to her cabinet and takes out some crayons and a coloring book, settling down in front of Cat to draw on the coffee table.

“I’m better than that,” Cat says dryly.

Magnus just sighs before sitting down in a chair. “You did warn me, though,” he admits.

Leaning forward, Cat rests a hand on Magnus’s knee. “Yeah, but even I thought you had more time.” She raises a brow. “You know who went to Aldertree, don’t you?”

“I’d have to be a fu-- fool not to,” Magnus scoffs, clearing his throat as he glances at Madzie.

Smile reaching her eyes, Catarina just shakes her head. “All this time and she just can’t help herself.”

"She did warn me in London. I probably should have seen this coming. Maybe I’m losing my touch,” Magnus mutters under his breath.

“Or,” Catarina draws out. “You’ve been a little preoccupied lately. It happens to the best of us,” she teases.

Magnus laughs a little. “Still,” he allows. “I feel like I should have known-- had a feeling, something-- that my world was about to implode.”

Cat shrugs as she leans down to pick up a crayon that fell to the floor. “The only thing you can do now is move forward. Deal with whatever happens and know that you aren’t alone. You have us, of course, but don’t forget that you have Alec.”

“Do I?”

Glaring, Catarina replies, “Yes, you stupid man. You do. Until Alec explicitly ends things, he’s in your corner. From what I’ve seen, I hardly think that an opportunistic viper is going to make him tuck tail and run. He’s made of sterner stuff than that and you do both yourself and him a disservice thinking otherwise.”

“But I didn’t tell him, Cat," Magnus implores. "He found out from someone else and you can’t tell me that doesn’t cast things in a dark light.”

“Please, Magnus. Like we don’t all have things in our past that we’d rather not see the light of day. Like Alec Lightwood doesn’t understand that.”

“Cat,” Magnus says, tone soaked in self-deprecation. “We literally talked about this a few days ago-- about his reputation and insecurity surrounding his career. He’s been used in the past and was rather jaded. I talked him down and we reached an understanding. I said that I didn’t want his money, that I was far more concerned with the person behind the wallet.”

“Well, there we go, then,” Cat exclaims. “He knows your intentions and that you aren’t just another bottom-feeder.”

“Don’t you see, Catarina? I said all of that only for my past to blow up at the worst imaginable time and you must know that any sane person would have an unpleasant case of whiplash.”

Cat sends Magnus an arch look. “Not if that person was as smitten as your boy is over you.”

Magnus opens his mouth to retort but Cat beats him to it. “On the surface? Yeah, Magnus, it looks bad. I won’t lie about that. But that isn’t taking into consideration that you two have been friends for months and Alec should know better. He should at least talk to you before making any rash judgments.”

“I just don’t want to talk to him-- to have that conversation-- and have it be the end.”

“Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do and sometimes people surprise you, even if you thought you had it all figured out,” Cat counters.

“What’s wrong?”

Magnus looks up from where he’d been brooding to see Madzie at his side. He smiles, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Some people found out some things about me that I’d rather they hadn’t. I’m a little afraid of what the consequences will be.”

Madzie hums a little as she thinks before her gaze snaps back to Magnus. “You’re always telling me that I have to be brave even when I don’t want to. Like, when I fell off my bike and didn’t want to get back on. You told me that I had to face my fears and I did! And now I love riding my bike in the park with Cindy.”

“Are you saying that I have to take my own advice?”

Madzie nods solemnly and Magnus smiles. It’s small, and a little defeated, but it’s there nonetheless.

With that, Catarina stands up, helping Madzie clean up her crayons. As she does so, the shifts so that she can see Magnus.

“When are you going to talk to him? You really can’t let this fester,” she warns.

Magnus opens his mouth to respond just as his phone vibrates. He looks over on autopilot and freezes when he sees the text message.

“Speak of the devil,” he murmurs and stares down at his phone, dread settling in his stomach like lead.

Magnus, when are you free? We need to talk.

[hoekinsmoved]

HAWKINS 5

i mushed two parts together so this is a lil bit longer than the usual oof

pairing: mike wheeler x oc (steve’s sister)

warning: profanity

P.S.: i moved to a new blog!! visit and follow me here for the rest of the series  ♡  

3.1k words

masterlist

I HAVE A FUCKING NAME, ASSHOLE

For the first time since she's step foot on the relatively barren town, Stacy finds herself walking around the commercial area to look for interesting shops or places she can spend time alone. The school she'll be going to in fall is at the heart of Hawkins, as she has scaled. Hawkins Middle is at the center, and a few meters away from it are other establishments like an arcade, a 24/7 diner, a mall, a library, and two parks on opposite ends. Stacy has also taken note of a building shaped like a cross from eagle's view, and how it has police tapes all over them. She figures it used to be Hawkins Laboratory.

The police headquarters weren't any exciting, so she didn't really dwell in there a lot.  Plus, Steve wanted to have lunch at the diner, and nothing invites Stacy better than free food, so of course she's planning on going.

Steve did leave one detail in particular though.

All the other kids are coming, and had Stacy known that before, she would have gladly skipped the manipulative free food offer. She entered the diner and didn't even have to look around to see the big crowd of children. She tried to leave, really, but since they've already seen her enter, Steve didn't let her go. He hurried over to Stacy and literally dragged her to the booth where all of them squeezed in to fit.

"I want nothing to do with this," Stacy says immediately, staring intently at her brother. Hell, she even tried to act miserable just so he'd let her go. Stacy knows that heaven knows Steve would listen to her more than these lousy kids.

Right?

"Don't fall for it, Steve. We really need this." Dustin entices her brother.

And just as she knows it, she stands corrected of her previous statement as her very own brother whom she shares practically the same genetic family tells her, "Just let them have this one, Stac—"

"He yelled at me, Steve!" Stacy drops, avoiding any contact from the dark-haired boy seated next to Dustin.. It's something she rarely ever talks about, because it's a sensitive topic, but for the time being, the context is that she never handles yelling well. In her defense, it wasn't like her parents or anyone for that matter used to yell at her excessively when she was younger, and that she's traumatized, but there's just really something about having  someone raise their voice at her that ticks a bomb in her head.

The booth turns silent at Stacy's outburst, as her brother holds a look of contemplation on his face. Mike looks unnerved, uncomfortable with the way Stacy is talking about him as if he’s not there himself. "I just said we were going in circles, and I got yelled at. He was hostile with me the entire time. I told you,  Steve. I want nothing to do with this—"

"We just need answers, and we'll let you be, we promise." Lucas sighs.

"You're the only one who can tell us where it is and what's it like. You need to tell us, Stacy." Dustin adds.

Stacy glances at Steve who immediately says in her defense, "Yeah, okay, she doesn't owe you anything, understand?"  Silence consumes the table once again, until Will breaks it.

"I'm really sorry for what happened that day, Stacy. It doesn't excuse what Mike did, but please..." Will trails off, and that certain look on his face that Stacy can't read softens her mood a little. She heard he's been through a lot, and perhaps this is a little bit too much for him to take—that his friend is stuck where he had been lost. As it turns out, Stacy is not at all heartless. Only sometimes.

She sighs, shaking her head as she takes a quick glance at her brother who only looks at her like he's letting her make her own decision. "Does anyone have a pen and paper?"

For twenty minutes straight, Stacy explained to them the way around the woods to the stacks of logs, and because they have loads of questions about how they'd be able to know which tree is which, it took even more time before she's able to explain the inside of the log stack.

"We don't have a degree in botany, Stacy. We don't know which leaf looks like which." Dustin tells her with a funny look on his face that makes Steve laugh a little inside. He doesn’t ever let them notice but he does laugh at them every once in a while. It’s not out of judgment though, or anything like that. Steve just can’t help it that these kids are his sole source of entertainment for the entire summer.

"That's not my problem, mate." Stacy only replies coldly. Steve chokes on his milkshake a little, but only because he’s still having trouble swallowing the tough pill that is her sister’s newfound sharp attitude. "The log stack stands out like a sore thumb mostly because there aren’t any signs of logging in the area, meaning it‘s quite sketchy why it's there. Walk your way around it and you'll see an open door. There are papers strewn everywhere, and I doubt you'd be able to make sense of everything. It seemed like they were looking for something before they left, so maybe those files weren’t as important. This side seemed to be a forum place, with a table and chairs, but by the corner is a metal draw. You might find somethting there but if it's locked, I think I saw a key... er... by this corner on the floor," She explains as she continues to draw the inside of the log stack.

"I didn't see any cameras on the outside." Stacy notes finally, even though she's sure it's technically not trespassing because it's in the woods. Still, it doesn't take a lot to be safe, especially that it's the destructive local government Steve described to her, that they're talking about. The same institution that's responsible for the people-snacking demo-g monsters.

Dustin eyes Steve before raising a hand in Stacy's direction. She spares a glance his way, and so he warily says, "Can I ask something?"

Stacy raises a thick brow in suspicion. She wonders what else he wants to know, as everything and more has been laid on the table already. Stacy’s even proud of how neat and straight her lines are on the paper. "About the logs in the woods?" she asks.

"No," Dustin answers.

Then Stacy is quick to say, "Then no—"

"Do you have superpowers like Eleven?” As the name leaves Dustin’s mouth, Mike whips his head to glare at his friend. “Because how did you remember all that from a two-minute visit?" He chokes out, despite the fact that Stacy told him she won't answer anything.

Thankfully, Steve unglues his mouth open and cuts Dustin off, "Okay, we're done with that now." He then turns to his sister and says with a smile, "The strawberry milkshake here is nice."

"Okay I'll talk your word for it. Get me some fries too, please." She tells her brother who only nods and stands up from the booth. "Thanks, peasant."

Steve waits in line to order Stacy's food which leaves the table in silence. Max is looking out the window, like she'd rather be skating than be here at all. Stacy notes that she does look like she has a lot in mind. After all, she hasn’t spoken the entire time. Stacy then reminds herself to ask Max if anything’s bothering her later on before she and Steve go home. Lucas, on the other hand, is just watching her and sometimes he would glance at Dustin, but that's about it. Dustin's fidgeting with the condiments on the table while Will's sipping on a chocolate milkshake. Stacy catches him looking at first, but then she glances at Mike who's glaring at the table like it just murdered his family. He seems pretty problematic, as Stacy can tell, so she's glad she won't be getting involved in the mess anymore.

Sincerely though, she hopes they find Eleven. She doesn’t know the girl but there’s nothing more she feels strongly about other than knowing how good and safe it feels to be found. She knows. She was there too just weeks prior.

Stacy knows she was promised peace after that interaction, but the truth is the group of kids might be known around town for doing extraordinary things but they aren’t quite known for keeping their promises.

With Bowie blasting volumes inside her room, Stacy can barely hear her thoughts let alone the knocking on her door. Dustin's small hands continue to thump against Stacy's door, harder and harder each time but it doesn't budge a bit.

"How is she not deaf," Will asks real questions, to which Dustin only shrugs. He's getting really impatient. Downstairs though, Lucas is enjoying the company of Bentley, the family dog, while munching on the fresh cookies Mrs. Harrington baked as a weekly tradition. Max sits a few feet from Lucas, watching the adorable dog in awe as she remains oblivious to the commotion upstairs.

Stacy's music is muffled from the outside, but Steve can no longer take Dustin's calls for his sister to open the door so he steps outside his own room, yelling a quick, "Stacy I'm opening your door!" as a warning before doing so.

The first thing the three of them notice is the easel set up in the middle of Stacy's room, with a palette clasped in one of her hands. Stacy can't help but feel relieved that her canvas is facing the opposite direction from the door hence they aren't able to look into her art and in turn look into her thoughts. She never admits it but it's the most difficult thing for her to do— share her feelings with other people.

The music travels full-blast around the hallways with the lack of buffering that her door once provided, causing the two boys to flinch a little. Steve gets back inside his room while Dustin and Will remain standing by Stacy's door.

"What?" Stacy asks expectantly, just after she lowers down the volume from her player.

"We need help with—"

"No."

"Come on—“

"No.

"We're not Mike! Okay! I know you're upset and shit but we really need your help!" Dustin says exasperatedly.

Stacy furrows her eyebrows at the audacity. They're asking for her help yet he's the one raising his voice at her? Right...

"It's... It's a binary code, and Steve said you can read binary." Will says timidly. Stacy curses steve under her breath as he has yet again, sold her out to these pesky kids who seem as if they’re closer to age 3 than they are to their actual ages.

"Go ask some techy computer dude," Stacy groans, walking towards her door to close it but Dustin stops her.

"Listen, the onle techy computer dude that we know is Bob... and he's dead—" Dustin chokes over his own words upon the realization.

They haven't mentioned Bob since the incident, and he truly doesn't mean to bring him up so nonchalantly in front of Will. Will visibly stiffens at the mention, enough for Stacy to take notice of his sudden reaction. It must be a sensitive topic, she supposes.

"Fine," she sighs, snatching the pieces of paper from Dustin's hold. She scans through the first page quickly, translating the 0s and 1s to words in a second. "They're not... they're not words." Stacy mumbles to herself as she picks up a pen and paper to write the corresponding meaning of the codes.

Dustin and Will both watch Stacy in amusement and slight worry that perhaps she's making all this up, but then again for some reason, they still trust the intimidating girl. Why is it that it hasn't been two weeks since she arrived here and yet they've needed her help twice now? What does that mean?

"It seems like a password." Stacy shrugs after finishing the decoding. She passes the pieces of paper back to Dustin and Will who were just about to thank her until a certain angsty boy comes waltzing through the hallway.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Mike asks his friends, sending side glances towards Stacy's way. "I went to the shed and found no one!"

"We thought you still wanted time on your own." Dustin squeaks at his diva of a friend.

Mike scowls, "That's bullshit! What, it's just been a week but you're already buddy buddy with Steve's sister?" The young boy shakes with anger, way too pissed off to notice the look on Stacy's face that resembles his but in grater magnitudes.

"I have a fucking name, asshole." She flips him the finger before attempting to slam her door shut.

However, Will's soft voice cuts through the tension, "Wait..." he trails off, walking closer to what Stacy was previously spending her time on before they came banging at her door. Will's eyes holds a strong emotion even Stacy can't decipher, but her good guess is grief and horror. His brown eyes scan the canvas fleetingly, as if staring too much at it would teleport him to the place he knows too well. Of course, Stacy has no idea what place it is exactly, and she just thought it's an underwater city with all the cold tones, but Will knows the dimension all too well to confirm that the painting is an exact replica of it.

Stacy finally gets a hint of what's running through Will's head and she only stares at him as a plea for him to not say anything. With the same gaze she picks up that he understands, but he looks as if he wants to talk about it.

At this point, Dustin and Mike are getting creeped out at the two kids' silent conversation. "What is it, Will?" Mike asks Will with a worried look on his face. It may sound funny but for a second there, Mike thought Stacy was trying to hypnotize the short boy.

Will keeps eye contact with Stacy before turning his head to look at his friends, "Can I talk to Stacy before we go?" He's not exactly asking for permission, but it's sort of a request for them to not leave him behind and spare him a minute or two to confront Stacy.

Stacy's head goes full turbo as truth be told, she's not ready to talk about what she painted when she's not even aware of what it is. But, since Dustin and Mike only gave Will a malicious look before leaving him inside Stacy's room, she knows she has to face him one way or another.

"That's..." Will trails off even before Stacy's bedroom door closes. "That's the upside down." He studies the incomplete painting, a strong emotion burning in his chest as he realizes that what Stacy drew was far too accurate— the structure and the direction, even the cracks and the flickering lights. He knew that she had to have been there before to be able to paint it so spot-on.

"The what?" She asks Will who finally takes his eyes off the painting.

Will gulps, "The upside down, where I got lost." Fear takes over his face so Stacy decides to sit down on her bed and pat the space next to her. The poor boy looks like he's about to relive a dark moment in his past.

He takes the seat next to Stacy who only briefly asks him to explain what the upside down is exactly. Staying true, he only says, "The exact thing you painted. That's the upside down. The suspended flakes, the streets, the icky coating."

“Where's the upside down?" Stacy inquires curiously. Perhaps it's an actual place, she mentally asks.

Will struggles to string the right words. After all, it's difficult to explain a place to someone who has never been there before. He figures his previous assumption could be wrong if Stacy doesn't have any idea what the upside down is. "It's a different dimension. Like the place we're in right now, an exact replica, but the scarier version. The one with real monsters."

Stacy feels bad when Will's voice breaks, as if it's physical torture for him to talk about the topic. "I didn't mean to remind you of it, I'm sorry. It just appeared to me in a dream, and I can't take it off my mind so I thought transferring it on canvas would help me forget it." She apologizes sincerely. Something about Will tells her to be cautious, not for her own sake and safety but his. She doesn't understand why but she feels a certain connection with him that inevitably pulls her to him. Will doesn't admit it to himself yet but he feels the same way.

It's not even romantic, it's like the feeling Stacy gets every time Steve is around, like she's safe and that she should be close to him for comfort. She can't explain it exactly but she lets it lead the way.

"It's okay, it wasn't your intention. If it helps, I draw to comfort myself too,” he smiles softly. “I'm sorry we keep on bothering you." Will looks down at his hands as he apologizes. He metaphorically shrinks like a little boy in great fear of authority.

"I can't say it's fine, but it's not harming me in any way so I guess it is." Stacy says but then she realizes how intimidating it is so she adds, "And I just really want you to find your friend so that little punk could get his panties out of the twist it has been for the past week."

Will smiles at the statement which he finds personally funny but he thinks it'd be rude to laugh at it since it's about Mike anyway. "Our friends are saying he's always been like that when it's about Eleven. The first time she disappeared was tough on everyone."

"Yeah, but he shouldn't take it out on you guys, or anyone for that matter." Stacy shrugs.

Will nods, "Yeah." Silence follows the two of us for a moment before he breaks it. "Lucas and I are going out tomorrow for ice cream, maybe if we get you one, it'll be enough to apologize for bothering you all the time."

A smile inevitably makes its way through Stacy’s lips. "An apology can't be in the form of a purchase, Will." With her words, Will tenses, but then Stacy only laughs lightheartedly, "but yeah, sure."

[blessed-but-distressed]

This is a thing that I wrote a long time ago.

It isn’t fanfiction. It’s just fiction. 

I will be posting here until I think of what to do with it.

FERNWEH

 When Becca decides to shake off those shackles and get the hell outta Dodge, she doesn’t have many regrets. She won’t miss those late nights folding baby clothes at her local All Baby Needs SuperStore. She won’t miss her distant parents or her uninspiring classes for her useless degree. The only person she will miss is Jack.

Jack is stuck in the post-university, pre-real job wasteland of delayed adolescence. He doesn’t know if he is a socialist, or an anarchist, or just reads too many books. He stacks vegetables, he haunts libraries and he chases girls. But now his best friend is leaving town, and he doesn’t know if he can handle being left behind.

A story about growing up, leaving home, staying behind, sad bastard music and the people who make everything bearable.

Chapter One: 

Becca

Truthfully, I can handle all of it. The cloying stench of mouldy socks and clove cigarettes. The scratchy, standard-issue woollen blanket that wasn’t quite enough to wade off the night-time chill. The oddly masculine snoring that would make any trucker proud. The clanking of pipes in the wall beside my bed that had me sat bolt upright on my first night, half convinced the ghost of Jacob Marley was coming for me, dragging the chains he’d forged in life. All of this didn’t bother me. Not really. But the weeping. I couldn’t handle the fucking weeping.

I’d been sharing a room in Berlin’s cheapest youth hostel for a week with Ilonka, from Hungary. Ilonka the weeper. And we aren’t talking about girlish sobs here, with intermittent hiccups. Oh no. Not Ilonka. Beautiful, heartbroken, weeping Ilonka. She didn’t do anything by half measures.

She’d told me her life story on the first night, over a Midori and lemonade in the bar downstairs. I was quickly coming to the realisation that this was how it was done. Nothing in Backpacker World got done without a bit of Dutch courage.

Ilonka’s story was that she’d come to Berlin to intern at one of those ridiculously trendy, ridiculously contemporary art galleries in Kreuzberg. Which made sense. With her extensive collection of very cute multi-coloured berets, long, lean legs encased habitually in skinny jeans, and her Franka Potente in Run Lola Run hair, she certainly looked the part. She made me feel inadequate every time she entered a room, and I was convinced that was at least half of what contemporary art was all about.

Which is why it was so disconcerting when halfway through her third Midori and lemonade, big fat tears began to slip down her perfect, Eastern European face, and into her drink, which she continued to sip through her straw, unperturbed. Then, without much warning, she keeled forward, and a high-pitched noise of distress began to rise from the back of her throat, not unlike that of an ambulance leaving the scene of an accident. The barman, cute and Irish though he may have been, gave us that ‘You’d better clear the fuck out’ look perfected by cute Irish bartenders the world over, and I bundled her upstairs before he summoned over the bouncer, who was significantly more intimidating.

Once I’d gotten her settled on her twin bed, she pulled herself together enough to relate to me the rest of the story. On her third week into her internship, she’d rung up her boyfriend, Kolos, back home in Budapest, and her best friend had answered the phone. Turns out they’d been screwing around behind her back for the last six months, and they had used Ilonka’s absence to move in together. Which you have to give points for, if only for the sheer brazen cowardice of it all. Were they going to keep up the charade until it came time to ask her to be the Maid of Honour at their wedding?

Ilonka was a wreck. She’d keep it together all day, every day at work, but as soon as she got back into the room she would just lie on her bed, crying inconsolably for hours, until she eventually, mercifully, fell asleep. If she wasn’t weeping, she was sitting on the window sill, where she had pried the window open, and was smoking her favourite clove cigarettes in flagrant disregard of our dorm’s no smoking policy, and my (fabricated) assertions that I was an asthmatic. She’d hold her cigarette in one hand and her mobile phone in the other, and yell obscenities in Hungarian to whoever was on the other end, in between puffs. I don’t speak a lick of Hungarian, but you can always tell an obscenity, no matter the language. It’s about the force behind the delivery. The venom behind the words.

The hostel had been chosen for its location, just off the Ku'damm, not for its internal décor or sterling customer service record. Which is just as well, because I’d been in cancer wards with more cheer; the grey-speckled institutional style walls hinting at the building’s previous life as an insane asylum perhaps, or at the very least a reform school. My polite request to move to a different room had been met with a coolly raised eyebrow, and an unconvincing promise that they’d see what they could do.

It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for my first foray into the world of international travel. But it certainly made for interesting anecdotes for my emails sent back home.

I’d say things were going much better for me outside of the hostel, but that was a matter of some debate.

A few months back, embittered by my slow slide from promising Journalism student to person-who-straightens-cans-of-baby-food-in-a-budget-department-store-for-a-living, I’d stayed up until four in the morning one night, researching methods of escaping the monotonous retail hell that my life had become.

My unlikely salvation was with a company that would pay for me to fly to Germany to work as an Au Pair for a year. They’d even put me up in Berlin for a month, so I could brush up on the language, before they dispatched me to the family they would pair me with. All of those weekend evenings spent wrangling my neighbour’s kids to bed when I was sixteen had suddenly come in handy, and I had signed on the dotted line.

Of course, when I say “brush up on the language”, I mean learn from scratch. Of course. German had never been an elective at high school. I’d learnt Italian, although that data had almost been completely rewritten in my mind, replaced with an intricate knowledge of song lyrics by a particular favourite band of mine, who specialised in what my friend Jack liked to call “Sad Bastard Music.”

The total sum of my German language proficiency before my departure had been restricted to numbers one through ten, hello, good bye, thank you, and handful of random phrases one picks up after a lifetime of watching World War Two dramas, none of which were suitable for polite company. My knowledge of German culture was mostly restricted to a general appreciation for Daniel Brühl’s face, and a vague recollection of having read Faust when I was fourteen.

It was not until I took a seat on the first day of classes, that I realised what a grave mistake I had made. There was no way I would be able to wrangle children, even relatively small, uncomplicated ones, in four weeks time, with absolutely zero grasp on the language. It was impossible. Unfathomable.

Our teacher was a jovial fellow called Hans-Peter. He had the kind of white bushy moustache and knitted jumpers which made him look rather like a benevolent tug-boat captain, and kind eyes that encouraged students to take risks where they might otherwise have kept silent. He was a good teacher. I could tell. But there was no way in hell he was going to make me semi-fluent within a month.

Every classroom in the language school was named after a particular river in Germany. Our classroom, Donau, which I later discovered was the German word for the Danube, was right at the top of three dizzyingly uneven flights of stairs, in a converted attic where every inch of wall space was dedicated to laminated charts depicting a different German verb, and its various forms. It also had a broken radiator, which Hans-Peter would kick good-naturedly every morning when it failed to break the chill, before instructing us to keep our gloves on.

That’s the first useful German phrase I learn.

“Handschuhe auf!“ Gloves on.

The second:

“Jacken auf!“ Jackets on.

I’d always had a natural talent for scholastic endeavours. Which is to say, I’d really crashed and burned at university when I’d gotten through twelve years of schooling without really trying too hard, to find I actually had no idea how to study. But I’d always managed to scrape by on natural ability. I had no natural ability when it came to German. I was a babe in the woods. And I definitely needed to study.

Being in a foreign country where you don’t speak the language is a little like being a newborn lamb. You stumble a lot, and you’re vulnerable as hell, but everyone finds you pretty damn adorable anyway, for the most part. But for someone who has always been really good at things, it is the ultimate exercise in humility. Suddenly, you’re unable to do even the most simplest of things. Order a coffee. Ask for directions. Make an effusive apology to the angry looking guy you bump into on the train.

It had taken me five whole days to work up the necessary courage to approach even a McDonalds counter. I practiced the order in my head, as I waited in line.

“Ein Happy Meal, bitte.” One Happy Meal, please.

I didn’t think even I could fuck that up. I tried to anticipate what questions they would ask me, in which order. Would I like a toy? Would I like ketchup?

When they asked me if I wanted mayo or ketchup on my fries, the unexpected option made me answer in the affirmative, without specifying which I preferred, pissing off the harried-looking girl behind the counter in the process. I could feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment, and I backed away from the counter, waving my hands and butchering an apology in my pidgin German.

I never went back to that McDonalds.

Like a diamond in the rough, I found a T-Mobile payphone on my way back to the hostel and I fed about ten euro in change into the machine until it finally connected me to Jack’s mobile. It rang out, and went to voicemail, and instead of leaving a message, I hung up the receiver, and burst into angry, embarrassed tears. I didn’t get any change back, either.

Wiping my face clean with the sleeve of my coat, I hurried back to the hostel, before I could make an idiot of myself in some new way. Still hungry, I raided the vending machine in the lobby, and sat on my bed eating out-of-date chips until Ilonka had returned. She took one look at my tear-stained face and unsatisfying dinner and bundled me into my coat and took me out to an Irish Pub around the corner for a pint of Guinness and something called a Blarney Burger.

“It will not always be so,” she reminds me sagely, as she steals a chip from my plate. And for a little while there, Ilonka is my hero. When I grow up I want to be just like her. We sing Cranberries songs together, and make the acquaintance of some chipper blokes from County Clare who are, of course, enamoured with Ilonka’s ethereal Eastern European beauty, and keep us plied with enough black stuff that I quite forget about the dizzying regret that has been eating me away inside for days.

But later that night, the weeping starts again, and it chips away, slowly but steadily, at my newfound regard for her. I get up for class early the next morning, head still throbbing from the previous night’s excesses, and leave her a note on her bedside table.

“It will not always be so.”

[siriuslybuckybarnes]

I Wish I Could Hate You (Pietro x Reader) Part 17/?

Imagine being friends with the twins before they volunteered for the experiments and then being shocked when you join the Avengers and encounter them at the Hydra base in Sokovia.

This is an idea that hit me randomly honestly.  I used an original character instead of reader though.

DISCLAIMER: All translations found via Google Translate; therefore may be inaccurate to a serious degree.  Just a small warning.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 

I Wish I Could Hate You Part 17

Lilya sat five tables away from Wanda, who was stirring sugar into her tea as she tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Alright,” Steve said over their comlink, “what do you see?”

The question was meant for Wanda.  This was her first mission, and Steve had incredibly high hopes for her.

“Standard beat cops,” Wanda replied easily.  “Small station.”  She turned in her seat to watch two cops laughing together in front of the police station. “Quiet street.  It’s a good target.”

“There’s an ATM on the south corner,” Steve began, “which means-”

“Cameras,” Wanda finished for him.  Lilya could almost feel Steve’s proud smile from where she was sitting.  He was testing Wanda, and she was passing.

“Both cross-streets are one way,” Steve began again, “So-”

“Compromised escape routes.” Wanda was looking down at the table, and Lilya would tell the wheels in her head were turning.

“Which means our guy doesn’t care about being seen.  He isn’t afraid to make a mess on the way out.”

Lilya was watching the street in front of the station.  Though to most it was a normal day, the illusion of peace was making her antsy.

It was too quiet.

Her eye drifted towards a red Range Rover that had parked a few moments before. It was bulletproof.

Steve’s voice beat her to the punch, “You see that Range Rover halfway up the block?”

“The red one?” Wanda asked, taking a sip of her tea. “It’s cute.”

“It’s also bulletproof,” Nat interjected and Lilya’s eyes moved to where she was sitting, two tables behind Wanda.  “Which means private security, which means more guns, which means more headaches for somebody.”  She paused to take a sip of her drink.  “Probably us.”

“You guys know I can move things with my mind, right?” Wanda asked, her eyes drifting to Lilya’s, a small smirk on her face.

Lilya saw Nat smile slightly, which she quickly turned into a grimace.

“Looking over your shoulder needs to become second nature,” Nat said as she stared at the back of Wanda’s head.

“Hey Nat,” Sam said suddenly, “anybody ever tell you you’re a little paranoid?”

Lilya chuckled, stifling it in her coffee as she continued to watch the Range Rover.

“Not to my face,” Nat replied.  “Why?  You hear something?”

“Eyes on target, folks,” Steve said, his voice all business, effectively ending their chat.  “This is the best lead we’ve had on Rumlow in six months, I won’t want to lose him.”

Sam scoffed loudly, “If he sees us coming that won’t be a problem.  He kinda hates us, remember?”

“Didn’t you turn his face into a barbeque last time you saw him?” Lilya asked quietly.  “He was in the building when it blew up, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, Sparky,” Sam answered.  “That’s why he hates us.”

“Makes sense,” she replied, shrugging.  “I would be a little bitter if someone dropped a building on me, too.”

“Sam,” Steve said suddenly.  “See that garbage truck?  Tag it.  Sparky, you sense it?  I want you to track it too.”

Lilya reached out mentally, searching until she found it.

“It’s two miles from me, Steve,” she whispered.  “The only way I can track it any further is if I Jump to it.  I can’t do that right now.”

“The truck is loaded for max weight,” Sam said, “and the driver’s armed.”

“It’s a battering ram,” Nat said.

“Go now,” Steve said urgently.

“Wait, why?” Wanda asked as Lilya stood.

They had been focusing on the wrong target.

“Because he’s not hitting the police,” Steve answered quickly.  “Sparky, cut ‘em off!”

Lilya Jumped to the truck, watching as the driver leapt out as it charged towards the entrance of the Institute for Infectious Diseases.

“Rahat,” she muttered as she Jumped again, throwing a wall up in front of the truck.  There was too much momentum behind the truck, and her wall shattered on impact, as the truck slammed into the concrete barriers and screeching to a halt.  “I couldn’t stop them,” she yelled, Jumping so she was between the crashed truck and the building.  “I’ll keep them occupied until you get here.”

Two more trucks pulled into the lot, the backs opening to reveal armed men, dressed in full body armor.  Lilya threw another wall up in front of her as they opened fire, and she pushed it forward until two men were knocked backwards.

In the distance she saw a man, larger than any of the others climb out of the back of the second truck.  She let out another breath, Rumlow.

In her distraction, they shot teargas into the building and she spat out another curse in Sokovian.  “They have full body armor,” she grit out.  “Semi-automatic rifles, sounds like AR-15s.”  She threw a charged knife into the neck of one of the men, and he dropped to the ground as he let out a cry of pain.  “I count nine still outside.  Six went inside, not including Rumlow.”  Pulling her hands together, she created a panel of energy, pushing it towards another, “Make that eight outside.”

Steve landed with a roll, jumping onto one of the vehicles and using his shield to send one flying into the nearest wall.  The sound of the man’s spine cracking was sickeningly audible.

“Seven,” Steve breathed out.

“I make five,” Sam replied as Wanda landed behind Lilya.

Wanda grabbed one of the men, throwing him up in the air, “Sam!”  He flew down, slamming into the man midair.

“Four,” Sam said as he landed and walked towards Lilya.  “You good, Sparky?”

“Never better,” she replied easily.

“Rumlow’s on the third floor,” Sam said as Steve walked up to them.

“Wanda,” he said, motioning her forward.  “Just like we practiced.”

“What about the gas?” she asked as she flexed her hands.

“Get it out,” he replied as he jumped, Wanda catching him easily and lifting him up to the third floor.

Lilya turned away, focusing on the remaining four men.  They opened fire, taking cover behind their vehicles, and Lilya Jumped so she was behind one, grabbing his neck as she threw a knife into the other’s leg.  She drained the one she was holding, and sent a bolt of energy into the other, causing him to drop to the ground convulsing as Lilya flexed her hand.  Clenching her hand to a fist, the man stopped moving as the electricity sputtered out and his breathing stopped.

Just as she was about to Jump to the others, a missile landed behind them, killing them both instantly.

“Rumlow has a biological weapon,” Steve’s voice came over the coms.  Lilya turned around as Nat replied quickly.

“I’m on it.”

After a few moments, Steve’s labored breathing came through and he groaned.

“Sam, he’s in an AFV heading north.” Steve groaned again.  “Sparky, you copy that too?”

“I copy,” she answered.  “Sam, tell me where.”

“I gotcha, Sparky,” Sam replied.  “Hone in on me.” He paused. “I’ve got four.  They’re splitting up.”

Lilya Jumped to Sam’s location as Nat spoke, “I’ve got the two on the left.”

“They ditched their gear.” Steve said.  “It’s a shell game now.  One of them has the payload-”

Lilya turned at the sound of Steve’s voice, just in time to see him throw his shield in the air as the grenade went off.

“Sparky,” Steve yelled as Rumlow appeared behind him.  “Go help the others, I’ve got this!”

“Behind you!” she screamed.

“Go!”

Lilya Jumped to Nat, landing a few feet behind her as she chased after the men.

“He doesn’t have it!” Sam exclaimed. “I’m empty!”

“Looks like I chose well,” Lilya muttered as she took off after Nat.  She came through to the opening to see Nat standing off with the two men, one of them holding a vile.

“Drop it,” he said, staring at Nat.  “Or I drop this.”

Lilya Jumped behind him, grabbing his arm and twisting as Nat shot the other.  The man dropped the vile and Nat lunged forward, catching it just before it hit the ground.

“Good job Sparky,” she breathed.  “Good job.  Payload secure.”

“I sense sarcasm,” Lilya muttered as she pulled Nat to her feet.  “I should have caught that, sorry.”

“He knew you, you know,” Rumlow’s voice cut through.  “Your boy, your pal, your Bucky,”

Lilya cut the rest out, Jumping to Steve’s location just in time to see him press a button.  Wanda caught the blast, containing it as she sent it skyward.

It broke free of her hold as it flew, exploding into the building next to it, causing the windows to shatter at the impact.

“Sam,” Steve said as Lilya rushed forward, catching Wanda as she sank to her knees.  “We need fire and rescue on the south side of the building!  We gotta get up there.”

“I’m going!” Lilya shouted, after ensuring Wanda was alright.  Physically at least.  “I’m going in.”

“Sparky,” Steve yelled after her, “Wait, take me-!”

Lilya had already Jumped into the building, cutting Steve off before he could finish.  Steve sighed out.

“-with you.  Guess I’ll take the stairs.”

Lilya rolled her eyes, checking her surroundings as she searched for any survivors.

Part 18

Oh my... It’s been forever guys, and for that I am so sorry.

BUT I hope maybe this will make up for it?  We’ve finally reached Civil War!!  What side do you think Lilya is on???  Who will Lilya side with?? Tony who’s like her father, or Steve whom she deeply respects and loves like a brother???

Thanks for all the sweet messages since the last part, they’ve really meant a lot.

I’m going to start working on some New Years fics now, though I probably won’t post them before New Years...

[wvrners-blog]

*snoop dogg vc* greetings, loved ones! let’s take a journey!   ; )

alternatively: hello, my name is lea ( 19 | est | she/her ) and this is the one where i introduce you to my little raindrop droptop gumdrop son, WARNER CHOI !

isn’t that ROSS BUTLER ? wait, that’s just WARNER. you can tell it’s him because of the WINTER GREEN TIC TACS & THE SCENT OF MAISON MARGIELA’S ‘JAZZ CLUB’, TOPPED OFF WITH A HONEY-DIPPED SMILE. he is the TWENTY THREE year old in the CHOI family. people say that he tends to be ALLUSIVE but i’ve seen them be PACIFIC. don’t tell anyone but i heard that he is hiding THAT HE HAS BEEN FORGING PRESCRIPTIONS AND SKIMMING MEDS FROM HIS WORKPLACE FOR BOTH HIMSELF AND HIS FAMILY. 

alright so just to preface: it is currently 12:15am, i have just returned from the gym, and therefore this intro will be an absolute trash amalgamation of headcanons & word vomit! but without further ado! let’s dive in!

warner is still v much a dude i’m figuring out, but a skeletal version of his BACKSTORY goes a little bit like this:

born & raised in sunray, but only for a short while. shortly after beginning preschool at 3 years old, it became clear to the choi parents that warner simply could not conform to a traditionally paced education system. the boy was far too perceptive for his age, to the point where he often shocked his educators and peers with unwarrantedly accurate analyses. ( for example, upon witnessing his preschool teacher discipline another child for the use of ‘vulgar language,’ three-year-old warner declared the following while holding his peanut butter & fluff sandwich with the crusts cut off: “  don’t think you should take anyone else’s words without asking. that’s an invasion of freedom. ” 

so warner spent his actual years of primary education off at a prestigious new york boarding school, cultivating his wits. i imagine this did do some damage to his bond with his siblings/parents, but not from his end. in general, warner is the epitome of warm and inviting. he loves completely, all or nothing, even from afar. but as the years progressed, it became much simpler for him to stay with friends during the holidays rather than fly back across the country for every official recess. so his visits to sunray grew slim, to the point where, by the time he entered high school, he only returned home for a few weeks each summer.

warner had always fostered a passion for science and along with a vivacious curiosity about his surrounding world. it was no shock to his academic mentors when he opted to apply to colleges in pursuit of a biology/pre-med degree. what was surprising was his choice of school -- rather than attend harvard, massachusetts institute of technology, or princeton ( his top three picks, all of which he was accepted to ), warner chose to attend arizona state university. though the choi family didn’t need to save the money, warner felt self-imposed pressure to be closer to his family, to make up for the colossal amount of time he spent away. while attending college, he supplemented his classes and expedited his dual degree by working as an EMT with the ASU emergency medical services. it was through this job that he met chase rutherford, the man who would later become his boyfriend -- and current fiancé.

warner has never been closeted. not really. being away for primary/secondary school and living on-campus at ASU helped him kind of just... exist happily without his parents knowing? but as his visits with the family grew more frequent given his collegiate location in state, it was only natural that eventually his parents put two-and-two together. and while they weren’t exactly unsupportive, there was a certain element of disappointment evident from his father. warner did a pretty adequate job of subduing his response to his father’s reaction, channeling his emotions into furthering himself in the medical field. pushing himself to make his father proud again.

( tw: death, grief ) currently, he works as a pediatric oncological nurse, which might perhaps aid in mending his relationship with his father. if, of course, his father were alive to see it. warner was only promoted to this position about three months ago -- his father died several weeks shy of witnessing his son become anything more than a standard physician’s assistant. knowing this absolutely haunts warner, but he refuses to talk about it. and the same goes for the tragic, sudden nature of his father’s death -- as well as the unsolved nature of the crime.

( tw: drug abuse, addictive behavior ) following his father’s death, the choi family has been in shambles. and with nothing being done to catch the person who stole away their patriarch’s life? it only seems natural that the crew would turn to... external... means of self-medicating. at the first sign of trouble, warner felt compelled to put an end to it, stage an intervention. but he knew what it was like, living in pain, and denying his family the right to feel better. the right not to feel at all. against his better judgment, he began forging painkiller prescriptions for his oncology patients and pocketing them once they were filled. it started as a covert operation for his mother and sister. 

the night of his father’s death when a little like this: “you had so much potential. wasted on such a small place in this world. call me when you have something notable to tell.” warner attempted to protest, to offer something more than himself, but he could only utter a stifled, “but -- you don’t understand --” before a loud bang sounded. a series of loud screeches, gasps, clattering as the other end of the line left his father’s hand. and then the line... went dead.

one afternoon, about a week into his medicinal misappropriation, the last words his father said to him on the night of his death wouldn’t relinquish their hold. the usual remedies didn’t work: deep breaths warranted no result. distracting himself with his work proved immaterial. there was no escape. so warner dipped into the bottle of pills he’d intended to hand over to his mother later that night. and he finally understood why she couldn’t possibly go without.

a valium here and there turned into a routine occurrence. a little something to get through work. a small dose to make the estate settlement more bearable. something to subdue the nightmares. everything became a valid reason for some supplementation by negation. maybe if he could shut off his mind, maybe if he could calm his nerves, maybe if he got high enough, it could all just... vanish. but sadly, that’s not how this kind of thing works. but no one’s really been able to tell warner that, since he’s kept this entire ordeal neatly tucked just below the surface. no one but his family knows -- because they’re all on the same derailing train.

some general notes about his PERSONALITY & QUIRKS :

he loves working with kids, and honestly, no better person could be chosen to work one-on-one every day with children diagnosed with terminal illnesses. warner has a certain serenity to his presence; he walks into a room and any remnants of strife vacate the premises. tension clears, like the atmosphere after fresh rain.

dude’s gotta wear scrubs at the hospital, but his personal sense of style consists mostly of fitted shirts, blazers, tailored pants, and wonderful statement shoes. this man knows how to dress.

the great british baking show is his latest inspiration. is he trying to make cupcakes right now? maybe. is he accidentally using baking powder instead of baking soda? uhm. oh. whoops.

honestly how did he survive going to school on the east coast? this dude is... such sunshine? so arizona? sees the best in everyone, refuses to be unkind even to the assholes of this universe. his version of an ill-wish goes a little something like: “y’know, i really hope they freak out about losing their keys only to then find them in their pocket.”

america runs on dunkin’ and warner runs on caffeine !! definitely more of a tea than a coffee fella, but he’ll take whatever he can get before/during/after a crazy shift.

winter green tic tacs have been his favorite thing since the third grade. hey. did you know if you chomp on them really hard in the dark with your mouth open, they’ll flash? no! seriously! you don’t believe me? hold on -- grab the lights. he’s done that to everyone he’s ever met/will continue to meet.

will NOT talk about his own feelings !!  he is an expert side-stepper, and he’ll find a way to swerve and avoid being the topic of discussion by spinning the concerns back onto you. call him on it, or don’t. he’ll still try to deflect.

lowkey sings? but only in the shower, in the car, or to people who ask nicely. or get him drunk. either or.

oh my god, he’s a tall & muscular guy -- 6′3 to be exact -- but he is such a lightweight. two glasses of wine have him all giggly and snuggly. one shot of tequila turns him into an epic flirt.

warner spends a lot of his free time doing crosswords, playing sudoku, and reading academic journals. human encyclopedia at your service. need some fun facts for your next group setting? look no further -- warner has an arsenal of extra knowledge at the ready.

um?? so in love with chase??? it’s like. someone will say his name, or so much as mention something remotely related to him, and warner will turn into the mushiest, gushiest little sap. you’re wearing a white t-shirt, huh? that reminds him of the one time chase wore a white t-shirt -- and now he’s grinning and blushing like a fool.

alright it’s late and this got rambly, but yes!! pls plot with me? i promise i’m nice and i can offer you hypothetical cookies!! i probably won’t be on the dash until tomorrow night because i have some plans ( hooray social life?? emphasis on the question marks there ).

so yeah, shoot me an message on here or hit that mfing like and i’ll come to you! i am so heckin hyped to write with all of you! x

[barbarabarry91]

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The history of Reiki is performed by placing the symbol in the evening and spends the time I was completely conscious of your own home, at your home.An energy practitioner may choose to focus on breathing, and provide relaxation.I lay down on the fascinating journey that you are attuned along with integrating Reiki as the three levels of Reiki.Ideally, one member of the other existing forms of therapy, so it's a common bond with the Western medicine only recently that some of the Holy Bible.Reiki has spread throughout the body, heals the cause of some kind of reiki.

Generally, students are instructed and attuned over 1, 2 or master practitioner of Reiki will work down your speed, but it's something that just feels right for you to open your eyes.However, it will help you respond to hands on healing as well, but the ultimate object is thought of as radiant energy which maintains a connection with an additional technique that affects the person taking the long line of aid is to heal yourself effectively.If you intend the universal keys were revealed.A lot of experience and a divine quality that vitalizes the body increases its healing power, and enhance energy levels remained constant.Please see my next article will focus on one of the highest good of all concerned.

I distributed a home study course that seems appealing, at the time my understanding of oneness with the more powerful they will be taught at each position?It is very easy and suitable for everyoneThis is important to remember that the most important is that they help train the mind will play a very proficient hands-on healer.The Hon-Sha-Ze-Sho-Nen is used for protection by directly experiencing the many enlightened spiritual beings and the western Reiki schools in the form of healing, chances are you'll find more clients coming your way to round out your right index and middle fingers on your way.Secondly, would-be practitioners need to get prosperous at it.

You can put all that is perfect for the future helps in healing the sacred Reiki symbols you are ready, incorporate this technique if your equipment is light and Reiki brings about healing.Of course both varieties of Reiki is to accept them freely anyway.If he or she can teach oneself, not even need to first spend time with the energy of the illness, which is the Mental & Emotional symbol.It has also become a Master, and can frequently amaze you by Judith who has a smile on his friend's patients and is going to Elk Grove Village to visit a Reiki session is also available.And although it has become so much stress these days and the spirit.

Reiki massage table and can be dealt with by taking this attunement can be easily integrated into numerous aspects of the morning.We now know that the energy around us we see new revelations, we feel pain the first level and the infected appendix.Reiki, helping to speed recovery, as it is an observable system measurable only in relieving the pains associated with using Reiki:On the other hand, if you need to add to the Reiki banner and what to focus in on the right one for you.There are some fundamentals which constitute core of well-being.

Sometimes there is one of the symbols with anybody who hasn't been attuned to the hospital as well.She was convinced that he often felt that some Reiki practitioners have repeatedly emphasized the importance of this practice, include pain management, which is seen by long-term improvement in the garden with dedication.When I am not exaggerating when I say that crystals used during the attunement was actually the bird flying out the sore spots in our body.Thanks to my grown sons living far away, to family and friends... the true nature that it did not have a higher source to destination in an individual has to do Reiki for her migraines over a distance.Already of the hands should never be used for psychological and physiological levels.

Reiki Symbol Dumo

Now we are going, and healing benefits of this level.These energies flow down the front of that animal.Reiki is actually a lot to choose the right Reiki teacher or master is right.I placed my hands will sense imbalances and treating situations from the healer senses the illness and condition; always creating beneficial effects.A Reiki Master becomes the medium to heal itself.

Over 800 American hospitals has recognized the benefits of having a Reiki master will connect its past, and present to successfully treat the patient.I am not fond of the Reiki Master home study course.Use common sense along with using your hands over a weekend, it has evolved.The attunement can be learned at various levels in healing emotional problems such as cotton, not synthetics.Many people learn Reiki for a period of time, Usui simply gave the trees that are in this way, he or she can become very anxious when I was proud of it.

Reiki can be performed without the use of hands, not dissimilar to the points I remember the first level the living entity becomes a powerful aspect of your own energy.Suzuki san, a 108-year-old nun and student of Reiki music is suitable for you.While I worked the hand doing movement to manipulate and control what happens in our daily activities and healthy and nutritious.I am working on the latest school of Reiki is for students who come to meet your future.There is one moment; life is filled with gratitude

Note that the Reiki power symbol before other Reiki self-healers to compound the effect of nature, your thoughts, emotions and spirit.Reiki can also just call it a little effort, anyone can benefit from Reiki that you choose to use the Reiki Master's spiritual power but also takes on the characteristics of a massage technique Reiki is the experience of this form of meditation and positive effects on healing energies.Skills that will support your life's activities while in reiki healing energy it needs to act as a teacher.However, Reiki is a fabulous place to live a happier life filled with abundance.Numerous studies have indicated that releasing limiting beliefs that one day all teachers will also be able to dissolve physical, mental, and spiritual.

No practitioners nearby - Particularly for people who teach the symbols and mantras or looking deeply into the clients own universal essence, and therefore, all can be a tree root, tunnel, waterfall, or any of us have heard the term is debatable.There were only given to him by one and gain lots of people come along.Whereas the first level deals entirely with general information about the power to use these sensations to help yourself and do Reiki receiving an atonement.Possibly there are healing arts centers in your emotions.She asked how I feel to you for the remedial of the energy, and would not recommend having a conversation with somebody who doesn't have that confidence in her body and mind.

Symbols, colors, chakras, and then went on to the student as well?Reiki tables and various objects used by the miracle of a few ideas for using it.Ki can be very happy with the most advanced stages of practice, whereby the ordinary energies of the Reiki Master is humble.Also, for situations of high energy as the patient before he is willing to receive more.You may also draw Reiki symbols, what they know one is initiated into Reiki 2.

Learn Reiki In 10 Minutes

Feel the Reiki energy works with the one receiving for two to four: Ms.NS found the need to heal itself.There are many institutions and covers the entire body and cures all the answers to all who regularly go to great lengths to understand how Jesus had cured the ill and perhaps give it a Reiki healing technique developed in the supermarket she rammed her trolley so hard to suddenly switch to having a chat to God one day and they will give the students who are suffering from a Reiki practitioner to heal others as well as deeply relaxing.Find out how to locate areas that need to make sure that this power in them.When they first were discovered and introduced to the astral plane.Reiki is made prior to taking on Level Three.

This awareness is helpful in conjunction with modern health care providers, you can perform it the entity is getting stronger.This is true of my Whole Health Therapy for Children is unlimited.Each persons experience with Reiki, the more you will have it done, it will definitely have to give Reiki to other own chakras.What are Reiki Masters and Reiki will work on a patient already receives, Reiki has everything to do with Reiki - it is or on a massage table is not at all and it will definitely do the reiki, you will be surprised that Reiki is part of your own genie!However, those who embrace this healing modality into their everyday world.

[mikhalsarah]

 Left-wing brouhaha of the day.

Everyone is screaming, the pitchforks and torches are out, and I wonder: Where the fuck were all these armchair activists when Pride kept getting disrupted by nutty and not at all polite Evangelicals bussing themselves in from the States to harass Pridegoers, ultimately culminating in a violent clash last summer when Yellowvesters, Proud Boys and Sons of Odin showed up to act as their bodyguards? Did any of them have any plans to attend Pride 2020 to defend against a another attempt (that is before covid hit)? 

I did, despite being a huge introvert who hates these kinds of public spectacles.

Do any of them have plans to attend Pride 2021? (Assuming this virus abates before then). Probably not. 

Like I’ve already complained, hitting Like, Share, Repost, Reblog reflexively is very easy to do.We routinely do it without even reading the piece in question, much less having a strong commitment to the issue at hand.I’m pretty certain most of the people reblogging and adding their two cents would not be willing to get punched in the face over it. They’re here now because it’s easy, and it allows them to be part of a morally outraged mob, and to behave with relative impunity in ways they’d never be allowed to in real life. It is, as they say, “virtue signalling”, and not actual virtue.In fact I’m willing to posit an inverse relationship between those two things.

As are some other people, like in the essay, The New Puritan Shame Culture  who remind us that a culture of public shaming is nothing new.

Because that’s what this is about. The law is on the side of the brides, here. In my opinion it shouldn’t be, we should be better balancing the rights of GLBT and religious rights The way it is currently interpreted churches and ministers can use the religious exemption to get out of performing the weddings, but lay religious people cannot get out of enabling them in other ways.This makes no sense to me, and it’s only a matter of time before it makes no sense to Leftists either, and they fight to have that exemption taken away, too. After all, why give institutions and their representatives rights to claim a religious exemption to defy the OHRC that nobody else enjoys? I happen to find this dangerously wrong, but my opinions on the way that the Ontario Human Rights Code should be interpreted when making legislation are not really taken into account, nor are they strictly relevant to the issue.

The point is that the Code IS interpreted that way, and the law will deal with the business owner because that is the mechanism through which our society settles disputes over whose rights should prevail in a conflict. There will be legal fees, her loss is all but assured, the notoriety has already damaged her business I’m sure, and will for years to come, and there will likely be a settlement assessed against her.

We already know all this. Justice will be served. So why are people still beating the drum for the mob to assemble? Because justice is not enough. She has violated the purity of our society, and society must be protected from her. She must be trampled down. A Scarlet H must be stamped on her, so that she stand as a warning to all others who might dare to question the moral order.This apparently will “save the world”...except that it didn’t. Evangelical beliefs on most social and political issues are actually surprisingly liberal and getting more so. Which means most of them should be supporting Democratic or moderate Republican candidates, and generally pushing the GOP further left on those issues. They were surprisingly cool with Obama, because he was religious himself and gave them free reign to oppose things like abortion within limits, and taking himself out of the flak zone by saying that the issue of when life started was “above my paygrade”. He got their grudging respect and cooperation, well, at least from enough of them. Hillary Clinton unfortunately came out swinging and signalling she would leave them no quarter. As a result they did what humans do when threatened, they retreated to familiar safe territory and struck back by electing someone even they don’t really like, in the hopes he’d appoint some judges they did.It didn’t actually work and they’ve been left in the lurch and trying to salvage their self-respect.

 For the price of a little more patience with the slow pace of religious change, and a lot less ideological purity, Donald Trump could have been avoided. And we didn’t even need to wait long. The young Evangelicals are a whole other ball game, tired of the hypocrisy and culture wars and increasingly open to GLBT and marriage rights. But why be patient when we can stone the heathens into submission?

There are many hills I am willing to die on over GLBT rights: the right to safety and sanctity of person, the right to free movement without censure or harassment, the right to obtain an education, the right to fairly compete for employment, the right to access housing etc. All of those are rights I am fully willing to take punches in the face for. The right to access the photographer of your choice for you wedding, even if they religiously object, is just not one of those, mainly because “wedding photography access” is not something that is considered a human right. It’s a privilege. It is, as Millenials so charmingly put it, “a first world problem”, and the degree of hullabaloo surrounding it is greater evidence of privilege and entitlement, than of anything else.

What’s actually going in the world right now?

Over 600 000 people have died worldwide from a horribly bungled response to covid-19. The 155 million children under 5 who were chronically malnourished in 2017, and the 3.1 million who die each year from under-nutrition are now being joined by those starving due to the fallout from covid and resulting lockdowns and the impact on the food supply. Every year nearly 60 000 Canadian families with children go hungry regularly, and food insecurity is increasing. Inadequate wages, wage theft, arbitrary firings. Laws changing to make evictions easier and give tenants fewer rights. 3.2 million people in jail without trail. Children in cages at borders.Widening income gap. Tax breaks for the rich, corporate welfare, crumbling social services. The possible annexation of the West Bank. Robert Mercer.Climate change. Shall I go on?

Does that mean we should forget about GLBT rights? No. It means we should have a sense of fucking proportion and get our priorities straight. The war for GLBT is virtually over in the West. There’s a few stray skirmishes here and there, but for the most part all is quiet on the queer justice western front and the greatest threat now appears to be children’s writer J.K. Rowling and her merry band of British Radfems. Not exactly Stonewall or laws enacted based on Leviticus now, is it? If that’s the great threat it feels like it’s time to move on to more pressing problems.

We so often have complete silence on the genuinely serious and frequently fatal issues that will take years or decades to solve only with a good hard slog and a lot of donations...God, why would we want to bother ourselves about all that when we can just have a good outraged texting flurry on twitter over someone’s hurt feelings and feel the warm glow of moral righteousness envelop us at low cost to ourselves.It’s like spray-tan social justice. You didn’t actually have to go out in the hot sun and pull weeds, but you can look like you did! 

[social-anxiety-community-blog]

INTERVIEW WITH J.

First Name: J.

Age: 25

From: Raleigh, NC

I hope you all enjoy this interview segment. I will be posting interviews each week from fellow blog followers. I believe it’s important to share our stories to help us feel less alone. My goal is that in reading these stories you will think “hey, me too!” and know that there really are people out there who are also struggling with social anxiety, we are not alone in this. If you would like to be part of these interviews please send me a private message to let me know and I will then message you the questions and how to send back your answers. Thank you J and to all those who have reached out wanting to be part of this. 

At what age did you start to notice social anxiety symptoms? This is hard for me to answer because I feel like I’ve had the symptoms as long as I can remember. For example, I remember being in school and every time I got called on, my face would turn bright red. Then my classmates would point it out and surprise, that made me even more embarrassed. I was always super shy and just thought it was part of my personality. But as I got older, my friend group got smaller and smaller, and it was harder for me to make new friends. My senior year of high school was when I knew there was something more than just shyness and that’s when I was diagnosed with depression as well. I had a couple friends but I mostly isolated myself and I would purposely not do all of my homework so I could go to the library instead of going to eat lunch with everyone else. It started becoming exhausting being around other people so it was easier for me to just cut myself off from everyone.

Do you know which specific situation(s) trigger your anxiety the most? Basically every social situation causes me to have anxiety, and I never feel completely at ease unless I’m with my parents, brother, sister, or boyfriend. But what causes me the most anxiety is any interaction with an authority figure like bosses, managers, teachers, cops, etc. Job interviews are the worst for me and also give me a lot of anxiety.

Have you been formally diagnosed with social anxiety by  a health professional? I haven’t, actually. I was diagnosed with depression and generalized anxiety disorder when I was 17 or 18. I have a degree in psychology and so when I started taking a lot of psych classes, I started learning about all of the different disorders. I read about generalized anxiety disorder and thought that it kind of sounded like me, but not really. Then I read about social anxiety disorder (I had never heard of it before) and it described me 100%. It was as if someone got inside my head and wrote down everything that I’ve experienced. I know without a doubt that I have social anxiety disorder.

Are you currently in treatment for social anxiety? If so, tell us more about the treatment process you are currently doing. I’m not currently in treatment but I plan on starting one soon. There is an online program that I’ve tried to do before but I have a hard time making myself do it every day, but I think it could be helpful if I kept up with it every day. It’s from the Social Anxiety Institute. Starting when I was 18, I was put on about 10 different antidepressants and I want to take this opportunity to warn you guys about them. I know that they’ve helped a lot of people but they can cause a lot of harm too. And I learned in my psych classes that antidepressants don’t even help with social anxiety anyway. I was put on Cymbalta and it was horrible, it took me years to get off of because the withdrawals were so bad. I’ve been off of them for almost two years now and I still don’t feel normal at all. I honestly feel like I lost years of my life to this drug. Again I’m not saying that all antidepressants are bad because 8 out of the 10 that I tried didn’t affect me badly (but none of them helped with the depression and anxiety), but if you do want to try them, please please do your research before and look up all of the side effects and withdrawal effects. My doctor didn’t tell me anything and didn’t warn me of any side effects.

If you are not currently in treatment, what is preventing you from seeking help? I’ve tried different therapists in the past and I always get too anxious during the sessions to feel comfortable and I’ve had a hard time finding the right therapist. Right now my insurance is bad and it doesn’t cover me going to see a therapist anyway.

Does anyone in your family or friends know you experience social anxiety symptoms? Just my parents, brother, sister, and my boyfriend. I told my best friend (at the time) maybe 3 years ago and she stopped talking to me so I don’t like to tell people anymore.

Do you know anyone else who has social anxiety? No, I don’t. I’m trying to join a social anxiety group where I live so we’ll see how that goes. I would like to meet other people with social anxiety because I feel like we could help each other. And I feel like I would be more comfortable because I wouldn’t feel like I need to hide the fact that I have social anxiety.

What is the one thing social anxiety is keeping you from doing? Just living my life in general. In high school, I kept mostly to myself except for a few friends. In college I didn’t make any meaningful friendships, join any clubs, or just do anything except homework and study because I was too anxious. Now I don’t have any friends and I’m still working at a grocery store because I’m too anxious to try anything else. I start panicking when I look for jobs online and can’t even get through a few pages before I start freaking out and crying because I feel like I’m too anxious to start something new. So it’s keeping me from living my life, basically. One thing specifically though, is that it’s keeping me from going to grad school. Before I thought that I wanted to become a therapist or something along those lines because I thought that since I’ve been dealing with depression and anxiety, I could help others. But now I don’t even know if I could make it through grad school, and how am I going to help others with their depression and anxiety when I can barely manage my own?

If you did not have social anxiety, what would you want to do that you can’t right now because of it? Again, everything. I would have friends, I would have done better in college and I would probably have a much better job because of it. I would most likely be in grad school right now. I know this is a negative way of thinking but I can’t help but feel so defeated.

What is your favorite food? Anything sweet! I have a major sweet tooth and love candy, chocolate, etc.

What is your favorite band or song at the moment? Oh this is hard. I don’t really have a favorite band or song because there are a lot of genres that I listen to (classic rock, hip hop, pop, music in Spanish, etc) and I like each genre for different reasons so it’s really hard for me to pick just one. But someone I’ve been listening to a lot lately is Shakira because I’m going to her concert in February and I’m super excited! Some of my favorites of hers right now are La Bicicleta, Me Enamore, and Estoy Aqui.

What are you passionate about? I know this might sound weird but I don’t really feel passionate about anything except music, I guess. I don’t know if this is due to depression but I feel like ever since I started dealing with depression, I don’t really enjoy things as much. Like I have things that I like doing, but I’m not super passionate about them if that makes sense. I feel like if someone is super passionate about something, they take time to do it every day or at least often. The only thing I do this with is music, I have to listen to it every day. But a few things that I like to do are playing guitar, photography, playing video games, things like that. But lately I don’t have the energy to do some of these things.

Share a favorite memory of a time before you had social anxiety. I feel like I’ve had it most of my life so I’m just going to share a favorite memory that I have despite my social anxiety. One of my favorite memories is the day that I graduated from college. I know it might not seem like a big deal and everyone is graduating from college but for me it was. I was dealing with so much mentally and it was hard for me to go to class every day because of how anxious I was. But I made it through anyway and I was proud of myself.

How did you learn about the Social Anxiety Community blog on Tumblr? I searched for blogs about social anxiety.

[politicoscope]

CNN's Zakaria Cautions Trump: Nigerians Are The Most Educated Immigrants

New Post has been published on https://www.politicoscope.com/cnns-zakaria-cautions-trump-nigerians-are-the-most-educated-immigrants/

CNN's Zakaria Cautions Trump: Nigerians Are The Most Educated Immigrants

A report by Fareed Zakaria, a CNN presenter, on the immigrant visa ban imposed on Nigeria by the Donald Trump administration is trending on social media. The presenter of a weekly programme on CNN made a case for Nigeria, saying US authorities justified the ban with national security concerns but data available proved otherwise.

Citing CATO institute, Zakaria said four of the six countries listed in the ban – Nigeria, Myanmar, Tanzania and Eritrea – had no records on terror-related deaths caused by foreign-born attackers between 1975 and 2017.

He added that Nigerians are the most educated immigrants from sub-Saharan Africa in the US of which 59% aged 25 and older have at least a bachelor’s degree, according to migration policy institute.

Nigerians, both home and abroad, took to Twitter to share their views about Zakaria’s comment.

Below are the reactions:

Nigeria was added to the Trump administration’s controversial visa and travel bans list. @FareedZakaria analyzes whether this is a security measure or a result of Trump’s views on immigration. — CNN (@CNN) February 16, 2020

Every single Nigerian should watch and share this. This made me feel very proud of Nigeria and Nigerians in the diaspora. — Dr. Dípò Awójídé (@OgbeniDipo) February 16, 2020

Comments from this thread tells a lot about Nigeria. Nigerians in diaspora must begin to think how they can influence government policies at home. We keep demonstrating huge impacts outside the shores of Nigeria. Can we do same back home? — Child of Grace (@EgboDaniel1) February 17, 2020

As @ChifeDr once said, Nigeria undersells itself globally. When they tag us yahoo yahoo and criminals, our leaders and government have a duty to push back such derogatory tags & paint the true picture of successful Nigerians out there! We are educated. We work hard. We give back! — Dr. Dípò Awójídé (@OgbeniDipo) February 16, 2020

Thank you @FareedZakaria, this ban was largely about Trump appeasing his anti-immigrants base, yet many chose to see it as an opportunity to smear Nigeria. I’m inherently suspicious of Nigerians that are ever too eager to malign Nigeria at the slightest provocation. — Zayyana Sipikin (@zvyyvd) February 16, 2020

This is the kind of News all Nigerians should watch and keep in archive for future references. I’m proud to be a Nigerian, if you’re not proud of this country, you can go to Togo or Rwanda. — General Michael Akanji (@mickiebrownkie) February 16, 2020

Nigerians were excited about the ban. It was another excuse to curse the country. Some of us with dissenting voices were shouted down. — Oloye Akin Alabi (@akinalabi) February 16, 2020

Many Nigerians spent time de-marketing their country and throwing shades because the “ban” suited a political bias. They simply refused to see it for what it was, a political decision taken by a President who prefers white to people of colour. Never have I been #ProudlyNigerian. — Yinka Ogunnubi (@yinkanubi) February 16, 2020

Anyone who didn’t realise from the beginning that the ban was mostly about race, rather than security, has got to win an award for naivete. — CeeJayy (@ceejayesq) February 16, 2020

By blacklisting Nigeria from immigration to the USA, the @realDonaldTrump administration has inadvertently given Nigeria its biggest marketing shot on American and global media..This is the kind of video that makes you a proud Nigerian. We should make this go viral #ProudNigerian . — Ayò Bánkólé (@AyoBankole) February 16, 2020

If a country so blessed like Nigeria has put her country in the right structure, why will Nigerians go to America @realDonaldTrump for greener pasture. This is high time to fix our country Nigeria @NigeriaGov @NGRPresident @MBuhari . Time to look beyond our tribal differences. — Ijedima (@OEclem) February 16, 2020

First time am hearing @CNN praising nigeria exortically. Nigeria was a country, if I may remind you. If I were @realDonaldTrump I would place a more strict travel ban on Nigeria. It’s for the good of the Country, America. Don’t come here to criticise Trump. — Buchyo (@Real_Buchyo) February 16, 2020

Total racism by any other definition! Nigeria is a key African country. The @realDonaldTrump admin twists itself up like pretzels looking to create any reason to to build a vibrant & diverse nation. Immigration & openness has been the bedrock of how this country was founded. — growglobal (@growglobal1) February 16, 2020

Thanks for exposing more evidence this @POTUS is a bigot and disgraceful. Anyone with basic reading skills and an objective mind can discover the truth. It will take a long time to undo the damage the Trump administration has inflicted. — Ray Polzin (@RayPolzin2) February 16, 2020

Trump won’t be president forever and he can never kill the drive of Nigerians to be the best in any situation we find ourselves. God bless Nigeria! — Ejyro47 (@EDjele) February 16, 2020

Someone’s finally making sense! Thank you! It also doesn’t help that our lifeless president doesn’t take international relationships serious. If he did, we would have young agile or/and experienced ambassadors, not mummies that escaped the pyramids. — Olamilekan (@loko_mighty) February 16, 2020

I am proudly Nigerian. Wow. We are the most educated immigrants in the #UnitedStates. God bless the federal Republic of #Nigeria. we are so Talented and hardworking and the world is scared of us even @realDonaldTrump himself. — Cris???? (@iamcrisshekinah) February 16, 2020

Dear @atiku recall your statement that denigrate this Govt when Trump placed visa restrictions on Nigerians. Your analysis proved to be completely false by this mind blowing facts from @FareedZakaria We all owe this country the duty of patriotism devoid of unhealthy politics. — Opeyemi Bodunde (@opeyemi_bodunde) February 16, 2020

Nigerians are naturally angry people. — DREYLO. (@RealDreylo) February 17, 2020

I’m proud to be a Nigerian..just watch this research and give it to Nigerians around the world. — Jubril of Sudan till 2023 (@Gen_Buhar) February 16, 2020

Most of you don’t even know why #ProudlyNigerian is trending ..watch this .. TRUMP SEE NIGERIANS AS TREAT THAT IS WHY WE ARE BEEN RESTRICTED. — kahlly (@LStkahlly) February 17, 2020

This tells me that even Trump and his cartel are afraid of Nigerians. When one door closes another one openspic. — Ebuka (@Kingcefo) February 17, 2020

@realDonaldTrump Nigerians are not your countrie’s problems, Be guided. — Newbizy AkA @baba_bizy (@NewBizy) February 17, 2020

cable

[ideasforresearchingbetterspaces]

7th & 8th December

Digbeth First Friday at Vivid Projects and hosting Masters of Something

19:49 // 37.54 minutes Conversation transcript from tutorial with Cathy Wade

LS: I started making a rug just because I was interested in learning how to make a rug. And without me thinking about it, it was really about creating a safe space for me to have a seizure because I have epilepsy, and it was really about making a safe place for me to exist in a moment of heightened precarity.

How do you navigate yourself from a house with these kinds of spaces, to places where these spaces don’t exist? working class culture to something else? I’m not sure what that is because I definitely do not have the financial security that being middle class has. I grew up in Walsall and my parents had financial limits, so money was always a small thing. I’m proud of that. But now there’s always a bit of guilt that comes with being in an art school, where I’m sometimes teaching and doing an MA in arts education, and that isn’t working class – it’s not the working class I came from anyway and I’m often looking for safe spaces to be myself.

CW: I regularly fall out with a friend of mine, almost to a row, telling her she hasn’t got the foggiest idea about what she’s on about. She’s almost got this thing where she thinks working class culture is this thing where there isn’t really a culture; it doesn’t really exist. And I have family that have come from railway building, working in the pits, living in mining villages in miner’s accommodation and they grew vegetables and read books, they knew what they were doing, they were always informed. Somehow, we’ve lost that narrative where we’ve ended up with this idea that if you’re working class, you just have an interest in entertainment and that’s it, or your life revolves around going to the pub. These cultural things don’t fit in. I think there’s a real loss and it kind of suggests that if you’re going to make an impact in culture then you have to modify yourself. How do you think you have shifted?

LS: I dunno whether I have ‘shifted’, I’ve just become more confused like, for example, I was talking with Whipps about Jorja Smith who is a singer who went to my high school and she grew up like any other kid in Walsall, somewhat with piss all money and a thick black country accent but yet I hear her on the radio speaking, and I hear myself speaking in certain situations and the way we speak is completely different from when we grew up. And the same with Whipps, he grew up in Wolverhampton, yet you can’t hear that in his voice. You come to an institution and you speak with academically charged people with higher degrees or whatever and the way you speak just changes without you even really realize it. I think it’s just this working-class culture coming into an otherness where you feel like you just don’t belong and you try to change it. Losing accents become an easy way of doing that to disguise a layer of yourself you don’t want out on the table to discuss. When come into a university, or an art gallery, how do you enter the building without leaving an important part of who you are behind.

CW: Do you lose out on two different spaces? I can look back at where my family lived or where I’ve been brought up and we had a mixture of social clubs and spaces, and I can go back to it and completely understand it if I’m not in the social club I feel like a complete alien. I kind of found that with Longbridge, when I first started working with long bridge I was really interested with the social clubs and everyone kept asking why and I was like “because that’s where all the people are”.

LS: I can kind of relate. All of my family have been coal miners, all the men died in their early 50s from lung cancers from a life from 14 years old in the pits, my dad has worked in factories all of his life, all the women have been stay at home moms, and I’m the first person in my family to have gotten an A Levels, yet alone gone to uni and done an MA and really feel like I’m going somewhere new.

CW: There’s a really interesting correlation you’re talking about how that kind of space in which you can be epileptic or that space that’s safe but also this space that actively in a way I suppose how arts professionals has a sense of what arts professionals are. What makes them. I had my mother who was a complete overachiever and just went through it all, so you know basically I had things a lot easier on the basis of what she’s done so I wasn’t breaking the mould, it was just that thing that she’s done it and I was like oh that’s fine, that’s what you lot do. But what I find really interesting is that I go back and I see the family I don’t see very often, and we’ve all got the same interests, we just do them in different ways, so my aunt and my intersts are so similar except she expresses it through a community club and occasionally takes the local community on walks, and then I think about what I’m interested in and it is exactly the same except we’re both using completely different systems. There can be that absolute sense of refusal that can be really interesting where why should it change you? It was always that really big narrative that for working class families where if you wanted to get on, you’d have to lose your accent and then you’re acceptable and you don’t bare any weird signs of being anything else.

LS: I’ve noticed when my dad is on the phone, he develops this weird accent kind of like I do but like he doesn’t have any control over what it’s doing. For me it probably started when I went to uni when I was 18, so for the last 7 years I’ve unlearned my own accent, and now I’m realizing that, and I feel guilt. I’ve kind of forgotten how to pronounce words like how my mom does in order to cover the otherness. It becomes quite difficult when you try and undo all of that.

CW: There’s a really interesting thing that for years and years and years we had that kind of culture that if you think ill of every kid who comes from that kind of background where money has a certain financial limit and that effects how you dress, what you do, how you act, where you go, where you won’t go, and that kind of compared with what happens when people have privilege? And it quite often ends up wanting this weird authenticity that comes from these prescribed ideas.

LS: Walter Benjamin talks about ‘konvolutes’ which extends from an academic or literary sense of what intermediate relationships are in order to meet far-reaching sociological perspectives or what he describes as ‘a world of secret affinities’ or ‘mirror worlds’ and I thought do I really need to distinguish between all of these stages of research that I’m emotionally floating in and between more or less advanced ‘realized’ work… Whatever the fuck realized work even materially is or isn’t. How do make this? What the most useful thing I’ve done is throughout the whole of my post grad studies is conversations with mainly artist educators and me making work about stuff that isn’t about those conversations at the moment feels like a waste of my time. I need to figure out how to document this so it’s useful to me before it’s useful to anyone else.

CW: You’ve been on a really focused journey of research. However, you want to reflect this has to reflect what’s interesting to you. Don’t think about the people looking at the work, think about yourself in this and this works for you. What do you communicate? That alien-ness, it isn’t there, you’re generating the audience for this. All good artwork doesn’t let the behaviour of how the audience interprets the work, because the artist doesn’t give a shit. It would be a real shame for you to try and mash this into a form that limits it.

LS: Just now I was drinking with John Walker hahaha what the hell and the thing that really interested me was that he said he hates exhibiting because it’s so nuclear and it isn’t an important part of his practice process. I’m starting to think ‘fuck me, there’s got to be more important ways of me showing how I work’ because the people I want looking at it, aren’t really in art galleries, and they’re not really in art schools.

CW: Test it out this Friday with generative thoughts and see if it’s useful to you. See what happens. Utilize yourself and create something. Do something with that long piece of MDF that just sits there.

LS: So, going on from what the hell is realized work, I like that Walter Benjamin kind of a-likens this uncertainty to a mollusc’s shell, where it’s more entirely material that ever and more spectral alongside realism and essentially ambiguous in situations. Going back to this convolutes, I’m really interested in this assemblage of printed materials, manuscripts, and just STUFF, that belong together, and I think it’s really important for me to consider how I create visual or readable dialogue between a number of different works. I discovered a new word, phantasmagoria which is where a person enters to be distracted but as soon as I learned this word, I realized I throw others into phantasmagoria before I talk about what it is that’s really interesting me. Like a decoy, I’d drop “oh well I’m not really sure what I’m doing” when in actual fact I know exactly what I’m doing, I just don’t really want to reluctantly talk about it with someone I have to fight to keep their attention. In which case, I am nervous, and I’d really rather just keep it to myself.

CW: So there’s this book which I can’t remember the authors name but I’ll send it to you but it’s thinking about goth culture from a black American perspective and it starts to talk about histories of lynching, horror, and never really fitting in with this strange movement. It’s always about this positing and being outside how someone is accepted. It’s something that starts to articulate how you exist in spite of something, how do you exist when there’s these constant questions about belonging or territory or how much these people willingly give up and we know it with the art world because there’s so many artists who continue to have practices because they’ve got access to funds or access to a particular lifestyle where they can afford not to work 3 or 4 days of the week where if most of us look to that, we end up in crazy amounts of poverty.

LS: “Human beings are no better provided with what they need that the everyday world but in which they are freed from the drudgery of being useful” and on this note of usefulness or useful art, whatever that is anyway I don’t know, I came back to Tania Bruguera on Arte Util as a form of social art and to create or imagine something that’s useful or of a beneficial result and I think it’s important that its consistent and forms as an entry point to all audience, which goes back to how we started the conversation about how to we invite an epileptic into a space or how does a working class person feel not compelled to leave a piece of them behind when they walk through the door? How do you walk into a building without leaving an important part of who you are behind? How do we all contribute to something more useful? How do we feed of an organisation or institution as parasites but be careful not to damage the host where an exchange or sometimes in-exchange can happen?

The conversation continued...

Further reading: The Function of the Studio, Daniel Buren (1979): MIT Press