#ill be at table 52~

[shanastoryteller]

Happy holidays! Lady mo please?

a continuation of 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

Jiang Yanli does not often feel old. Her golden core does not keep her eternally young like it does her brother, does not prevent the more persistent illnesses from plaguing her, but it does east the aches and pains non cultivators her age often complain of, does keep her skin youthful without the aid of strange poultices and she’ll probably never need dyes to keep her hair dark. But she feels old now, watching Xuanyu and Lan Wangji fumble around one another, watching her struggle for the affection of a husband who might care for her, but does not treat her with care.

At least by the time she married Zixuan, he’d told her that he loved her.

 “What was all the commotion about?” Zixuan asks, arms encircling her waist as he tugs her back against his chest now that they’re back in their own quarters.

“Your cousin got drunk and pissed off the wrong people. Again.”

He huffs, his breath warm against her neck. “Yanli. You know that’s not what I’m talking about. I know A-Yao thinks I’m stupid, but even I notice servants running about and clan leaders and their wives going missing. Especially when one of them is mine.”

“A-Yao doesn’t think you’re stupid,” Jiang Yanli says, even though he kind of does. He thinks most people are stupid and Zixuan has at least grown out of taking it personally. That doesn’t mean she has to rub it in. “Xuanyu was just – a little upset. About things.”

“Lan Xichen likes her. Lan Wangji’s kid adores her. And we all saw what Lan Wangji thinks,” he says. Defending is also not the same thing as caring, but she doesn’t say that. “A-Yao even calls her our sister. Do you remember how long it took him to call me brother? It seems like it’s going well.”

If it had gone a little less well, she’d be less distraught.

Jiang Yanli is debating how much she can say without revealing Xuanyu’s pregnancy – enough people know that it won’t stay a secret for long, but Zixuan is terrible at faking surprise – when there’s a loud, frantic knocking at their door.

Zixuan frowns and goes to open the door.

“Fuck off,” slurs a familiar, beloved voice.

Jiang Yanli hides a smile and goes to stand next to her husband.

A-Cheng is standing there, sort of, considering he’s mostly being supported but a long-suffering Li Jun. “Meimei said she won’t deal with him anymore.”

“Ah,” Zixuan says, already resigned.

A-Cheng stumbles forward, grabbing her wrist and tugging her towards the table. He blearily glares at Zixuan. “Go away.”

He sighs, leaning down to kiss her and then saying, “I suppose I’ll be in a guest room.” He makes a face, remembering that the tower is full of foreign disciples. “Somewhere.”

He’s going to end up sleeping in their son’s room and A-Ling is going to complain about it. Loudly.

“Good night,” she says, barely keeping from laughing as she closes the door on Li Jun side eyeing Zixuan. Her sect has never completely forgiven Zixuan for being a teenage boy, not matter that she’s spent over a decade in the Jin rather than the Jiang.

She lets A-Cheng pull her down beside him at the table, leaning his head on his arm while he stares at her. She pours him a cup of water that she hopes he’ll drink. “Are you all out of sorts because of Xuanyu too?”

His face goes blank then it creases and he’s turns to hide it in the bend of his elbow.

With the first stirrings of genuine alarm, Jiang Yanli realizes he’s crying.

“A-Cheng? A-Cheng, what’s wrong?” she asks, putter her arm over his back and pulling him into her side like she used to when they were kids.

The words come out muffled, but he says, “I hate him. How could he – I hate him.” Then, quieter, in a tone that doesn’t match the words at all, “I hate him.”

She runs through everyone who’s here, every cultivator she saw A-Cheng speak to, but it’s a fool’s errand. No one gets to him like this. No one but –

“Wei Wuxian came back.”

[simdertalia]

🌺🎍 ACNH Harmonious Set: Part 2 🎍🌺

💗 Sims 4, Base game compatible besides 2 items (ourdoor retreat & get together for hearth & dance floor). 55 items. Many extra swatches added by me. Items with only 1 swatch are not pictured in the swatch previews.

Always suggested: bb.objects ON, it makes placing items much easier. For further placement tweaking, check out the TOOL mod.

You can raise & lower items with 0 and 9 on your keyboard.

Use the scale up & down feature on your keyboard to make the items larger or smaller to your liking. If you have a non-US keyboard, it may be different keys depending on which alphabet it uses.

I hope you enjoy! ☺️ Download below, all in a zip file or pick & choose!

I hope you enjoy!

Set contains: -Another Wall Hook | 5 swatches | 104 poly -Asian Screen | 5 swatches | 2280 poly -Asian Wall Shelf | 5 swatches | 2612 poly -Bamboo Bench | 3 swatches | 1968 poly  -Bamboo Nightstand | 3 swatches | 1094 poly -Bamboo Seat | 3 swatches | 1094 poly -Bird Bath | 12 swatches | 1194 poly -Bonbori (2 items, short and tall versions. Lights up in the dark) | 5 swatches each | 1226 poly each -Dharma Decor | 10 swatches | 1124 poly -Dharma Flower Pot | 12 swatches | 2116 poly -Dresser | 6 swatches | 1662 poly -Framed Art Decor | 24 swatches | 52 poly -Go Board | 1 swatch | 1190 poly -Hinaningyo (lanterns light up in the dark) | 1 swatch | 4802 poly -Japanese Coffee Table | 6 swatches | 1208 poly -Japanese Hearth: Functional (requires Outdoor Retreat) | 2 swatches for fish color | 3042 poly -Japanese Kettle (steams) | 8 swatches | 1200 poly -Japanese Lantern (lights up in the dark) | 33 swatches | 824 poly -Jars Glow Moss 1-5 (5 items in different shapes & sizes, glows in the dark) | 21 swatches each | 810 poly each -Make-Up Brushes | 17 swatches | 1730 poly -Maneki-neko Flower Pot | 8 swatches | 1396 poly -Miso Soup (steam & no steam versions) | 5 swatches each | 196 poly each -Mochi Pestle | 14 swatches | 1194 poly -Pagoda Statue | 5 swatches | 2702 poly -Sakura Blossom Lantern (2 items, small and tall, lights up in the dark) | 2 swatches each | 1238 poly each -Sakura Dance Floor | 1 swatch | 2 poly -Sakura Petals | 4 swatches | 633 poly -Sakura Purse (wall) | 7 swatch | 736 poly -Sakura Wall Clock | 7 swatches | 876 poly -Sakura Alarm Clock | 7 swatches | 952 poly -Salad | 3 swatches | 238 poly -Shoulder Bag (wall) | 25 swatches | 782 poly -Spring Rolls | 3 swatches for plate | 328 poly -Stone Arch: functional (marriage altar) | 5 swatches | 2102 poly -Torii | 5 swatches | 1976 poly -Vanity Anti-Dust Cloche | 8 swatches | 964 poly -Vase | 1 swatch | 812 poly -Vines 1-3 (3 items of different vine plant combinations) | 7 swatches each | 783, 741, & 720 poly -Vine Chair (the actual chair one) | 7 swatches | 1313 poly -Vine Lamp (lights up in the dark) | 5 swatcesh | 1238 poly -Vine Purse (wall) | 7 swatches | 810 poly -Vine Seat (the plant one) | 5 swatches for pot | 1032 poly -Vine Wall Hook | 5 swatches | 312 poly -Wall Flag | 4 swatches | 1203 poly -Wooden Make-Up Mirror | 12 swatches | 298 poly -Woven Trivet (slotted for tea kettle) | 11 swatch | 482 poly

Type “ACNH harmonious 2” into the search query in build mode to find  quickly. You can always find items like this, just begin typing the title and it will appear.

📁 Download all or pick & choose (SFS, No Ads): HERE

📁 Alt Mega Download (still no ads): HERE

📁 Download on Patreon

Will be public on September 1st, 2024 💗 Midnight CET

Happy Simming! ✨ Some of my CC is early access. If you like my work, please consider supporting me (all support helps me with managing my chronic pain/illness):

★ Patreon  🎉 ❤️ |★ Ko-Fi  ☕️  ❤️ ★ Instagram📷

Thank you for reblogging ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

@sssvitlanz  @maxismatchccworld @mmoutfitters  @coffee-cc-finds  @itsjessicaccfinds  @gamommypeach  @stargazer-sims-finds  @khelga68  @suricringe  @vaporwavesims  @mystictrance15 @moonglitchccfinds @xlost-in-wonderlandx @jbthedisabledvet

Harmonious Set 1

-Potted Palm CC & Plumeria Blooms -Sakura Branch in Vase CC -Altar Cloth CC

The rest of my CC

[omophagic-beast]

A look at the Mantles of Before the Flood: Woe

Links to the posts about the previous mantles here: Land, Legend, Nature, Nation, Weal

We're here! The last stop, the last mantle out of six. Let's get into it, shall we?

Woe was the mantle of ill omens, but it was not maligned or malicious in its actions. It is often the worst of times that bring out the best in us. Woe sought only to bring the world closer.

Woe is the mantle of ill fortune, but I ask you not to assume their intent. While their game can be difficult to understand from the outside, they hope for the next sunrise the same as you or I do.

To play as Woe you'll need a standard 52 card deck.

Each round, if Woe has been called forth to act, they will pull five cards from their deck and attempt to create the best standard poker hand they can. They are able to discard cards and redraw once per round. The jokers in the deck also act as wild cards, and can be used as any suit or number.

Once their hand has been created, Woe consults their table to discover what omen has been called forth.

Because after creating 232 items for Nature and Nation, and 78 for Weal, we looked at Woe and thought. Well. It wouldn't really be fair at this point, would it?

There are 56 potential hands to be made, and 56 omens of ill fortune to be read.

My favorites include:

Pair 3 - A black cat blocks every path; bad luck adds up

Pair 6 - A haruspex eats an animal’s guts before the reading is finished; the future becomes uncertain

Three 8 - A crown cracks in two; what was solid becomes fragile

Pair J - Every adolescent forgets their own name; knowledge is forfeit

But these omens are not meant to be taken at face value, they are Woe's to shape and interpret as they wish.

Once Woe has decided on what the omen is for this round, Nature and Nation come together and discuss how their people come together to overcome this trial, and how balance is reinstated to the land.

Then Land casts their stones, and a new round begins.

And that's all of them, all six mantles from Before the Flood. Thank you for reading.

Before the Flood launches this Monday, July 15th on Backerkit. You can presave it here as always.

Since we reached 100 presaves (thank you all!) I'll be back tomorrow with something special to show off! I'm very excited about it :33

[queenlua]

30's meme: 1, 11, 45, 52?

1. What was the first piece of furniture you bought?

my *very* first piece of furniture was a futon whose cost i split with three other roommates, freshman year of college. i napped/lounged/homeworked on that futon probably more than anyone else all four years of undergrad, lmao. we got it from a habitat from humanity sale and it was CLUTCH

my first non-cheapo/non-ikea furniture would be the wooden dinner table i split with my husband when we moved in together. it's SO pretty and nice and i love it so much... and he DEFINITELY had to talk me into it because i have no sense of ~*~interior decoration aesthetics~*~ and was like "do we really need this idk it seems too fancy...." (he was 100% correct and, come to think of it, is responsible for pretty much all our furniture. it's ok, i contribute all the stuffed animals, i'm helping)

11. What’s something you saved up for and then regretted buying?

for years all my skibrah buddies were like "bro you gotta get an Epic Pass it's the only way to ski bro" & one year i FINALLY caved and got an epic pass and... then due to illness/injury i wasn't even able to USE the thing to the fullest, and also, most of the bit of skiing i wound up doing was at a NON-EPIC MOUNTAIN, so. all i got was the warm n fuzzy feeling of "paying lots of money to the evil conglomerate that's slowly jacking up the price of skiing all across the entire world." UGH

45. What’s something you wish you had more time for?

if i had an extra three hours a day i could do job + all my hobbies + get adequate sleep. however i do not have those three hours so more-often-then-not i sleep less than i'd like (and uhhh sometimes i job less than i should, but, don't tell my boss that)

52. Did your relationship with your parents get better when you stopped living with them?

Oh yeah, absolutely. Though I guess there was a little back-n-forth, like...

High school: Relationship with mom was so-so but overall fine

College: Relationship with mom gets much worse. In hindsight, she was definitely working through some Empty Nester Feelings TM and i kinda got the brunt of that, but also, I probably wasn't as nice about it as I could've been haha

First job out of college: Mom's SO much more chill. So chill that, when I end up doing a residency in another city & plot to land a job on the west coast, I'm like "why don't I just move back home for a bit in-between gigs"

Living at home again: BAD idea lmfao. Things are really tense and bad

West coast job: Both mom & I are still a little wounded for a year or two, but stuff's much better from there on out, and nowadays I definitely count mom among my best friends.

(my dad was present through all this but that relationship's always been stable, by the virtue of me being Basically The Same Person As My Dad, lol)

[moonstandardtime]

what if my pets had tumnrlb

1 note

🌰 khaliakoo

im so scared. help

4 notes

🌃 quotheraven

out of food again so im sitting under a table and staring at the dog and not play with her

8 notes

🥚 motherhen4

this egg will be the one i know it

#brooding #buff orpington #momlife

34 notes

🥚 anotherfuckingchicken

this mf has been doing this since before i got here. give it up lady that eggs not hatching

52 notes

🧸 gougar

day 527 of trying to get the cat to play with me: no success. i will persist!

14 notes

🌰 khaliakoo

theres noises i think someone is planning to pick me up and throw me. so i wont let anybody pick me up ever. the world is so scary

2 notes

🐰 henhenhenry

cups

[image of plastic cups for rabbits to play with]

#cups #play

178 notes

🧸 gougar

BITINGYOUBITINGYOUBITINGYOUBUTINGYOUTBINYIFJYOUBITIJHOY9UBITIBGYOUBITIHNHYIU ARGWJAGTHGRHEGRGHEGRHRGAHTGAUGTHAGTGHA

#play

🌃 quotheraven

still out of food. when it gets refilled im going to eat so fast i choke and then ill keep eating

4 notes

🐅 immortal-fish-2011

i will never die

1 note

[sunderedstar]

absolutely could not find the table of contents for Keith A. Smith's Non-Adhesive Binding Volume II: 1- 2- & 3-Section Sewings online anywhere, so here it is. for all your ILL/resource sharing/page scan request needs.

Part 1 1-Section Sewings

16 3-Hole PAMPHLET STITCH SEWING

20 DASH SEWING

21 THE LACED DASH

22 FIGURE 8

24 DOT-DASH SEWING (machine stitch)

26 THE TWIST Exit Backward

28 THE TWIST Exit Forward

29 DOUBLE DASH Alternating Exits

30 THE TWIST Exit Backward and Link

34 PEARL DASH

35 BOW TIE Running Stitch Sewing

36 THE HITCH Exit Backward, Lap and loop

38 ALTERNATING HITCH

42 SEWN CHAINS (linking to form a chain)

Part 2 - 2-SECTION SEWINGS

52 PARALLEL BARS

54 THE DASH

56 DOT-DASH

57 DASH BARS

59 DIAGONALS BARS

60 ALTERNATING DIAGONALS BARS

62 BARS ARROWS

65 STANDING Z'S OR LYING N's

68 BROKEN Z's

70 ZIGZAG

71 LIGHTNING BOLT

73 PINKING SHEARS

74 PINKING SHEARS WITH BARS

76 CARETS

78 SETS OF DIAGONAL BARS

80 LATTICE

82 Xs

83 ALTERNATING X's

84 2-SECTION TWISTED X

86 TWISTED X WITH BARS

88 LINKED X

90 SOFT K

92 TIED BOW

94 BARBER POLE

97 DESCENDING Xs

102 ALPHA Alternating Loops

104 THE WATERFALL Twin Link Stitch Sewing

107 CROSSED SNOWSHOES Intersecting
Chain Stitch Sewing

110 THREAD EYE A Link Stitch Sewing

113 THREAD EYE WITH X's A Link Stitch
Sewing

116 2-SECTION RUNNING STITCH

SEWING

Part 3 - 3-SECTION SEWINGS

132 MULTIPLE SECTION PAMPHLET
SEWING

134 MULTIPLE SECTION FIGURE 8
SEWING 1-Needle Sewing

135 MULTIPLE SECTION FIGURE 8
SEWING 2-Needle Sewing

138 MULTIPLE SECTION, MULTIPLE FIGURE & SEWINGS 1-Needle Sewing

140 TRIPLE DASH

142 TRIPLE DASH VARIATION

145 MULTI-SECTION ON TAPES LACED
INTO PAPER COVER

150 TANGENT BARS

154 UNEVEN BARS

156 ALTERNATING BARS

158 ALTERNATING LOOPED BARS

159 THE ROPE

162 TRIPLE PARQUET

164 PARQUETRY

165 G's

168 H's

170 BROKEN H's

172 DOVE TAIL

174 VERTICAL T's

177 FALLING DIAGONALS

178 DASHES & DIAGONALS

180 PAIRED DIAGONALS

182 STAGGERED DIAGONALS

184 STAGGERED DIAGONALS VARIATION

186 TRIDENT

188 ALTERNATING TRIDENTS I

189 ALTERNATING TRIDENTS I

190 S's

191 DOUBLE DIAMONDS

192 HEXAGONALS

193 ROCKET

194 LEAVES

196 HOUND'S-TOOTH CHECK

198 Ks

200 BRACKETS

202 SEVEN 7's

204 BROKEN HERRINGBONE

206 FOLDING V's

208 V's

208 V's I

210 TOUCHING ARROWS

212 AEROS Arrows

214 ISOLATED DIAMONDS

216 TOUCHING DIAMONDS

218 PISCES

220 TIRE TRACKS

222 ASSEMBLY LINE Z's

224 STAIR-STEPS

226 SAW BLADES

228 OPEN BOOK

230 ARROWHEAD

232 DIAGONAL T's

234 +s

236 +'s and X's

238 CONTIGUOUS X's (even number)

240 ISOLATED X's

242 CONTIGUOUS X's (odd number)

244 DOS ESQUIS

245 HURRICANE FENCE

246 DIAMOND X

248 3-SECTION TWISTED X

250 TIED CROSS

254 BOW TIED

258 HORSESHOES

260 LOOP THE LOOP

262 PINCHED P's

264. BOBBIN

268 SIDE BOW

270 COILED LINE

274 TRIPLE CHAIN

279 WOVEN CHAIN

283 LINKED STAR

286 BUTTERFLY STROKE

290 SHOOTING STAR

294 SPINE BRAID

296 THE COIL SPRING

[dopaminerjic]

“Treated like animals” – Palestinian children suffer inhumane treatment in Israeli-run prisons

8 in 10 child detainees were physically beaten while 9 in 10 experienced verbal abuse

RAMALLAH, October 29 2020 – Children in the Israeli military detention system face inhumane treatment such as beatings, strip searches, psychological abuse, weeks in solitary confinement, and being denied access to a lawyer during interrogations, new research by Save the Children found.

The charity consulted more than 470 children from across the West Bank who have been detained over the past ten years. It found that most children were taken from their homes at night, blindfolded, with their hands painfully bound behind their backs. Many of the respondents said they were not told why they were being arrested or where they were being taken.

“They destroyed the front door, entered my room, covered my face with a bag and took me away…They told my father that I would return the next day. I returned after 12 months,” said Abdullah* who was detained six times as a child.

Every year, hundreds of Palestinian children are detained by Israeli authorities. They are the only children in the world who are systematically prosecuted through military, rather than civilian, courts.[1] The most common charge is throwing stones – for which the maximum sentence is 20 years in prison

After their arrest, children are transferred to interrogation centres, where they report being forced to lie face-down on the metal floor of military vehicles, denied bathroom breaks, deprived of food and water, and physically assaulted.

“They arrested me on my way to school at a military checkpoint. They searched my bag and spoke to me in Hebrew – a language I do not understand. They handcuffed me, threw me on the floor and stepped on my back,” said Fatima* who was detained when she was 14.  

Children described the detention experience as “torturous”, “dehumanising”, “humiliating” and “terrifying”.

Amina* who was detained at 15 years old, said: “You do not feel like a human being in that place. We were treated like animals.”

Save the Children’s consultation showed that:

81% endured physical beatings and 89% suffered verbal abuse.

52% were threatened with harm to their families.

86% were subjected to strip searches, leaving them humiliated and ashamed.

88% did not receive adequate and timely healthcare, even when explicitly requested.

Almost half (47%) were denied contact with a lawyer.

Issa*, who was arrested when he was 15 years old, said: “While I was being interrogated, they kept shouting at me, and they put a gun on the table in front of me to scare me. They said bad, bad words. I don’t want to think about those words.

“Prison was an ugly place. They would set off alarms at midnight, 3am and 6am so we could never sleep for long. If you’re not awake at these alarms, you will be beaten. I was beaten with wooden sticks a few times. I still have back pain now because of a particularly bad beating.”

Jeremy Stoner, Save the Children’s Regional Director for the Middle East, said:

“Children as young as twelve have told us about truly inhumane treatment in the Israeli military detention system. There is no possible justification for setting dogs on children, beating them, or shackling them to metal chairs. Whatever they are accused of, regardless of guilt or innocence, these children must be treated first and foremost as children – with all the special protections this entails.

“No child should be experiencing such cruelty at the hands of those who are meant to be looking after them. Children should no longer be prosecuted in military courts – and there has never been greater urgency to release children from prison as systemic ill-treatment is compounded by the threat of COVID-19 in detention centres. Only with these changes can we prevent irrevocable damage being inflicted on generations of Palestinian children.”

Kevin Watkins, CEO of Save the Children UK, said:

“It’s been over eight years since the UK’s own Children in Military Custody report highlighted the devastating injustices faced by Palestinian children in Israeli military custody. Since then, thousands more detained children have suffered systematic abuse, all while the recommendations made to fix a broken justice system have gone nowhere.

“The UK Government constantly calls on the Government of Israel to ensure human rights are respected, but words have so far not resulted in action. Our findings paint a stark picture – of young boys and girls subjected to serious mental and physical abuse, resulting in scars they will carry for years to come. The Israeli military detention system continues to render Palestinian children entirely defenceless. The Coronavirus crisis and the heightened risk this poses to young detainees means the UK must renew its commitment on this issue and stand up for Palestinian children.”

Save the Children is calling for:

The UK to use its influence with Israel to help end the detention of Palestinian children under Israeli military law once and for all.

The Government of Israel to respect international law, and to end the detention and mistreatment of children under military law. Israeli authorities must immediately adopt practical safeguards to improve the situation for children who are currently detained. This includes ending the systemic ill-treatment of children, establishing protection and safeguards for detainees, and providing adequate services to support girls and boys to recover from their experiences. 

The Palestinian Authority (PA) to increase rehabilitative support for children who have been detained, including psychological support. The PA should also offer support services aimed at reducing stigma associated with child detainees and supporting their reintegration into communities and education.

ENDS

*Name changed to protect identity

[1] Defence for Children International (DCI-P), Military detention, see https://www.dci-palestine.org/issues_military_detention

Stripped, beaten and blindfolded: new research reveals ongoing violence and abuse of Palestinian children detained by Israeli military

Ramallah, 10 July – Palestinian children in the Israeli military detention system face physical and emotional abuse, with four out of five (86%) of them being beaten, and 69% strip-searched, according to new research by Save the Children. Nearly half (42%) are injured at the point of arrest, including gunshot wounds and broken bones. Some report violence of a sexual nature and some are transferred to court or between detention centres in small cages, the child rights organisation said.

Save the Children and a partner organisation consulted 228 former child detainees from across the West Bank, detained from between one and 18 months, and found that most children are beaten, handcuffed and blindfolded during arrest. They are also interrogated at unknown locations without the presence of a caregiver, and are often deprived of food, water and sleep, or access to legal counsel, according to the research. The main alleged crime for these detentions is stone throwing, which can carry a 20-year sentence in prison for Palestinian children.

The new research comes as the UN Special Rapporteur on the situation of human rights in the Palestinian territories occupied since 1967, presents evidence today to the Human Rights Council on Palestinian children in detention. It is estimated that there are between 500 and 1000 children held in Israeli military detention each year.

Save the Children says these practices are a major and long-standing human rights concern and is calling for the UK Government to support an immediate moratorium on Israeli military authoritues arresting, detaining and prosecuting children.

Khalil*, who was detained when he was 13, said that he did not receive essential healthcare:

“I had an injury in my leg, I had a cast, and had to crawl to be able to move. I felt my body being torn apart. I had no canes to help me walk, I kept asking soldiers for help during the transfer, but no one helped me.” 

The new research follows Save the Children’s 2020 report “Defenceless” and finds that the impact of physical and emotional abuse during detention has soared, with profound consequences on children’s ability to recover.

Khalil* continued: “The soldier threatened to kill me when he arrested me for the second time. He asked me, ‘Do you want the same fate as your cousin?’ as he had been killed. He promised me that I would have the same fate and die, but that he would send me to prison first. He told me that he’s coming back for me – and every day, I wait for that day to come.”

Some children reported that they believed different types of abuse were intended to push them to admit things that were untrue in order to incriminate others, including family members.

Yasmeen*, the mother of Ahmed* detained when he was 14, said: “During interrogation, they convinced Ahmed* to tell on his brother in exchange for his release. He was naive and didn’t understand what was happening. He said what they told him to say; a few days later, they came to our house and arrested my other son.” 

Save the Children’s new consultation showed that:

During arrest, 42% of children were injured, including gunshot wounds and broken bones, and 65% of children were arrested during the night, mostly between midnight and dawn. Half of all arrests took place in the children’s home.

The majority of children experienced appalling levels of physical and emotional abuse, including being beaten (86%), being threatened with harm (70%), and hit with sticks or guns (60%). 

Some children reported violence and abuse of a sexual nature, including being hit or touched on the genitals and 69% reported being strip searched. 

60% of children experienced solitary confinement with the length of time varying from one 1 day to as long as 48 days.  

Children were denied access to basic services, 70% said they suffered from hunger and 68% said they didn’t receive any healthcare.   

58% of children were denied visits or communication with their family while detained. 

The majority of children detained are boys – a trend reflected by the survey, with boys representing 97% of the respondents.

Children are increasingly unable to fully return to their normal life following release from detention, with the number of children having frequent nightmares rising from 39% to 53% and those suffering from insomnia or difficulty sleeping rocketing from 47% to 73%, compared to the children surveyed in 2020.

Lana* the mother of Mohammed* who was detained when he was 14, said: “After my son was released, he wanted to stay by my side and sleep next to me. He refuses to leave the house. It has been a challenge for us; I feel that he is traumatized. He was arrested Tuesday night, now every Tuesday he feels they are coming for him.”  

Save the Children’s research also showed how children’s care and hope for the future decreased from 96% in 2020 to 68% in 2023, an alarming increase in a context with limited psychosocial support available.

Save the Children is calling on the UK Government to support an immediate moratorium on Israeli military authorities arresting, detaining and prosecuting children.

James Denselow, Head of Conflict and Humanitarian Policy at Save the Children UK said: “It’s crucial the UK Government use its close relationship with the Government of Israel and seek the immediate halt of the military arrest, detention, and prosecution of children. There can be no reason for subjecting children to this kind of violence and abuse, depriving them of access to food and healthcare, or denying them basic fair trial rights.

“The Government has previous said it is committed to securing improvements to the practices experienced by children in detention in Israel. We must see the Government step up its efforts by calling for a complete moratorium on the detention of children by the Israeli military. No child should be subject to a system that does not respect children’s rights and international law.”

Jason Lee, Save the Children’s Country Director in the occupied Palestinian territory, added:  “Each year approximately 500-700 Palestinian children come into contact with the Israeli military court system; they are the only children in the world to experience systematic prosecution in military courts. Our research shows – once again - that they are subject to serious and widespread abuse at the hands of those who are meant to be looking after them.

“There’s simply no justification for beating and stripping children, treating them like animals or robbing them of their futures. This is a child protection crisis that can no longer be ignored. There must finally be an end to this abusive military detention system.”

ENDS

*Name changed to protect identity

[ladyfogg]

May I? - 43/52

May I? - 43/52

Fic Summary: Ensign Faith Diaz struggles to hide her mental illness from her fellow shipmates aboard the Enterprise until an intrigued Data goes out of his way to try to understand her behavior. At his insistence, Faith tries to figure out what she’s truly passionate about and eventually seeks the professional help she needs. Fic Masterpost.

Fic Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Data/Female OC

Warnings: tw: depression, tw: anxiety, fluff, friends to lovers, eventual smut

Data came back to himself slowly and with disorientation. As one by one his systems came online, he became aware of the sounds around him: two voices having a conversation, though he was unable to distinguish exact words at first. There was pain throughout his body and occasionally his limbs twitched involuntarily, the aftershocks of some kind of electrical weapon, powerful enough to render him unconscious for a time.

“When…back…?” 

“…hours.”

“…what of the others?”

“They were…not the delegates. No telling where they were... We have to keep moving if we want to stay ahead of the Federation.”

His processes started to catch up and bit by bit he caught more of the conversations and put the pieces together. 

“Only sentient android in existence in our hands. Didn’t think he could pull it off.”

“Yeah, me neither. I know we’re supposed to wait but I want to get in there and see how this thing is constructed.”

“What about—”

“Nothing he can do about it once it happens. Hand me that toolkit.”

 Data heard all he needed to hear. The moment he felt someone move in close, he reacted. Eyes flying open, he had enough time to take in two Cardassians leaning over him before he lashed out. One man went flying into the wall as Data punched him as hard as possible which, even without his usual strength, was enough to do significant damage. Certainly enough to knock him out.

The other proved more of a struggle. He seized Data from behind, locking his arms around his chest. Data threw his head back, satisfied with the sickening crack of the man’s nose breaking. He released his hold in an attempt to reach for a com panel but Data seized the back of his head and smashed it into his knee until the man lay limp on the ground.

While still somewhat disoriented, Data had processed enough to know that he was on his own. The room they had him in was small, meant for nothing other than storage and it was not until he stood still that he could feel the subtle sway of a ship, a small transport one if he had to guess. His uniform was gone, leaving him nude which only served to increase the vulnerability he felt. A quick look around produced a spare jumpsuit from a cache of emergency supplies.

Once dressed, he turned to the door, which unfortunately would not open when he tried the panel. It seemed to require a handprint so Data grabbed the arm of the nearest unconscious Cardassian and lifted it high enough to press his hand to the pad. There was a click and then the door slid open.

He found himself at the end of a short hallway, which made him pause, ears straining to hear something, anything that could give him more information. 

With nowhere to go but forward, Data pressed on. Through another door lay a semi-open area that narrowed again several feet ahead. To the right, a table and chairs beside a replicator and, to the left, one more door. Hesitation tossed aside, Data went through it and came face to face with one more Cardassian.

The room, if it could be called such, held a desk with a terminal and chair, and nothing else. Data’s abductor jumped to his feet. 

“What are you doing loose? And what have you done with my men?” he demanded.

“It is I who will be asking the questions.” Data reached across the terminal and yanked the man over it even as he struggled to get away. “Where are you taking me?”  

“It’s no use fighting,” the man told him with a wild grin. “Whoever delivered you is long gone and they have no idea where you are. The Cardassian empire will be most pleased to have such an exquisite piece of technology in their possession.”

Data understood him to be correct. He did not have his communicator and if they were no longer on the same planet, as was clear by the ship, it would be difficult for the Enterprise to find him without assistance. However, he also knew they would not stop until they did. 

“I will not cooperate,” he said. “And when the Federation learns what you have done, they will react accordingly.”

The man yanked himself out of Data’s grasp, straightening his clothes as he did. “If they learn,” he said. “Obara is far from Federation space. By the time they figure it out, it will be too late.”

“Who are you?” 

“Konro. Vorbos Konro.”

Data could not imagine the person in front of him was the imposing figurehead they had thought him to be. Though his words were strong, his posture was anything but and his eyes kept darting to the door behind Data, as if waiting for someone or attempting to find a means of escape. 

He would imagine someone with such extensive reach as Konro would not be flying in a small transport vessel with only, as far as Data could tell, two crewmen. Nor would he have been caught unaware.

On a hunch, he asked, “Are you the only Vorbos Konro?”

The man tilted his chin up as if attempting to make himself seem bigger than he was. “I am the current one,” he said.

“What happened to the last?”

“Vorbos Konro is a moniker, not a single person. When one leaves, someone else comes in to take their place, to use the name for whatever they need. It helps maintain the reputation and connections.”

That was what Data was afraid of. Another seemingly dead end. Another path in the wrong direction.

“I see,” he said, slowly moving around the desk. The man tried to back up but the wall was already behind him. “I have another question and I want you to think hard before you speak because my reaction will depend on your answer. Why were you highly focused on Faith? What did you want with her?”

His abductor blinked, looking confused. “Who?”

Data had a sinking sensation he associated with dread. “Faith. The young woman whose picture was in your files thousands of times, the one who was photographed with me and then alone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Data concluded there was no reason for him to lie. “I believe you,” he said, then he lunged.

It was not much of a struggle. Konro was clearly not used to physical combat and Data overpowered him quickly, knocking him out as he had done the other two. Once the man was in a heal on the floor, Data sat at the terminal, however, it quickly became apparent he would need to find the main computer to have full access to the ship’s systems. 

After storing all three Cardassians in the room he had woken in, and breaking the panel to prevent them from leaving, he went in search of the cockpit. The ship was indeed small and he found what he was looking for just beyond the small sitting area.

It was on autopilot, which suited him fine for the moment, but provided an additional dilemma. The main console was locked and Data was unfamiliar with Cardassian ships. If he had his processing power and full android technical skills he could infiltrate learn in a matter of seconds. 

But he did not.

Frustration welled within and Data felt tears streaming down his cheeks. A moment later, his breathing became erratic and when it dawned on him that he was experiencing an oncoming anxiety attack, he forced himself to remember the breathing techniques he had instructed Faith in numerous times. It was infinitely harder than he imagined it to be and took several long moments to help. 

You can do this, he told himself. You have to do this. There is no other option. Breathe and then think.

Data made several attempts to gain access, though they were unsuccessful. He was moments away from using some particularly colorful language he had learned from Faith when one of the buttons in front of him started to flash and beep. Not knowing what else to do, he pressed it.

The view screen lit up as Data opened the message, he found himself looking at, well, himself. Almost himself. The visage had several deep scratches across his face which showed the barest hint of flashing lights.

“Hello, brother,” Lore said with a smile. “I thought you’d be waking soon.”

Hands clenched into fists, Data’s body tightened with tension as he gazed at the image of his nefarious brother. “Lore, what have you done?” he demanded. 

Lore chuckled, his grin widening. “Me? What makes you say that?”

It all made sense. Data was finally starting to see the full picture. “You were behind everything,” he accused. “Fajo’s escape and our kidnapping, the information and photos taken from the Enterprise, Konro…”

“How quickly you catch on.”

“Why?”

“Many reasons. Care to guess a few? You’re gonna be there a while, might as well get comfortable.” 

His lack of a proper answer got under Data’s skin and he felt his anger grow. “Whatever your plan is, I have stopped you before and I will stop you again. The Enterprise—”

“The Enterprise isn’t even looking for you,” Lore cut him off. “Well, that’s not true. They are but in the wrong direction and for the wrong reasons.”

“You took my place.”

“Now you’re getting it. You disappoint me, brother. I thought you were smarter than this. I thought you would have already figured everything out by now. Perhaps screwing around with that human has been a distraction.”

Hearing his brother so easily diminish Data’s relationship with Faith only added fuel to the raging fire.

“Lore, whatever you are planning will not work.”

“You don’t even know what my plan is so how do you know it won’t work?”

“Faith. She will know you are not me.”

Lore’s face changed and his arrogant smirk melted into a look of annoyance. “Yes, your little girlfriend. She did put up quite the fight. She’s a lot smarter than I thought she would be. And she’s scrappy. I’ll admit, I underestimated her.”

“Unsurprising and an incredibly stupid thing for you to do.”

“Listen to you. You’re all snippy now.”

“I have learned a lot since we last saw each other. And, you should know, there is not anything I would not do for Faith. Brother or not, I will disassemble you and send the pieces into the nearest sun.”

“Wow, this relationship has changed you, brother,” Lore said, impressed. “You know, even though humans are so beneath us, I can see why you are drawn to this one. She does have a certain irresistible charm.”

Data slowly stood, leaning on the console to bring himself closer to the view screen and, by default, Lore. He caught Lore’s use of “this”. He understood what that meant.

“Where is Faith? What have you done to her?” he demanded.

Lore grinned. “Oh, don’t worry about Ms. Diaz. I am taking very good care of her. We’re going to get to know each other.”

Vision tinted red, it took every ounce of Data’s willpower to refrain from punching the view screen. “Lore, if you hurt her—”

Lore rolled his eyes and lifted his hand. “I won’t harm a curly hair on her pretty head. Scout’s honor.”

“I do not believe you.”

“Good because I’m lying.” Lore glanced off to the side for a second before looking back at Data. “Oh, it seems our sleeping beauty is waking up. I’ll tell her you said, ‘hi’. Goodbye, brother. As always, I enjoyed our little reunion.”

“Lore! LORE!” Data yelled but it did not change anything. The message ended and he was left alone in the cockpit of a ship he could not fly in a section of space he did not know.

Data was unfamiliar with the sensation of hopelessness until that moment. With all his training and knowledge, the overwhelming combination of emotions he could not control, in a situation he could not get out of, nearly sent him into another spiral. The only thing holding him together was the fact that he needed to get to Faith. 

But he knew that would not be enough.

It was in that desperation that he realized what he must do.

Looking up at the ceiling, or rather towards what some would call the heavens, Data took a deep breath and said, “Q? Q, I know you are watching. You have proved your point. Please respond.”

There was a moment of silence before a voice sounded behind him, “Now, who could have predicted this would happen?”

Data turned to find Q leaning against the wall behind him, his arms crossed the typical smug expression on his ageless face.

“You knew from the beginning that it was Lore who was after us,” Data said.

“Not from the very beginning. I do have a life outside of you humans, you know. But yes, eventually I became aware.”

“Then it is your fault Lore has kidnapped Faith.”

Q looked bemused. “Come now, Data, I thought you had evolved passed the blame game. I didn’t help him. He did it all on his own.”

“But you did not stop him either. You could have told us so we would have been prepared. Instead, you decided to test me. If anything happens to Faith, it is on your conscience.”

“How dare you accuse me of having such a human thing as a conscience? You take that back!”

“I will not.”

“Really, Data, I did you a favor. I let you experience what it would be like to be mortal and how things would change if you didn’t have those android capabilities you rely so heavily on.”

“I am under no illusions that this was for my benefit.”

“Alright fine, a little bit was for my amusement but I was honestly trying to help.”

Data supposed in Q’s twisted mind, it made sense. Of course, he would think he was helping. Never mind that Data has staunchly refused, to Q, he was all-knowing and therefore was always right. 

“I believe you think that you were,” he said. 

“See? I knew you’d see it my way. I’ll take that apology whenever you’re ready.”

“Not until you reverse what you have done to me.”

Q raised his eyebrow and stood up straight at that. “Finally come to the realization you are better off as you are?”

“I would not say I am better or worse,” Data clarified. “Both have their advantages and disadvantages. While I will cherish the time I had with Faith living as a human, it is my android capabilities that will require me to save her. And her safety is worth more than any emotion. I will also remind you of what I said to you before: she fell in love with me as I was, therefore there is no reason to change.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good and noble. But, until I hear you say that I was right—”

Data bit back a heavy sigh. “You were right.”

Q’s face lit up and he snapped his fingers. “Done.”

Everything around Data brightened and the noise of the ship increased to such a degree that he would have become overwhelmed if he had not anticipated the change. That storm of emotion diminished significantly though did not fade away. It lingered just on the precipice without overtaking him. His mind was brought back into focus and before he could lament any loss, he turned his attention back to the console.

“Thank you, Q.” 

His hands and mind went to work, resulting in gaining access to the main computer within seconds. 

Q patted Data on the shoulder and leaned in. “Good luck. Let’s hope your realization of your talents doesn’t come too late.”

Data paused for a fraction of a second to contemplate what he meant, however, when he turned his head to ask, Q was gone. He could not bring himself to care about the being. There were other more pressing matters to attend to.

Once in the system, Data was able to find out what sector he was in. He quickly engaged warp drive and headed back in the direction they came. Unaware of what the Enterprise’s heading was, he could only hope that they would be within range to receive subspace communication quickly. 

“Enterprise, this is a message from Lieutenant Commander Data,” he recorded in a message. “I was taken from the planet by Konro and his men, while Lore was sent in my place. I have commandeered a Cardassian transport vessel and am on my way back to Obara. Please respond.”

The message was sent, and all Data could do was wait for a response. 

Meanwhile, he downloaded the ship’s logs and monitored sensors to ensure he was not being tracked or followed. It was nearly two hours later when that red light started flashing again. Except this time, Data already knew who it was from.

“Captain,” he said with relief as the Enterprise appeared on the view screen. “I am grateful you were still in this system.”

“And we are grateful for some answers to your odd behavior,” Picard said. “Though, Mr. Crusher had put the pieces together right before receiving your transmission. The Enterprise is on its way to intercept. We’ll have you back within the hour.”

“Sir, Lore has Faith.”

The grave expression on the captain’s face spoke volumes. “We’re aware, Data. We are doing everything to track them. Sit tight. Picard out.”

Data was left alone with his racing thoughts. He did everything in his power to increase the speed of the ship which shaved off several minutes of travel time. Meanwhile, he mentally ran through numerous scenarios and computations, trying to think of where Lore could be headed. In an infinite universe, how can he catch an android who thought and anticipated as he did?

By the time he was beamed aboard the Enterprise, his list was astronomical.

“You will find three Cardassians in the store room of the ship,” he told Lieutenant Worf who stood by the transporter, waiting. “One is Konro, though I have learned that name is a moniker.”

“They will be taken care of,” Worf assured him, motioning for his waiting security team to handle it. “Commander Data, I must once again apologize.”

“For what, Lieutenant?”

Worf huffed, signaling his displeasure. “Yet again, I failed to take care of Lieutenant Diaz. She was taken literally from my grasp! If had been more vigilant—”

“Lieutenant,” Data interrupted. “Lore posed as me and has been planning this switch and abduction for months, possibly years. There was nothing you could do. If anything, I should have figured it out sooner.”

Worf motioned to the door and the two of them left the transporter room. “It looks like she put up quite the fight,” he explained. “From what I saw, she did not go willingly.”

“I must see our quarters,” Data said as he moved passed the lift to the Bridge. “There may be a clue as to where he has taken her.”

“We haven’t found any.”

“I may have better luck.”

Data was aware that he was supposed to report to the captain but, for once, he ignored regulation. His protective program had taken control and nothing could override it. Worf kept pace, using his com to let Picard know where they were headed. 

The first thing Data noticed when they reached his floor was the wall panel across from his door had been broken, glass littering the floor. His keen eye picked up small drops of blood amount the rubble. 

Lore did not bleed, but Faith did.

Geordi and Beverly were already in Data’s quarters. The former was scanning every inch with his tricorder while the latter had Spot in her arms, giving her a full examination. 

“Data!” Geordi exclaimed when he saw him. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t know it was Lore.”

“As I told Lieutenant Worf, there is no need to apologize.” Data crossed towards Beverly with concern. “Is Spot injured?”

“No, she’s okay. Just a little ruffled,” Beverly said, handing the feline over to her owner. “She was a little dazed when I got here but quickly came around. I found some synthetic material on her nails. Looks like she knew what we didn’t.”

Data cradled his cat, grateful she was unharmed. “Thank you for trying to stop Lore,” he said, earning a light head-butt from Spot. After which she jumped out of his arms and made a beeline for the closet. He let her hide as he turned to his crew mates. “Have you found anything?”

“Traces of Faith’s blood in the hall on that panel and floor,” Beverly said, putting her tricorder into her pocket. “But it’s small. She’s injured, most likely with a concussion judging by what Worf saw. I don’t know if Lore hurt her in another way.”

“I do not believe he has,” Data said. “He spoke to me while I was on the ship and made a comment about getting to know her. I do not think injuring her on purpose is his goal.”

“Otherwise he would have done so as soon as they were alone,” Geordi supplied as he examined the remains of Data’s coffee table. “None of her blood is here so not sure what happened to the table.”

Worf spoke up. “When I saw them, she was a few seconds ahead of him out the door, meaning she broke free of his hold,” he said. “I have been training Faith over the last few days. She must have used his weight against him, thrown herself backward to knock him off balance. It was a technique we had tried once or twice.”

“Backwards, onto the coffee table,” Geordi said, mostly to himself as he constructed the fight in his mind. “He lets go so she scrambles away, manages to call for security, but he’s too fast.”

“Not fast enough,” Beverly picked up. “He wasn’t anticipating Spot. She attacks and scratches him, giving Faith a few seconds head start.”

“She gets into the hall but he grabs her again, they smash into the panel,” Worf finished. “And he transports them away.”

“Which must mean he had a ship nearby,” Data pointed out. “One that could avoid the sensors. He is familiar enough with our systems to know how to surpass them and given the cloaking technology Fajo had, Lore may have it as well.”

“We might still be able to track it now that I have all the spec information on that type of cloaking, but none of that means anything if we can’t even figure out what direction they’re going,” Geordi said. 

“And, we also have to assume he has Faith sedated somehow,” Beverly suggested. “So she won’t be able to break free and try to get away again.”

Data felt a nudge on his leg and he looked down to find Spot head-butting him. He found her behavior strange considering her affinity for hiding when other people were in the room. She wound her way through his legs, looking up at him with her wide eyes.

“Now is not the time to play, Spot,” Data said, gently shooing her away. He turned back to his friends. “As well as I know Lore, I do not know the reach of his deceptions or resources. He has had much time to—”

A loud drawn-out meow interrupted him, followed by a nip at Geordi’s ankle.

“Ah! Goddamn cat, I swear to God, Data…” Geordi swore, shaking his foot. “What’s her problem?”

Frowning, Data looked down, confused about Spot’s overt behavior. Seeing she had their attention, she meowed louder and trotted over to the closet. It was not until she began pawing at the clothes on the ground that he realized she was trying to show them something.

“What did you find, kitty?” Beverly asked. As she was the closest, she knelt to rummage through the cloth. When she stood back up, she extended her hand to show Faith’s communicator. 

“Lore must have thrown it in the struggle,” Worf said. “He would have known she could use it to reach out to us.”

Data’s heart sank and took the device from Beverly. 

Geordi closed his tricorder and swore. “Shit,” he said. “There goes tracking her badge.”

Data’s fingers closed around the cool metal as he stood rooted in place. He touched the place where his own badge normally would be, only to remember it wasn’t there. At first, he assumed Lore would have taken it along with his uniform until he remembered something extremely important.

Which gave him an idea. “Computer,” he said. “Where is Lieutenant Commander Data?”

“Lieutenant Commander Data is not aboard the Enterprise.”

Data swung around to face the others. “Faith took my communicator before I left, which means if it is not registering that I am on the Enterprise—”

“Then Faith still has it on her!” Beverly exclaimed.

“Which means we can still track her,” Worf said. 

“Again, only if we have a direction,” Geordi reminded them. 

Data had to think. Even with the massive list of places he had compiled he needed something, anything, that could narrow it down. 

“Let us go to the Bridge and tell Captain Picard our findings,” he suggested. “At the very least we can scan for my badge in this system. Lore may have had a head start but he is limited to his ship’s speed.”

“Agreed,” Worf said. 

“I’ll head to Engineering and make sure Lore didn’t do anything that would slow us down. I don’t think he had time but I don’t want to take any chances,” Geordi said. 

“I’ll do a final sweep here and make sure we didn’t miss anything,” Beverly offered.

The group separated, with Data and Worf heading for the Bridge with quiet determination. The captain, Commander Riker, and Counselor Troi were there, as well as Wesley, who was running Ops. 

Picard turned to them the moment they step off the turbo-lift. “Good to have you back, Commander,” he greeted Data. 

“Sir, we have discovered that Faith does not have her communicator, however, she does have mine which means we can still track her with our sensors,” Data explained, skipping the pleasantries. 

Picard nodded towards Worf, who was already inputting the information at his station. “Lieutenant, anything?”

A moment later, Worf sighed. “Nothing. She is no longer in his system.”

“Where would Lore take her?” Wesley asked. “What does he want with Faith in the first place?”

“That is what I have been trying to deduce for the last hour,” Data answered. “There are too many variables to consider.”

“Maybe not,” Deanna spoke up. “Data, Lore has been obsessed with you and now that obsession has transferred to Faith. We all know how insanely jealous he is of what you have, to the point of stealing the emotion chip meant for you. Finding out where he is going may lie in those emotions rather than logic.”

“You know him and Faith better than anyone else, Data,” Riker said. “Where is somewhere significant to you and Faith? You met on the Enterprise, yes, but—”

Data already had the answer before Riker could finish.

“Tridas 6S,” he said. “The Sunterre Isles, where Faith and I had our first shore leave together. It is a special place, one where we truly cemented our relationship and intimacy. Faith had been quite paranoid when we arrived and was questioning if we were truly alone. At the time, we assumed it was her anxiety and I assured her that we were but—” 

“But maybe you weren’t,” Deanna said. “Lore could have easily spied on you without you knowing.”

“Ensign Ro, set a course for Tridas 6S,” Picard ordered.

“Already on it, Captain,” Ro said, her hands dancing wildly as she inputted the coordinates. “At maximum warp, we can make it there in two days. However, they do have a five-hour head start. We might be able to catch up.”

“Engage!”

Data made a move to relieve Wesley but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. 

Picard was stern though there was a gentleness to his gaze. “Mr. Data, I understand your determination and concern,” he said. “But I’m also aware of how exhausted you must be. You need to rest.”

“I no longer feel exhaustion,” Data told him. “Q has returned me to the way I was, at my insistence.”

He could sense a change in his crew mates at his announcement, particularly those he was close to. Deanna and Riker both had expressions of sympathy which Data understood, yet felt was unnecessary. He was more concerned about Faith’s safety rather than his own personal situation.

“Data,” Wesley said. “I’m sorry you had to give that up.”

“I did not give anything up, only regained what I needed to help Faith.”

“Well then, take your station, Mr. Data,” Picard ordered. “Let’s get our Lieutenant back.”

“Aye, sir.”

Wesley moved, allowing Data to sit at his console. He was filled with determination. Determination to catch up to Lore and not leave or even move from his station until they reached Tridas. 

He only hoped they would not be too late. 

[lucajc]

I'm working i sweaaaaaar !!! My friend recommended i do prints of the mane six but I know a lot of other artist will do that so I did the redesign trend and ill make them into prints ! Adding mt own twist uwu anyway I ive not actually posted my stall location yet oops! I'm table 52 ! It looks like I'll be in a lil corner to myself teheh! I'll be cosplay Celestia and lyra, this is my first con ahhh so im very nervous 😅 but excited ! Nervousited!

Here is the map and where my stall will beeeee ill have doctor whooves, luna, derpy, lyra and bonbon prints too along with a range of different ones but a lot of doctor and luna stuff haha...I wonder who my favs are ^^" everything I have at con will later go on my etsy ! I have two prints up atm and commissions ill be adding more just need to get stoke and save it for con hah

[echo-bleu]

If I see one more Valentine’s ad, I’m going to scream. Why does a job posting board need a Valentine’s sale?

Anyway, I wrote a very aro fic for the last flash fic round (aroace Geralt, alloaro Jaskier, modern AU, friendship). So if anyone else feels bombarded by the amatonormativity right now, this is for you.

Read here on AO3. Title from The Amazing Devil’s Secret Worlds.

Do I have to be who I am?

Geralt leans against the steering wheel and glances at the clock. 3:52, the display glares back at him, momentarily too bright for his eyes. He unlocks his phone and checks the calendar again. Group therapy. Friday 4pm.

He needs to go in. He still has to find the room it’s held in, probably fill in more forms – he’s never filled as many forms in his life as he has since he’s come back from Sodden.

He doesn’t want to move.

Come on, you can’t just stay in the car all afternoon. If nothing else, your leg won’t thank you.

Geralt sighs and extirpates himself from the driver seat of his truck, careful to straighten his leg and watch where his foot lands. He grits his teeth through the first few steps – those are always the worst – and it gives him an excuse not to think as he builds up momentum.

The building is nondescript, four-story, walls washed with an off-white colour turning yellow with time. The front door is automatic, and it opens before him with a swoosh . Geralt looks around, but the lobby is narrow and entirely empty. It’s a residential area, and the letter boxes affixed to the back wall mostly carry people names, not businesses. He squints at it until he finds the name he’s looking for, but the sign doesn’t give a flat number, much less a floor.

Well, there should be people around he can ask. He heads to the elevator and pushes the first floor button.

The first floor corridor is just as nondescript, the walls a dull grey, but there’s an open door. Inside, rather than a flat, Geralt sees a large room with a few tables in the middle and a row of computers at the back. A young man, his back to Geralt, is pinning a rainbow flag to a giant cork board on the wall. He’s humming to himself, his dark brown hair bobbing in rhythm.

Geralt stands in the door frame for a few seconds, trying to gather the courage to speak up. Before he can, though, the other man whirls around.

“Where’s the— oh, hi there! Come on in!”

“Is this the… group therapy?” Geralt tries, his voice coming out as more of a croak.

The man’s face falls. “Ah, no, I’m sorry. You want to go upstairs for that. But Shani’s ill today, so I’m pretty sure it’s been cancelled.”

“Oh.”

They both stand there awkwardly for a moment. Geralt isn’t sure what to do. He came all the way here – it took him the whole day to psych himself up to it, if he’s honest with himself – and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to try again next week. Maybe he’ll write it off as a failure and give up.

He needs it, though. For Ciri. For Vesemir and Eskel and – for himself. Fuck. Triss abandoning him like that, even though he understands her reasons, really put him at a loss.

“You can stay, if you want,” the man says suddenly. “I don’t really think anyone’s coming, anyway.”

It’s a bit blindsiding, and Geralt stumbles over his words. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, uh, LGBT+ group. I’m trying to set something up for the students, but the Academy wouldn’t let me put up posters or announcements on their socials, and all I could get was this place, Shani’s art therapy room. It’s way too far from campus. I did my best to advertise, but fucking Marx keeps getting in my way. So I don’t think anyone’s coming.”

“Hm. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I didn’t even introduce myself before dumping that on you. I’m Jaskier.”

Geralt steps into the room to shake the offered hand, getting a better look at this Jaskier. He’s wearing a bright blue bomber jacket over a yellow band t-shirt, and a pair of dark jeans so skinny that they’re barely there at all. On his jacket are a solid dozen pins and badges, all brightly coloured. Geralt notices the one that says he/him and what he thinks is a bisexual flag.

It’s not until he feels the weight of Jaskier’s curious gaze on him that he realizes he never answered.

“Geralt. I should probably go. If the session is cancelled.”

“I don’t want to pry, especially not with Shani’s clients, but was that your first time?”

Geralt sighs. “Yeah.”

“Well, I can’t offer therapy, but I know very well how nerve-wracking it is to come to a first appointment, and having to go home empty-handed like this has gotta be tough. Can I offer you a glass of water, at least? Orange juice? That’s all I have.” He waves toward a grocery bag on one of the table.

Geralt hesitates. His leg aches fiercely, and the drive back will be hell if he doesn’t give it a break. Jaskier looks at him with puppy eyes, and Geralt realizes that he’s almost as lost, left alone with his flags and his orange juice.

“Alright.”

Jaskier flashes a bright smile. “Come sit down, then.”

He serves them both orange juice in paper cups while Geralt lowers himself onto a seat. The plastic chair is uncomfortable as hell, but at least he can stretch his leg under the table and put the pressure off of it.

“Doesn’t the Academy have an LGBT society or something?” he asks, racking his brain on a way to make conversation.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier sighs, sitting down across from him. “But it’s lead by fucking Valdo Marx. He’s an asshole.”

“Oh.”

“I was the president last year, but I had to step down to focus on my dissertation, and he’s… he’s the kind of gay guy who thinks the society should be for the gays and maybe the lesbians, and everything else is just splitting hair.”

Geralt eyes the badges haphazardly pinned on Jaskier’s lapel. He doesn’t know what the other flags mean, but he can recognize them as flags. “And you disagree.”

“Of course I disagree!” Jaskier lets out, indignant. “What, you’re one of those too?”

“No, I’m… straight. As far as I know.”

“Oh. Well, every group needs a token allocishet, even if you’re apparently also the only member beside me.”

Geralt blinks. “...Okay. What’s allo… what?”

“Allocishet. Straight, cisgender and alloromantic and allosexual.”

“I know straight and I’m pretty sure I understand cisgender, but what’s the rest?”

Jaskier smiles and points at a flag pin on his jacket, in shades of green, grey and black. “That’s the aromantic flag. It means I don’t feel attracted to people romantically. Alloromantic is the opposite, everyone who isn’t on the aromantic spectrum.”

“You don’t… fall in love with people?” Geralt asks, trying to wrap his head around that.

“No. It doesn’t mean I don’t love them, but just not romantically. Asexual and allosexual are the same for sexual attraction.”

“But you’re not that?”

“I’m alloaro. Allosexual, aromantic. Bisexual, to be precise. I feel sexual attraction for all genders.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. “Didn’t know that was a thing.”

Jaskier grins. “That’s okay. I’m always happy to teach these things! Maybe today won’t be a waste of time after all, if you go home knowing something new. Let me show you.” He takes out his phone, whose case is decorated with glitter and a unicorn playing guitar. He types something and holds it out for Geralt to see the screen. “That’s the ace flag.”

“Ace for… asexual?” Geralt asks, sounding the word out.

“Yep! There’s also a lot of variation inside the aro and ace spectrums, and people who don’t differentiate, but that’s maybe a bit much for today.”

“Hm.”

Geralt turns this over in his head. There are people who don’t feel any sort of attraction? It must be rare, if he’s only finding this out at thirty-five. Right? He doesn’t exactly spend his time talking about relationships with the people in his life, but it seems to him that none of them ever expressed something like that. Lambert came out as pansexual at fourteen, very sure of himself. Eskel has had relationships over the years, however short-lived. Even Vesemir talks about the men of his youth.

Yen… Well. Fourteen years of marriage has got to be proof of concept, right, even if it ended? Yen was certainly physically attracted to Geralt, once upon a time. Romance… Their relationship wasn’t particularly romantic, but what’s romantic attraction anyway?

“What’s the difference between romantic and sexual attraction?” Geralt asks abruptly, realizing too late that he interrupted Jaskier mid-sentence. A sentence he was very much not listening to. “Sorry, I—”

Jaskier waves dismissively. “It’s fine. I don’t know if I’m the best person to explain, since I’ve never felt one of those, but it’s like… When you look at someone you’re attracted to, do you want to kiss them? Cuddle them? Or have sex?”

“Uh… I don’t know?” Geralt scrambles to think of someone. With Yen, only the memories come to mind, sleeping side by side, the vanilla sex they quickly got bored of and the kinkier side she showed. And, overwhelming everything, the spectacular arguments that ended in their divorce. What attracted him to her? She’s beautiful, sure, but it was never about that. She was there. She didn’t take any of his shit. He was on leave and she wanted sex.

The men of his unit had magazines full of scantily naked women, but Geralt never looked at them. He had Yen – surely that was enough? And since the divorce… Well, it’s not like he’s hanging around in bars. Or cafés. Or anywhere he might meet someone new.

“Nothing? When you see a good-looking woman in the street or on an ad or something?”

“Er…”

“It’s alright, Geralt, it’s totally fine. But… you might want to look into this further. Just saying. Most people can answer that pretty readily. Or at least they’ll start blushing.”

That’s what makes Geralt’s face heat. “I’m not… I’m normal,” he says. But he knows as soon as the words come out of his lips that they’re the wrong ones.

Jaskier’s face falls. “Right.”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Geralt internally winces at the thought of telling Lambert or Vesemir that they aren’t ‘normal’. “I just, um. I don’t know about this. I was married for fourteen years. I can’t be… whatever.”

“I don’t think it’s mutually exclusive,” Jaskier says softly, more kindly than Geralt deserves. “Especially if you didn’t have the words for it. Society expects us to be one way, and we often conform whether we mean to or not.”

“You don’t.”

“I did, for a long time. I tried to do what my parents wanted, study law and settle with a nice girl. I lasted all of one semester. But it wasn’t until I met others like me that I started letting go of those expectations.”

“So what did you do?” Geralt asks, genuinely curious.

“I stopped pretending. Got an ADHD diagnosis, picked up my guitar and toured the Continent for a few years. I had sex with a lot of random people who didn’t care about sticking to the norm. Then I came back and started studying music. Now I’m a grad student.”

“Wait, how old are you?” When he said he was part of the Academy, Geralt assumed he was faculty, not a student. Not that he looks old, but there’s a set to his shoulder, a way of carrying himself, that makes him seem like he’s seen more than his share of life.

“I’m twenty-nine,” Jaskier says. “I started late. It just means I have fewer fucks to give, especially to shitheads like Marx.”

Geralt nods. “Are there a lot of older students?”

“A few in each class. Especially in grad school, but even as an undergrad I was rarely the oldest. Why, you’re thinking about studying here?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Geralt shrugs. “I got discharged from the army a while ago. I can’t live on my pension forever and I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“You have a major in mind?”

“Not really. I never went to college the first time around, I enlisted right out of high school.”

“Well, if you’re into Music, or Literature, or History, or pretty much any of the humanities, I know everyone, I could show you around at least.”

Geralt smiles vaguely and nods, fairly sure that it’s one of those times people offer something without any intention of following through. They only met half an hour ago, by mistake. Jaskier hardly wants a disabled vet following him around.

But instead of moving on, or showing any signs of wanting to Geralt to leave, Jaskier insists on exchanging phone numbers. “If you have any questions about the Academy, or about sexual orientations,” he says with a wink.

And he fills both of their cups again.

Geralt leans back on his uncomfortable seat and finds out that he hasn’t thought about therapy, or really about any of the myriad of things that have been troubling him, since he sat down. Jaskier chats about everything and nothing, about his friend Essi who is talking about starting a band with him, about his dissertation on medieval troubadours, about his volunteer hours at the refugee centre. Geralt tells him, just a little, about his tours, about his brothers and his father, about Yennefer and Ciri.

“You have a daughter? Oh, that’s wonderful! How old is she?”

There is nothing feigned in Jaskier’s enthusiasm, nothing but real warmth and interest.

“She’s six,” Geralt answers, swiping through his phone for a recent photo. On it, Ciri is riding on Eskel’s shoulders, giggling, with her horse plushie in her hand. “I only have her every other weekend since the divorce.”

He misses her, but he was gone for even longer swatches of time when he was deployed. It’s better this way. He doesn’t think he’d be capable of raising her fully right now, and that was the one thing he and Yennefer didn’t argue on.

The divorce, when it came, was both inevitable and overdue. Yennefer stayed through his rehab – and Geralt is infinitely thankful for that, but eventually, their hours-long, violent arguments started taking their toll on Ciri. And Ciri takes priority over anything else, for both of them.

“Wow, she’s adorable!” Jaskier exclaims. “She looks so much like you!”

“She’s adopted,” Geralt deadpans, because he never fails to find it funny to see people’s face fall at that.

Jaskier barely falters. “Oh. Well, I guess you get that a lot.”

“We do. But it’s all just a coincidence.” One that amuses but also annoys Yennefer to no end, especially when people assume that she can’t be Ciri’s mother. “Yen and I couldn’t have children of our own. We’re both infertile.”

“So you decided to adopt?”

Geralt shrugs. “Sort of. We tried for a long time, and then a friend of ours named me godfather of her baby. That was Ciri. She and her husband died in a car accident not long after she was born.”

“Oh. Wow. I’m sorry.”

“It was a while ago. But that’s how we got her. If we hadn’t, I think we’d have divorced a lot sooner. Yen really wanted a child. I never really did, but… I thought it would make her happy. I was away so much, but I thought, at least Ciri would always have her. She’s a good mother.”

Something sad passes through Jaskier’s face, but he shakes it off. “I was an unwanted child,” he says casually. “Runt of the litter, too, until I had my last growth spurt. My parents are… Well, I haven’t seen them in ten years. But I can see that you love Ciri very much.”

Geralt isn’t sure what to do with that – is it just an attempt at sharing? A warning? A criticism? In the end, he does nothing. Jaskier moves on to a random story about an older woman who tried to sponsor his music in exchange for sexual favours.

“I wasn’t even against it until she tried to make me move in with her and do all the romantic shit,” he says. “But the second I started pulling away, she cut me off.”

“Maybe for the better,” Geralt says dryly.

“But can you imagine? I could have become famous! All the great artists of the past had rich sponsors!”

“Did they all have sex with them, too?”

Jaskier snorts. “I mean, it probably happened a lot. What about you? Any other adventures than with your ex-wife?”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts. “No.”

“None?”

Geralt blushes. It was a contention point with Yennefer, once upon a time. She was his first, and he definitely wasn’t hers, even though she’s a couple of years younger. And now she’s dating again – which is why Triss gently ended their session, she couldn’t very well continue to be the therapist of her new girlfriend’s ex-husband – and Geralt isn’t. Isn’t even considering it.

“No.”

Jaskier hesitates for a beat. “Okay. That’s totally okay, you know that, right?”

“Hm.”

“You met after high school?”

“You’re still thinking that I’m a-whatever,” Geralt growls.

“Well, yeah. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

Geralt stays silent. It wouldn’t be so bad, he supposes. Except that something in him tells him that if he starts considering it, he’ll take a step into a bottomless precipice. That he’s at the edge, he’s been hanging onto that edge for months, and if he lets go, if he lets himself explore this… Or any of the other things that Triss brought up…

He might never reach the bottom.

“Alright,” Jaskier relents.

Geralt wonders how they got there. Why is he opening up so much to this man that he just met? They haven’t dug particularly deep into anything, but it’s the first time Geralt has talked this much to anyone since…

Since. Since the divorce, since his injury, maybe. Before that, even – when was the last time Geralt made a friend that wasn’t in his unit, under his command?

A friend. It feels like a novel thought.

“You know, all the good songs and books are about these grand love stories,” Jaskier says, following his own track. “I love them, but I’ve never been able to have that, myself. It’s a process, accepting that you’re not going to get those things. It’s a kind of grief.”

“Love stories suck,” Geralt says, because no one could accuse him of being eloquent, and now Yennefer is on his mind.

“You suck,” Jaskier shoots back childishly.

Geralt snorts. “Well, yeah.”

“Geralt, is that a particularly poor attempt at not-straight innuendo or is it self-hatred?”

“Hm.”

“You’re really not much of a talker, are you?”

Geralt shrugs. “Probably talked more today than in the last three months combined.”

Jaskier beams at him. “Does that mean you like me?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Jaskier averts his eyes briefly, and Geralt can see him compose himself and look back like nothing happened.

“Talking doesn’t mean I like you,” he corrects, beating himself, “but I didn’t say that I didn’t.”

Jaskier gives a little laugh. “Alright. You should study rhetoric, or something.”

“Maybe.”

“Could suit you. Or logic? Are you good at maths?”

Geralt shifts in his chair, flexing his aching leg. He’s been sitting down for too long. “I should go,” he says without answering.

“Oh.” Jaskier looks at his phone. “Gods, were did the time go?”

“Where it usually goes, I would wager,” Geralt answers, letting the corner of his mouth rise.

Jaskier’s muffled laughter is rather adorable.

“What would you say to grabbing dinner?” he asks.

Geralt hesitates.

“Not like, as a date or anything. It’s just that it’s almost 8 and I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Do you even date?” Geralt asks, stalling as he tries to figure out how to answer.

“Kinda? Some people don’t feel comfortable having sex repeatedly without dating, and I’m not, like, romance-repulsed or anything. I just don’t feel attracted that way. I love romantic books and love songs as much as anyone.”

“Hm.”

“So, dinner? If you’re totally sick of me after three hours and just want to go home, that’s totally fine. But if you’re afraid that I’m just offering to be polite, I’m really not. I like you and I have no other plans.”

He says all of that without stopping for breath, too fast and too rambly, but it hits Geralt in the stomach nonetheless.

When was the last time someone wanted to spend time with him because they liked him? And he likes Jaskier back, there is no denying it. Not in any sexual or romantic way – though, would he even know? – but he likes Jaskier’s unashamed attitude, his enthusiasm and his awkwardness, his empathy. It’s been three hours and it already feels like they’ve known each other forever.

“Alright. I can do dinner.”

[eliasappreciator]

attempting to compile comprehensive Elias appearances & information sources for Me, a guy with Problems

Mentions:

Angler Fish (1), Page Turner (4), Dreamer (11), SCheating Death (29), Taken Ill (36), Burnt Offering (37), Butcher's Window (49), Binary (65), Thought For The Day (68), The Coming Storm (91), Lights Out (98), Another Twist (101), Creature Feature (110), The Eye Opens (160) [also kind of an appearance? yknow. his statement!]

Appearances:

The Bone Turner's Tale (17) [briefly], Infestation (39), Human Remains (40), Lost In The Crowd (48), Observer Effect (60), Burning Desire (67), The Librarian (80), The Eyewitnesses (82), Possessive (84), Body Builder (90), Nothing Beside Remains (92), Lights Out (98), Nesting Instinct (102), Sneak Preview (104), A Matter Of Perspective (106), The Show Must Go On (116), Eye Contact (120), Remains To Be Seen (127), The Architecture Of Fear (138), The Panopticon (158), Parting (194) [plus either 193 or 195]

details under readmore

appearances details

MAG 17: starting at 7:50, "miss hearn has lodged a complaint." we get a "jonathon!" and the famous "I'll be more lovely." [also a mention in the final comments]

MAG 39: starting 13:52, Elias and Sasha discuss the Jane Prentiss attack as it happens.

MAG 48: starting 20:50, private disciplinary meeting between Jon and Elias regarding his paranoia.

MAG 60: 15:50 disciplinary hearing again

MAG 67: starting 19: 34, argument about the tunnels.

MAG 80: brutal pipe murder

MAG 84: starting 20:26, Elias offers Melanie a job

MAG 90: starting 3:15, talking with Tim about his unauthorized leave

MAG 92: reads a statement, pleasured exhalation. he is there from the episode beginning onwards.

MAG 98: starting 21:55 Melanie tries coffee poisoning him (Elias and Jon drink their coffee the same and this is "a fair assumption" for some reason)

MAG 102: from beginning 3:10. "I admit I may have overreacted [by beating leitner to death with a lead pipe]"

MAG 104: starting 25:10ish, Elias announces himself with "knock knock" aloud

MAG 106: starting 24:48 onwards, Melanie performance review.

MAG 116: from beginning, showing Gertrude's tape about the Mechanical Turk & the previous attempted stranger ritual.

MAG 120: dream narration

MAG 138: Martin goes to see him in prison

MAG 127: starting 24:20, meeting with Basira.

MAG 135: starting 20:34, meeting with Basira again regarding Jon's trip into the buried.

MAG 138: Martin goes to see him in prison

MAG 148: from beginning, Basira beats Elias up for keeping Jon's pulling statements out of unwilling strangers a secret.

MAG 194 [or maybe 193 or 195]: yknow the one we find him in the panopticon. all spooky-like. Jon says this place wasn't made for him, it was made for Jon.

mentions

MAG 1: in opening

MAG 4: 29:51 about making the leitner search a top priority institute project

MAG 11: 22:17, regarding Gertrude's death

MAG 17: in final comments Jon notes that Elias would tell him to watch and record, and not interfere with events.

MAG 24: in final comments 22:44 about the calliope organ

MAG 29: starting at 23:19, about his time working as a filing clerk in 1972 (two decades before Elias began working there, a year before James Wright even became Head of the institute, meaning he actually witnessed these events from the skull of Richard Mendelson).

MAG 36: a little bit after 21:37, Tim asks Jon about a delivery Elias was also enquiring about. he asked "a couple of questions".

MAG 37: at around 3:01 Jon mentions Elias giving him "advice" to destroy the table that binds the Not-Them.

MAG 49: starting supplemental 24:58. "used to be something of a pothead" comment as well as comments about his employment history.

MAG 65: about trouble installing security cameras in the archive. starting 24:05. follow through for Tim saying "Elias doesn't care," and "he should've fired you weeks ago" and also a heart wrenching Sasha mention

MAG 69: starting supplemental 22:41, literally just Jon saying "short of confronting Elias" with regards to his tunnel explorations

MAG 91: starting 17:40 for Jon character moment leading into mentioning Jon suspecting Elias for murder. Actual Elias mention starting 18:49ish ("first [Jon] then his creepy boss"), 19:18 for "I think it was Elias" about the murders.

MAG 96: in supplemental Jon talks about being annoyed with Elias & believing him to have led Jon to breekon & hope's Newcastle depot, & Elias "isn't big on micromanagement"

MAG 98: 3:40 onwards. just very briefly, about him requesting Martin continue recording statements because Jon is too inconsistent about it at the moment.

MAG 101: elias is addressed from the beginning until Michael appears. there's also Jon making gagged noises to entertain throughout.

MAG 110: we find out he can't see things when occupied (didn't know about Martin knocking over papers during performance review)

MAG 139: starting 22:57 about Elias killing Gertrude

[lullabyes22-blog]

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - Ch: 18 - Sir

Summary: Zaun is free—and must grow into its unfamiliar new dimensions. So must Silco and Jinx. A what-if that diverges midway through the events of episode 8. Found family and fluff, politics and power, smut and slice-of-life, villainy and vengeance.

AO3 - Forward, But Never Forget/XOXO

FFnet - Forward, But Never Forget (XOXO)

Playlist on Youtube

Fanart, Meta, Snippets

Chapters: 1| 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |8 | 9 | 10 |11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54

CH 18: Silco's and Vander's lives change in significant ways. So does the Undercity.

Tw: mentions of child abuse and severe parental neglect.

Tw: mentions of epidemics, illness, and its aftermath on a societal scale.

Tw: depictions of dysfunctional relationships, romantic and familial.

Tw: for mentions of alcoholism.

Cw: for mentions of audism (discrimination toward deaf people, and the presumptions therein).

There is a deaf character in this chapter. Given deafness is a spectrum, lip-reading or even sign language may not always be the preferred modes of communication (and in case of the former, it's a difficult ability to master). While I've grown up around the Deaf community, I am myself neither deaf nor hard of hearing, and therefore cannot know the lived experience. I wholeheartedly welcome critique and feedback so I can do this character the full justice in future chapters<3

Vexed again, perplexed again Thank God, I can be oversexed again Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

~"Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered" – Ella Fitzgerald

Two Vekauran girls—strong of limb and fair of face—walk into a bar...

It's the beginning of a famously dirty joke.

It's also how Silco met Nandi.

Better get the phonetics out of the way. It's pronounced nUn-thEE, not Nandy-rhymes-with-Mandy. A secret hot-house flower, that one. She'd been very particular that everyone say her name The way it's supposed to be said. It's only proper that Silco honor it.

Since her death, he's honored little else.

She was a good person. Better than Silco, even then. The admission bears no shame. Silco's rationale was always anchored to liberty—by hook or by crook. A lucky ship dragged with sling-hooks to Zaun's shores. Nandi's was about building that ship themselves, with the sweat of their brows and the strength of their hands.

She had strong hands. He remembers that. She worked at the ore-mines as a girl and at the open kitchens at Janna's Temple as an adult. Her fingers were rough-jointed from hours of drudgework. But her heart was soft as the rest of her. Dark skin, dimples and beautiful hair.

Gods, that hair…

Their affair began after Silco glimpsed her in the blue glare of lanterns at Rotten Row's dance parlor—The Nymph. The only dance parlor in those days that wasn't a brothel. It was a shoddy place: no mirror-balls, no well-stocked wine cellar, no tasteful menu.

In short, it was a world removed from the posh parlors of Piltover.

Silco found it unpretentiously charming. Most taverns in the Undercity operated on Topside licenses. The rest were illegal, with their small advantages (gambling dens, rat-pits, loose women.) But they were always at risk of Enforcer raids. Once Silco gained notoriety as a local firebrand, the publicans grew leerier about him stirring trouble in their places of business.

Ironically, the more genteel establishments opened their doors. Silco was one of the few who could drink and dine on credit, and be trusted to pay later. The Nymph was one such place. It had strict rules governing dress and indoor smoking. But there was also good ale of every gradation on tap, a ragtag band that played hot jazz, and a sunken dance-floor lit by blue fairy-lanterns.

Nandi was sitting at the corner table. She'd come in not to dance, but to escape the chemical rain-squalls—Gnashers—that were becoming distressingly prevalent belowground. Her dress was off-white, a soft rough cotton shift, handwoven and well-cut, the fabric clinging to her from the downpour. A cheap red embroidery-edged shawl was draped around her shoulders.

Stepping inside, she'd quivered once, then regained her composure. Sedately, she took a seat, knees close together, hands in her lap. Her body was fetchingly sylphlike; long legs bare above strappy ankle-boots; wrists elegant under a chime of Vekauran bangles. A dark sculpted face: high cheekbones, a squared-off chin and a curving nose. She had a small harelip, improperly sewn in childhood, that cut a pale white line down her upper-lip.

To Silco, it added to her allure, saving her from the banality of beauty.

Her sister was with her. Nandi's polar opposite every way. Solid and sinewy, dressed in jeans and a scuffed leather jacket. Her skin was a shade darker; her eyes a touch sharper. She moved not with a demure sway but a solid strut. Half the eyeballs in the bar swung her way. She ignored them the way a naturally confident woman is indifferent to petty libidos of uninteresting men.

Greeting the publican with a raucous shout, she cadged a tray of free vodka shots. Afterward, she sat next to Nandi, her legs propped on the table, one arm draped over the back of the chair. Silco remembers she'd kept sucking on lime wedges. Biting them appreciatively with her sharp white teeth, and spitting the seeds into a chipped glass.

It was the most revolting sight Silco had laid eyes on.

Nandi wasn't revolting. Far from it.

What Silco remembers most was her hair. Black as ink, and glittering with raindrops. He couldn't take his eyes off it. It was twisted up off her slender neck by a long wooden pin. As the bell passed, the pin loosened in stages, dark hair slithering silkily around her face. She kept tucking it behind her ear, even as it slid forward again and again.

Deep into the bell, the pin came undone, pure black cascading across her shoulders.

Silco can still picture it. The blue gloaming. Bodies on the dancefloor. Nandi in her damp red shawl. Him in his faded gloveleather vest, striped stovepipe trousers, and heavy-duty boots, sitting just behind her.

The pin tumbled free.

By reflex, he'd reached forward and caught it. Black hair fell over his wrist like thick heavy silk, releasing a burst of warm perfume. Sandalwood with undernotes of something earthier: incense, maybe? His knuckles brushed the nape of her neck. Her whole body jerked, but she didn't make a peep.

Her sister did.

Sevika's neck snapped sideways. Her lips curled on a fearsome snarl, "Who the fuck—?"

Then she spotted Silco and tucked the fledgling fangs away. A smile—half-abashed, half-pleased—showed at one side of her mouth.

"Hey, sir."

Sir.

They always called him that, as if he were a grand Piltie, not the runt from the mines. His time Topside had lent him a quiet polish that many mistook for breeding. It was only when he got down to business did his brass-buttoned roots show. How many Topsiders, after all, knew the difference between a Topper (a violent punch) and a Top-hat (a Warden)? How many, more importantly, had threatened Top-hats with Toppers for the laws that failed to protect them?

What's this new policy mean, sir? the miners would ask, earnestness in the guise of teasing. But then, how many of those miners could read a book? How many could pen their complaints down into petitions to be forwarded to the foremen, rather than spit on the ground and curse their lot?

Not nearly enough.

Silco knew his words carried weight. With the weight came responsibility he was determined to shoulder.

He just wished they'd stop calling him Sir.

After the miner's strike, he'd become a fixture in the Lanes again. His landlord at the Topside flat had terminated his lease. A fire was kindled outside Silco's door. The hallway was engulfed with blackened scorchmarks. The rest of place was riddled with graffiti excoriating the Trencher scum to get back belowground—or get put six feet under.

Given Silco’s newfound notoriety, the latter destination was inevitable.

His neighbors were quick to distance themselves. His landlord was quicker to give him the boot. To his mind, the building was safer without sump-trash stoking rebellion below, and earning justified reprisals above.

Silco loaded his few possessions into a suitcase and returned to the Lanes. Walking down narrow streets with boarded-up windows and fire-gutted stoops, he'd felt an untranslatable sense of bitterness. It went beyond his need for the Undercity to have better—better in every conceivable way—than stagnation and sloth. He wanted them to have everything. To have wealth where Piltover kept them in poverty. To have sophistication when all they knew was crudeness. Respect when all they had was degradation.

Degradation of the spirit and the body. And here he was. Part of its matrix again.

He'd found a room by the Pump Station that overlooked his family's burnt-down tenement. It had been razed into a columbarium, the Undercity's equivalent of a boneyard. Silco's own place was no better: roughly the size of a coffin. It also doubled as his office, stacks of papers everywhere and a second-hand desk that was the gray of a dead tooth.

Here—like Daddy, two decades ago—Silco listened to the laborers' grievances and kept records.

After the miner's strikes, unrest had boiled into fever pitch. The Council had recently passed a Reform Act to enfranchise tradesmen, industrialists and administrators from the Undercity. But the rest—craftsmen, artisans and miners—remained invisible. Just one-tenth of the adult population were allowed to vote in Piltovan-run municipal committees. They had nobody to represent their interests. The hovels they lived in, the gruel they ate, the indignities they suffered.

Silco's records became useful ammunition. Day by day, he gathered the miner's grievances into a docket. If some self-righteous Councilor claimed that the strikes were a ploy, and that Trenchers were lazy, or some such rot, he would refute them with a succinctly-worded letter, and factual copies of the docket, while a second folder was submitted to independent media sources. Later, he'd repeat his assertions in the speeches he made both belowground and above.

The first year after the strike, he'd worked diligently to organize the miners. They'd set up neighborhood committees and elected local reps to represent the different branches of the workforce. They'd drawn up an issues program to address concerns ranging from wages to working conditions to housing. They'd even started a fund for unemployed Fissurefolk and their families.

The older miners were chary of the change. They came from generations of rough-living chancers. They were loyal to tradition, out of fear, or sheer habit. The younger ones were easier to fire up. They were tired of gnawing on the stale crust of poverty. They wanted more than survival.

Their fair slice of the pie called Progress.

As Silco said when he'd first stood at The Sprout's stage, "What we're owed, we will take."

He'd meant it then.

He means it still.

Most miners and foremen knew him by sight. The former tipped their hats to him and called him Sir. Their respect didn't register except as an ill-fitting appellation. Meanwhile, the latter scowled and called him Rat-bastard. Their insult did register. He liked the sound of it, the way it tripped off their tongues.

There's a saying in the Undercity: If you're making enemies, you're doing something right.

By twenty-five, he'd made plenty of enemies.

As his rallies burgeoned, so did the Enforcers patrolling the Lanes. The Wardens weren't stupid. The seething embers of discontent had given them cause to watch closely. Committing the poor's voice to paper wasn't illegal. But trumpeting it from the pulpit was. The Council were quick to sign decrees that forbid gatherings of more than six people, and quash the rest with brute force.

The best way to stymie dissent is to make it seem impossible.

Silco had already been threatened with jail twice for holding political rallies without a permit. He'd also gotten his nose broken during a sit-in at Entresol. He probably would've been trounced to a smear on the pavement. Then Vander had interceded, planting his foot and rearing back at the hips until his flatiron fist nearly touched the ground, before swinging the ugliest overhand right.

It sent the Enforcer stumbling back with cracked teeth spraying from his mouth.

In a trice, they'd been surrounded by loaded guns. The captain, a broad-shouldered woman with an imposing glower, threatened to pin them both for assaulting an officer.

"Well then." Vander squared up with a devil-may-care grin. "Let's make it worth both our while, eh?"

By then, there were reporters with cameras at the scene, lured by the shortwave radios in their bullpens. Silco could feel a dozen snapshots being fired off between the scrum of protestors and Enforcers.

To this day, in Zaun's civic archives, there is a photograph of Vander and himself taken at the scene. A grainy shot, with off-balance framing—as if the photographer was jostled by the crush of bodies. He and Vander side-by-side, in black-and-white, their faces streaked in dark lines of blood. Vander standing tall as skyscraper, fists balled and feet apart, his jaw jutting like a guillotine blade; Silco's eyes shining like a lanternfish's out of a lean whipcord silhouette.

A peculiar fury is gritted into both their postures. In the photo, Silco's left hand is on Vander's shoulder. The right is raised, finger crooked.

If a picture could tell a thousand words, most would hypothesize he was egging Vander on. In fact, he was quietly reasoning with Vander to back down.

Why win the battle, if it cost them the war?

In the Undercity, the scene created a cult of personality around them. In Piltover, an account was published in the newspaper. Two rabblerousers: one on the pulpit and the other on the streets.

The Hound and the Word-Monger, they were dubbed.

Silco remembers reading the pages when they were hot from the newsagent, slouched side-by-side with Vander at the Drop, a bottle of scotch between them.

They'd recently been sprung from jail. Eighty days each, with a hefty fine for disturbing the peace. Silco's nose had healed to a crooked jut. It was an inevitability. Some days, he'd felt nearly handsome, or as if his features were edging towards its approximation. Yet he'd also known he was one roundhouse away from disfiguration.

Few kept their looks for long in the Lanes.

The damage hadn't made a dent on his attitude. Riffling through the newspaper, Silco recited the article with a plummy bombast, the same way he'd once narrated from pornographic novellas at Hope House Orphanage.

"Perhaps the most disquieting aspect of The Word-Monger's speeches is their calculated slant. A dangerous ideologue, his oratory whips the underclasses into a frenzy with illusions of victimhood. Recent months have witnessed an increasing number of disruptions in the Fissures, by those who believe they have a right to exert their influence over the Council's legislations. Indeed, it appears as if social order is no longer sacrosanct. To exploit the unlettered for misguided derring-do is the new order of the day."

Scoffing, Silco tossed the newspaper aside.

"It's by that little gargoyle at the Sun & Tower," he said, "B. Goode."

Vander snorted. "Long as they don't expect us to be good."

"No chance of that."

A smile flickered on Silco's lips, which Vander's mouth caught. Next, they were guffawing, tickled pink by their exploits written up in the newspaper, even anonymously.

The disorder had brought them together when so much could've pushed them apart. Five years of distance. Different temperaments. Different attitudes. As boys, they'd shared everything. As men, they didn't have as many interests in common, though they always made time for each other.

Since Silco's return, they'd resumed their smuggling enterprise. Their network was more expansive than ever. Not just goods but people too. They came from across Runeterra: Ionian farmers savaged by Noxian armies; mages barred from practicing dark magicks in Demacia; sailors fleeing the cutlasses of pirate lords in Bilgewater.

Many were desperate. Some were opportunists. Everyone came to escape something.

To be free.

For Silco, this meant relearning his old ways. Wearing one well-spoken persona in the daylight. Trading it for a rougher breed by twilight. The knife in his boot to replace the pen in his hand. The crisply-penned letters and fiery oratory swapped with belts of whiskey and brightleaf cigarettes. It felt less like a disguise than a second skin. When he spoke, his accent darkened with the guttural patois of the Lanes. By night, he wore a different face altogether.

He took pride in it. Flexibility is a survivor's defining principle. With strangers, he adopted the persona that best suited his needs. By himself or with Vander, he remained the closest to his core self. A double-life, some might call it. But Silco saw no shame in it.

There was shame only in surrender.

As a duo, he and Vander were ruthlessly effective. The perfect alignment of brawn and brains. In the streets, Vander was the frontman, a force of nature. He'd collide violently with any obstacles in his path, toss their broken leftovers aside, and move on. Standing six foot seven and weighing around two-hundred-forty pounds, he was a marvel of unabashed strength. Years later, whenever The Hound was mentioned, most thought of violence first and foremost.

History is like that. One moment, people talk about a man. Next, they talk of a legend.

Silco, meantime, was the strategist. He had a knack for long-term thinking and a head for numbers, softened by a sardonic wit that made him charming if not likeable. Even as a young man, he saw patterns as part of a bigger picture. His mind was always buzzing with ways to edge their latest scheme to its most successful outcome.

When he made plans, things got done. And when he spoke, others listened.

His rallies and Vander's smuggling relied on the same formula: word of mouth. Word spread like fire in the Lanes, and those whispers grew louder as others flocked to their cause.

But all trade comes with risk.

It holds true for criminals. It holds doubly so for revolutionaries.

Silco and Vander were aware of the Wardens’ scrutiny. By night, they might have ruled the Lanes. By day, they kept their heads down. Sometimes, to throw off suspicion, they'd switch up their routines. Vander would lock up the Drop; Silco would put away the dockets.

They'd do as other young men did in the Undercity. Stir up trouble.

Some nights, they went down to the basement-level boxing gyms. There, they'd employ their old boyhood formula. Silco would play master of ceremonies with a showman's flair, reeling in the punters. Vander's sheer size would take care of the rest. In the ring, he'd bash away at a string of unlucky opponents until the bell rang. Grinning, he'd lay his substantial weight on the middle ring rope while Silco collected satchels of coins. Afterward, they'd split them fifty-fifty—Vander into the Drop's coffers, Silco into the miner's emergency fund.

Other nights, they'd hit up the gambling dens. Here, Silco was in his element. He was a natural cardsharp; his face gave nothing away. Vander liked to say that, even if the Kindred came knocking on Silco's door, he'd greet them with a look of perfect blankness. His favorite ploy was the whipsaw, where he and Vander squeezed a player between them, raising and re-raising bets until the third party had no choice but to fold. Afterward, they'd pocket the spoils—though, inevitably, Vander spent his on day-to-day expenses, while Silco stashed his own away for rainy days.

Summers were the dog days. Business slowed to a slog; the heat lay thick as a steam between the walls. Silco and Vander would retreat to the actual steam baths. Their go-to was Baby's Bathwater: cheap, sturdily built, full of glittering mineral pools and subterranean streams. They'd spend the hours before dusk in the tubs, Silco with a tattered paperback novel, Vander with a well-chewed cigarillo. They were always happiest in the swelter, breathing in thick soupy air and sipping on cherry sodas between idle chitchat.

Other times, they'd light out to the Deadlands and retrace their footsteps to the oxbow where they'd taken dips as children. Stripping down, they'd leap into the waters with raucous shouts. Afterward, Vander would laze in the shade, arms outspread, luxuriating in the unnatural stillness. Silco would swim alongside the peculiar eellike fish stirred awake from winter sleep, generating effortless momentum with the barest motion of his arms and legs.

Later, tipsy on cavernfruit liquor, Vander would teach Silco dirty tricks from his boxing repertoire. The Jack-in-the-box, where you let yourself take a blow, fell backwards, then sprang back up, using the momentum to slam your fist against your opponent's chin. Or the Pipe-Punch, where you offered your victim a toke with the right hand, and slammed your left into their jaw, shattering the bone with a single blow.

Most of the time, Silco could take a stiff belt without folding. He was naturally spry from years of roof-runs. But strength was not his forte. He seldom lasted more than two rounds; no threat to his behemoth contender.

Pugilism made no difference in an Enforcer attack. Boxing gloves were no match for bullets.

The Hound and the Word-Monger never visited the same place twice. Sometimes, they'd even avoid each other for a week or two. To give off the air of independence; to lessen suspicion. But their true lives were lived in each other's pockets, and when they met again, they fell in step without missing a beat.

Those days were Silco's happiest.

When they weren't preying on the corrupt or earning a cut from their network, though, he and Vander were neck-deep in arguments. Zaun was their shared dream. But they differed on the ways to make Zaun a reality.

Silco felt that the overthrow of Piltover's rules was necessary to come into their own. Half his methods were through underhanded business and ruthless strategy—away from of the day-to-day skirmishes.  But Vander thrived in the street element, and languished in boredom when considering the long-term. Fiercely talented with his fists, he was nonetheless no militarist. War was not a sport he found compelling. His quarrel with Topside was rooted in indignation rather than hatred.

For Silco, it was a bone-deep grudge that had taken an early hold of him. He was ready to give himself to it, in ways he couldn't give himself to anything else. He spent more than he had—time, energy, money—and to hell with the costs.

In the years leading up to the Day of Ash, the Lanes were volatile as a powder-keg. Enforcer raids were common at all hours. Men and women were rounded up on the barest suspicion of wrongdoing. Those who resisted arrest found themselves tossed in holding cells. The unluckier were left floating in the Pilt.

Silco had barely eluded the same fate. On a sweltering night, he'd been crossing home after an underground rally. The alleyways were depthlessly black, like piercing through a veil of ink. Keeping a steady tread, Silco became aware of marching bootsteps behind him.

Enforcers.

Three, maybe four. Their visors glinted in the gloom like insectile eyes.

They called him by name. 

Silco turned, nothing but a knife on his belt. Running was unwise—futile—for a number of reasons. Foremost among them was the gut-punch that bent him to the ground. He got a few licks in at the start, but after that it was their game. With their rifle butts and boots, they were vicious. He blacked out a few times, and when he came to on the sidewalk, his face was matted with blood, nose broken and lips split wide. Under his clothes, he was all the colors of the fucking Tereshni rainbow.

They'd left him alive—barely.

Not mercy, but a message: Next time, you won't be so lucky.

Vander was aghast. He refused to let Silco step beyond the Drop until he'd healed enough to stand straight. That took a fortnight. Afterward, at a grim gathering, it was resolved that the Lanes would develop a lookout system. A chain of eyes and ears, on alert for the faintest footfall.

The youngest volunteers were sumpsnipes: boys and girls with quick wits and quicker feet. Silco taught them how to memorize Enforcers' patrol routes. How to blend in, signal, scatter. The second layer were the night-watch. Ex-soldiers, brawlers and bruisers. They knew every intimate nook of the city. If someone needed help, they'd be there to lend a hand. Vander vetted them personally. Taught them how to punch straight, kick hard, duck fast. But when Silco brought up the possibility of investing in real ammunition, he was shot down.

"Gone barkin', have you?" Vander snapped. "The Wardens will come down on us like—"

"So we just stay vigilant?" Silco fired back. "Vigilant and vulnerable?"

"That's not what I'm sayin' at all! Just—what happens if things get uglier? You're talkin' about putting innocents on the line. People we know. People relyin' on us..."

"I'm talking about defending ourselves," Silco said. "Otherwise Topside will crush our movement stone dead."

Something flickered across Vander's face. On guard, as always, for the scaly thing under Silco's skin.

"Look," he said. "You want to take risks, I'm with you. But there's gotta be a limit. Talkin' back to Topside already got you hurt once. Next time they find you, with a smuggled pistol in your jacket, they'll kill you—and the rest. Best to lay low until this blows over.”

“Lay low?”

"You heard me." Vander hesitated. "I've had a talk with Benzo. He suggested you dip into our emergency fund. Buy passage to Bilgewater. You'd be safer there. At least for a while. There's a ship due in port this week..."

Silco was adamant. "No."

"Look, you can't just—"

"I said no, Vander."

Vander heaved a breath, let it go. He seemed agitated. Too agitated to even argue. A kissing-kin sensation—awful, unbalanced—bubbled up inside Silco's gut. The same sensation as when Vander told him to leave for the Academy, years ago.

Softly, he said, "You want me safe? Or gone?"

The question brought Vander up short. His eyes traced the fading bruises on Silco's face. His jaw splotched with spiderwebbing yellow contusions. One eyelid still darkly swollen. A livid stitch on the upper-lip. Beaten and bashed and bloody, but still standing.

Defeated, Vander sighed.

"Doubt you'd stay gone," he said. "You love trouble too much."

"It's the Lanes I love."

"Silco—"

"I belong here. That's why Topside booted me out."

"Don't say that."

Vander wore a hangdog look. A look Silco hated—sticky with shame for their lot. As if Piltover set the standard for the exceptional, and they fell short. They, who worked to their bones for scraps, while Topside barely lifted a finger for riches. They, who lived in a city plagued by disease, decay, disorder. They, for whom resilience was an article of faith, the core of their being. As soon as disaster passed, they snapped back into shape.

Why shouldn't they look at the men above them—literally—and say: I deserve my share.

"I belong here," Silco repeated. "So do you."

"Blut—"

"Not because we don't deserve better, Vander. We belong because we do." Frustration corkscrewed through him. "One month, and eight beatings by Enforcers. Four deaths. That makes one per week. I want us to quit taking punches. I want us to quit eating bullets."

"You want to start shootin' back."

"It's overdue." He dragged both palms through his hair. Those days, he wore it long, a wavy tangle that always swept into his eyes unless he tied it back. "As long as I can remember they've pushed us around, treated us like dirt. Ask any Topsider on the street, they'll tell you what they think we are. It's time to show them what we really are."

"An' what are we?"

"Fighters."

Vander heaved a sigh. "You don't even like fighting."

"There's different kinds of fighting. There's fighting just to get by. Then there's fighting for what you really want in life."

"Yeah, so what?" A matching frustration grinded through Vander's voice. "How many of us fight, and don't get what we want? You think your Dad liked hauling himself to the River at two in the morning to fish out corpses, or mine loved workin' the factory line? They did it 'cause they had people to take care of. They couldn't shirk their duty."

"Yeah, but whose duty?" He stared at Vander. "You're stronger than everyone in the Lanes put together. Why let yourself get shoved around?"

Vander said nothing. He bent into the cabinet. Silco watched his broad back flex. Straightening, he twisted a cap off a bottle, where it landed with a ping in the sink. For the first time, Silco noted the sunken bags under his brother's eyes and the beard furring his jowls.

Concern displaced anger. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Could've fooled me."

Vander's face was sullen stone. But his jaw twitched once. His body-language seldom betrayed the depths of his disturbance. But Silco had an uncanny sense of arrowing into the heart of the matter. With Vander, though, he hit his mark with kindness, never cruelty.

Vander slid on the stool adjacent Silco's. Exhaling, he sipped from the bottle.

"It's Lika."

"What about her?"

"You know we're back together, yeah?"

"Me and half the street."

Vander crooked a brow.

Silco sipped his own scotch, and sneered, "You two will have the building down before you're done."

"Heh." Vander grin was smug. Then he sobered. "You remember when we broke it off four years back?"

"Do I ever. Your moping got on my nerves." Silco paused, recalling. "She lit out with another bloke for Bilgewater, right?"

"Yeah, well." Vander's mouth held a grimace. "Turns out she was pregnant."

An unnamable feeling crept through Silco's gut. He locked it down. His voice held an offhand coolness.

"Like hell."

"I know. I couldn't believe it myself. Thought I'd misheard. Turns out that's why she'd left. She didn't want a baby, especially not then. We were too young. I was too... me." He gave a ragged half-laugh. "So she left. Sailed to one of the islets near Bilgewater. When the other fellow found out she was up the duff, he cut her loose. She stayed for a time at a Missus' Cotworth's. Says it was a ladies’ workhouse. More'n likely was a whore-den." His grimace deepened. "In the end, the Missus began eyeing up the kid for 'work,' so she scarpered. Came back here. Found me. She says the kid's..."

Silco sat there. The world was cold.

"Yours?"

"She swears up and down."

"You believe her?"

Vander shrugged.

Silco fought his kneejerk instinct to probe. He and Vander, whatever intimacy they'd shared in their salad days, was done. They never spoke of it. Never even alluded to it. Sometimes it felt almost unreal to Silco, like something that had happened in a dream. Other times, he felt the unspoken truth kept him and Vander closer rather than apart. To share secrets was one way to share a body, wasn't it?

Except—again—came the wedge.

Lika.

Silco wished he could be a better man. Lika wasn't the bad sort. Though still pitifully skinny from the diet of gruel in the Lanes, she'd matured into a vivacious beauty, naturally witty, with an inventor's mind. She worked as a gadgeteer in Benzo's shop, and like any girl who'd come from a long line of wanderers and wastrels, she had a talent for making mischief.

But she also made good. When Rolak stole a shipment of copper ingots from Benzo's store, Lika set up booby traps along the route to the harbor. The poor bastard didn't make it past the third trap. Afterward, Benzo hailed Lika as his rescuer. Silco got the distinct impression he would've dropped to his knees and proposed to her then and there.

Lika had her eye elsewhere.

For all her good nature, she was an opportunist to her core. She liked having men—big, tough men—on her string. It was, as Silco would confirm later in his own life, Like money in the bank.

And Lika always wanted more.

Vander was top dog in the Lanes. Nobody could match him for sheer strength. With Silco's return, they were attracting attention from all corners. Notoriety had its flipside: adoration. Their smuggling operation raked in coins. And Silco's gift as a fixer gave them access to a network of contacts across the city.

None of this had failed to rekindle Lika's love-light. Vander was her best chance at getting what she truly craved: the good life.

And Vander?

He'd fallen for Lika all over again—and Silco hated it. Hated the mysterious power inherent in Lika's swaying hips, the lilt in her laugh and the swing of her hair. Hated the way it reduced Vander into a whipped-dog passivity. All she wanted from Vander was sex and profit. Yet the latter anchored into an affection that sunk deeper into Vander's heart, while the former had him showering Lika with gifts at every turn: necklaces, tools, trinkets.

She had a ridiculously childish thing for stuffies. Vander was so cunt-struck he’d started a collection for her, one for each letter of the alphabet. He'd just gotten to L when Silco had returned to the Lanes.

Love.

It's a funny thing, isn't it?

Funny like a brain tumor.

Flatly, Silco said, "Stick around too long, they start playing games. I always warn you."

"So you do."

"I also warned you to pay the Protection Racket."

An Undercity saying. It meant: Use a sheath.

Vander tsked. "All the Piltie cunny's spoiled you, Blut."

"I barely got any," Silco retorted. "And what I got wasn't worth the trouble."

Vander chortled, with overtones of Sure, pull the other one.

"It's true. Like screwing a mannequin. They don't move right on the dance floor. They barely move at all on a mattress."

"An' when they come, they announce—"

"I'm arriving, I'm arriving!" Silco said in shrill falsetto, beating Vander to the finish line.

They traded the old handshake of laughter. The burden receded from Vander's shoulders. Silco took the other man's emotional temperature, and dared, "Give me a sweetheart from the Lanes any day."

Vander grinned, a good-natured reflex. "Any day."

Their stares met. The moment prolonged itself into tantalizing possibility…

Hastily, Vander broke eye contact. He looked at the bottle. At his hands. Anywhere but Silco. Silco felt a hot stab of disappointment. Vander's expression was a closed book, as inscrutable as the wall of legend he'd built around himself. The Hound again. Even when his words were friendly, his hands were fists.

Those same hands now white-knuckled the counter.

"A kid," he said. "A little girl." Then, as if the confession had been yanked from him, "I'm scared, Blut."

"Who knows if she's even yours." Silco kept his voice casual. "The father could be anyone. Rafik. Sergei. Hell, even Benzo."

"Silco..."

"What? She's a freewheeler, Lika."

Vander's brows bristled like a wolf's fur. "It's not like that."

"Now you're going to say 'Her life's complicated."

"She's a bit of a handful, yeah. But it's not her fault. Lifetime of men makin' promises, then ditching her. Nowhere to go. No family left. Gives a girl baggage, doesn't it?"

"They all have baggage. Brother, father, husband, son." Silco slid his tongue across his chipped teeth, a sour aftertaste in his mouth. "It's not your responsibility to bear the brunt of every man who did her wrong before you."

Advice he'd never taken as a boy with Mother. Then again, Mother was long gone, the brain tumor warping her thoughts inside-out. Some days, she was little more than a dark blot on the edges of Silco's own mind. Other nights, he felt her loss not as an absence but an unmoving weight, squeezing something inside him until it was sealed bloodlessly shut.

Psychic scar-tissue, one might call it.

Or a son's legacy of guilt.

Find someone, she'd told him, in one of her last lucid moments. Find someone so you've got a home.

Home.

That was why he was back in the Lanes—for good. Back, and not the same Silco as before, in the eyes of the streets he'd left behind. Runt. Rat-bastard. Dirty little thing. He was all that, and yet he'd matured into someone else: respected, even sought after. He wasn't exactly a looker, all angular bones and hooded eyes. But his parents' unique genetic legacy had its upsides: poreless olive skin, jet black hair, and a glide in the stride. He kept immaculately clean and dressed well—or as well as poverty allowed.

Women were taken by the attributes he'd developed Topside: a natural courtesy in opening doors, lighting their cigarettes and never raising his voice. Men admired his head for numbers and his talent for getting a hold of things others coveted: contraband, information, favors.

What drew both was the bright burn of his intensity. In Zaun, he’d found his calling. It gave him ballast, drive, desire.

And people always yearn to be led—or led astray—by someone who knows where they are going.

In the early days, bitter after getting booted from Topside, there had been a cold comfort in accompanying Vander on social outings, and watching the room's attention split between them, where before it was a one-sided contest. On those nights, he'd crash deliberately at the Drop, with some pretty thing, letting Vander hear them through the walls of the basement bedroom.

It wasn't a ploy to stir jealousy. More to prove a point. To himself, if nobody else.

That game had stopped a while ago. Vander remained unprovoked—and Silco wasn't without conscience about using sex as scorekeeping.

Truth told, he found it tiresome. Fucking was fun. But it never satisfied him. It only replaced one emptiness with another. With women, he was always wary. Some were stimulating; others were sweet. But he preferred them at arm's length even when bedding them. With men, it was the opposite. He was comfortable with the roughness, the lack of niceties. But the comfort always lapsed into boredom.

Afterward, he'd lie in bed alone, his body insensate but his mind raging. Here he was, a rat caged with thousands of other rats, right where Topside believed they belonged. Where was the ecstasy, the drama, the catharsis? He had a need for release gnawing inside him, verging on explosion.

Sex couldn't ease it; like his work, it was a stopgap. Some days, he felt ready to die—or kill.

Just as long as the blow was struck for freedom.

Vander's demeanor softened: man-to-man. "You're as bad as Lika."

"Ha ha."

"I mean it. Throwin' your lot in with someone else isn't always throwin' yourself into a fire."

"Until you get burned." Silco pressed his palms on the table. "Worry about yours and let Lika worry about hers."

"What if hers is mine?"

Silco didn't understand Vander's expression. Dubious and yet hopeful, as if there was a chance gold could be spun out of hay. He tried engaging Vander's eye. But his brother wouldn't look at him.

"If it's yours," Silco let off a breath, "Then this kid deserves Zaun as much the rest do."

"That's the dream, isn't it?"

"It won't be a dream forever."

"And until it is?" Vander slugged his beer. "Freedom is a dream, and it's a sweet one. But it takes everythin.' It eats every ounce of your time and heart and soul. S'like the moon shining on the Pilt's water. You can chase it all night and never catch it. No matter what you try or how close you think you're getting."

"I know that," Silco said. "But what does that matter—a bell, a week, a year—if you're free?"

"Silco—"

"We could finally have space to breathe, Vander. Think of it. You, me, Lika, Benzo. All of us. There's nothing like it—that space. It brings something better out in everyone. Something they didn't even know they had. Freedom teaches us what we never knew about ourselves. Else we die strangers. Doesn't that reward make it worth the cost?"

Vander deflated. There was little point in belaboring with Silco, who had honed his skills in Piltover's intellectual battlegrounds. Still, Vander couldn't quite let go.

"Not everything's a matter of cost or reward, Blut."

"Maybe not," Silco said. "But have we ever known anything else?"

Vander stayed silent.

In winter, Lika moved into the Drop.

Her daughter was a few months shy of five. A small, sturdy bundle of strawberry hair and freckled skin. She had a habit of biting her nails down to the quick, and a way of looking at menfolk with her head uptilted as if they were strange animals who'd bite if she made a sudden move.  Lika had a penchant for coddling her. Whenever she had the time, she'd carry the girl on her hip, her fingers brushing through the fine curls on the child's crown, rocking and cooing.

Her name was Violet.

When Vander heard the name, his face had broken into a broad smile. Lika had named the girl after the wildflowers that grew in the Sotka riverbanks. The place Vander's mother was from. She'd inherited the same reddish hair and blue eyes. She had the same temper too. Her squalling was thunderous, and Lika, with her high spirits and fragile nerves, was often left at her wits' end.

Vander was the only one who could calm Violet down. He had a knack with her, as if they'd known each other for years.  He'd hoist her into his arms and swing her up to the ceiling to shrieks of laughter. When she was cranky, he'd bounce her on his knee, reciting colorful stories until she was giggling and tugging at his beard. Once she was tired out, he'd lay her in the crook of his elbow and gently rock her to sleep.

Violet took to the gregarious giant as if she'd waited her entire life to find him. Soon, she'd begun following him around the Drop like a little duckling. She never called him Daddy or Papa or Vati. Only Vander. But half the Lanes sussed the truth out. Vander, once wary, began to bask in his new role.  Once the season turned, he and Lika and Vi were fully absorbed into the surreal dynamic of a family. It spun them within a quivering bubble sheened in something resembling happiness.

Silco tried to be glad for them. Or for Vander. But the kid felt like a wrecking-ball, a demolition crew of one. Overnight, she'd displaced Vander's attention more utterly than Lika. And yet she was just a kid. A red-mottled, round-faced kid, and nothing else whatsoever.

Silco's one redemption? He was good with her.

He was good with most children. Unlike adults, their motives weren't mysterious. They wanted to eat, shit, run, play. What could be simpler? And yet they weren't simple in and of themselves. Each one was a walking object lesson of their parents' dysfunctions. The Lanes bristled with orphans whose only crime was being born in the wrong place.

Silco never wanted to be a father. Even before his teens, he'd vowed never to bring a child to life unless it meant the child had a life.

Shelter. Safety. Freedom.

Violet had none of that.

Yet, Silco thought.

He never volunteered to babysit. But if Lika was elsewhere or Vander preoccupied, he'd find himself with Vi in his lap, or clinging to his leg. He'd even, after once catching her smeared in tar after sneaking into the Drop's boiler-room, given her a bath. A herculean endeavor. She'd bawled up at him, big-eyed, her hair and skin grimed black, her fists balled as if the world was a vast injustice and she had no language to explain why.

Silco hauled out the metal tub, filled it with icewater, and dunked her in while she'd shrieked and squalled. It was a struggle not to lose his temper. He was no fucking nanny.  But after he'd lathered the sticky goo from her hair, scrubbed her down and toweled her dry, she'd subsided into stupefied calm. As if he'd pulled off a miracle. And, to his own surprise, he'd found himself feeling the same.

It was the first time he'd performed an act of kindness for someone besides Vander.

Afterward, Violet started to follow him around the Drop, too. Unlike with Vander, her gaze was brimful with curiosity; her mouth held a hundred questions. What happens if you eat toothpaste? Where do rats lay their eggs? Why is your skin that color? Are you Ionian too? If you had a tail, could I pull it?

Silco's solution was to put her to work. She was a diligent little chit. At age four, she could sort and stack, and even fold. He taught her to write her name. How to count cards. How to keep an eye on the street, where to hide if Enforcers came knocking, and when to stow coins into her stockings for emergencies. She had a birthmark on her right knee. A red spot shaped like a rabbit. If you tickled her there, she'd dissolve into peals of laughter.

After which she'd climb into your lap and drowse off. 

Stealthily, Silco would slip her into her bedroll and tiptoe out—"Goodnight to you, too, Pet."

Children. They're like landmines.  One false move and everything goes boom.

Except children weren't the only landmines in the Undercity. Winter was a hard, hungry season. The Void Wars were in their dying ebb. A slow crawl of refugees clogged the streets. Some gravitated to the caverns below; others to the low-rent districts above. Many took to the Lanes themselves, resorting to pickpocketing and mugging. The streets seethed with violence as if it were smog.

Sometimes it was a skirmish. Other times a bitter farce.

Once, on Silco's way between errands, a stout youth with a geometrical maze of tattoos had threatened to cut his throat in the back-alley. Silco remembered that night vividly. It was one of the coldest in the decade. The boy's breath had misted the air. Yet he was sweating like a melting glacier.

"Gimme your money."

He was Shuriman. Silco could tell by his accent. He'd clutched a grimy tanning knife at an awkward angle. The blade wavered like a feather. Rather than a stabbing, Silco felt more threatened by the prospect of a tickling.  He stared into the youth's eyes. He was a big lug; a head taller than Silco, and twice his weight. And yet he jittered like a child with stage fright.

"I have," Silco said, enunciating plainly, "three Hexes in my pocket. I'll give you one if you haul a couple of crates."

The youth gurned in disbelief, "Crates?"

"Benzo's spoonyman is drunk as a skunk. I need someone for heavy lifting. You look strong."

"I ain't no whore," the youth blurted.

"I said haul crates. If I meant let's fuck, I'd have said so. Come along. And give me that knife. It's so filthy you'll give yourself tetanus just touching it."

Bewildered, the youth complied.

His story was typical. Shipwrecked on the southern coast, he'd arrived in the Undercity penniless and hungry, a younger sister latched on to his arm. In desperation, he'd turned to crime to feed them. Wherever he saw the opportunity to steal, he seized it.

Now he lived like a real sumprat, fighting tooth and claw for scraps.

Silco and Vander did their best to help those with guts. Neither of them was a paragon of virtue. But they knew how low an empty belly could lay a boy. They'd put them to work in the Black Lanes as runners. They'd teach them the basics of the trade: Vander playing disciplinarian, Silco playing mentor. The rest—the savvy, the street smarts—the kids picked up on their own.

They had no choice. The Lanes were no death-knell of social Darwinism. They were its ugliest tenets in the unnatural parameters of a petri dish. Life moved in fast-forward, and came with its own inalterable mutations. Those who triumphed did so by shedding old skin—or devouring that of their peers.

Survival was the best teacher of all.

The boy proved competent as a runner. But in a month's time, he'd fallen afoul of Enforcers, and gotten hauled off to Stillwater. Silco wouldn't see him until twelve years later, in a cage match at Rotten Row.

By then, he and Lock would both be altered beyond recognition.

Lock's wasn't the only tragic tale. As the refugees swelled, the Lanes became a crucible of filth. In Piltover, social workers exhorted the wealthy, in a flurry of open letters, to remember their paternalistic duty in offering succor to the disenfranchised, lest they fall to the depredations of vice.

The Council handled the matter at arm's length. In Entresol, a massive glass dome was built to temporarily shelter the heaving masses. Within weeks, it was overrun. Soon thereafter, a citywide epidemic of Grey Lung erupted. So horrific they called it the Ash Plague—hundreds felled in the span of a fortnight. A third were infected; a third perished. Even years later, the survivors were still coughing up phlegm.

Piltover's solution?

A city-wide lockdown.

The entire Undercity was contained in a quarantine zone. Travel across the Bridge was strictly forbidden. In the Lanes, there were rumors the plague had been manufactured by the Wardens to cull the population. Others believed a Piltie factory's chemicals had spilled into the riverwater.

Whatever the case, the Council's response was the same. If a hand was raised in protest, the hammer fell.

In the end, the Undercity was left to fend for itself. The sick were separated from the living. The former were piled up and burned. The latter were left to rot. It was the lowest ebb of the city's history: a time of despair and death. The upper-zones became a cesspool, the Lanes a midden. Silco came down with a racking cough. His lungs felt hotly congested, as if full of smoke. Vander fared no better. Nor did Benzo.

Yet, as the weeks passed, they proved among the lucky. The mines had left them sturdier than most. Even as the winter chill gripped the Undercity and the water ran brown, their strength prevailed. They worked in shifts. Kept the fires stoked. Fed the sick with scraps. Kept the living alive. The streets were silent except for the sound of coughing and the wails of the dying. Those who could work did, though their strength flagged. Many of the strongest died from sheer exhaustion.

Under the glassed dome, bodies lay tangled together like cordwood. The smell was enough to turn stomachs.

By springtime, the Ash Plague had abated. Silco and Vander and Benzo were all right. Vi and Lika were untouched. Yet their lives were forever changed. Vander's face bore a permanent shadowed glower. The light in Lika's eyes had dimmed. They each looked decades older than they felt. Silco had taken to the bottle and chain-smoking. Sometimes he couldn't sleep at all. When he did, his dreams were filled with ravaged bodies.

A voice, deep as the mines, told him, You won't die like this.

He didn't die. He was spared. He survived.

But the dead were left unburied, and the dome remained. A monument to Topside's failure; a symbol of its neglect. The living refugees made it their permanent roost, setting up stalls in its shadow or squatting on its grounds. They peddled everything from fresh fish to stolen wares to used clothes. In time, Silco and Vander began buying and selling from them. Benzo's shop became a hotbed for stolen loot. Soon, the Lanes were back in action. People were still reeling, but they breathed, and that was something.

It was everything.

Soon, the glass dome became a familiar sight. A fixture of the Undercity milieu, like the muck-soaked streets or the clogged sewers or the rusted pipes. Traders and performers were drawn to its bustle. The city's poorest and wealthiest mixed under the same gleaming curvature of glass. The market, once a dead zone, became a cherished destination.

Thus, the seeds of the Skylight Commercia were sown.

For the Council, the Undercity's shifting landscape was proof positive that the Fissurefolk were incapable of self-governance. A census program was instituted to track their movements. The data proved useful only insofar as it confirmed what everyone belowground already knew: that the Undercity's civic records were a cheesecloth of missing pages, crossed out names, and blank spaces.

Most Fissurefolk fell beyond the scope of Piltover's census. Few governing bodies beyond orphanages, schools and prisons were under obligation to collect information. Among Piltovan aristocracy, bloodlines could be traced back over centuries. Among the middle-class, the nuclear family was the bastion of social order.  Belowground, there was no concept of either bloodline or traditional families.

While divorce remained unavailable to any social class outside of the aristocrats, common law marriages were frequent. Most could be entered with a simple ceremony and an exchange of rings at Janna’s Temple, as with the union of Vander's parents. Or it could be officiated by an Undercity magistrate, with the birth of each child and the death of each spouse stored in civic records, as was the case with Silco's parents.

More often than not, Fissurefolk entered what was known as a "living-in" arrangement: a temporary union between two parties under the same roof.

Living-ins weren't legally binding. If one party wished to dissolve the relationship, they could leave whenever they chose. Naturally, this meant that abandoned wives and single mothers figured large in the social milieu. Some were widowed. Others saw their menfolk rendered unfit for work through injury, and sought recourse elsewhere. Still others were left behind by men who found conscription to places like Ionia the ideal exit strategy from family life.

Silco warned Vander that he should record Violet's parentage somewhere official. Otherwise, she'd find herself without a name in the event of a separation. That didn't seem to bother Vander in the slightest. To him, Violet's existence was proof enough that she belonged to him. Silco argued that a child needed stability, especially when raised among people who were perpetually veering on the edge.

Vander shrugged it off. He already loved the little girl fiercely.

Come what may, he would protect her.

By himself, Silco contemplated the futility of it all. The dodging and weaving necessary to survive in the Lanes. The dangers lurking from cradle—Violet's cradle—to the grave. And for what? A handful of coins? A few parcels' worth of meat?

They deserved better.

He kept the moodiness to himself. Between manning the Drop on weekends, organizing rallies and running books, he rarely had time to vent. Vander was usually up for a good chin-wag, but lately he had other concerns. His life had taken a decidedly domestic bent since Like and Violet hopped aboard.

Overnight, the Hound had become a father.  The pressure was getting to him.  His fuse shortened. His temper frayed. More than once, Silco found himself having to step in between Vander and strangers, who'd incurred his wrath simply by looking at Lika the wrong way.

Vi didn't help matters. The Last Drop was no playground. The little girl was constantly underfoot, and catching strains of conversation unfit for her ears. By five, she had a vocabulary sharp enough to strip paint. Weekends were raucous, and she lived on the ragged edge—alternately overstimulated or languishing in boredom.

The only place that restored her equilibrium was the basement. Once Silco's old room, it had been converted into a play area for Vi. In it, the child had a private sanctum of toys and books, free from the chaos above. If Vander was too busy with pouring drinks or Lika was chatting up customers, it fell on Silco to occupy her. He'd tote her downstairs, sit her on the couch in a cozy nest of blankets, and put on a show.

"What'll it be, Pet?" he'd say, pantomiming a performer's bow. "Comedy? Romance? Tragedy?"

"Comedy!" she'd crow.

"Excellent choice." Silco would rifle through the cardboard box of dogeared storybooks. "Today's bill will consist of: The Misadventures of Mavis and Mutthead!"

She'd wriggle with anticipation. "Mutthead's a dumbass."

"Quite," Silco agreed. "But Mavis is clever. She'll teach him a thing or two."

Vi was a rapt audience. Some scenes would have her hooting with glee. Others, groaning in dismay. Silco had a knack for doing voices, and Vi adored the ones he did for Mavis, whose nasal tones and long-winded lectures were a send-up of his Academy professor's. For Mutthead, Silco did a falsetto screech and an eye-rolling grimace that sent Vi into fits. Her giggles were infectious. And, despite himself, Silco would inevitably fall into the rhythm of storytelling. Of playacting.

Of being, briefly, a child.

Other nights, his aim wasn't to rile Vi up, but settle her down. His weapon of choice was song. He regaled her with no daft lullabies of owls and pussycats.  Instead, he sang ballads about the Fissures, of miners mired in the seeps and street urchins playing marbles beneath the Bridge. His voice—the tenor inherited from Mother—glided like water, slow and soothing.

Violet liked it. Her eyes would close and her mouth would shape a little 'O', as if she was trying to whistle along. Her favorite song—surefire at knocking her out—was an old sea-shanty called The Wave-Soaked Maiden. Whenever he sang it, she'd fall perfectly still, lulled as if by sea waves:

Behind her lips, her teeth were sharp/Much sharper than his knives/She said to him, "Come closer, sir/And I'll eat you alive."

Once, Vander caught Silco in the act. Leaning a shoulder against the door, he waited until Violet dozed off on Silco's knee. Then he cleared his throat.

Silco started. "What—! Oh."

"Corruptin' my little girl already?"

Vander's mockery was skin-deep. Beneath, he seemed genuinely amused. His silhouette held the looseness it always acquired after a hard day's work and hard drinks. A glimpse into the man beneath the legend. The man with whom Silco had once shared his food, his dreams, his life.

The man with whom he still shared the closest semblance to a home. 

The couch creaked as Vander settled beside Silco. Cued, Silco passed over the snoozing morsel. Violet nestled comfortably in the massive crook of Vander's arm. Her plump cheek rested against the slab of his chest. Awake, she never resembled Vander in the slightest. Only in sleep did the lineaments of her features show the same stubbornness in the mouth and jaw. 

She'd be a strong girl, Silco knew. Strong like Vander.

"I was only keeping her quiet," he muttered.

Vander chuckled. "She likes you. I can tell."

"She keeps asking if I have a tail."

"With the songs you fill her head with, we're lucky she hasn't sprouted one herself." 

Silco shook his head. "I'm still not sure how you deal with it. Day in. Day out. The Drop. The Lanes. Her." He jerked his chin, meaningfully, up instead of down. "It's like your world's shrunk." 

"Not my world." Vander grinned, a little wistful. "My girls are a handful, sure. But it's worth it. Just look at her. Isn't she a picture?"

"For now. Wait until she hits her teens. She'll give you the run-around."

"It'll be good practice. For when the Lanes are free. There'll be hundreds of kids like her."  Vander laid Violet gently on the cushions, next to her favorite stuffed bunny, and hit the stained-glass nightlight Lika had designed. "This one, though. She'll always be special."

"She's certainly turned you special in the head." 

"You'll understand once you've got your own."

"My own what? Live-in migraine?"

"You don't mean that." Vander sighed, bittersweet. "Every night, I count my worries. One through ten. Then she smiles an' I count my joys. One through thousand."

"That's the definition of short-term thinking."

"That's love. And with a kid..." Vander gazed fondly at Violet, his oversized palm smoothing her hair. "Well, there's no bottom to it."

"Just the bottom you have to wash up after."

"Jeer all you like." Vander kissed two fingertips and pressed them to the girl's temple. "But mark me—you'll eat that cleverness one day." A beat, "Sir."

"Don't call me that."

Chuckling, Vander touched his fingertips to Silco's temple. The touch held all the affection of decades of friendship and hardship, so ordinary and yet summoning every iota of solitude that summed up Silco's private life lately. Tonight, it was a splitting ache in his chest: love and envy tugging at each other. 

"It's good enough." Vander's voice was soft, as if speaking to himself. "Being here. Being part of somethin' that'll last." His eyes met Silco's. "Maybe even outlive us."

"Zaun," Silco said, equally soft. "You and me, blut. We'll build it together. For all of them."

Their silence caught and held; a handclasp.  Violet sighed in her sleep.  Their bodies were divided by the little girl: her mouth a sweet pucker of dreams. Their knees were touching. Warmth poured off Vander, and its heat lit an answering glow inside Silco. His thumb touched Silco's lower-lip.

It wasn't a caress. But his eyes held a gleam of promise.

Silco could've closed the space between them. Kissed him. Slipped his palms under his shirt, and dragged his nails down the hard contours of Vander's chest. There'd been a time when the act was routine, and not the gut-deep ache of retrospect. They'd known each other's movements so well once. Made a home in each other's bodies, same as in the Drop. Yet the intimacy had left an aftertaste, like something gone stale with neglect. 

"I know that look," Vander rasped.

"What look?"

"The one that says you're thinkin' too hard." His thumb skimmed the softened edge of Silco's mouth. "Better watch it."

"Always wondering what I'm thinking." Silco's smile held a bitter twist. "Never what I'm feeling."

"Blut—"

"Don't." Silco caught Vander's thumb in his teeth, then let go. "Don't make me say it."

"You never say it." Vander's voice was hoarse. "Not since..."

"Since what?"

"We were boys." Vander's gaze dropped to his mouth. "We're not boys anymore."

"No," Silco breathed. "We're not."

Vander's big body was taut. His eyes were dark. Silco could read the yearning in his face. The struggle. He knew that if he reached for him, Vander would let himself be touched. Let himself be led. His breath mingled with Silco’s, a hot cloud. Silco's palm was on his thigh. They were savoring the same air, the same warmth. A taste of what they'd lost so long ago. 

Then Vander broke away.

"I can't." He scrubbed a hand across his face. "Not now. Not anymore."

"Because of her." Silco didn't hide his bitterness. "Because you want a real family."

"Don't do that." Vander's tone was a warning. "Don't turn this into somethin' it isn't."

"What's it then?" Silco said, viciously soft. "Why is it so hard to choose?"

"Choose?" Vander laughed. A hollow sound. "I'm not choosing anyone. But if I was, it wouldn't be her. It'd be her." He gestured to the child, lolling peacefully, a thumb wedged between her lips. "My daughter."

"I'm not asking you to give her up, bastard." Silco's throat seized. "I just want—"

"You want a lot of things, Blut. More than anyone I know. You always have." Vander's stare was like the sun, and the sun was burning. "It's what's kept us alive. Kept us goin'. But this... I can't do it. Not anymore."

"Vander—"

Vander's fingertips touched Silco's mouth, stilling the words. "There's always a choice. Always a price to pay. Sometimes, it's best to let things be."

"Best for whom?" Silco shot back. "Us? Or you?"

"Blut—"

"You're drunk." Silco broke the contact. "Go to bed before you say something stupider."

"Silco." Vander's palm grazed his neck. His thumb fitted to the pulsepoint. "Look—"

He stopped. His eyes fell on the stairs.

Lika's fey silhouette was in the doorway. She was smiling, but there was a shadow across her eyes. As if the sight of Silco and Vander seated close, their bodies at intersecting angles, was not a revelation, but its opposite. Vander's hand dropped to his lap. He cleared his throat, a rumble. Then again, louder, as if the sound were stuck inside him.

"Lika," he said. "Didn't hear you come in, sweet."

"No, no." Lika's laugh was brittle as the rest of her. "I'm like that. In and out. All over the place." Her eyes flitted between the two men. "Finish your talk. I'm just here to check on Vi."

"Blut was sayin' we should call it a night." Vander rose, stretching his legs. "Busy day tomorrow."

"Right. Of course." Lika met Silco's eyes. "Silco, can you carry her upstairs?"

Silco was already rising. The mood was ruined; the moment lost. It had been lost since Violet's conception. Maybe before. He lifted the child into his arms: a small solid burden. She didn't stir. Not even when Vander tucked the stuffed bunny under her chin. Silco's could feel Lika's eyes on him as he carefully maneuvered the stairwell. He was relieved to pass her. Her fruit-punch perfume always gave him a headache. 

When he reached the top floor, he understood his relief had nothing to do with perfume.

A small hand fisted his shirtfront.

"Don't go," Violet mumbled.

"It's bedtime, Pet. You're dreaming."

"Dreaming?" She nuzzled close. "You're a dream?"

"I am." He tucked her into her bedroll. "A bad, bad dream."

Her mouth curled. She'd be a beauty, one day. Or a terror, depending on the toss of the coin. She'd be Vander's and Lika's legacy, either way.  

Silco's legacy lay elsewhere.

Downstairs, he heard the back-and-forth of voices. The words were too low to make out. But their tone was unmistakable. Vander and Lika: fighting. Silco didn't want to listen. But his ears were an unerring trap for sounds. Lika's accusation, high and fast and furious: Are you screwing him again?! And Vander's reply, gruff and defensive: I never was!

Bullshit!

Lika. Enough, all right? You'll make a ruckus.

I'll make a ruckus? Me? Every time he's around, you get this look on your face. Like you could eat him alive. How am I supposed to feel, Vander? When it's written all over you. It's not like I don't see him eyefucking you whenever you're together!

Lika, listen—

Fuck you! Fuck you both!

Sweetheart, please—

Please what? Please don’t say what's plain? That's why he's back in the Lanes, isn't it? Because you two are—

We're not! We never were. I told you—

Oh, I know what you said. And you said you were friends. Childhood buddies. Well, guess what? Childhood's done. Be a man and pick a side, for Janna's sake. Pick a side. Or I'll do it for you.

Lika—

Him or me. Choose. CHOOSE!

The silence was like the void, and the void was endless. Then Vander's voice, so ragged Silco nearly missed it.

The kind of voice a man uses when making a vow.

You, Lika. It'll always be you.

Swear it! Swear to me!

I swear it. On my life.  It's always been you. Nothing's ever gonna change that. Nothing. No one. Not even him.

Lika's breath shuddered. Her voice was small as a child's. Promise me?

I promise.

Silence. The rustle of bodies. Lika's muffled sobs. Vander's soothing murmurs. Then the moist sounds of a kiss. Their breathing hitched in sync: Lika gave a soft gasp, Vander a low grunt. The thump of the wall, like two bodies colliding off-balance. Then the creak of the couch. The susurrus of clothing shed. A zipper undone; a belt unbuckling. The wetness of mouths and the roughness of hands. Lika's cries, like she was being tortured. Vander's groans, like the pain was his. The melody blended together, a duet so familiar to Silco, he felt each note throb in his blood.

It was the sound of his own dejection.

The soundtrack spiked, subsided, sated. The last moan was Vander's. Followed by a breathless huff of shared laughter. Then their whispers. Their bodies entwined on the couch, Silco knew, without needing to see.  Vander's big hand cradling Lika's head. Their foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air. Like they were the only ones in the world.

The way he used to hold Silco. The way Silco used to hold him.

Vander's murmur, a sandpaper rasp: It's always been you. Always.

And Lika, her stormcloud broken: I love you.

Love you more.

A giggle: Liar.

Never. Vander's whisper was the same one that had always soothed Silco, once. Silco could almost feel his breath against his ear. The soft, sure brush of his lips. Silco's the past. You're everything. That's what I choose. That's what I want. Us. Always.

Silco's thoughts strobed in echo of Lika's voice. Liar. He could still see the scene from fifteen minutes ago: the couch, the two bodies, the way their knees had brushed and the heat had flowed between them. He could see the scene from five years ago: him and Vander, drunk on smuggled scotch and a long day's work, falling into bed together, the same heat flowing. The same scene repeated endlessly: a loop of longing and loss.

Liar, he thought again.

And then: Enough.

A month later, he danced with Nandi.

In the Equinox, The Nymph held all-night hops.

Young couples competed for hours beneath the twinkling blue fairylights. Such tournaments of one-upmanship were no rarity in the Undercity. Dancing had long been the antidote to despair: an excuse for Fissurefolk to laugh and let loose.

The hops were different. The prize was a tantalizing sackful of coins, sometimes as much as three hundred Hexes. It was collected from a neighborhood fund: enough to cover a month's rent, or feed a family for two weeks. Such communal generosity was a fresh development. A sign, really, of how the disparate groups in the Undercity were experiencing a sense of emergent solidarity. But was that so shocking? The lack of justice for the impoverished meant those same factions had to stick together. The efforts to unionize also meant that most trades began to have representative bodies. Class consciousness was on the rise; so was community spirit.

If Piltover had torn apart the Undercity for progress—then progress kept it knitted together.

"An obstinate devotion to lose causes," B. Goode termed it in the Sun & Tower newspaper.

Silco preferred a different term.

Loyalty.

Vander and Lika attended each hop. Vander was the heart of the Lanes. Wherever he went, crowds gathered. He had an affable charm, and a knack for working the room. But in truth he had little interest in shindigs. In fact, he hated dancing.

The only reason he went was for Lika.

Her energy levels always ran high; she hated staying indoors. Vander described her as a butterfly caught in a net. Or a harridan in a hellhole. Whatever metaphor best suited her temperament. Since she'd walked in on the scene in the basement, the Drop had become a pressure cooker. She and Vander could go from bliss to disaster within minutes of each other. 

It was an oscillation Silco had triggered, but as time passed, it became apparent that the rift wasn't solely a byproduct of his return. Something was wrong between Vander and Lika. And whatever it was, it was worsening. Their spats were legendary in the Lanes. Rumors abounded: that they were going to pack up and go to Bilgewater (they weren’t); that they fought over Vi's childrearing (constantly); that she was pregnant again (she wasn't).

The hops were their sole outlet. They attended often—ridiculously often, as though unable to endure facing each other without the distraction of music and stranger's voices.

Silco hadn't tagged along so much as gotten strung along. Typically, he spent weekends at the Sprout with the miners. Otherwise he holed up in his apartment with piles of dockets, before Vander fetched him after dark to inventory the black market haul.

But tonight was all on Lika.

Lately, she'd gotten it in her head that double-dates would loosen the strain. So they’d leave Violet under the care of a neighbor, and hit the town: Vander, Lika, Silco, and some friend whom she'd handpicked just for him. They were always the right sort—pretty but partnerless. Each time, Lika would preface the invitation the same way: Be a dove and keep her company?

Each time, Silco agreed with the grudging benevolence of a best friend. Later, he’d dodge with the stealth of a maritime tactician. Once the dance began, Vander and Lika would melt into the crowd. Silco and the girl would be left alone. Within thirty minutes he'd successfully drive her off too.

It was a waiting-game: playing the part of a typical male of the species—self-absorbed and uncommunicative, yet with a natural slyness for evasion. She'd try talking to him, and he'd hum, yielding one-word answers to her questions, lapsing into silence when it suited him. Letting her play her game, while he played his, until her patience waned and she flitted off elsewhere.

Ungallant? Hell, he was downright ungracious. But he resented Lika's attempts to interfere in his life. She was a natural gamester; always playing to win. Silco, a dab hand at social subterfuge, saw right through her tricks. She’d understood his interest in Vander. Understood, too, the risk of reciprocity. She never confronted Silco directly. Only hinted, teased, taunted.

She'd never find proof of anything. But she knew.

So did Silco.

The double-dates—her matchmaking—were her way of making her presence known. Of reminding Silco that Vander was off limits. In retrospect, it's a marvel she hadn't given Vander the ultimatum to stop seeing him outright. Except the Lanes' survival hinged on his and Silco's cooperation. Even Lika wasn't so petty as to jeopardize that.

So long as he kept his distance, she'd keep hers. It was an agreement of convenience, but no less effective.

And, Silco knew, no less grating.

For both of them. All three of them. A knot of emotions, all tangled up.

And Silco was growing sick of it.

Now, he watched the pair sway together under the fairylights. He watched Vander’s and Lika’s bodies say everything that had gone unseen that night in the basement. Everything unspoken out there for the entire room to see. He couldn't deny his fears any longer, that Vander and Lika loved each other. A flawed, clumsy, hopelessly inadequate love. But love nonetheless. Despite the rough waters between, they were family.

Vi linked them together forever.

Vander didn't so much as glance around at Silco. His attention was absorbed by Lika. His smile was entire.

The front door swung open; another couple were admitted. Behind them Silco caught a glimpse of the night, hot and smoky, ready to envelop him. He considered slinking out for a cigarette—damned No Indoor Tobacco rule—and just leaving. He'd hit up old haunts for word on Enforcer crackdowns. He'd talk shop, sip lager, make plans.

Maybe he'd seek out one of the boys or girls he'd taken to keeping on a string, since losing faith in the idea that he'd find anything longer lasting. They were a uniform stripe: unsavory with a side of sluttish. Dreck-magnet, Benzo dubbed Silco, but beneath the derision sat a growing unease. Silco had a penchant for attracting those on the extreme ambit of society: the broken, the battered, the bent. His partners had no qualms about getting their hands dirty. The darker side of their appetites was the flipside to his own.

They were survivors.

His bedfellows had different names: Zita, Harper, Cress. A different one every week. They were all the same in his memory: their kisses and cries, the slide of their bodies against his own.  None were the sort to make a home with—but by Janna, the nights. He'd take his pleasure without apology. And then he'd crawl home, alone.

Same as usual.

Vander never noticed. Vander hadn't noticed much of anything lately. And why should he? He had his own family. The five years of separation were too much; Silco had lost him for good. He didn't want to face up to the loss. He could only flee it, from bar to bar, body to body, bed to bed.

Maybe he should just go home—and straight to his own bed.

The door opened again.

Nandi floated into the seat beyond his.

She wasn't a stranger. He'd known her and Sevika since the mines. They'd seldom conversed beyond businesslike exchanges: The spigot is broken—Fetch the iodine—No meals today. As adults, their circles had diverged. Silco had returned from Topside shellacked by self-confidence. Side by side with Vander, he'd taken his place in the heart of the spotlight.

Meanwhile, Nandi remained what she was: a quietly resilient girl from a rough brood.

Her family were known hellions in the Lanes. Two girls, three boys—and between them enough craziness to cow a wolverine. The mother had died birthing the youngest son. The loss drove her husband into a rage that was the inverse of despair.

He was nicknamed the Wharfside Devil. And he sure as hell lived up to it. A conman by trade, a brawler by reputation, and an all-around terror. His favorite haunt was The Rumbler's Den. There, he'd pulverize men to mincemeat in cage-matches. The rest of his time was spent running scams and hustling coins.

He and his children lived in a shantytown at the edge of the Sumps. Their house's walls vibrated nonstop with crashing and cursing. Worse was when it would fall silent—and a feeble scrabbling would be heard behind the walls. More than once, a concerned group of neighbors would force the door open. They'd find the father sprawled out cold among a pile of empties, and his children locked in the closet. Shit on the floor; the floorboards gnawed on.

He'd left them in there so long, they'd tried eating them in desperation.

When Nandi was eleven and Sevika was six, their father was arrested for armed robbery at the grocer's store near the Promenade. He was sentenced to a year. Then he participated in a prison riot and killed three guards. His sentence was bumped up to thirty. The Warden assumed overseership of the children. They were moved from orphanage to orphanage. Eventually, the three boys were shipped off as dockhands to Bilgewater, and the girls were conscripted to do scutwork at the mines.

Tragic, but hardly uncommon.

Sevika had inherited her father's hellion streak. Tough as nails and blunt as a hammer. As a child, she'd narrowly escaped an early death as a mining trapper by working with her sister to train the pit-animals: hoofing the donkeys, keeping the canaries fed, making sure the dogs didn't get the mange.

After the gas explosion, Silco had broken his leg, and Sevika was ordered to lend a hand in stock-piling ore. She'd been a sturdy little thing. Never cried once despite the cold or damp; just bent her head over her work. Afterward, she'd perched on Silco's knee and gratefully gobbled down the bergamots Vander had filched from the foreman's tent.

In later years, whenever she spotted Silco on the streets, she'd follow him and pat his pockets as if expecting more bergamots.

By seventeen, she was a trainee in Silco and Vander's youth squad. After-hours, she'd help them unload the black-market haul, then patrol the zone for trouble. On slow nights, she'd dog Vander's heels for fighting-tips: how to throw a kitchen-sinker, crack a nose, bash in a skull.

Other nights, she'd sit with Silco as he pored through dossiers and tallied up figures, pestering him to play poker with her and punctuating her jokes with punches to his shoulder. Her eyes always held a proprietary gleam, like a child beholding something shiny and worth the risk of a bold touch.

Tread lightly, Blut, Vander sometimes teased. That one’s got her eye on you.

Nandi was different from her thuggish clan. If Sevika was the sinner, she was the saint. Their mother's folk had hailed from Vekaura, a Shuriman border city. A bloodline of nomadic snake-charmers and soothsayers. Nandi took after them. She'd been named for her great-grandmother, who was rumored to possess the gift of foresight. Her visions were so potent, kings would travel from near and far to seek her council.

When the girl was born, they'd named her in hopes of inheriting the gift. Inheriting the money, too. Her grandmother's clan were prosperous. When the family emigrated to Zaun, they'd been part of its merchant elite. Bad business and worse luck had bled their coffers dry.

Nandi was born a pauper, the first in her bloodline to suffer the fate. And she was no seer, to her family’s dismay.

But she did possess a gift for healing. As a child, she could always be counted on to soothe the canaries and coax the dogs to heel. Her satchel was full of poultices, which she’d dispensed among the other children. Everything from salves for blistered feet to ointment for gas-rashes.  Whenever the first aid supplies ran out, someone would always run off to find, The quiet girl with the potions. 

As an adult, Nandi’s quietness matured into a sagacity that comes from witnessing profound suffering. Instead of soothing troubled animals, she calmed the lost souls who visited Janna's Temple—orphans, addicts, drunken husbands, battered wives.

People liked her. It wasn't hard to see why. Any single photograph would not have done her justice. But in person, her allure was undeniable. Her half-lidded eyes held a serene glow. Her slow-flowing movements called to mind transparent bones beneath her skin.

Riverside birds.

Silco had stared at her from his spot. The room tilted strangely. His senses kept sliding back and forth as if on a rolling boat. Nandi didn't notice his stare. Her body was placidly still. He studied her profile, the lush eyelashes, full lips parted, outlined in the dreamlike blueness. Her hair seemed to glimmer with a life of its own. 

A rarity, such lush hair in the Undercity. Most women kept their locks shorn close to the scalp: a precaution against roosting lice. The lye soaps stripped their luster. Poor nutrition took care of the rest. Others, like the tarts, donned wigs in unnatural colors and tacky textures.

Nandi's hair was black as sin. It shone like a saint's halo. The slipping strands curled into silken fingers, beckoning.

When her hairpin fell, Silco reached out and caught it.

Sevika glanced around: "Who the fuck—oh, hey, sir.”

 Nodding absently, Silco got out of his seat. He crouched in the aisle beside Nandi. The pin lay in his open palm.

"I think it wants to dance."

Not his wittiest line. But he was only twenty-five.

Nandi's eyes flitted to his. Pretty eyes, dark-gray and wide-set, with tiny fairylights glowing inside them. The kohl encircling them gave the sense of a sea-nymph peering through the waves. A softness so unexpected, Silco felt something in him soften, too. Something he hadn't known was chilled to the bone. Several locks of hair had fallen loose from her updo. They wisped around her face. With a languid motion of one hand, she pushed them aside.

Her lips curved. The smile held a rueful twist: Is that so?

Silco felt a hot unfamiliar tickle in his bones. When Nandi reached for the pin, he made it vanish in a playful sleight of hand. In the next beat, it reappeared by Nandi's ear. Her mouth twitched; a laugh stifled. When she took the proffered pin, he kept his palm open.

"Well?"

Her smile was soft as a feather. "Do you want payment?"

"For what?"

"A good deed."

Her voice was deeper than he'd expected. Husky. She spoke with the slow cadences of someone more accustomed to silence than speech. Her accent was Vekauran. He could almost trace that old magic of Shurima in her vowels. And yet the words themselves were strangely tuned. It sounded like she was humming offkey to herself.

Silco didn't understand—yet—why she kept staring at his mouth.

Innocently, he answered, "I prefer payment by trade."

Her gaze dipped, then met his again. Eye-contact was a well-known part of Vekauran culture—and courtship. "Bold proposition."

"Or a polite invitation."

Nandi's lips parted, then closed. Her gaze disconnected from his. Something in Silco's chest cried No! The hormonal intensity took him aback. He'd long-ago built up a tolerance to the hit-or-miss risk of sweet-talking a girl. It was a skill he'd matured into naturally, the same as rhetoric. As with both, he could adopt a manner either aloof or charming, depending on what suited the moment.

Nandi stared into the distance. The mythic dead-end loomed. Then she gave him a sidelong glance. Somewhat sadly, she pointed to her ears.

Silco stared, first with confusion, then chagrin.

"Ah."

Did he fail to mention before?

Nandi was almost completely deaf.

Mind you, that's deaf with a capital ‘D.' She wasn't born that way. At six years old, her hearing began to fail. By twelve, at the mercy of blasts from the mines, it had all but faded. She tried tonics, tinctures, even talismans, but to no avail. Her world was made of soft whispers and imperfect silence.

With quiet pragmatism, she'd adapted. Lip-reading was the first skill; a vital one to survive in the Lanes. With the right proximity and light, she could accurately gauge speech with only a small margin of error. That's how she'd conversed with Silco; why she'd kept eyeing his mouth. Her real lingua franca—so to speak—was sign-language. She'd learned the basics from soothsayers at Janna's Temple, who were a robust community of the disabled, with their own varied modes of communication. Their fluid, graceful gestures became hers; a poetry of motion.

Silco was fluent in the dialectal sign language from his days at the Hölle Correctional Facility. Warden Lascelles had taught him well. With Nandi, he'd acquire it as a metaphoric second tongue.

As a kingpin, the hand symbols came in handy. Slating men for death in plain sight.

That night, Silco's mind wasn't on death. It was on keeping a straight face while the rest of him scorched with embarrassment. In retrospect, it was obvious. Why else would a pretty girl sit out dance after dance in the corner?

He meant to say something suave. Or face-saving.

Instead, he blurted, "You don't need music to dance."

She smiled as if to say, Do you often dance without music?

He didn't answer, because the answer was no. He hadn't danced since Topside, at the Academy soirees: their plodding minuets and clod-hopping foxtrots. Not that he'd tell her. He could tell she'd been asked to dance before, and the experience hadn't gone well. Probably the fool had insulted her. And he didn't want her to feel like he was insulting her. Or taking pity.

He wasn't. The dance-hall's heat was like a sauna, and the energy percolating through his bones was electric, and his nerves were buzzing beyond reason. He'd have done anything—anything—to break out of the stuffy box the night had become. Even dance with a deaf girl. Especially this one.

Because, he realized, she was captivating. 

He'll always know that for a fact. He'd known it then, though he was young. So damnably, stupidly young. Young enough to think, Just one dance, while his heart made a strange grabby gesture: Gimme!

He didn't grab. He signed, slowly, pulling the rhythm from memory: So?

Nandi's eyes lit. She signed back, So what?

Are you dancing or not?

Nandi bit her lip. There was irresolution on her face: half-troubled, half-tempted. At twenty-five, Silco found it charming. In his forties, it is the opposite. Retrospect has a way of stripping the illusions of romance away. He thinks instead of what might have been, and what wasn't. A man he could've been and a life he could've had, until circumstance precluded both.

Perhaps it was the same for Nandi. Perhaps she'd glimpsed the Wolf and Lamb beyond his shoulder. Both would find her in time.

Silco's palm stayed open. She put her hand in his.

In the background, Sevika slumped sulkily into her seat.

The night was a blue hazed-blur.

What Silco remembers now are tactile snatches. The warming curve of his and Nandi's bodies as they swayed to the music. His hand clasped in hers, palm on palm. In Silco's chest: the unexpected shudder, a pulse of shock. On Nandi's face: the blossoming of color, a smile of delight.

She was tall. They met eye to eye. Her nose was dusted with freckles. Her lips were a little chapped but sensuously full. Her hair was silky soft and scented like a cornucopia.

Sandalwood. Rainfall. Incense.

Inhaling, Silco felt at once hungry all over and strangely satisfied.

The dance floor was crowded with colorful shapes. The hot air bubbled with gin, hair burnt in curling irons, cheap perfumes and gimcrack colognes, all with an undernote of sweat. The music was fast, but they moved slow. He took her through the steps, song after song, with the surety of old practice.

Years ago, Vander had taught Silco the right way to throw a punch. Lead with the hips, not the arm. After his sojourn to Piltover, Silco had learnt dancing was the same. He was quick on his feet—always had been. At the perfumed Piltover cabarets, he'd needed to only observe the move of the moment for a few beats, before he caught on.

Topside’s styles paled to the frenetic energy of the Fissures. Especially the Sumpside Waltz.

The dance wasn't a performance. It was a game of pursuit. During the first set, one partner led while the other followed. A persuasion: eye contact sustained and bodies a whisper apart. During the second set, the roles reversed. The tempo kicked up a notch: the theme became one of sensuality and surrender.

It resembled a whirligig on the surface. But even the simplest step required finesse. And stamina. You couldn't afford to falter, lest you trip and break an ankle.

Nandi was awkward at first. But by the third song, she'd learnt to glide with him. Her feet no longer collided with his, but stepped smoothly in sync. Her senses were unmoored from the music. But her muscles responded to the fulcrum of his own, two clockwork gears melding into a frictionless fluidity. 

The band struck up Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered. Silco linked arms with Nandi for the promenade. She laughed as they scoop-stepped counterclockwise around the edge of the dancefloor. The sound was off-key but as lovely as the chime of her bangles.

She signed. I get it.

Get what?

Why you don't dance often. Her hand squeezed his arm. It brings out a devil in you.

She had Silco dead to rights.

One song ended. Another began. He didn't leave Nandi's side; she didn't leave his. For the first time in a long time, he felt at home, out of the shadows, pivoting between the couples under the shimmery blue lanterns. The way she moved with him was seamless. When Silco's gaze drifted from her face down the rest of her, he wasn't sure if he was imagining undressing her, or just tracing the outline of her body for safekeeping in the privacy of his mind.

By the time the musicians broke for a powder, they'd both broken out likewise into a sheen of sweat. Their bodies stayed loosely twined. Inside, Silco felt a slow bubbling warmth. It seemed mutual. But he was wary of overstepping the mark.

Dancing with a girl was easy. Getting her into bed was trickier. Some fell for smart patter and low-key strut. Others favored physical candor.

Silco wasn't sure what category Nandi fell in. Her manner was inviting; her body-language was demure. The mixed signals made him hesitate.

Or maybe it was the damn butterflies. Fluttering in his head, his gut, his groin.

He didn't trust them. Didn't trust his own intentions towards the girl.

They drifted to the bar. He began ordering gin. She declined. After dark, she explained, it was water or nothing. Silco indulged the peculiarity. He ordered two tiny bottles, despite them costing double the gin. They clicked them together—"To your hairpin!"—and slugged them down.

From across the room, Silco heard a familiar whistle. Vander. He was wedged into the corner table with Lika, one big hand wrapped around a nearly empty pint, the other resting casually on Lika's shoulder. Lika's mouth was wide-open with laughter at something Benzo, Sergei or Rafik were saying. She always ended up surrounded by menfolk. It was practically a running gag.

As was Vander's habit of pummeling anyone who got too close.

Tonight, however, Vander's eye wasn't on Lika. It was on Silco. He was smiling, but there was a glint of something else in his stare. Something dark and wistful and wanting. It woke a chill on Silco's skin. The same look from the night at the Drop’s basement; a reminder of things past but never gone. He wondered why it had resurfaced.

Then he understood Vander's jealousy was inflamed by watching Silco with a stranger

Watching him smile.

Watching him dance.

Watching him move on.

Silco felt the fangs of misgiving pierce his body. He tipped his chin at Vander: a query. Vander waved him over, holding up his glass to demand a refill on the way. Silco's misgiving twisted into irritation. Vander still wanted him—yes. But Vander expected it to be on his terms, or not at all. Even now, with the respect of the Lanes bolstering him, Silco still fit into his picture as... what? A sidekick? A side piece?

Fuck that.

Younger, he'd have accepted the role equably. Older, he refused to be bypassed.

Their stares caught and held. Vander's was dark-eyed, expectant. Silco kept his own implacably cool.

Liar.

He turned away.

Nandi was watching him. Her expression was witchy, warm, full of interest in everything. In Silco. He thought once more of Vander, the pull almost visceral, a taste like alcoholism. Then he let Vander slip away in favor of what was right before him.

They sipped water and talked. Well—signed. Nandi had a placid poise that was nearly spectral. Bit beneath it lay a secret playfulness. More than that, a curiosity in the world around her, in the strangeness of human nature. The twinkle in her half-lidded eyes and the touch of her hand on his arm whenever he signed something funny was nearly as charming as her off-key laugh.

In later years, he'd inevitably compare Nandi to her stalwart sister. Both were smart, strong, sultry. His favorite adjectives on a woman. Yet where Sevika burned like dragonfire, with her flashing eyes and fiery temperament, Nandi was a river: silent on the surface, at yet full of secrets barely-glimpsed and ever-deepening.  Like Sevika, she was a born survivor. But where Sevika solved her problems with a right hook, Nandi exuded strength through her stillness. She was a natural at sensing the currents of another's mood. She knew when to stand firm; when to flow. 

It was an inborn gift—one Silco would likewise acquire.

And put to use. For his own monstrous ends. 

I think, Nandi signed, and her eyes slid down, lingering on his mouth again, You must have a lovely voice. Like a merman.

He was taken aback. What makes you say that?

When music plays—she touched her sternum—I feel the beat. Not the sound. The vibrations.

Explains why you dance so fetchingly.

Nandi proved hard to distract; his compliment brought a smile but little else. Your voice is the same. When you were close, I felt it everytime you laughed. Her eyes twinkled. I bet you're quite the singer when nobody's listening.

He felt vaguely flustered. Others had told him he had a smooth voice. But nobody had described it quite so intimately.

He signed, I prefer good company to my own singing.

That got another laugh. You are charming.

For a devil?

Her smile faded. I know devils. Her hand squeezed his arm. But it's poor form to talk of family with strangers.

She'd meant her father, renowned in the Lanes. Silco was tempted to pry, but that was poor form too. Instead, he touched her hand, the briefest skim of fingertips.

Not among friends. A half-smile. But we're only just getting acquainted, aren't we?

She gave his wrist a squeeze. A thrill passed through him. He still remembers how warm her palm was. How strong.

Later, Nandi excused herself to use the outhouse. Silco stayed with their drinks, idly scoping out the bar. His attention fell on Sevika. She slouched at her table. A few punters had dared to ask her for a dance. She'd turned them down with the bluntness of a door slamming shut.

Their eyes met. She colored up and jerked her eyes away. When Nandi returned, she began sullenly inspecting her own fingernails. Sliding one palm repeatedly over the other.

I think she's bored, Silco signed to Nandi.

Nandi frowned. Who?

Your little sister.

She turned, then sobered. A different disposition; almost maternal. She's signing that she wants to leave.

You go everywhere together?

She bit her lip. Don't you and Vander?

Silco conceded with a semblance of flippancy. We go places together, but leave separately.

My sister prefers leaving together.

It sounded like a subtle goodbye. Silco smiled, a smokescreen to strangle his own disappointment. Separation anxiety?

He meant it as a joke. But Nandi nodded. We've been together since our mother died. Our brothers left for good after they were sent to Bilgewater. Our father was...the last straw. We've been inseparable since. We keep each other safe. Give each other a home.

Home.

Silco thought of himself and Vander. How the solitude was once theirs in childhood, back when they understood each other completely, had each other's backs without question. It only made him feel more excluded now, not just from Vander's and Lika's togetherness, but from everything close and connected and worthwhile.

Except Zaun.

The pin at the top-knot of Nandi's hairdo was sliding loose again. Impulsively, he reached out and fixed it in a better place. She dipped her head, and let him touch her. There were high spots of color on her cheeks.

She signed, What brought you here?

What do you mean?

You're usually at The Sprout. Talking with the miners.

Is that a crime?

Her gaze dipped. The Enforcers think so.

Silco's expression shaded. I want the Lanes to have a life, and they want to take it away.

You don't think we have a life now?

A song-and-dance isn't a life.

Her eyes circled the lively hall. These gatherings matter. They bring people together. They take their minds off the troubles.

We're only allowed respite with a Topside permit? He shook his head. That doesn't count.

You don't think we deserve a break?

We deserve much more. Silco took a sip of his drink, before saying out loud. "A life of getting what we want when we want it. Nobody stopping us. Nobody pushing us around. And if they do, we push them back. Push them back hard—so they never forget again."

Nandi stared at him. She couldn't hear his sharpening tone. But she could see the fury in his sinews.

Slowly, she signed, You hate them, don't you?

Silco drew a deep breath, counting to five. He signed back. I hate what they do to us.

Us?

The Lanes. The Undercity.

That's why you're always working. To get even?

To do better.

Nandi stared at him. Silco wasn't sure what she saw. His rants got a rise out of most people. Topside, he'd taken a perverse pleasure in stirring up shock. Belowground, there was a deeper satisfaction in stoking the embers of resentment into resistance. Yet here, he feared somehow slipping in her estimation. Coming across as spiteful rather than squarely in the right.

Changing tacks, he signed, Will you stay for the second set?

Nandi tipped her chin. She seemed tempted by the proposal. Then she shook her head. I lead the prayers in the morning.

Prayers?

At Janna's Temple. I'm an apprenta for the Priestess.

Silco blinked. Faith was never his strong suit. All those madcap mantras of Mother's had put him off. In boyhood, he'd devoured folklore in the dusty old library books. But as a young man, his encyclopedic knowledge of the Undercity's spiritual facets extended more to the tales swapped in bars and brothels.

He signed, How long does it last, this apprenticeship?

I have three years left. In total, it lasts for six.

Six years!

She tipped a shoulder. It's no great thing.

Six years of prayer? Marveling, he met her eyes. Small wonder you seem so serene.

She hid a smile. Say that when you catch me in the Temple's open kitchens.

You volunteer there?

On weekends. I prepare the meals in the refectory.

Silco was bemused. He was many things. Charitable wasn't one of them.

In the Black Lanes, the word was a slippery thing: a byword for Sucker. Yet generosity was no rarity belowground. There is this assumption—erroneous—that when people have scraps, they'll fall upon each other like beasts fighting over bones. The truth is far less black-and-white. The Lanes were always full of self-serving hustlers. But ordinary Fissurefolk did help one another. They only had scraps—but they shared those scraps equally.

There was little choice in an environment with no hope for social mobility. You made do with what you had and made sure your neighbors did too.

His skepticism must have shown on his face. Nandi smiled, like a sage mother imparting wisdom to a young jack. It's not just the food. We work there because it's important to give something back. Our donations come from the Fissurefolk's pockets rather than Uppside's tax-dole. There's no expectation of return beyond the deed itself.

You get no support from Topside at all?

Uppsiders have little patience for mystics. Her smile dimmed. People like us barely exist to them.

Except for criticizing as primitives.

Nandi shrugged. Their criticisms don't matter. There are people here and now who need support. Many see charity as a staircase. The less fortunate have to climb step one after another. Prove their sobriety, or decency, or sanity, to be worthy of aid. The Temple doesn't need them to prove anything. It offers a foundation—a second home—where they are not turned away.  No matter how many times they mess up, the doors never close.

An open door—or a vicious cycle?

Nandi remained as immune to his sarcasm as she’d been to his flattery. You know, full well, a moment's respite is not the same as enabling vice. People in our city live on the edge. Hoping for a way out, only to get knocked back down by the violence and deprivation. The Temple gives them something else to focus on. For many, it's the first time anyone has given anything to them. It saves them from a path of isolation—all its cruelties. It shows them they are cared for.

Silco tried imagining what a strange life someone would have lead for such a profound altruïsm to survive intact. He couldn't. For years, he'd kept survival straight in his line-of-sight, all the while chasing the next big thing: bigger scores, bigger deals, bigger opportunities.

His respite came only in the moments when he caught his breath, when he stepped back and saw his efforts as a whole. Not a game of survival but a blueprint towards tomorrow.

Zaun.

It had felt simple in those days. A formula for surefire success; a path with a foregone conclusion.

He signed to Nandi, Seems like a catch-22.

A what?

A catch-22. It's an old military term. When you have two equally terrible choices.

She shook her head. It's a matter of what you put first.  Success measured by itself is hollow. What's more tangible a marker is what you can do with what you are given. So we work hard in Janna's Temple. We build good deeds. If we fall short in the eyes of Uppside, well—at least we don't fall short of grace in our own.

Silco felt his lips twitch. Faith in fair trade, hm?

Her eyes were luminous.  Do they not discuss faith at your miner's rallies?

We discuss taking what belongs to us.

By force.

By right.

A revolution needs more than that. She met his eyes.  I invite you to volunteer at the Temple's kitchens. You might find it an experience.

Silco nixed this with a headshake, My talents lie elsewhere.

Her look turned shrewd. You can't cook, can you?

"Not worth shit," he muttered.

She burst into her off-key laughter again. The tips of Silco's ears reddened. But his belly filled with a foamy warmth. It felt like the sensation of slipping between warm covers after a cold day outside.

Not home—but near enough.

He didn't know it then, but it marked the start of him growing up in a different way. Learning about the Undercity through the lens of not just barstools and smuggling and social policy, but through the lives of its tenderest folk. The ones who loved the city enough to give whatever they had. The ones who believed in doing right by their fellow men.

The ones whose generosity Silco repays now as only a monster can.

Nandi caught her sister’s eye across the room. The two girls exchanged nods. With a synchronicity that marked them—for the first time—as blood-kin, they unfolded smoothly to their feet: tall, swarthy, steady-eyed. Nandi began drifting towards Sevika, taking the tantalizing waft of sandalwood and incense with her.

Impulsively, Silco signed, Shall I see you and your sister off? It’s late.

We can handle ourselves. She softened the demurral with a tease. "Sil."

It's Silco.

The miners keep calling you 'Sil.'

You're off by one letter.

He took her wrist, and drew her hand towards him. With her fingers, he spelled L instead of R. A dark flush stole across her cheeks.

Sir, she signed. That makes more sense.

It makes none to me.

You don't like being called sir?

Silco is all there is to my name. He took a sip of his drink, and eyed her speculatively over the rim. “Unless there's something more fitting you'd like to know me by.”

Nandi's titter was a two-syllable birdsong. Is this flirtation?

I was trying to be subtle.

You weren't. Her hand rested briefly on his wrist. Next time, try harder.

Next time?

Nandi's eyes radiated—or appeared to radiate—a playful promise.

There's a hop next week, she signed. I could dance again.

Silco's heart skipped like a stone over deep water. His pulse kicked up, as if with exciting prospects yet within reach. Warmth. Scent. Sensation.

Nandi.

He signed back, So could I.

[white-flwrs]

05.10.2023, thursday

figured i might as well make 1 post in the morning and edit it later HAHA i’m literally using tumblr as a replacement for my bullet journal that got soaked in the rain a few weeks back atp LOL

had my maths paper this morning and that was one heck of a good paper istg, was decently difficult without making me want to pull my hair out. i enjoyed it very much, j the perfect balance of challenging and manageable 🤩🤩 i finished it with 52 mins to spare and after checking i sketched the graphs of certain functions that we didn’t need to, and i littered the paper with 6/7 super cringy math-related pickup lines…. wldnt get me more marks but i was bored HAHA

i hv my chem paper tmr so here’s my plan: [x] review done past yr papers (see weak topics) (i cldnt find one of them oooooops, oh well) [x] review chem cheat sheet [x] review periodic table trends from last yr 😭👎 [x] memorise conditions for organic reactions [x] more practice (maybe) [x] 2022 past yr eya paper (timed) (still not my best but its decent i suppose, ill hv more time to check my work during the exam)

will edit this later to cross those off :D

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane’s Pets Pt. 39: At the End of Their Rope

TWs in the tags

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Masterlist

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Forced to kneel | Tied to a table | “Hold them down.”

Dollie is finally starting to get better. She’s had to deal with illness for so long, and it should be a relief that she’s finally feeling okay again.

It should be. But it’s not.

Jane is curled up in Dollie’s lap on the couch. “I think you’re ready to be punished now, Puppy. I counted 54 times you disobeyed me since we decided to delay your punishment. I’ll count the withdrawal and poisoning as punishments, so that brings us down to 52. I was thinking one day per punishment, so 52 days. Does that sound good?”

Dollie nods. Jane reaches up to her neck and unclips her collar. It vanishes.

“Good! We’ll make sure it goes deep enough that you obey even when you’re sick, this time. Go downstairs, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Jane rolls off Dollie’s lap and onto the couch. Dollie walks robotically to the basement door and down the stairs.

“Both of you, kneel.”

You and Kit kneel immediately. You know what happens when you disobey. She might as well have used physical force.

“Good pets! Listen. Both of you will be getting hurt at some point over the next 52 days.”

“But you said-“

“I know what I said, Kitty. I changed my mind. Here’s where you need to listen. You both have a choice to make. You have the option to only come down when it’s necessary and spend the rest of your time up here, but you won’t be allowed to comfort Puppy or help bandage her. Your other choice it to spend all 52 days with her, and be allowed to help out when you’re not being hurt. What do you want to do?”

Kit doesn’t have to think about it. “I’ll stay in the basement with her.”

You don’t want to spend 52 days in the basement. You want to sleep in a bed and eat good food and have things to do other than sit and wait for pain. But more than that, you don’t want to be alone.

“Me too.”

Kit looks at you in surprise. “You don’t have to. You can stay up here.”

“I know. But I want to help.”

“She won’t need your help. I’ll be there.”

What do they expect you to do, sit up here day after day listening to the screaming with no way to help? And… they won’t be able to help you, if they’re downstairs and your upstairs.

It’s an incredibly selfish thought. But you think it’ll be easier to handle being in the basement with them than it would be to handle being upstairs alone. And you really do want to help. You don’t want them to be suffering when you could help.

“You’ll need my help.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’m coming with you, you can’t convince me not to.”

Kit looks… hurt. You look at the ground.

“Well, that’s decided then!” Jane doesn’t seem surprised. “Both of you, give me your collars and go downstairs.”

—

“Hold them down for me, Puppy.” Kit rolls their eyes, and Dollie pins Kit’s arms to the table. Jane ties them down.

“I’m at the end of my rope with you. You’ve been testing boundaries, lately. Hopefully, in punishing Puppy, you’ll be reminded of your place.”

“Am I testing boundaries, or am I acting in a way that is very much allowed according to your rules? I thought you didn’t care what your pets thought of you, so long as we’re obedient.”

“Exactly. I don’t care, but you keep telling me how you feel about me as if I do. Caring about what you thought would be like caring what an ant thinks. Or a toy. That’s why you need to be reminded of your place. You’ve clearly forgotten it.”

Jane injects something into Kit’s neck.

“Remember, Puppy, this wouldn’t be happening if you had been obedient.”

You cover your eyes. This isn’t your punishment. You don’t have to see.

There’s a squelching sound, and Kit starts screaming.

—

A lot of Dollie’s punishment is drugging her until she can’t think and then brutally torturing her when she inevitably breaks a rule. It… seems to be working. The fear of sleeping or speaking without permission has started to appear even without thought or memory. Sometimes it’s you or Kit that takes the pain, but the principle is the same, and she’s gotten a lot better at following her rules while drugged.

You’re glad to be able to take care of her. She’s terrified out of her mind all the time, and often doesn’t even know why. You’re glad you can make it better, at least a bit. It’s almost enough to make spending 52 days down here worth it. Almost.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @ghostsinthecloset @scp-1296

[cepmurphy]

Goncharov, the comics

So, everybody’s talking about the Goncharov film but nobody’s talking about the Goncharov Illustrated comic strip in Crisis. That seems wrong.

(cropped cover of Crisis #64)

Now, that wasn’t the first time British comics dealt with Goncharov. The first time was a short-lived strip in 1974 called Goon Charov in Buster (the artist is uncredited). Charov was a Russian heavy who was always trying to take over an Italian family’s pizzeria and you can’t have a scan of it because the dialogue & racial caricatures have note dated well at all. It lasted about ten weeks.

Later, you had 2000AD progs 52-53, for Invasion! – Bill Savage ran into a Volgan mobster called “Chongarov” and decided to save his moll “Kate”, helping her escape on a boat (yes I know that’s Sofia’s thing). A pursuing Chongarov comes a cropper:

(prog 53, “Chongarov Part 2″)

The last Earthforce story of Marvel UK’s Transformers (#290-91), written by Chris Francis, had the Decepticon Icepick go to Earth to bump off the feuding ‘Con leadership. Various scenes reference the film, including Icepick tying Shockwave to a giant chair the same way Ice Pick Joe bumps off Amarro. (Francis also wrote Death’s Head #11, where DH is bodyguard at a pastiche of the “and one for the table” dinner scene – everyone ends up dead)

One of the last photo strips in Girl (for Americans, yes it was really called Girl) in #479 would do a YA version of the Katya/Sofia plot, Sophie’s War, where plucky young Sophie falls in with a mobster’s daughter and both end up escaping with Sophie’s brother on a boat.

Now, why was a girl’s comic in 1990 doing a Goncharov knockoff? Because in early 1990, Channel 4 showed the full uncut version of the film for the first time in the UK – the BBFC had taken exception to some of Joe’s scenes – and it had been a big hit. Channel 4 repeated it three times. A new generation of Brits got into the film and pirate videos proliferated.

And in 1990, Crisis – a comic aimed at older readers and often going for political works – needed to boost its sales something fierce. Sales had never fully stabilised after the first few issues and they kept going down fast, while the strips were often very inconsistent. So why not license Goncharov and get in on that reflected coolness?

The result was the eight-part Goncharov Illustrated written by Keef Ripley and drawn by John Burns. Delays in getting the rights meant it didn’t come out in October 1991, starting in Crisis #64. Fleetway really, really hoped this would save the comic and, well, it didn’t. In fact, the cost of licensing it killed Crisis off early! Parts 6-8 had to be all bundled into the final all-Goncharov issue.

Does the comic work? Well, film purists were very vocal at the time and for years after that it did not. Angry letters poured into the office and into fanzines. A key problem was that you can’t really adapt a three-hour film into eight six-page parts without some extensive editing and that meant a lot of scenes had to be dropped. What readers saw were the strips Keef Ripley felt were the most important ones in the film. Most controversial among his choices were:

A) The entire opening of the film is gone. Part 1 opens in an adaptation of the ’Anchovies’ scene with a lot of captions added.

B) It removes the ambiguity of whether or not Luglio really does use his own daughter as a human shield against Goncharov, deciding “yes”.

C) It downplays most of the homoeroticism.

Now, the first two choices are subjective: you need to cut something and what makes for a good beat in a film may not in a comic. Reducing the subtext between Goncharov & Andrey and Katya & Sofia, on the other hand, guts a large amount of the film’s power. We don’t know if this was an accident of adaptation (a lot of the subtext is based on the actors) or due to it being 1991 & Fleetway got scared. Remember, back in the 90s you’d get some young lads who were fans of the film but said there totally wasn’t anything gay going on (YEAH RIGHT).

Goncharov Illustrated killing off Crisis and then all the fans complaining about it anyway made Goncharov a dirty word around the Fleetway offices. A few of the Crisis alumni on 2000AD would poke at it, with rude references or background jokes. Most bluntly, a Mark Millar Dredd had the Judge beating up “a nerd riot at Goncharov Block!” (emphasis original).

Sorry, I can’t tell you anything about the Tekno Comics Goncharov! miniseries, I don’t have any of those.

[freetheshit-outofyou]

The post of George Carlin is, since it's on your blog and you're a Trump supporter, in and of itself, biased. It speaks to the illusion that Carlin was a Republican. He was not. It also speaks to the illusion that votes are bought by Democrats. In this day of uncertainty as to who is more factual in their assessments of "voter fraud" you are programmed in your thinking to believe that Democrats are stealing votes. This last election was to be heralded as a "Big Red Wave". It was a trickle.

I mean, I have got to ask that question up front, because from this post and your assumptions about me you must be.

First, I voted for Mr. Trump because I wanted him to turn the system upside down, not for his politics, mission accomplished. I will not be voting for him in his 2024 bid. I don't like the guy, I have never liked the guy, I have made that very clear over the years, my vote was a tactical move, not a single party card vote, something I have not done since I was 19, I'm 52 now.

I have never, at any point disputed that Mr. Trump lost and you shitheads that keep dragging it forward are the same one who drag racism forward to keep breathing life into a dead horse. Both of them are still here because you fuckers keep it here.

Now let’s get to your misguided interpretation of Mr. Carlin.

I have been watching, hearing and reading Mr. Carlin's "teaching” since the 70's. Carlin is billed a comedian but what he really was, is a satirical philosopher and a damned good one. He was part of a small class of comedians that put the magnifying glass of comedy on all the parts of life that people want to keep in the dark and made us see it in the hard light of day and laugh at its absurdity while also nervously laughing because we ourselves worked and lived in the rabbit hole he just exposed. Today, Carlin is considered a Far FAR left nut case to be written off by the right OR used in clips by the Far FAR right to support this or that bullshit point. The left will not speak of him because they feel his ability to rip the curtains back on their “do as I say not as I do” agendas while forgetting the fact that he was a huge supporter of much of what Liberals support today. Things like gun control, social programs for the poor, women’s rights, and same sex rights. Liberals don’t like him because his light often shined on the problems of ever expanding government, government overreach further and further into everyday life and our homes, he spotlighted corporate greed and the money corporations feed into politics, among other political issues. I find Carlin's ability to shoot holes in the entire system while also giving answers to many of our collective ills in comedic format impressive and refreshing. It was never hidden what side he leaned too, but because he was able to peel the skin off both sides of the political spectrum while showing how the hypocrisy of the Right and Left pissed all over those in the middle, while also asking them to vote for them and give them ever increasing power to piss on them more was simply amazing. Honestly, I think this is why I voted for Mr. Trump because Carlin wanted the voter to flip the political table and let those who sit and rot in political power know that We The People are the ones who have the real power, not an elected orifice that has done very little for the PEOPLE while getting very very wealthy in office. I challenge you to read any number of his books, as I have. Maybe start with Three Times Carlin: An Orgy of George, It is 3 of his books rolled up into one. It has his first books from 1984 in it, Sometimes a Little Brain Damage Can Help, It was his first book I read when I was 19 or 20. Then maybe finish with his last book that is blunt, factual and amazing, Last Words, his autobiography. It was released in 2009 about a year after he passed in 2008. All you think you know about a person based off a few posts on a stupid blog about guns is wrong. But you won’t care, because like the very people Mr. Carlin shined the light on you are the king most high in your world of political delusion. “The habits of liberals, their automatic language, their knee-jerk responses to certain issues, deserved the epithets the right wing stuck them with. I’d see how true they often were. Here they were, banding together in packs, so I could predict what they were going to say about some event or conflict and it wasn’t even out of their mouths yet. I was very uncomfortable with that. Liberal orthodoxy was as repugnant to me as conservative orthodoxy.” Geroge Carling, Last Words Oh, and choke on a bag of dicks.