#just let me get to stand in front of a room and academically analyze shit and read papers and engage with people

[fatherramiro]

look maybe this is cringe or something but god what i wouldn't give to be a professor who teaches film, literature, and a few courses on the intersection of digital culture around media through a sociological and creative lens

[poisxnyouth]

teacher!dave chapter 2. (d.d)

A/N: oops. enjoy. let me know what you think. -hailey

w.c.: 2.5k (sorry)

The next few weeks are slow and difficult: Mr. Dobrik loves to challenge you. He gives you the most demanding assignments you’ve ever had to complete, including weekly five thousand word dialectical essays analyzing the prose of whoever he assigns you, along with his regular AP work.

Every day during lunch, he pulls out your work and grades it right in front of your eyes.

Today, Mr. Dobrik scoots his office chair closer to the seat you always pull up, shuffling through papers on his desk and locating your weekly essay. You’d become quite adept at comprehending his messy handwriting, and since you’ve told him you can read it, he no longer attempts to make it neat and legible. He immediately leans over, paper on the edge of his desk as he reads it.

Both of you had also come to a consensus concerning rules, since you seemed to like defending yourself before he gave final comments on your grade. It was his way of essentially telling you he needed you to shut the hell up while he’s grading.

He had made a comment one day, something along the lines of, “Stop getting so defensive! I haven't even given you your grade yet. Just because I’m critiquing it doesn’t mean it’s bad, hun. You know I think it’s great.” The pet name wasn’t unheard of; many teachers call their students it and it’s not new, but hearing the word come out of his mouth as he flipped a page and met your eyes somehow changed the definition of it. He had started using it frequently when speaking with you.

Mr. Dobrik’s intently reading your essay dissecting Keats’ Endymion, scribbling his comments and circling areas. That was another rule: you weren’t allowed to look at his comments until he was finished. It was always a perfect time and gave you the perfect excuse to stare at him while he reads, scanning his features for reactions.

“‘Kay, hun, so I graded this at an 85. There’s nothing in here that’s wrong, but-.”

“Sir, it took me 6 hours to research and write this paper. I haven’t slept in two days and we have a football game tonight. It’s Friday.”

“That’s your own fault. You had all week. Manage your time better. And hun, I’m not asking you to analyze the whole damn book. It’s the first two stanzas! Anyway,” he says, “You analyzed it fine. You made sure to say all of the main points I would have. I know this is the poem you put on my desk a few weeks ago when we first started and I asked for your favorite, and I’m glad you analyzed its importance to you even deeper for me. I’ll be honest, I was expecting some Rupi Kaur bullshit. But yeah, I’m not kidding, you did great. Every essay gets better and better. I mean it. Really, the only things that’s getting you is your conjunctive adverbs and the flow of your sentences. Your conjunctive adverbs are terrible. That’s an easy fix, though.”

“Thanks.” Mr. Dobrik is leaning over, elbows resting on his knees as he looks at you, returning the essay.

“You’re very welcome. Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart next week, please. Anything else?” You shake your head no, eyes scanning through his comments.

“Then you’re free to leave, if you want.” He scoots back from you, returning to his laptop.

“Actually, can I stay in here? There’s not that much longer until the bell, anyway, like 15 minutes, and my next class is right across the hallway.” He looks surprised for a second, still not facing you as he nods his head.

“Yeah, always,” he says half heartedly, searching through his graded papers and entering them into the gradebook. “You’re going to the game, then? Since you talked about it, I mean.”

“Um, yeah. We go every week, since it’s our last year and all. Are you?” You fiddle with the edges of your essay, watching him as he works. Mr. Dobrik has one hand in his hair, tugging at the ends as his other hand continues going through his stack and entering numbers.

“I did the same thing senior year. It sucks realizing everything you’ve ever known is coming to an end. Enjoy it while you have it. I miss the hell out of high school. Why do you think I came back so quick? And yeah, I’m going.” He makes conversation, laughing lightly as you shrug.

“I dunno, to be friends with your students?” Mr. Dobrik looks at you at that, smile coming to his lips.

“That may have been part of it. I was close with my teachers. Makes sense for me to want to return it.” He keeps his eye contact, turning his seat towards you as he leans back, resting his chin against his hand.

He’d been playing a game with you since the first day, aware of how attractive you thought he was and wanting to push you in that aspect as well as academically. Even if you had been misreading his actions, wasn’t it only fair if you served it for once?

“How close?” You lean forward in response to his leaning back, elbows on your knees.

He bites his lips, still smiling as he breaks eye contact, rolling the pen through his fingertips. “Close. That’s all I’m going to say.”

You keep up the confidence, eyes flickering between his lips and eyes. “Sounds like bullshit to me,” you shrug, sitting up straight and crossing your legs. You watch as Mr. Dobrik’s eyes follow up the length of your bare legs slowly, faltering slightly before he meets your eyes.

“Language, miss. We were close. That’s all. I still talk to them.” He’s still twisting the pen in his hold, watching as you stare at his fingers.

“Sorry, sir. Close,” you repeat. “Like, platonically or…” His face twists, fingers quickly wiping at his mouth as he still flashes his smile, seemingly catching on to your game.

“Are you asking me if I’ve ever dated one of my teachers? Not that it’s any of your business, but no. That’s not what I meant. They’re my friends now, and I ask them for advice.” You throw your hands up in defense, shrugging slightly.

“It was just a question. You never know. Advice on?”

“Students,” he answers quickly, changing the subject, “What are you playing at here? What’s your angle?” You stand at that, his eyes following you up, lips parted.

“You ran out of questions. I’ll see you Monday morning.” Mr. Dobrik scrunches his eyebrows together at your words, grabbing your arm.

“No. Sit back down. We were having a conversation. Don’t be rude. If you walk away, I’m writing you a referral.” You obey, feeling giddy at his stern response and placing yourself back in the seat across from him, his hand releasing its hold.

“Let me rephrase: what do you want to get from this conversation? Because this isn’t academic, so there’s an ulterior motive to your questions. Tell me what it is.” He’s serious now, no fleeting smile spread across his face.

“Um,” you say, eyes moving to the ceiling.

“Look at me when you say it. Because I know what it is, I would just never say it,” he shrugs once more as your eyes return to him.

“It?” He nods.

“Well, you know-,”

“Wait. How old are you? Just asking. I can look it up, but you’re here, so…might as well just ask you.” His eyes are glued to yours, rolling the pen in his hands.

“18, but I’ll be 19 when I graduate.”

“Okay. Continue.”

“Okay, um, I mean, you’ve kind of like, been teasing me, I guess? And maybe - in hindsight - maybe I misread it, but like, you know, you’re cute and a really good teacher, and obviously I’m not the only thirsty one out of your students but I’m also a pretty hopeful person and-.”

“Alright, I’ve heard enough. You said what I was waiting for. By the way, it’s impossible to misread when I check you out, sweetheart.” You’re confused now, releasing your grip on your belongings and playing with your hands in your lap. You don’t know how to respond to his pet name. Mr. Dobrik’s maintaining eye contact, lacing his fingers together in his lap after placing the pen on his desk.

“So?” He asks, biting at his lips. “Let me ask you a few things. Okay?” You nod.

“You're 18. You're legal, but oh my God, I feel like such a creep for what I’m about to ask,” he plays with his hands in his lap, not looking at you. “Are you a virgin? I’m, like, legit just asking-.”

“No. I’m not.” You feel stupidly hopeful at the idea of Mr. Dobrik bending you over his desk and fucking the shit out of you, his fingers leaving dark blue marks along your hips. You shift visibly in your seat at the thought, and Mr. Dobrik notices.

You've piqued his interest now, looking at you again, “Who did? When?” His nervousness is dissolving and his normal cockiness is making its appearance again.

“Nathaniel Rogers. Spring break, sophomore year.”

“Ew,” his face twists, “he’s not even - what? How? He got lucky. Ew, oh my God, I don't want that picture in my head. You can do better than that.” You laugh, trying to ignore his compliments, as he puts his face in his hands.

“Really, um, I’ll be honest, that's the only question I had.” He puts his hands back in his lap and makes eye contact again before his eyes drop, scanning over your thighs and skirt. He meets your eyes again before speaking, “I just wanted to know.”

It’s silent for a few seconds, Mr. Dobrik taking his bottom lip in between his teeth and looking around the room.

“What do you want from me, Y/N?” You mull it over, quickly.

“Can we start over? From like, when we were going over my essay?”

He shrugs once more, assuming you want to forget about the conversation altogether. He scoots closer to you and takes the essay from your lap, leaning in closer than normal. You smell his cologne, and you can imagine him standing at the Macy’s perfume counter and smelling every option before dropping two hundred on a bottle.

“So, um,” his voice is low and quiet, “I like seeing this analytical side of you where you’re not just analyzing the author’s intent and how their life influenced their work. Like, we know Keats died of tuberculosis at 25, right? It’s really smart of you to connect it to the line where he says, ‘A bower quiet for us, and a sleep / Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.’ You point out how the times between his death and the publishing date don’t match up, but how it’s still morbid in its unintentional foreshadowing. Um, what I meant by not just analyzing the author’s intent is, you, a person who is around the same age as Keats was when he wrote this, considered the depth these two stanzas have and how they’ve influenced your life. Especially because it’s your favorite poem ever, and at least now I understand why. I feel like I know you better now. You explained it beautifully. This essay captures exactly what my goal is for the rest of my students, and I’m really proud of you, Y/N. I mean it. If I compared your first essay on this poem to this one, there’s a huge difference. You’ve grown exponentially even in this past month and a half. I won’t expect anything less from you, now, though.” As he spoke, you had leaned closer and looked over his shoulder, watching as his fingers point to what he was speaking about. He’s not looking at you but he feels your presence and how close in proximity you are to him; one wrong move and his lips would be on yours. Your fingers genuinely brush against his arm by accident, but the gentle touch seems to catch him off guard. He looks up at you, faces too close.

“God, I - shit. Are you sure?” There’s overwhelming hesitation in his voice, lazily blinking at you as you nod, murmuring a yes, please.

“Fuck,” he curses, “I really shouldn’t do this.” His eyes keep flickering between your eyes and mouth, his tongue darting out to lick across his lips.

“You can ask for advice later?” You offer, carefully reading Mr. Dobrik’s worried expressions.

“Yeah. I can. I just thought you didn't want to-,” you roll your eyes, taking initiative and leaning in because if you didn’t, he never would.

It’s a deep, timid kiss, your heads tilting as you pause briefly, your hands finding their home on his chest. For a second, you get an inkling Mr. Dobrik is going to lean out and act like it never happened, but he breathes in slowly (nervously, it seems) and leans in this time, one hand moving to your cheek.

Mr. Dobrik had been completely aware of your attraction to him from the first day, and although he hated the fact, it had been reciprocated. He never wanted his actions to reflect that, though, considering he actually liked his job for once. He had, in turn, resorted to light teasing, too much eye contact, and wandering eyes, feeling as though you always knew of his intent. He feels slightly guilty now, that you believed you were misreading everything he had done, but there's now no point in worrying about it. You know he’s attracted to you now as his tongue slides slowly against yours, one hand remaining on your cheek, the other on your waist. One of your hands have found its hold in his tie, tugging lightly on it to pull him closer. The other is on his cheek, fingers running over his stubble and down his neck, over his Adam’s apple and eventually gripping at the collar of his white dress shirt, undoing the top button before he gently pushes you away, standing.

Both of your cheeks are flushed as you look at each other, Mr. Dobrik clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair.

“Um. Can you come see me after school, sweetheart? Do you have something going on?”

“Umm, I was gonna take my friends home and get ready with them for the game, but-.”

“You don’t have to cancel your plans for me.”

“I’ll just tell them to hang around campus for a little bit, that I’m talking to another teacher?” Your voice is dripping with a strive for his approval, although you’re uneasy. He nods slowly.

“Okay. Sure. The bell’s about to ring, so, um, here’s your essay.” It’s awkward now, and you want to kiss him goodbye as his fingers move to button his shirt again, undoing your work.

“Thanks.” He nods, cursing himself under his breath before leaning in once more. He kisses you deeply, doing the work for you, before pulling away what feels like too quickly.

“I’ll see you later, hun.” You nod, not meeting his eyes as you grab your belongings and make your way out of his room, making sure he pays attention to the sway of your ass.

Mr. Dobrik’s pissed off at himself.

[barnestruck]

her name

(gif creds to owner)

pairing: bucky barnes x reader (high school!au)

summary: in which bucky admits his feelings for you...to his mom.

word count: 1.9k, yep just a wee bit longer than the last one :)

warnings: fluff once again bc i was crying a lot earlier while reading angsty fics and i wanna feel happy again! Also haha snuck some aladdin lines in there too ;)

a/n: i really didn’t intend to make this like a “her ___” thing but i’m down for it. i’m writing this to pass the time bc i’m waiting for my friend who lives in korea to be free so we can talk. also, wow! “her laugh” was really well received! thanks friends :) feel free to leave any feedback you may have for me! [oh, i mention some things about how the anglican church began in a funny way, i’m not trying to offend anyone’s religion so plz don’t take it that way]

-

History was hands down your favorite subject. Something about analyzing past civilizations was so fascinating to you. To think that the things you read about in textbooks actually happened was mind-boggling but also really amusing. There was a guy, a king for that matter, that wanted a divorce so badly that he created an entirely new church in the process of separating from his wife, who he also proceeded to decapitate (okay, maybe that part wasn’t so funny).

You looked forward to your history class every day because of your love for its engaging and rigorous curriculum...for the most part. A small part of you also excitedly anticipated the conversations you would have with the cute guy who sat behind you. Bucky Barnes. The quarterback of your school’s football team but also president of the Science Olympiad club. Could he get any more perfect? Apparently, yes. Not only was he a skilled athlete and an intelligent student, but he was simply a good guy. Surprisingly, that was hard to come by at your school. Guys would either brag about their perfect SAT scores or about all the sweet girls they cut off. Bucky wasn’t like that. He was so far from that. Whenever he caught you in the halls, he’d shoot you a smile or a wave and sometimes he’d even offer to walk you to your next class despite your protests that he would be tardy.

A poke on your shoulder snapped you out of your daydream. You turned around to meet the glorious blue eyes of the person that was the focus of said daydream.

“Hey, sorry (Y/N), but that pretty little head of yours is blocking the board,” he whispered, afraid of getting called out by your teacher. His compliment brought an intense blush to your face that you would not let him see. You muttered a quick “sorry” before scooting over and turning your head back around to prevent him from noticing the redness of your face. You tried your best to suppress your thoughts about your little crush and focused your attention on your teacher.

“Alright class, now that we’re beginning our study of the 20th century, I’m rolling out a project in which you and your choice of a partner will do research on the most important political, economic and social aspects of a decade that I’ll be assigned to you.” 

Great, you thought. You weren’t really close with anyone in your history class except for Bucky. All your other friends were in the class period after you. You knew Bucky was gonna pair up with Dot, the head cheerleader who had been pining over him since she found out he was the quarterback. She was nice, you just knew you couldn’t compete with her for Bucky’s affections. Not that you really forced yourself to. You didn’t need a boyfriend, especially not now. You prioritized your studies so you could get into your dream school, not getting a man. But...that didn’t mean you were against one. A significant other wasn’t necessary for you but...you saw it as a welcome addition to your life.

Your teacher announced that students were allowed to move out of their seats to find partners. You stood up and anxiously surveyed your options. Bucky was out of the picture. Maybe his friend Steve? No, you knew he was gonna pair up with his girl Peggy. Scott Lang? No, he’d be a fun partner but you knew it would be really hard to get him to avoid procrastinating. Wanda? That could work. You didn’t know her that well but who knows? Maybe you’d gain a new friend after this project. But as you were approaching her, the president of Academic League, Viz had beat you to it. Fuck, now what?

Just as all hope seemed to be lost, you felt a familiar poke on your shoulder. You turned again to meet the same eyes you had looked into just minutes before.

Bucky sent you a friendly smile as he asked, “Got a partner, yet?” with his hands scrunching in his pockets, almost nervously?

Words almost failed you but you managed to let out a little, “Nope”. He smiled at that. Nodding, he replied, “Cool”. Huh, maybe he wasn’t out of the picture.

~

You and Bucky had been assigned to study the 1940’s and the both of you were currently on your way to his house to get a head start on the project.

“You can have control of the AUX cord if you want, it’s gonna take a while to get to my place,” Bucky offered as you got into his car.

“Oh, I don’t know, you might judge me for my music taste,” you said shyly.

He let out a playful scoff. “No way, you’ll be fine...as long as you don’t play like Jake Paul or some shit.” You giggled at that. “Oh, I’d never do that to you.” You ended up playing some 80’s songs that you were currently into. Bucky seemed to enjoy it, even opting to quietly sing along.

He pulled into his driveway, stopped the car and quickly got out to open your door for you. You smiled at him for the chivalrous gesture. Before he unlocked the front door, he turned to you instead, “I didn’t mention this earlier but I’d just like to apologize for my mom and sister in advance. They can be a lot sometimes.” You softly shook your head. “Oh that’s fine, I’m sure they’re fine.”

With that, he let you in first before yelling, “Ma! Becks! I’m home!” You heard, “Ok honey, in the kitchen! Have a snack before starting homework!” in reply. You followed Bucky into the kitchen; you leaned against the wall as he walked towards a middle-aged woman, his mom, standing in front of the sink with her back facing you. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and said, “Hey ma, I’m gonna be working on a project with (Y/N) for a bit, I’m gonna get some snacks for her too.”

“Who?” his mother asked. She looked around the room to find the person in question, aka you. When her eyes settled upon you, she jumped a bit and remarked, “Oh, I’m sorry dear, James didn’t mention that he’d have someone over.” As she got a better look at you, she—not so subtely—whispered to Bucky, “Ooh, she’s really pretty Jamie.” Shock overtook his features, prompting him to softly nudge his mothers. He coughed to mask his embarrassment. “What my beautiful mother means is,” he began, “she’ll have snacks ready for us soon so we should just start working.”

He quickly lead to you to the study, away from the kitchen where his smirking mother stood preparing cookies for the both of you. A younger girl was already seated in the study when you approached it.

“Becca, can you study in your room upstairs, I need to work on a project,” said Bucky.

The little girl, Becca, looked up from her notebook with a sassy look and retorted, “Why don’t you work on your project in your room? I got here first.”

Bucky let out an exasperated sigh. “Because, (Y/N) and I need a lot of space to work on this.”

Becca cocked an eyebrow towards her brother’s direction. “You mean you need a lot of space so you can make out with your girlfriend?”

You wished with everything else in your being that you could’ve turned invisible. You tried to sound confident to defend yourself but your words came out as stutters. “Oh! W-we’re not d-dating. We’re just p-partners.” Becca turned to you with a suspicious look on her face. She started you down for a few second before shrugging.

“Ok, whatever you say. Just call me over when you’re done so I can use this room after.”

Bucky graciously looked to his sister. “Will do, thanks Becks.”

After she retreated to her room, Bucky turned to you. “Like I said, they can be a lot.” With that, you began working on your project.

~

You and Bucky worked for about 3 hours with short small talk breaks in between before calling it a night.

“Alright, thanks for offering to use your place today. We could work at mine next time, or maybe the library so it isn’t that much trouble to you?” You suggested.

“No it’s alright,” he said. “I like having you here.” His remark brought a similar blush that graced your features earlier that day. You bashfully looked away from him and let out a soft laugh.

“Okay...I’ll see you at school tomorrow. Tell your mom I’m really grateful for her hospitality.” He nodded. With that goodbye, you began your journey home. Turns out, you only lived down the street from Bucky. He had offered to walk you home, but you resisted saying that he had already done so much for you that day.

He made his way back into his house and the kitchen, where he sat on in a seat by the island and buried his face in his hands.

“She seems like a nice girl, James,” his mom said. He removed his hands from his face and moved them to hold his chin.

“Yeah...she really is,” he responded with a blissful smile and gentle look in his eyes. His mother grinned at his obvious infatuation with the girl.

“Do you like her?” his mother teased.

Bucky’s brows furrowed as he replied, “No mom, (Y/N) and I are just friends, we aren’t together.”

His mom sent him a sly smirk, “I never mentioned her name, Jamie.”

He looked confused at first but then he realized his mistake. “Shit.”

She nudged him with her elbow. “Hey, don’t you use that language around me young man.”

Bucky simply groaned and buried his face in his hands once again. “It’s okay Jamie, you can tell me. You can tell me anything, you know that.”

He let out a lovestruck sigh. “I don’t know what it is about her ma. She’s smart, a-and fun.”

“You think she’s pretty?” she asked.

“Beautiful!” he answered almost instantaneously. “She’s got these eyes...a-and this hair! Oh, and her smile?” he let out a helpless sigh. “I could go on and on about her smile.”

Bucky’s mom was really happy seeing her son like this. He’d been through a lot at a young age, losing his father and having to take on the father/big brother role for Becca was tough for him. He never prioritized himself, he put his mom and sister first. They were the ones he cared about most and he did everything in his power to make sure they were happy. That meant he had to sacrifice his own desires to ensure that his family got theirs. But it was Bucky’s turn to be happy now.

“If that’s the case, then you go on and tell her that,” his mother said.

“But—” Bucky began to protest but changed his mind. His look of concern was replaced with one of determination. “You know, I will do that. Tomorrow, I’ll tell her. Maybe I should buy her flowers to make it really sweet? Or no, maybe that actually might be too much...Or I could just be really casual with it and just approach her at her locker? No, I don’t want to make it look like I don’t really care...Or maybe…” Bucky mumbled off thoughts to himself as he left the kitchen to his room.

Bucky’s mother looked after him as he walked away thinking about how grateful she was that you had made your way into Bucky’s heart.

[weirdoofoz]

By the time Ms. Cupp was done teaching for a period her tea was always cold, and never even slightly finished. In 15 years of teaching history she hadn’t figured out how to fix that yet. Part of it was that she thought it was a good thing, standing for the whole period, trying to engage students in discussion. She felt almost a sense of pride that she never managed to find time to take sips during class.

So as the bell rang she handed out graded essays and sipped on her lukewarm tea. She felt a sense of accomplishment with her mug in one hand, and good grades being passed out with the other.

The last student stood before her now, not having jostled his way to the front, comfortable in the emptiness of the room. She hesitated for a moment looking at his essay.

“I think we need to talk about your work for a moment, is that ok?”

He brushed his long dark bangs out of his face “Ok.”

“I don’t know how to say this, you need to be using more academic language.”

He adjusted his band t-shirt with a skinny arm, and uncomfortably shifted.

Tired of waiting for a response Ms. Cupp continued “You understand that this is very vulgar language, right?”

“I use academic language when I need to be precise.” He responded, raising a hand to scratch his scalp. His shirt sleeve drooped down towards his elbow revealing a network of charms, and bracelets on his wrist.

She was speechless for a moment, and then started paging through his essay “But you see this can’t go on.” She pointed at a passage “See here you called the america ‘a bunch of brainwashed assholes’ for participating in the vietnam war.”

“those words accurately describe what I think.” He paused for a moment pondering what he said “I think it was an asshole move, that is my ethical position”

“Ok but listen, you need to learn to use academic language.”

“No, you listen, academic language is a shield that old men put up when they write to avoid criticism from even more annoying, even older, dumbass white men. I refuse to change how I communicate my ideas, especially if it will make me harder to understand, and I will call a dumbass a dumbass, and an asshole an asshole especially when that's what people are being.” He stood there for a moment, breathing a little heavier, analyzing if he actually agreed with that he had just said, and was certain that he did.

It took a moment for Mr. Cupp to find her words “Ok, fine. But if this doesn’t change I will have to let it reflect on your grades.” She handed the essay back, it had an 86/100 grade.

He didn’t change. His grades barely went down from where they were. He could have been an A+ student, but he chose not to be, because he thought it was the best way to avoid shooting up the school. He wandered the halls with a feeling of constant dread and frustration, because all of his female peers would never have been able to pull the shit he pulled. He played directly into the stereotype of the genius asshole, and he hated every moment of it. He hoped that one day someone would punish him for his behavior, and that maybe that would magically wake him up, or at least make him self loath a little less. But the punishment never came. No one ever stood up to him.

It was never necessary to get better so he never did. He graduated: 86/100.

[kingofthenorth49]

As I walked the thing of chaos this morning I got to thinking about our future, and by our future I’m not talking just the furry beast and mine, I’m talking ours, the current caretakers of the western world.

Yep, going to be a deep dive this morning, there’s a lot to process out there, so grab a Java and open your mind, we need to talk.

I’m a big picture thinker and fact driven, it’s both a blessing and a curse as I tend to over analyze situations at times to determine direction. Data is my friend, facts drive my decisions.

By all measures we are in a world of hurt right now, we’ve lost leave of our senses and we are making really bad choices these days. We are like the teenagers left home for the weekend for the first time and I’m sure our intention was just “to have a couple friends over” even though mom and dad said no, and maybe we know that things could take a bad turn. Problem is when you are a teenager you don’t realize how hard mom and dad worked to buy and build that home you take for granted, and as the police drive away in the early morning hours as you stand at where the front door used to be looking out on the contents of your home on the front lawn like a scene out of Animal House you get that pit of the stomach feeling of the trouble you are going to be in when your parents get back early from their romantic weekend getaway. Problem is you aren’t think about where you are going to sleep tonight.

The majority of human beings are emotional thinkers, people driven by passion and feelings, not logic and reason. Look no further than South Africa. Right now, right this minute there are food lines everywhere, tens of miles long, everywhere. There’s a mass starvation event occurring there and it’s going to get much, much worse in the days and weeks to come. Didn’t know? No? Are you curious why the fact that many South Africans have no access to food right now and yet it’s not plastered on every news feed 24/7 like the sexual deviance outcomes of a piss poor human being?

You see when you get angry and break your toys you only hurt yourself. But most people aren’t rational enough to understand that until they are standing in line 6 miles away from the only open supermarket in their neighbourhood, because they got mad, threw a fit and burned down their communities.

We undoubtedly are one of the most stupid species on the planet. Only humans would shit where they sleep, even my dog is smarter than that, and he’s not the brightest bulb on the tree.

Folks we are on the precipice of a significant mass extinction event, and don’t just take my conspiracy thinking word for it, sit down and do the research. Look at the indicators. Watch the videos of people being shot dead in the streets, watch the riots and civil disobedience going on around the globe. It’s not a matter of if it will happen here, it’s a matter of when, just like dad knew deep down you were going to have that party the minute their tail lights crossed the town limits.

This is what happens when you don’t think before you vote, elect stupid people, and don’t take responsibility for your actions. We’ve spent the last 50+ years diminishing personal accountability to the point everyone’s a victim and it’s not my fault I can’t eat.

Read that again.

I don’t know any species of mammal alive today that bases it’s existence on another, it’s virtually Darwin’s entire theory in action. Only the strong survive, and believe me, they will and the big Problem is in our current state those we elected to protect the common good will be the ones surviving and you and I my friend will go the way of the do do bird.

Get it yet?

We can still stop what is about to happen here, I’m not so sure other parts of the world will be able too, but we could if we wanted too yet all we focus on is how many people have runny noses, not the fact that the ruling class is purposely trying to burn down the world.

As a student of history (hobby, not academic) I know that time and time again we have allowed the ideology of the few to lead to mass genocides that see one group of people kill millions of people who don’t think like they do.

It’s happening again, and like Thelma and Louise we have the foot to the floor.

Right now here at home we have people ready to completely ostracize from society those family and friends that for whatever reason won’t take an experimental concoction in their arm that’s killing a high incidence of those people to protect them from a virus that has a higher survivability rate than most common diseases and if you don’t think this idea won’t end badly then you should run for Congress.

Seriously, Look at it from this perspective. What if this unproven, untested, and entirely novel concoction starts causing serious side effects in a year or two. Not saying it will, but for the sake of a Friday morning discussion, let’s say it starts causing immune systems to over react with the next mutated strain of the virus, like for example Dengue.

You’ve stuck that jab in your entire first response line, your army, doctors, nurses, police officers, etc. They would be the first to go.

Shame really. Who helps those who help?

Again, I’m not saying thats what’s next, but I’m saying as a safety dude that’s a really bad idea.

I’ve come to the realization that soon I’ll be forced to start making decisions that will be life changing because my beliefs are different from the herds, and I plan on living my life by the principles that have worked for me over these past 53 years. I don’t plan on being part of anyone else’s plan, well, at least willingly.

There’s a photo that has stuck in my head since I seen it in a history book back in the 1970’s, I’ve referenced it over the years as a singular reminder why we need to always confront evil when we see it before it gets out of hand and is allowed to run unchecked throughout society, before ideology takes root. It’s a black and white photo taken in the 1940’s of a young mother standing naked on the edge of a pit holding a naked child as a German S/S soldier levels a rifle at the back of her head. The mother is holding onto the child in the most tender embrace and the child is nuzzled into mom. The helplessness on both faces is dwarfed only by the steely eyed fixed gaze of the soldier who is about to follow orders once again.

Maybe she didn’t want the jab.

Do not think it can’t happen again, it already is. Don’t take my word for it, look it up. Do the research. Don’t listen to the media, they are all parroting a script. Think for yourself.

It’s being done on purpose, think of why create confusion in the middle of the worse Global pandemic ever (hint, that’s extreme sarcasm, look up the percentage of the global population that died during the 1918 pandemic and make your own decision of the end justifies the means). We can manage this pandemic now, we just don’t want too. The allure of power is too strong, the love of power and control is a blood lust few will understand prior to experiencing the results.

I have no love of power, although I understand how to use it and when it’s appropriate, but never understood the need to arbitrarily force another to bend to my will, well at least without a vigorous debate on the rationale for the need to bend the knee. That folks us where we fell off the turnip truck, we stopped having discussions and started being told with no room for debate.

That’s why we can’t have nice things right now, we are allowing the stupid people to rule the smart, and in my opinion that’s a bad thing. Look no further than the arrogance of the ruling class, and you can pick hundreds of examples each day of for thee, not me.

If I sexually harassed women at work I’d be fired the day the report was issued after the investigation. If I lied to the ATF on a firearm background check, a class one felony, I’d go to jail for a term not to exceed ten years. If it came out that I was lying to people about things I should be an expert in, you’d think people would eventually not believe me, right?

But not if your in the ruling class, all those examples are real yet you all can see the lack of accountability and the double standard.

Why do you look away?

I think I know why, but I can’t answer for you, you have to live with your choices like I will min, but I wish I lived in a world where people thought enough about others and less about themselves to not force their will on others’ for the sake of power.

Anyway, it’s another rainy day here at the beach, me and the dog are going to go for a walk on the ocean floor and enjoy the solitude of a beautiful august day in the most beautiful part of the world I know, and be thankful for those men and women who last stormed a beach to allow me at least 50 odd years of freedom to explore my life and experience life the way I believe it should be, unmolested and free.

Where do we go from here? It’s within us.

Jim out.

[vivalaskristie]

Chapter 2 Drinks on a Yacht

Book: The Royal Romance (AU)

Series Premise: Parallel, behind the scenes, Madeleine and Bastien

A/N: This is my first series, my first AU, because Madeleine and Bastien needed to smash.  I posted and then pulled it because it wasn’t quite right.  It’s still a work in progress.

Warnings for this series: The first sex scenes I’ve ever written, bad language, sneaking around, alcohol, general mischief and the occasional academic symposium.

@speedyoperarascalparty @burnsoslow @dcbbw @emceesynonymroll @stopforamoment

Chapter 1 Prelude

Four Months Earlier

Anyone looking at Madeleine would think she was entirely embedded in the moment, without a care in the world. She was in the center of the party on the royal yacht on a beautiful day in the Mediterranean Sea. A bona fide handsome prince sat by her side, and although they had known each other for years, his attention on her was newly and sharply focused. They had greeted each other as friends (…with benefits) that morning at the pier, but his gaze had heated up quickly when she stepped out of her stateroom in the tiniest bikini on the boat. He hadn’t left her side all day.

The people around her didn’t realize that she was aware of everyone and everything. Not a word was said to her or near her that wasn’t analyzed and filed away. The liquor flowed all around her, but she knew from years of watching her mother walk around with a bottle of scotch trailing behind her that she needed to keep her head clear. Madeleine had known Leo and everyone else who mattered on that yacht for most of her life, and they had all hooked up with each other in various combinations of twos and threes and sometimes more. But she knew what was at stake. She’d heard the rumors about the King’s health, and she wasn’t about to let any of her childhood playmates get in the way of her becoming the next Queen. 

***

The sun set and the revelers moved inside to sober up, clean up, and dress up for dinner and cocktails and the evening ahead. Leo walked her to her stateroom, one hand drifting casually up and down her spine. 

“I’m right next door,” he said in an exaggerated whisper with a wink. She shot him a knowing look and walked inside without a word. As she turned to close the door behind her, her gaze traveled from Leo to the man who had walked a discreet distance behind them. She hadn’t noticed him before but she was riveted by him now. It was Bastien, Leo’s head of security. Of course Bastien was here. Bastien was never far from the Crown Prince. He had unobtrusively been a part of every moment since Leo’s investiture. He was as familiar as her own reflection. But today, as he saw her flushed from the sun in the bits of turquoise fabric that barely contained her, he didn’t look away. He was still there, his eyes moving slowly over her body, as she closed the door. 

***

Bastien knew all of them. He had worked in the palace for 15 years, ever since they were kids. Because the Royal Family only had sons, he knew the boys better than he knew the girls. The boys idolized him. He was a decade older than they were, and while their hero worship tended to embarrass him, they were his family now. He knew–he hoped?– that someday, he wouldn’t have to rescue Maxwell when he climbed too high in the trees in the orchards or when he fell overboard from the bow of the yacht because he lost control of his headspin (this happened today…). He knew that when he couldn’t find Leo’s kid brother Liam, he just needed to find Drake, and that he should just start his search in the kitchen (and in later years, the nearest bar) to track down both of them. He knew that Tariq and Rashad were douchebags but were basically harmless. And he knew the moment that the boys noticed the girls. 

They’d pair off in predictable ways. Kiara was a safe choice to introduce to the parents because she was endlessly impressive. She was a chameleon. She spoke every language, knew every nuance, made every right move. She was also a gymnast.  Her agility in public and in private was the stuff of legend. Her friend Hana brought out everybody’s protective instincts. The guys practically became cavemen around her until they realized her demure exterior masked a core of fire and steel. She had black belts in at least 3 martial arts. Olivia was the highest-born of them all, except for the princes themselves. She was a duchess in her own right and she wasn’t afraid of anything. There was no pretense to her. She wasted no time with flirtation or courtly rules. She took her first lover the day she came of age, and she hadn’t stopped coming since. 

And then there was Madeleine. Bastien couldn’t get a read on her. She wasn’t like any of the core group, although they obviously counted her as a friend and a welcome addition to every event. He prided himself on his separateness from his employers and their circle of elite friends, but he found himself paying attention to her. She was discreet. The mornings after the beach bonfires and ski weekends and every other gathering, she was never seen sneaking back to her room wearing yesterday’s clothes. She was smart. She never had to explain herself at breaks from school, and she was one of the few who’d gone abroad to university and had actually graduated. She was funny, and you had to have a wit as quick as her own or you’d miss the best lines of the night.

She was bold as fuck. Bastien watched her disappear behind her door, and she didn’t even break eye contact. She didn’t even fucking blink. She’d been playing with the next goddamn King all goddamn day, and there she stood in a bikini that she had no business filling out like that with diamonds in her ears and gold around her neck and wrists like a goddamn goddess. 

He could feel the blood rushing to his cock as he stood there in the hallway, staring at the closed door. Leo had already stumbled inside his quarters, so Bastien would have no explanation for his presence, hard as a fucking rock, standing there by himself in the dim hallway like an asshole. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself as he spun on his heel and walked to his own door just across the hall. As head of security, his cabin adjoined Prince Leo’s. He suddenly realized that every time Madeleine opened her door, he’d know. 

“Shit.”

***

The party grew louder, gradually becoming hushed as couples and trios (and one rather adventurous foursome) disappeared into dark corners. Leo and Madeleine were alone on the top deck, and Bastien was at the base of the stairs to ensure their privacy. He’d watched them ascend, mainly to see that the prince didn’t stumble and hurt himself. Leo could hold his liquor, and he’d had quite a bit in the last 24 hours. Madeleine had stuck to champagne until after dinner, when she had indulged in a cognac with the guys while the rest of the ladies giggled over dirty martinis and mojitos.

Bastien’s mind was no longer in Madeleine’s bikini. Oh no, not since he’d seen her enter the salon dressed for an evening with her prince. It left everything to the best of his imagination. It was a shade of green that he’d only seen in the sea, and it clung and swirled and glittered like waves. One of the straps kept sliding off her shoulder. She was clearly irritated by this, and watching her casually fix it over and over made Bastien want to break it with his teeth. 

He stood guard at the foot of the stairs, his cock throbbing so hard he could barely breathe, when he heard footsteps behind him, long before he’d anticipated any activity from up top. 

“Bastien are you still here?” he heard her ask in her dusky voice.

“Yes, Lady Madeleine. Is everything all right?” he said through his clenched jaw.

“I’m fine, but His Royal Highness is ready to retire.”  She was gracious and lovely and perfect and only someone who knew her well would see how fucking furious she was.

“Of course. Would you wait here while I check on him?  I’ll just be a moment”  Please god don’t let her walk up the stairs behind me because there’s no way she won’t notice this hard-on.

“Certainly.”

As Bastien climbed the stairs, he gathered control of himself. He saw Leo on one of the couches, not unconscious but in no condition to go anywhere just yet. 

“Your Highness, if it’s all right with you, I’ll escort Lady Madeleine to her stateroom and then I’ll be back.”  It wasn’t the first time Leo had been too drunk to come down from the top deck. It was the first time that his female companion had left him there.

“Sure, Basss,” Leo slurred. 

“Very good, sir.”

Madeleine had regained her composure. She looked inquiringly at Bastien as he returned, alone. 

“Please allow me to see you safely to your quarters, Lady Madeleine. His Highness will enjoy the fresh sea air for a few more minutes.”  He bowed slightly, purposefully not looking at any part of her. 

She smirked just a little, and then sighed, “Thank you.”

They didn’t say a word while they walked, with her a step in front of him. He held the doors, indicated where to turn left and right, and hoped that he would be able to get her deposited safely in her room without blowing his wad in his pants. She smelled amazing. Everyone else looked and smelled like they’d spent a day on a boat drinking booze, and she was flawless and glorious. Bastien touched her elbow to steady her as the yacht caught a gust of wind that was strong enough to move them. Her skin was warm and soft and smooth. “Shit,” he thought for the hundredth time that night. She felt like water flowing.

They reached her stateroom and he used his master key to unlock her door. As he opened it, he asked, “Will that be all?”

She brushed past him, leaving traces of her scent on his jacket. She faced him with an expression of cool politeness that did not entirely mask her frustration.

“Yes, thank you Bastien.”

After she closed the door behind her, Bastien heard that same scratchy voice say very clearly, “fucking drunk asshole motherfucker!” and the sound of what he assumed were her shoes landing across the room.

He laughed softly as he turned to go back upstairs. She was amazing. He imagined her dress falling to the floor in a puddle. He could smell her perfume on his clothes.

He trudged up to the top deck to gather her handsome prince.

***

Madeleine’s shoes fell in a heap against the far wall. She wanted to keep throwing things, anything she could get her hands on. Leo was the same party boy he’d always been, and his impending ascension to the throne apparently made no difference to him. Tonight would had been like so many other nights with him–a great party followed by what was sure to be hours of admittedly inventive sex, and then a morning spent piecing it all together based on aches, pictures on phones and the occasional rope burn. There was just too much at stake to keep doing it again and again.

She rolled her shoulders, and let fly another magnificent string of curses as that one fucking strap slid down her arm. “I SWEAR TO GOD IS A DECENT ALTERATION TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR” she snarled to the empty room out as she reached under her arm to lower the zipper. The dress fell to the floor and naked, she stepped over the sparkling pile in disgust and left it there. She stomped over to the armoire and pulled out a black hoodie and a soft pair of snug black pants. Today’s performance was over; it didn’t matter what costume she wore. She zipped the hoodie up halfway, slid the pants over her hips where they rode low, and she slumped into the oversized chair by the window. It had started to rain and she could feel the gentle motion of the boat in the growing storm.

After a few minutes of glaring out the window, she could hear voices in the hall. Bastien and Leo were outside her door.

“Oh come on Bas, lemme just knock on her door and tell her g’night.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Leo.”

“God did you see her tonight?  So hot. All day…. So hot….”

“Yes I did and yes she is smoking hot and you’re a mess and you need to not be a mess when you see her again. Walk.”

“Dammit why did she go?”

“Leo let’s get you cleaned up.”

“You’re fired.”

“Whatever. I’ll just leave you here in the hallway so she can trip over you in the morning. Try not to piss on yourself.”

Madeleine rose as the voices grew fainter. She walked over to the bar and poured herself two fingers of bourbon from the crystal decanter. She swirled the glass for a moment, warming it in her hand, and considered how she felt about what she heard. She knew what Leo thought of her–he’d never made a secret of his admiration. Bastien’s words were what echoed in her mind. What else did he think?  Were they still talking about her? 

A thoughtful smirk passed over her lips. He wasn’t so bad himself. A bit older, perhaps, but just by a few years maybe?  She’d never restricted her companionship to only the nobility–her mother Adelaide called it “being serviced by the help”. Madeleine’s own intimate history was based on proximity. When you’re surrounded by nobility, you learn how to maneuver a seduction out of a boring banquet. When you have horses, you have strong young men working in the stables who are happy to stick around to play after the work is done. She enjoyed showing them all that she wasn’t an ice maiden, wasn’t made of glass.

She heard Leo’s door open and shut. Bastien must be coming back to his room. He’d have to walk past her door. Madeleine chewed on her bottom lip. She thought of how it felt to have his eyes run down her body, how warm and steady his hand felt on her arm. She took a sip of her bourbon and opened her door.

Chapter 3

[teimywimey]

My first fic posted to AO3 (or anywhere)!

Summary:

Every person is born with their soulmate's name written somewhere on their body. Symmetra’s used to be on her left wrist.

Or

Sombra has no real connections. The person she used to be did, but it’s better this way. Soulmates complicate things.

Chapter under the cut

As hard as Satya tries, she can’t forget the strange golden letters that had once glinted on her left wrist. No one in her family had been able to read the foreign alphabet. She had hoped, when Vishkar had plucked her from her home and enrolled her in their academy, that someone would have been able to read her soulmate’s name for her. But they had told her to put it out of her mind and focus on her studies. Then the gleam was gone, replaced by flat white and a soft, glowing blue.

---

A dingy gay bar somewhere on Route 66 isn’t where Sombra expects to meet a world-famous pop star, especially on Christmas Eve, but here she is. Even more convenient was the overlap between this and another job she had been given. The place is a comfortable kind of quiet. Most of the patrons seem to know each other, even though all but a few sit alone. Some curiously eye Sombra - a couple women with obvious desire in their expressions.

Sombra loves the attention, of course, but there are more important matters at hand. She sends a last flirtatious look to the woman in the corner with full sleeves and turns back to the young man who has just sat down across from her.

“Lúcio Correia dos Santos,” she says, grinning. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

He smiles back at her. “It’s about time, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is. So, what have you got for me? And why did you want to meet in person?”

Lúcio shrugs. “This place is on the way from Vegas to Phoenix, and I figured I may as well have some fun before the next show.”

“So you snuck out to go to a gay bar,” Sombra teases.

“Hey now, this can’t be the first time either of us have done this.” They laugh, then Lúcio sobers. “To answer your other question, stuff has been up in Rio. We haven’t seen the architechs in months. The security forces are still around, of course.” His expression hardens at the thought of the private police force Vishkar employs to keep the citizens of his city ‘in order.’ “I’ve heard they’re talking to Lumérico about redeveloping Dorado.”

Sombra nods, hiding the concern that sweeps through her. “They are. It’s been in the cards for a while. You gotta give me more than that, man.”

“ I know.” Lúcio sighs. “Listen, about the architechs? I dug into their backgrounds when you gave me the info on Vishkar, and there’s some stuff that just doesn’t make sense.”

“How do you mean?”

He digs into his pocket and pulls out a data cache. “Take a look.”

Sombra takes the cache - one she had given Lúcio over a year ago when they had first started working together - and connects to it, her enhancements glowing slightly brighter for a moment in the dim light of the bar. There is information from the last forty years, mostly from India: birth and death records, news articles, school transcripts, police reports, bank statements, and on and on and on. The data seems almost mundane until Sombra pauses to consider it more carefully. Transcripts that end with a note that the student withdrew or transferred are followed by missing persons reports. Others are followed by bank transfers out of the blue - many to previously empty accounts. The few police reports that any progress had been made on are followed by articles about unidentifiable bodies being pulled out of rivers. Her eyebrows raise as she notes that many of the records have been marked as deleted in the databases they originated from. She looks at the profiles of the architechs. Names, approximate ages, and even academic records all seem to match up. It takes her less than a minute to analyze all of it, and when she finishes, she looks back to Lúcio.

“So Vishkar has been kidnapping kids and/or coercing parents into giving their children up for decades.” She runs her hand through her hair and lets out a long, slow breath. “That’s low, even for them.”

Lúcio nods grimly. “And some of my people have come to me - teachers talking about missing students, kids who haven’t seen their siblings in days, parents who can’t find their children - Vishkar is doing the exact same thing in Rio, I know they are.”

“Most of this data is from India.”

“Which is where Vishkar was founded, forty-three years ago. It’s also where their academy is. But there are similar reports from everywhere they’ve expanded since then.” Lúcio takes a breath. “I was gonna pursue this myself, but I’m not as good at this stuff as you. You get the information, I empower the people. I’m way out of my league here.”

Sombra nods. “Alright, then. I’ll look into it and keep you updated.” She extracts the information from the data cache and replaces it with new files. “Here’s what I’ve got for you.”

He accepts it immediately and looks through the first few documents. “Helix owns Vishkar’s security force?”

“They contracted them through a shell company.”

“I see,” he says, frowning. “It’s good to finally meet you, Sombra. I should get going. I’ll keep you posted if I find out anything else.”

“Likewise. Have a good show in Phoenix, man.”

“Thanks,” he smiles and slips out of the booth, then leaves the bar.

Sombra leans back into the cushions for a moment, then stands and goes to the bar for a drink. The vodka tastes cheap and disgusting. She looks at it dubiously for a moment, trying to figure out if it has been poisoned or is just that bad. The bartender shoots her a dirty look.

She checks her Talon communicator. There was only one message, from Gabe: ‘Status report.’

‘The cowboy is fine,’ Sombra responds, looking down the bar to the strangely dressed man Gabe had asked her to tail over the holidays. ‘Drunk, but fine.’

The little check mark appears at the bottom of the screen. Sombra waits for a few moments, then sends off another message.

‘You know, you can text people back.’ The check mark appears again.

Rustling cloth and a warm body settling on a stool beside her distract Sombra from Gabe’s poor texting etiquette. The tattooed woman looks her up and down before tapping on the counter. As the bartender pulls a bottle down from the shelf behind him, she speaks.

“Haven’t seen you around here before. New in town?”

“Just passing through.” Sombra rests her elbow on the bar and looks over the woman’s arms, watching the muscles flex as she reaches out to take the drink the bartender sets in front of her.

The woman nods and takes a sip of her drink. She notices the way Sombra looks at her muscles, so she grins and flexes. Sombra holds up a hand and looks at the woman, asking for permission through eye contact. The woman nods again. Sombra pointedly retracts her nails, making the woman snicker, and squeezes her bicep. The muscle is thick and hard, but Sombra feels something even more intriguing under her palm - the slightly raised lines of the woman’s soul mark.

“You covered it up?” Sombra asks, curious, and not at all invested in losing or maintaining the woman’s interest in her.

The woman rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you actually believe in that shit. You waiting for your ‘one and only’ or something?” She snarks.

Sombra knows what the woman wants to hear. “No way. I make my own choices.”

The woman gives her a wry smile. “To free will,” she says, holding up her drink.

“To free will,” Sombra responds, clinking their glasses together.

---

Hours later, Sombra sits in her hotel room, going over the reports Lúcio had given her. The tattooed woman had been entertaining for a while, but Sombra had left as soon as she had fallen asleep. She had never been particularly concerned with finding her soulmate, though she knew that the woman was out there. Just because we’re soulmates it doesn’t mean everything is going to magically be perfect.

When she has compiled the data in a way she likes, she turns her attention to Vishkar itself. Their firewalls are easy enough to surpass, the advanced security simple to override. It would almost be fun if it wasn’t so easy. She picks out files pertaining to the architech academy. The intense academic rigor and draconian rules make her roll her eyes. Control freaks. Curious, she looks through the top students in each year from the past few decades, and finds one name consistently at the top.

Satya Vaswani.

Sombra pauses for a moment, then shakes her head. Satya is a common name, isn’t it? But she can’t help herself. She goes to the woman’s file and starts meticulously digging.

She isn’t quite sure what she’s looking for, why she feels a strange need to understand the person represented by the data on her holoscreens. She discovers Satya’s codename is Symmetra, that she had been ‘discovered’ in Hyderabad twenty-two years ago, and that she is probably the best architech on Vishkar’s payroll. Recent notes indicate that someone called ‘SK’ - presumably Satya’s boss or handler - is concerned about the architech’s dedication to Vishkar. ‘Response to events in while on assignment in Rio’ are cited as SK’s reason for doubt. Sombra narrows her eyes and remembers to look over the events surrounding Vishkar’s contract with the Brazilian government again soon. Satya’s academic records testify to her incredible skill with hard-light. Intrigued, she watches recordings of practical exams. Unlike her fellow students, Satya manipulates her tech with a fluid grace, reminding Sombra of a dancer. Her non-traditional method had been the subject of debate among the higher-ups of Vishkar, but they had ultimately agreed that the minor rule-breaking could be tolerated due to its effectiveness. Sombra scoffs. Of course.

As she looks through the architech’s medical files, she finds another video that piques her interest. She selects it. Based on the date displayed in the top right corner, it would have been filmed about a year and a half after Vishkar had ‘found’ Satya.

It is a psychological evaluation.

Sombra watches curiously as the doctors put ten-year-old Satya through a series of tests. She does quite well on the intellectual challenges, but is frequently stumped by emotional tasks. At one point, something overwhelms her, and she claps her hands over her ears to deafen herself. It is then that Sombra sees the flash of gold on Satya’s left wrist.

She pauses and rewinds the video, trying to get a closer look. The letters seem eerily familiar in their pattern of lines and angles, but the camera is too far away to make them out clearly. Sombra exits out of the video and flicks through all the other images of Satya like a woman possessed. Eventually she finds one where the mark is clear, and she has to compare it to a current photo, because this cannot be happening, there is no way, no, it can’t be. But the girl in the photo and the video had unmistakably grown up into the woman that was Vishkar’s top architech. It can’t be her. It’s not true.

But it is.

Sombra sits back, letting out a shaky breath. She looks down at the mark on her wrist, which she had been subconsciously rubbing with her thumb - the flowing golden script in a strange alphabet, which her processors now automatically translate for her.

Satya.