#like thank u to everyone whose commissioned me or plan to

[atesomerocks]

just so yall know every time u reblog my commission sheet i go feral. and when u add tags like commission sam or save i fucking shit my pants. thank u.

[faulty-writes]

Hello, may I please request an one shot for Aizawa who comforts a young pro hero, whose been publicly outed as a lesbian and now receives threats and hate from close minded people? Thank you in advance and have a nice day❤

[ I fucking love this idea. YES. Dadzawa protect the little lesbian bean! <3 Hah. I love this. Aizawa really wouldn’t tolerate anyone bullying someone for who they are.] 

Shouta Aizawa tended to keep to himself, on the outside he might not seem like the happiest man. But, he enjoyed his work, doing good for others even if he preferred staying out of the spotlight. Though it was a tad different when it came to his students as he would go further than any known teacher to protect them. He might not be a man of many words, but when he did speak. His words were either rude or from his heart. Yet, he spoke in silence most of the time. Much like hours earlier when he was watching the news, he had been on patrol when he spotted a crowd gathered in front of a shop window.

Curiosity seemed to have gotten the best of him and he decided to see what was going on. That’s when he saw the story about you, apparently, you were a young Pro Hero. Just making your way into the ranks but you made a mistake, you would have loved to say it wasn’t your fault. Mt.Lady was just too beautiful and when you met her, you couldn’t help what you did. Of course, the media would take pictures. The news headline read ‘Young Hero kisses Pro.’ and your sexuality was being discussed. Now, you weren’t ashamed of it.

There was nothing wrong with being gay, but you were quickly reminded of how cruel the world could be. You had tried to brush it off, tried to be the brave hero you believed you were, and go on with your life. But as soon as you set foot outside your apartment, it started. The hateful comments, the pictures, the reporters with their questions. All of it made you cringe, especially their harsh words of hate. It almost made you feel ashamed of who you are and you felt tears coming as you tried your best to run away from them. But, they seemed resilient and you quickly found you couldn’t shake them.

Even with the use of your quirk, they were everywhere and set on cornering you when none other than Eraserhead came to your rescue. You knew that Eraserhead tended to stay out of the eye of the media and had a dislike for the paparazzi. But, watching him work with that capture weapon and break several cameras with nothing more than the use of his foot was impressive. Even though his glowing red eyes seemed menacing enough to get a point across all on their own, it was also satisfying to watch how many people cowered under him.

After he had successfully scared them off, he turned to you. “As a young Pro, I thought you would know how to stay away from the paparazzi,” he began, his voice monotone as always before he offered you his hand. In your rush to get away, you failed to pay attention to where you were going. As a result, you had tripped over your own feet and laid against a brick wall. Still, you couldn’t help but flush and glance away. Your eyes stinging from the few tears that remained seeping down your cheeks. “Come on,” Shouta insisted as he flexed his hand, indicating you to take it.

You tilted your head, staring at the man’s face from your position on the ground. It was easy to see how others could be intimidated by him, still, your eyes focused back on that hand and you hesitantly reached out for it. A gasp escaped when you felt his strong grip. “A hero should never fall to their knees for someone who presents no real fight,” he commented before roughly pulling you to your feet, you stumbled and reached out. Pressing your hand against his chest to steady yourself, an action that caused your cheeks to grow dark red.

“Ah!” you exclaimed as you stumbled back, though Shouta still had a tight grip on your hand which prevented you from going any further. “I’m sorry!” you said, clearly panicking. “Mmhm…” Shouta mumbled as he reached into his pocket, “Here,” he said as he extended his hand out, you blinked and noticed he was holding a box of eye drops, “take them, your eyes look red,” he said, but once more you seemed hesitant. Such a thing earned a sigh from the older Pro who then released your hand and placed the eyedrops in the center of your palm, he made it a point to gently press down on your fingers so they were now cradling the precious product.

“Don’t think all of us are bad, kiddo,” he said, and you could feel your lip quiver as you glanced at the box before looking back at Shouta. He sported a smile despite looking rather tired and you noticed his eyes were lined with small red veins, more than likely due to the fact he overused his quirk throughout the years. “A-Are you sure...you don’t need these?” you questioned, however, another sigh left his lips and you shivered when you saw his eyes turn red once more. A clear sign that he was more than likely aggravated with you, just like everyone else at the moment.

You frowned and decided to rip open the box, taking out the precious cargo before adding a drop to each eye. They watered over some and you could feel how the solution made them sting, but you nonetheless wiped your eyes with the long end of your sleeve and looked at Shouta. “Why did you…” your words came to a halt as the older man shook his head, his hand held up as if signaling you to stop. He then looked around, Shouta tended to be rather strange to most of the younger generation. Often keeping to himself, enforcing rules, and expelling students without a second thought.

But, he was a brave and devoted man, if someone needed protecting. He’d make sure it got done swiftly, that’s why he looked around. The empty alleyway seemed to give an almost creepy vibe in return, “Hm,” he focused his attention back on you and a sigh left his lips before he took a step forward. Motioning you to follow, a shiver ran down your spine but the echo of his footsteps caused you to move quickly. You slipped the eye drop bottle into your pocket before following behind him, your hands were up and lightly skimmed across Shouta’s back.

He took note of your actions but remained quiet. Obviously, he knew you were still jumpy from the paparazzi. Still, he glanced at you from over his shoulder with a concerned expression. You continued to follow him down a small strip of sidewalk before he turned down another alley. You looked around, noticing it was a dead end. However, Shouta came to a stop in front of a wooden slider door. You tilted your head, what was he planning? You watched as he brought his hand up and gave the door three loud knocks, you took a step back as it slid open and revealed a large almost menacing looking man holding a small kitten.

You shivered when the man’s gaze shifted toward you, “U-Uh...” you latched onto your bottom lip and glanced away. “A friend of yours, Eraserhead?” they questioned and you half expected Shouta to give some sort of sarcastic response. Instead, he simply nodded. “Yeah, so step aside and get us two cups of coffee,” your eyes went wide, Shouta could be quite bold. Part of you was surprised when the large man scoffed but did as Shouta wanted and stepped away from the door. You quickly followed behind Eraserhead as the two of you made your way inside, your gaze was directed at his back. But, you could still feel the large man’s eyes on you.

“Hey…” he said as he shut the door and you shivered, oh no. “Aren’t you that girl-” you would have felt your heart sink, if not for the gasp that escaped when you heard the large man cry out. Shouta didn’t seem to take too kindly to whatever words the man wanted to say and had used his capture weapon. The thick cloth was wrapped around the man’s forehead which forced his neck back. “I suggest you keep quiet,” he growled, and though you appreciated the fact Shouta was standing up for you.

The fact that he had to say anything in your defense made your heart swell with guilt. Once he retracted his scarf, he motioned you to follow him to a small table. You took notice of Shouta’s rather annoyed expression as he crossed his arms over the table and slumped in his seat. Those tired eyes glanced in your direction and you gasped before rushing to sit down, your arm knocked against the table and caused it to move a bit. But, thanks to Shouta’s arms, at least it didn’t fall over. 

“S-Sorry,” you said, giving a sniffle as you reached up to wipe your nose. You opened your mouth to speak, but before you had a chance. That same large man came over and you noticed he had two oversized coffee mugs, you watched as steam admitted from each one. “Here…” he said, almost as if he were annoyed as he placed the cups down. One in front of Shouta and the other in front of you, despite the fact you didn’t ask for anything. You looked at the mug and slowly reached out for it, you sigh in content as you wrapped your fingers around the warm cup.

Finding some comfort in it, however, your attention was quickly turned to Shouta as he spoke. “I thought a hot drink might ease you up, kiddo.” he began before taking a sip of his coffee. He then reached up and brushed a hand through his long hair. “I can’t say what happened to you was right, of course as a hero you should know better. Pro Hero relationships are complicated and most are required to be reported to the Hero Commission,” he explained before taking another sip of his coffee, you still held onto yours and looked back down.

You could see your sad reflection in the dark liquid and took a deep breath, “Yeah...well,” you weren’t sure what to say, this felt so awkward. “Thank you, Eraserhead. For...w-what you did back there,” you said, your voice slightly cracking as you spoke and for the moment, you were too afraid to look back at him. “I...I don’t know what came over me…” you said, your voice softening as you recalled the moment that changed your hero career for the worse. Meeting Mt.Lady was a miracle, you had always admired her and Midnight as well.

Believing both women to be stunningly beautiful and talented, you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t have a crush on them. But for some reason, during the hero festival. One to honor old and new heroes alike, when Mt.Lady approached you to shake your hand. Well, you got hypnotized for a moment and found yourself leaning in. Some would be jealous and wished they were the one that kissed Mt.Lady smack on the lips. But, you had forgotten for a split moment the event was being televised, and well, it’s safe to say the hero world was shocked after seeing your kissing episode.

You had originally locked yourself away, hidden in your apartment days after your slip up. But, the media seemed to follow you and formed a crowd outside your building, demanding you come out. It was bad enough news of the kiss was everywhere, including online and in the papers. You tried to convince yourself you couldn’t be the first ‘gay’ hero, but it seemed the world was still somewhat ignorant about such matters. You felt a lump form in your throat and your eyes watered over, “It was a...stupid mistake.” you commented, trying to choke down a sob as you reached up to wipe your eyes.

“I didn’t think people would be so goddamn…” you took a deep breath, trying to remain calm as you lowered your hands once more. You sniffled, finally looking at Shouta who seemed to be devoted to giving you his attention, at least for the moment. “The hate, the comments, the questions, the bullying. I don’t understand, I can’t go anywhere without peace. I can’t go online without seeing some story about how disgusting I am and how I should hang up my cape. Give up on my dream to become a hero because no one needs a ‘lesbian’ protecting them. It…” you glanced down and wrapped your fingers around the mug once more, but unlike before there was little comfort to be found.

“It hurts…” you finished, your voice just barely audible but Shouta seemed to understand you just fine. He leaned back in his seat, “There will always be ignorance in this world, now I’d say something like dry your tears and get over it. But, that wouldn’t be very nice of me...would it?” he commented, and you raised your head once more. A single tear was making its way down your cheek which Shouta leaned over to brush away with his thumb. “If you’re really going to let that ignorance, that negativity drag you down and make you give up on your dream, by all means, become the world’s youngest hero to retire.” his words were like a knife stabbing your already wounded heart and you couldn’t help but look at him with an expression somewhere between hurt and anger.

You opened your mouth to speak, but once more he held his hand up. “But, I think there’s more to you than you’re giving yourself credit for and frankly, some kids out there need you to stand up for them.” you felt a lump form in your throat, the reason you became a hero was to protect others, give them a sense of hope. Shouta took another sip of his coffee before placing the mug back onto the table and propped his arms against it. You closed your eyes and you shyly brought your own mug up to your lips. Taking a small sip, you weren’t sure if Shouta had actually bought the coffees or if he had some connection to the people that ran this place, whatever this place was.

“There’s a large fanbase behind heroes you know, this includes the support of the old initialism ‘LGBT’. Nowadays it’s revised to something like Sexuality and Identity Pride or ‘SIP’. But, as far as I’m concerned, the SIP community needs someone like you to represent them and running away from that duty, well it’s not very hero-like.” he explained, and you weren’t sure if he was trying to make you feel more guilty or less. Should you feel bad? It was just a kiss, there may have been some meaning behind it, which wasn't a bad thing. The negativity that now surrounded you was suffocating, but were there people like Shouta that supported you?

The sound of his chuckle broke your thoughts, “Huh?” you were shocked he was capable of laughter, it was almost cute watching that smile come to his face. But, his laughter soon died down and he once again sported a serious expression. “Most of the time that fact is kept hidden because the hero commission claims heroes don’t need to bring personal affairs into their work, I see no difference. Gay, straight, bisexual, pansexual, non-binary…” he paused and scratched his chin, his stubble brushing against his fingers.

“Most of us are human and I’m not saying what you did was right or wrong, but I know a hero doesn’t deserve hatred for representing love and pride.” you frowned and lowered your gaze back to your mug, your fingers were still tightly wrapped around it. Silence filled the air before you sighed, “How am...how am I supposed to come out of this?” you questioned, your voice soft before you looked back at Shouta. He didn’t seem phased that you sported an angry expression, “I ruined my hero career and those paparazzi are going to continue to follow me, how am I supposed to stand and continue on as if nothing happened!?” another chuckle left Shouta’s lips before he stood from his seat, you watched as he walked over to you and very slowly lowered himself to a crouching position in front of you.

He certainly knew how to catch someone's attention, “Giving up never solved anything, you wish it didn’t happen. I understand, but regardless of what you wish. This is the reality of the situation, nothing is ruined. That’s just your mind playing tricks on you, as for the paparazzi. All those reporters, those wannabe investigators, and media freaks...there’s only one way to get rid of them.” he said, though his words seemed to confuse you. Turning in your seat, you placed your hands on your lap. Once Shouta was positive he had your attention, he spoke, “Stand up for yourself, prove that you can’t get knocked down, that they can’t force you to your knees. They’ll back off when they know just how strong a hero can be in certain situations.” your hands curled in your lap and you glanced back and forth.

Unsure of what to say, Shouta seemed to catch onto your uncertainty and stood back on his feet. You looked up at him, waiting for him to speak once more. Instead, you found yourself gasping when he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you. A faint flush appeared across your cheeks and you could smell the lingering scent of coffee and cologne on him. “You have a hero’s heart, don’t forget that and don’t give up on those that need you. I’ll keep the paparazzi off your tail for now,” he promised before he pulled away, you almost cursed yourself for how fast your heart was beating.

You had never expected a Pro Hero to be on your side, let alone support and pledge to stand up for you. He smiled once more, something that was still shocking to see. He then extended his hand out to you, “Come on, kiddo. Why not show Eraserhead what you young heroes are truly made of?” he said, you blinked and much like before showed some hesitation in taking his hand. But, maybe he had a point. People will always be negative and maybe this situation would pass, until then at least you had one person in the world that was by your side. “Thanks, Eraserhead,” you said before taking his hand.

[dogbearinggifts]

Beauty in the Mundane, Chapter One: To the Wolves

Umbrella Academy

Author’s Note: This is chapter one of an AU answering this petition from @scotty-the-t-rex calling for Hazel and Agnes to go back in time and adopt the Hargreeves kids. If this is the first time you’re seeing it on your dash, you can read the prologue here. 

The whole fic is also available on AO3. 

Oh, and if you’re interested, the song I took the chapter title from is by Anberlin. I don’t know if I’ll use song titles and/or lyrics for every chapter, but I liked it for this one. 

**********

Day four of surveillance wore on toward a conclusion without a single broken law on Sir Reginald’s part. 

This was to be expected, Agnes had told him. Reginald wasn’t quite a hermit, but only an actual hermit would dare call him social. Hazel was still a bit fuzzy on which laws applied where and when and to what extent, but he figured any evidence gathered whilst spying through the windows of that mansion would come down on his head, rather than Reginald’s. An act witnessed in a public area, though—that was fair game. 

He only needed Reginald to cooperate. 

Hazel took a bite of coffeecake. It wasn’t near as good as Agnes’ donuts, but neither dared approach Griddy’s—Hazel because he had been a stranger to Agnes when they met, Agnes because crossing paths with your younger self had to create one hell of a paradox. “Think I’ve probably crossed my own timeline before,” he’d explained, “but the Commission always sent me someplace I wouldn’t run into myself.” 

He’d been on a few stakeouts, though with the Commission’s emphasis on finishing a job before most folks could finish tying their shoes, he was still a bit vague on proper procedures for operations that lasted more than a few hours. Moving their base from one side of the Academy to the other hadn’t been a bit of strategic brilliance so much as an act of necessity; when a building took up an entire city block, it was impossible to tell when your target might slip out through the back door. 

“I’ve got some beef jerky in the back, if you want that next.” 

Hazel smiled. He still wasn’t certain if bringing Agnes along was a good idea, tactically speaking, but her pleasant company kept his more unwelcome thoughts at bay. “I’m good, thanks.” 

She settled back in her seat, though she quickly sat forward again. “Oh!” 

He followed her gaze down an alley between the Academy and a neighboring business, caught the same flash of movement she did. His hand rested on the ignition. 

No adults lived in that household, not yet. According to what Agnes had read, a robot mother and a monkey butler resided on the premises; but given Sir Reginald’s fondness for privacy, the only grown man who could be stepping out of a side door was the billionaire himself. 

A balaclava covered his hair, and a grey overcoat covered him down to his knees. Dress slacks ended in polished loafers. He didn’t bow his head as he exited, didn’t glance over his shoulder or hesitate before sliding behind the wheel and pulling the door closed. The knot in Hazel’s stomach tightened. 

“Looks like he’s not expecting a tail,” Hazel said. “You remember the plan?” 

Agnes nodded, retrieving a small notepad and pen from the glove compartment. A quick glance showed him a few mock interview questions. Posing as reporters would likely earn more bluster than answers, but if they were caught, the lie would do. “Which one should I ask first—the one about the mustache-sclupting contest, or the one about Colonel Sanders?” 

Hazel watched as Sir Reginald’s car chugged to the end of the alleyway, paused, and turned right without signaling. This might not be their chance, but it was a big enough oddity to merit further investigation. 

“Whichever one you think’ll make him madder.” 

He eased the car down the alley and turned right. 

******** 

Following a target through city traffic was always easier than following one through the countryside, for obvious reasons, but that was no guarantee of secrecy. For every three targets who drove on entirely oblivious, there was one whose continual glances in the mirror revealed more than they were meant to see. 

Reginald kept to the speed limit, sometimes dipping a mile or two below. He took no side streets, made no U-turns and slowed the second a light turned yellow. Aside from an apparent allergy to using his blinker, his turns were neither sudden nor sharp. Were this an ordinary job, Hazel might have found the target’s obliviousness heartening, even amusing, but as Reginald turned off the main road and down a side street, Hazel only felt sick. 

He might not do anything worth calling the police over. Hazel knew that. He probably paid someone else to buy his groceries and it was too late in the day to try and renew his driver’s license, but there were other errands that could have lured him from his home. Reginald might be on his way to do any number of perfectly legal things, and then Hazel and Agnes could leave to plot their next move. 

City traffic thinned as high-rises and glass-walled office buildings gave way to townhouses and fourplexes scattered among the sort of crackerbox homes that had been popular six or seven decades prior.  Reginald slowed, and when he turned left at a stop sign, Hazel crept through the intersection at a speed that might have made Cha-Cha slap him upside the head and ask if he’d forgotten where to find the gas pedal. 

“He went past the last stop sign,” Agnes said, craning her neck to see out his window. Hazel had seen it happen, but still welcomed her confirmation. “And the—oh no, he’s going right.” 

“You know what’s up there?” 

She frowned in thought, a frown that deepened after a second or two. “I—I think it’s a cemetery.” 

“Can I get to it from here, or do I have to take the same street he did?” 

“Keep going straight until the next sign, then turn left. Should take you right to it.” 

He increased his speed. Inside of a minute, a green hill sprouting grey and black slabs of stone filled his vision, but he was more interested in Reginald’s car, parked along the curb mere feet from the entrance. A flash of movement signaled the man himself striding through the wrought-iron gates, quickly taken out of sight by the winding road. 

Hazel pulled into a spot on the opposite side of the cemetery, one shielded from view by hills and a few overgrown trees, stepped into the evening chill without a word. Agnes closed her door quietly, and they both noted the payphone outside a gas station catty-corner from where they stood.

Agnes caught his gaze, and he held it a moment. 

If all went according to plan, they were about to change the timeline. 

He’d known it from the beginning, been cognizant of that fact since he turned her heartbreak into a suggestion. But all those hours watching the Academy, all that time waiting for the man to show his face and charting a strategy—it all had kept the true scope of what he was planning to do at bay. Now there was nothing between it and him. Nothing to keep the thought from crashing down on him like an entire wall of crumbling brick. Only Agnes, slipping her hand in his, kept him from ducking back into the car and heading to the opposite side of town. 

Part of him said to pull away, leave both hands free for whatever confrontation might ensue if Reginald turned out to be more observant than he let on. Another part said it would add to the illusion. Just a couple strolling through a graveyard on a cold autumn evening, on their way to visit family or a friend, keeping to the grass because the grass was more pleasant. Nothing unusual, nothing to worry about. 

Reginald’s figure came into view, and Agnes dropped his hand. She might as well have dropped the rope tethering his life preserver to the boat. 

A monument stood by, one of those melodramatic statues depicting an angel in grief with names and dates and a host of other information engraved below. It wasn’t the best concealment Hazel had ever used, and it was less than he would have liked, but he didn’t see anything better. 

Reginald’s footsteps fell silent as he stepped off the path and brushed through the grass, stopping at the sort of mausoleum Hazel imagined a guy like him might insist upon as the site of his own burial. A key opened the door, but he didn’t step inside, choosing instead to speak inaudibly into the darkness. Hazel watched a second, then cocked a brow. 

“He usually yell at dead guys like that?” 

“No.” Her voice carried the same confusion he felt. “I mean, not that I know of—he could. He does have a son who—” 

Her words ended in a gasp, cut short by a hand to her mouth. 

“Oh my god. I—he—oh my god.” 

Hazel remained standing as she sank to the grass. He’d known the guy was twisted; Agnes had relayed a few accounts from Vanya’s book, stressing that the girl was excluded from much of what went on and likely didn’t know the half of what her siblings had gone through. What she had seen, what she had known, was more than enough to convince him getting those kids out from under his thumb might be enough to avert the apocalypse after all. Locking a kid who could see ghosts in a mausoleum seemed right up his alley. 

It still didn’t explain why. 

Klaus—the older Klaus, the junkie—he wasn’t the only one to break in the dark. Not everyone could hold it together through beatings and stranglings, but leave them alone with their thoughts, alone to wonder what was next, alone to recall the pain and terror and families they might never see again? There wasn’t a kink in the world that could save you from that. 

But that was the realm of torture, and torture was a tool. Find somebody with information locked up in their head, attack their defenses long enough, and those defenses would crumble. An eight-year-old boy couldn’t possibly hold secrets so valuable his own parent would lock him away. 

Whatever speech Reginald had planned was not a long one. He turned away, locked the door, and retraced his steps. Hazel watched, waiting for him to look his way, waiting for some signal that he ought to duck further out of sight, but Reginald didn’t so much as slow his pace. 

Hazel pushed questions aside. The why wasn’t near as important as the what. 

He fished a quarter from one pocket and crouched in the grass beside Agnes. “Go to the payphone and call the police. I’ll wait here and make sure Reggie doesn’t come back.” 

Her fingers wrapped around the quarter, but she didn’t pluck it from his grasp. “You’re not going to let him out?” 

Her tone and the look in her eyes were enough to give him pause. “The police’ll do that.” 

“And what’ll he do? Just wait in there with the ghosts?” 

He’s lasted this long sprang to mind, but Hazel didn’t dare voice that thought. “Look, if I mess with their crime scene—” 

“It’s not a crime scene, Hazel, they know who did it. Or they will.” 

“I didn’t bring my tools with me.” 

“It’s a mausoleum, not a bank.” 

There were more counterpoints, more arguments, but the guilt coiling in his middle was nowhere near welcome. He sighed. “I’ll pick the lock.” 

She took the quarter and got to her feet. He stood with her, watching as she retreated toward the gas station. After a few yards, she halted, saw him still beside the monument, and pressed her lips together, waving her hand in a shooing motion. 

The lock was nothing fancy, nothing too complex. A simple pick and a little finesse would get him through in a matter of seconds. Hazel could see the process laid out in his mind as though in a how-to guide, or that handbook he hadn’t touched since training. Everything else, everything that came after, was as clear as a mud puddle subjected to a thousand splashing feet. 

Hazel reached into his pocket, brushed aside the coins he’d collected on his travels, and found the lock picks. They weren’t anything fancy, just a set of picks gathered in a case similar to a Swiss Army knife, but they did the job when the job didn’t have to look too professional. 

Light faded from the sky as twilight became evening, but Hazel could have found the necessary pick even in the dark. Once he had it, he set to work. 

The lock clicked open. Once it did, once Hazel’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he couldn’t have spoken had he wanted to. 

Klaus Hargreeves was a far cry from the junkie who’d stolen his briefcase. He was small at this age, with a slight build and curly hair. A blazer covered a starched white shirt and argyle sweater vest, but knee-legnth shorts, similar to those Five had worn, were his only shield against the cold floor. 

He should have been the one to call the police. Agnes. Agnes would’ve been better suited to this, would’ve had the kid calm inside of a minute and ushered him out with no trace of tears. One of those police officers allegedly on their way would have known what to do. Grab any bystander off the street and chances were ten to one that they would know what to do better than he could ever guess. Chances were ninety-nine to one that they would improve the situation, rather than making it ten times worse. 

But Agnes was gone, the police weren’t yet en route, and Hazel was alone. 

“Hi.” That seemed as good a place to start as any. “Whatcha doing in here?” 

Klaus drew a shaking breath, but only a few choked sounds came out. He’d folded himself up against the wall, as if making himself smaller might fool whatever terrors lurked, and he made no attempt to move—though he did shrink back as Hazel took a few steps forward. 

It should’ve been a paramedic walking toward this kid. A paramedic or some minimum-wage employee manning the gas station across the street. Someone who didn’t have a small army of ghosts trailing behind and no idea how to fix a person instead of breaking them. 

He couldn’t do anything about the ghosts, but perhaps he could make himself a little less intimidating. Hazel knelt, suppressing a wince as pain shot through his knees. A name. Maybe a name would help. “I’m Hazel. What’s your name?” 

There was another long gasp that shuddered like a dying engine before Klaus spoke. “Klaus.” 

“All right, Klaus.” Hazel shifted, and the scant light illuminated fresh tears on Klaus’ cheeks. “What do you say we get you outta here?” 

Klaus didn’t move. His gaze flitted from Hazel to the air beyond. As far as Hazel knew, ghosts couldn’t open doors; and he’d never seen one, but surely there had to be some indicator separating them from the living. But as Hazel watched, Klaus’ eyes didn’t flit back and forth the way they might have from one ghost to another. His gaze remained steady on the door, as if trying to determine whether it had opened at all or if that hint of rescue was simply a figment of imagination. 

Jesus, how long had he been in there? 

Hazel bent his fingers slightly, as if inviting him to move closer. “C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.” 

Klaus shifted. Both arms remained wrapped around his knees, but one loosened. 

“S’okay. We’re gonna get you out.” 

One arm let go and then the other. He shifted onto hands and knees, reached out to meet Hazel’s outstretched hand. 

Klaus’ cold hand brushed Hazel’s for only a second before clinging to it and, before Hazel could fully process what was happening, Klaus had his arms wrapped around Hazel’s neck, so all he could do was pull himself upright as Klaus buried his face in Hazel’s shoulder. 

Hazel got to his feet, balancing Klaus’ weight as best he could. His wrist screamed in protest, but he couldn’t set the kid down. Not now, and it was only a few steps to the door. 

Those few steps weren’t over quick enough. Hazel’s vision of setting Klaus down gently and sinking onto the grass died when Klaus kept hanging on, so he sank awkwardly to his knees. Once Klaus’ feet touched the ground, he slackened his grip. Cold air chilled the tears on his suit jacket almost instantly. 

Hazel expected the relief, but not the mingling guilt that came with it. 

“You okay?” 

It was a stupid question, but Klaus nodded despite another shuddering breath heralding more tears. Not knowing what else to do, Hazel put a hand on his shoulder. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised that Klaus leaned in, or when he threw his arms around Hazel’s shoulders. The torment he’d escaped hadn’t been the most brutal in the world, but given what he could see, it wasn’t something Hazel would’ve wished on anybody, either. Of course he’d be a little fragile after. Of course he’d cling to whoever was near. 

It still took a few seconds to return the embrace as Klaus sobbed into his shoulder. 

********

By the time red and blue lights split the darkening sky, Klaus had polished off most of the sandwich Agnes had purchased and was working on emptying the water bottle. In defiance of Hazel’s prediction, he sat closer to him than to Agnes. Unsure of what else to do, Hazel wrapped an arm around his shoulders. 

“Sorry if I messed up your crime scene,” Hazel told the first officer to come within earshot. “Wasn’t sure how long the kid had been in there.” 

“I would’ve done the same thing.” The officer crouched down, and a tag bearing the name S. GUTIERREZ came into view. He gave Klaus a gentle smile. “Glad you made it outta there.” 

Klaus looked down at the water bottle in his hands.  

“What were you doing in that mausoleum, anyway?” The officer’s tone wasn’t quite jocular, but it was lighter than Hazel expected. “Those things aren’t safe for kids.” 

Klaus swallowed. 

“It’s okay,” Gutierrez said. “You’re not in trouble.” 

It was a minute before Klaus spoke, and when he did, his voice was only a decibel or two above a whisper. “My dad.” 

“Your dad put you there?” 

Klaus nodded. 

“Why’d he do that?” 

Seconds turned to minutes, and Klaus did not answer. He swiped at his eyes with his sleeve. 

“It’s okay,” Gutierrez said again. Another few seconds passed. “What’s your name?” 

“Klaus.” 

“What’s your last name?” 

“Ha—Hargreeves.” 

“Who’s your dad?” 

Agnes put an arm around Klaus and pulled him close, letting the tears come. It was a few minutes before they ebbed. 

Gutierrez’s smile faltered. It had never been joyful, never been full of true mirth, but it was a good deal sadder now. “We’ll save the other questions for later. How ‘bout we get you over to the paramedics, make sure you’re not hurt?” 

Klaus should have looked up at Agnes, or even Gutierrez; but when he raised his head, his silent plea was turned only on Hazel. “Can…can they come with me?” 

“I don’t see why not.” 

Hazel tried to catch Agnes’ eye long enough to give a tilt of the head back toward the car, but she’d already gotten to her feet, giving Klaus a hand up. Great. 

He cast a glance toward the flashing lights, squinted past in search of any people armed with cameras, tape recorders, and questions ready to fire, but saw no one. Just squad cars and an ambulance. No sign of Reginald’s car, either. No reason he could see to leave in a hurry, but that could change at any moment. The number of corrections agents exposed by reporters wasn’t high, and those stories had never gone anywhere of note, but it had happened to them. It could happen to him. The chances of it happening went up exponentially with each minute he stayed at Klaus’ side. 

Cold fingers wrapped around his. Hazel knew, before he even looked down, that Klaus had taken his hand. He looked anyway. 

Fear was still all over his face, but not the sort Hazel had seen again and again. Not the desperation of a target with no more options, confronted with an end that had come too soon. There was some relief in that look, Hazel could tell, but something else, something he’d killed all too often. 

Hope. 

There were reasons for it, reasons Hazel couldn’t yet name. Not through the guilt and trepidation choking off thought or the unknowns peering at him from behind that mausoleum door. There was a plan—there had to be a plan—but it refused to surface through the questions crowding his mind, and the sheer scope of what he didn’t know left him breathless. He didn’t know what he’d do if a flock of reporters descended on the cemetery or the police asked for a fingerprint or Reginald’s car came around the corner. 

He only knew he couldn’t leave. 

************

Author’s Note: I do suspect Reginald locked Klaus in the mausoleum a) more than once and b) when he was a lot younger than 13. I will explain my theory as to why Klaus specified that he was 13 when it happened for one corn chip. 

Prologue

Chapter Two

[soulcentralmedia]

Separation of migrant families: How the crisis unfolded

Image caption The children separated included babies that could not speak properly The Trump administration faces a deadline on Thursday to reunite more than 2,000 migrant children who have been separated from their parents at the US border with Mexico. Bringing the distraught families together has proved chaotic. The journey from Guatemala through the Mexico desert had been "Bien, Gracias a Dios" (all fine, thanks to God), and in May Lilian Martinez Lopes finally crossed into the United States carrying her only son, Wanner, aged five.The 24-year-old, who had planned to seek asylum here, did not speak a word of English and hoped Google Translate would help in her new life. Her husband had come four years earlier, also undocumented, and they planned to reunite in Houston, where he now lived.Then the immigration agents came to her. "They told me, 'We'll take your son to a shelter.'" She was surprised. Nobody had told her that migrant families caught crossing illegally were being separated, part of a "zero-tolerance" policy of the Trump administration. She had little time to say goodbye to her boy. She recalls that Wanner pleaded to her: "Don't let them take me." Ms Martinez cried. "What could I do?" she says she thought, as she watched her son go. Image caption Many of the children separated could not mention the countries they came from or explain their cases "I didn't know we'd be separated," she said. "If I knew it I wouldn't have come." The cases were often traumatic. Shouting officers caught people by surprise and took scared children from their parents in the middle of the night, activists said. One mother in Texas said agents had told her the migrants were criminals and the children would be given up for adoption.Adding to the chaos was the fact that adults and youths had to go through two separate immigration systems. In theory, they received the same identification number, known as A-file, which would make it easier for them to be located. That, however, was not the case for everyone. Some families had different numbers; others no number at all.

Media playback is unsupported on your device Media captionTrump supporters talk family separations and border securityMs Martinez was taken to Arizona's Eloy Detention Center, operated by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), part of the Department of Homeland Security. Her son, now classified as an unaccompanied minor, was in the care of the Office of Refugee Resettlement, a division of Health and Human Services, and had been sent to one of the many shelters across the country.She just did not know where.To help the migrants navigate the mess, non-profit groups and volunteers played detective. With no official protocols in place, they tried, first, to guess the A-file of the parent based on the number of the child. If this failed, they looked at where they crossed the border to call detention facilities. "It hard to describe the level of uncertainty and fear," said Megan McKenna, senior director of communications at Kids in Need of Defense (Kind).It felt a bit like a cat-and-mouse game, they say.

Media playback is unsupported on your device Media captionThe BBC has captured the first drone footage of the "tent city" in Tornillo, Texas "I prayed to God to help me. I had to be strong because of my son," Ms Martinez said about her time in custody. Despite the network of support the mothers had built - "They told me, 'Don't get depressed, your son needs you.'" - the uncertainty was driving some of them desperate. People had given up on their asylum requests and agreed with voluntary deportations, believing this would speed up the reunifications, despite no proof of that, according to advocacy groups. They said some were pressured to sign papers they could not read or were not being told of all their rights.Ms Martinez, however, felt lucky in a way as she had been able to call her boy a few times. People at her prison and elsewhere waited for weeks to hear from their children. " told me 'Mami, I love you.' He said he was behaving well and that he cried for me every night." Ms Martinez says she told him not to, but he said he would anyway, that he missed her. "When I talked to him, I kept myself under control. But later I'd collapse crying... You can only imagine what went through my mind to hear these words."Yet she still did not know where he was. All she had was a picture of him with a number annotated by pen on its back and something else that she could not understand. "I told that I needed to call my husband," her main bet to locate their son. "I begged to them. But they said, 'No, you have to wait.'"

Media playback is unsupported on your device Media captionMother in Texas: 'It's been 50 days since I heard of my son' At the heart of the policy, which the Trump administration maintains was necessary to deter illegal immigration, was a decision to prosecute all adults with irregular entry in the country. (Despite the criticism towards the separations, the president's crackdown on illegal immigration enjoys strong support, especially among conservatives.)Given the mammoth task, cases were being heard in groups in courtrooms at the border.One morning in McAllen, Texas, in June a judge welcomed at once about a dozen men, aged between 20 and 50. One tried to ask him in broken English where his children were, in vain. The shelters for the minors included caged areas separated by chain-link fencing, warehouses and desert tents in places where temperatures regularly reach 40C (105F). Reports later emerged of some being forced to clean bathrooms as part of the rules.Another man cried to the judge saying he did not care if he got deported as long as he had his son back. Pleas like this had become so common that those who witnessed it were apparently left untouched.

Read more on US immigration

With their parents in custody, children, including toddlers, were forced to appear by themselves in hearings, many unable to properly explain their stories let alone understand proceedings. They were often seen crawling around or playing with a pen, said Lisa LeSage, a lawyer from the non-profit group Immigration Counseling Service."Even a five-year-old who wasn't traumatised can't always tell you their address or what their parents look like or their last names. How do you expect a child to do all that?"And so, there were those who could not say which country they came from. Others did not even know what a lawyer was. "It horrific," Ms LeSage said. Outrage grew even bigger when, days later, an audio emerged, reportedly from a border facility in which children cried for their parents. An agent joked: "We have an orchestra here." Image caption The parents are being released with electronic ankle monitors The Trump administration, at first, stuck by its policy, defying critical media coverage, uproar from activists and politicians, and protests across the country. Even First Lady Melania and Mr Trump's daughter, Ivanka, were said to be against the policy. A visit by Melania to a shelter meant to be a show of solidarity became another source of discord when she wore a jacket emblazoned with the slogan, "I really don't care do u?"Ms Martinez was losing hope that any official help would come to her. "Even when we asked about the time or the day, didn't give us any answer. They told us: 'Why do you want to know it?'"Hearing her son cry on their calls made her wonder how he was processing it all. Health experts were concerned that the children's immune systems, the development of their brains and even their personalities could be affected. They were also said to be at greater risk of suffering from long-term psychological conditions like post-traumatic stress disorder or heart disease and diabetes later in life."This is really extreme, it's nothing like we have seen before," said Michelle Brané, director of Migrant Rights and Justice at the Women's Refugee Commission, a New York-based non-governmental organisation. "It's like torture."With domestic and international fury growing and a number of legal challenges, Mr Trump - who initially tried to blame Democrats for the measure - was forced to reverse his own policy. He said, though, that people should come to the US legally. Judge Dana Sabraw, from San Diego, California, would then give the administration 30 days to reunite all the families.A "Herculean task", said Tony Martinez, mayor of the border city of Brownsville, Texas.

Media playback is unsupported on your device Media captionThe sound of migrant children separated from parents Weeks after being detained, Ms Martinez was finally given an indication of where her son could be, when a social worker told her that the word written on her son's picture was the name of a shelter in Houston.Her case was not a priority. Judge Sabraw ruled that those under the age of five were to be sent to their families first. The usual method of identifying the children involved going through all birth certificates, which would take a very long time.Officials, under intense pressure to meet the deadlines, said even DNA tests were to be carried out. Many saw there a proof that there was no clear policy in place. By 12 July, 57 of the 103 youngest children were reunited. The others were ineligible for reunification, including some whose parents had already been deported.Then came a breakthrough for Ms Martinez.Her asylum request was deemed credible - criteria includes proving fears of persecution in an applicant's home country - she was ready to search for her son. "It was a surprise 'You can go.' I cried. I couldn't believe it." Image caption Health experts have warned of the psychological impacts the separation could have on the children As the adults were being released, non-profit groups provided help. Immigrant Families Together (IFT), a movement that assists detained families, raised $50,000 (£38,000) to pay for Ms Martinez's $25,000 bail and cover her expenses. (Reports said families had left custody without anywhere to stay, or unable to pay for transportation costs.)When Ms Martinez was released earlier this month, Dionne Ukleja, a volunteer with IFT who had just been told of her case, picked her up. They went to a nearby department store to buy her some clothing and other essentials, but Ms Martinez would not say a thing. Later, as they met, Ms Martinez gave the photograph she had to a lawyer who came with Ms Ukleja and a translator. On Google, they searched for the word written on the picture only to find out that the shelter was in a different city, Corpus Christi, some three hours away in southern Texas.Ms Martinez, who had felt she was about to see her son again, was left devastated.The volunteers drove her and her husband, who had now joined them, to Corpus Christi. They called the local press and other activists to follow the reunification but when they arrived at the shelter they were perplexed: nobody would receive them.Many parents had already complained about the difficulties of contacting those who had taken the minors, complicating their efforts even further. When the shelter's supervisor finally came, she reported Ms Ukleja to the police, angry that people were filming the property. They were also tweeting the whole thing.Ms Martinez could not understand what was going on. When she was finally allowed the enter the building, she came back sobbing and silent. The translator who had gone with her broke the news to those outside. "The son is not here. They don't know where he is." They were back at square one.

Media playback is unsupported on your device Media captionCisary Reynaud has not spoken to his daughter since they were separated As other families were slowly being reunited, pain was already giving space to relief while they tried to readapt their lives. There were, however, stories of those who blamed their parents for the separation or could not recognise their own mothers and fathers. For Ms Martinez, the question was still, where could her son be. They called the social worker who had told her Wanner was in Houston. It was a weekend and the worker said there was nothing she could do. Ms Ukleja was left fuming. They kept calling her, but she stopped answering the phone.When she finally replied, she gave them a different number, of her supervisor. Getting in touch with her was also difficult but when they finally reached her, she gave them a new clue. Wanner was in foster care. They did not know what to do. Ms Martinez had everything: his birth certificate, her bail paper, the A-file numbers were connected in the system.Still, it seemed almost impossible to be reunited with her son.As they met in a cafe to discuss what to do, Ms Ukleja's phone rang. It was another social worker, who gave them an address, the local Health and Human Services office, and said Wanner's documents were ready. He was waiting for his mother. "It was amazing and heart warming," Ms Ukleja said. Image caption Many of the families face now an uncertain and length legal process Even now, there is little clue what comes next. Before Thursday's deadline, officials said 463 parents had left the country, without specifying if the departures were voluntary or not.Many of those who were still in the country faced length and tortuous legal proceedings. Would they be granted asylum or end up being deported? And what would happen to the children whose parents were no longer in the US?Ms Martinez and her family were still adjusting to their new lives. She says Wanner often has nightmares and fears he will be taken away again. "It was the greatest pain one could suffer," she said."Children are sacred. You do not play with them." With reporting by the BBC's Aleem Maqbool, Haley Thomas and Miguel Amaya in Houston; Angélica M Casas in McAllen, Texas; Colleen Hagerty in Phoenix; Jessica Lussenhop and Ritu Prasad in Washington; pictures by Alejandra S Casas in McAllen Source link Read the full article

[fusp-media-sociology]

USER-GENERATED CONTENT: AUTHENTICITY OR ENDORSEMENT?

A few days ago, I had the chance to have dinner with my grandparents. My grandmother is one of those people who likes talking and talking and talking… she told my sister and me about her adolescence and in particular about her love story with my grandfather. In the era when the technology revolution hadn’t spread yet and no social media could help you keep in contact with each other, it was all about patience and wait. It seemed like she was talking about an era so far away from us. However, it was just 70 years ago! At one particular point, she stated: “Oh.. How authentic we were!”

She let me think about this… aren’t people real today? Or, as my grandmother said, authentic?

One of the problems social media platforms have given us is we hide behind screens, allowing others to judge us for the lives we want them to think we have, the online lives. Our perception of reality is skewed. Being face-to-face with someone is more challenging.  Even Mike Robbins, who is an expert in teamwork and communication, stated at a Ted Conference: “In the culture that we live in trying to look good, trying to impress people, trying to get what we want […] we have a tendency at times to massage the truth and while in some cases it can be benign, in a lot of cases starts to have a real impact in a negative way on us, on our relationships […]”.

Even if I tend to agree with this point of view, I also believe that social media, allowing everyone to share freely his/her own experience, his/her own opinion, encourages authenticity.

In social media time, we are more and more connected through devices – computers, smartphones, digital video allow people to be available 24/7. Almost every corner of the globe can instantaneously communicate with any other corner whenever we want… it’s all about the so-called culture of participation, quoting Henry Jenkins theory.

The huge change that we are witnessing so far is that we aren’t just joining social communities, but we are contributing too. User-generated content (UGC) is experiencing a huge explosion - posts whose content is shared by people for a wide range of application, such as news, entertainment, advertising, etc.

Chiara Ferragni is not the only example we can think about in order to see how people can become popular opening their own blog, posting their own ideas about a particular topic. Even at “lower” lever, there are cases of those who find their luck thanks to social media. They choose the right path to take in creating the connection with the public.

A new way of Social Marketing

For their intrinsic characteristic of being shared on the Internet, user-generated content have a powerful feature: they have the ability to reach the attention of everyone. There are many examples of people becoming real social media influencer, who has thousand, or even million, of followers.

Furthermore, as they are posted by “normal” people, there is the tendency to consider UGC as real, indeed authentic. Because bloggers build a following during a long period of time and by producing interesting, quality images or articles, people begin to trust these sources. They relate to them and respect their opinions. And nowadays in a world full of fake, people are looking for more authenticity, which is starting playing a big role in marketing. Younger generations are today more aware of advertising practices and this is the reason why marketers know that the past successful marketing advertisement strategies wouldn’t work anymore. According to the Nielsen Consumer Trust Index, 92 percent of consumers trust organic, user-generated content more than they trust traditional advertising. In addition, as published by Technorati, blogs rank among the top five “most trustworthy” sources of information on the internet.

This is the reason why today the majority of business marketers acknowledge UGC significance in the marketing process. Hence, they focus on authenticity. Many brands are now turning to influential bloggers to reach new audiences. They are finding ways to collaborate so their message is told by an authority source people actually pay attention to. Marketers now can take advantage of those who have already their own crew. They can reach a public of thousands, referring to just one person. People are naturally interested in what other customers have to say about a business or product.

Many enterprises, which started taking in consideration this way of advertising their product, found that it is real efficient. Below some of the benefits of user-generated content according to Small Business Trend:

· Providing social proof: People look for guidance from other people and are influenced them;

· Building trust in your brand: allowing customers the chance to express their opinions, you will provide social proof. Amazon is a site that uses this.

· Leverage your relationship with your loyal customers: having your most passionate customers generate content for you is a great way to leverage the relationship and encourage more sales.

In order to encourage social influencers to advertise their products, brands provide them with selected brand accessories. If they like the gifted good, they will share it with their community, which will produce high visibility. This is one of the easiest ways to expose the logo to potential customers.

For example, gifting goods is very popular on Instagram. A friend of mine, who is an architect, has an Instagram account and his cool pics caught the attention of a famous brand: Happy Socks. They contacted him and started sending him a different pair of socks time to time. Since then they have appeared on his posts. Here one of the last:

The blurring line between authenticity and endorsement

The process that I just described can evolve and instead of gifting goods, brands can work through sponsored post. In this case, consumers are paid to publish content, which shifts from noncommercial to sponsored content. It is easy to see how authenticity here can be challenged.

Counterfeit can be easily discovered on the online world. Let’s think about the famous Lonelygirl15 phenomenon. A 16-year-old girl, whose name was Bree, began posting video blogs on YouTube, talking about her parents, her friends, her life in general. She became one of the young site’s most popular stars and the New York Times had a recurring blog about her. But, Bree wasn’t real, she was an actress, who together with her friend planned to promote their acting capabilities to get new job opportunities. This was the first time someone proved you could actually make money on YouTube.

Furthermore, influencer marketing can be seen as the new grey area in the advertising arena. In social media such as Instagram, Snapchat and Twitter, influencers are endorsing products, but there is no mention of receiving remuneration for their posts. As consequence, the public, the follower, can be exposed to sockpuppeting. The term sockpuppeting is used to describe who take on a fictional identity when promoting content online. In order to take action, the Federal Trade Commission’s Endorsement Guide states that bloggers must disclose any compensation they receive in exchange for a product. These specific guidelines for social media content producers aim to protect the public by ensuring that sponsorship is transparent.

In conclusion, my question has risen again… when authentic becomes endorsement, can we still talk about genuine and realistic content?

With no doubt, we can see how the line has blurred and merged among authentic and counterfeit. Social media are a new field and therefore new issues will raise. Anyway, I think that businessman and consumers are aware of the power of authenticity and this new world can be seen as a great friend, through which genuine connection can be fostered.

Sources:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jordan-dansky/the-struggle-to-stay-authentic-on-social-media_b_9563234.html

http://www.convinceandconvert.com/digital-marketing/the-power-of-authenticity-jason-falls/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4iFAAUscVA

https://www.ted.com/talks/joseph_pine_on_what_consumers_want

https://ir.unikl.edu.my/jspui/bitstream/123456789/1504/1/Authenticity%20Issues%20of%20Social%20MediaCredibility%20Quality%20and%20Reality.pdf

https://www.inc.com/molly-reynolds/stop-trying-to-create-authenticity-on-social-media.html

https://smallbiztrends.com/2016/04/user-generated-content-benefits-business.html