#meanwhile the sped boy I was supposed to be with was minding his own business sweeping paper and clay off of the floor

[everfaye]

I showed a bunch of 5 year olds how to make cootie catchers today. talk about big miss steaks

[refinedbuffoonery]

Riley + Sunglasses + Undercover (5)

masterlist.

Read it on AO3. 

*****

Of course the one time Matty let the CIA borrow her best agents, they ended up walking into a trap. The Company was messy like that. Matty swore that as soon as she got her team back safe and sound, heads were going to roll. Starting with the director of the CIA himself. 

In the meantime, she tapped her foot on the war room floor while she waited for Riley to finish scrubbing the security footage. No one spoke. 

“There,” Riley said. She mirrored her screen so Matty could watch. 

Desi stood in the lower left corner of the video. While all of the other guests were enraptured by something just outside the frame, a pair of gloved hands smothered her agent’s face with a rag and dragged her out of view. 

Mac and Riley weren’t in the picture at all. 

“Mac, Riley,” Matty said, “where were you when this happened? And what is everyone staring at?” On the other end of the line, someone choked. It sounded like Riley. Bozer’s soft chuckle came through the speaker. 

“Guys, what are you not telling me?” she prompted. With the way Bozer was laughing, she knew something was up. Bozer’s “I have a secret” vibe was literally visible from the moon. 

Mac finally answered her. “Riley and I were...uhh...busy.” No one elaborated further. 

Matty had a feeling she knew exactly what “busy” entailed. Apparently, it was a very public “busy.” Even though they couldn’t see her, she smiled. “I look forward to reading all about it in your reports.” Just to make them squirm, Matty let her statement hang in the air for a few moments before getting back to the situation at hand. “Riley, can you see where Desi was taken?” 

Riley’s nails clicked on her keyboard. “Desi was standing in front of a side exit. The footage of the hallway outside doesn’t show anyone entering or leaving, so whoever took her must’ve looped the cameras.” 

Perfect. This op was the gift that just kept giving. “Mac, what do you think she was drugged with?” 

“Chloroform, most likely. Everything you need to make it can be found in any janitor’s closet.” 

“Okay, and where are we on locating Pierre?” 

“I’ve got him,” Riley answered, mercifully. “He’s in a car driving southeast.” 

“What’s southeast?” Bozer asked. 

After a few clicks, Riley said, “For starters, the border with France. But it looks like there’s a helicopter-only airport before that.” 

Matty didn’t like the directions she was about to give, but she gave them anyway. “Riley, go get him. Bozer, stay in the suite to help Riley and figure out how to get the hotel out of lockdown. Mac, find Desi.” A chorus of “yes ma’am”s filled her ears. 

She hung up and took a deep breath. Her agents had been in far worse situations, but any mission that went belly-up put Matty on edge. Mac and Riley would get them home safe, she promised herself. One way or another, they always did. 

*****

None of them like splitting up, but they all agreed it was their best option. Riley was the best high speed chase driver, and Mac would know what to do if Desi needed immediate medical attention. 

Riley was secretly relieved she’d be getting some distance from Mac, however brief. She’d figured she would spend the entire op tied to him, but chasing down Pierre gave her an excuse to process her emotions alone and figure out what the fuck was going on. 

First, she needed to get out of the building and find some wheels. 

“Hey, Mac.” He immediately met her eyes. “Could you please make me a small grenade?” 

Mac’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “Sure.” He started to head off in search of ingredients, but seemed to think better of it and turned around, leaning against a wall. “Riles, why do you need a grenade?” 

Riley grinned. “Distraction while I steal a car.” 

Mac’s mouth quirked into his ‘I’m impressed’ smirk. “That’s my girl.” 

His voice echoed in her head. That’s my girl. That’s my girl. That’s my girl. 

A few minutes later, Mac handed her his suit jacket and a plastic water bottle filled with god only knew what. For once, their fingers didn’t brush, and that stung more than any impending rejection. Even though it was wholly unnecessary, they always found excuses to brush hands. Brief reassurances they had each other’s backs. 

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” he said with mock seriousness. 

“No promises.” Riley stared at the jacket, trying and failing to figure out how it was related to the grenade. Maybe she was supposed to wrap it around the bottle? Looking up, she asked, “What’s the jacket for?” 

She could’ve sworn Mac blushed. “In case it’s cold outside.” She pulled it on, ducking her head to hide her own blush. Trying not to love him was damn near impossible, even if he was confusing. He didn’t touch her, but he gave her his jacket? If this was supposed to be a rejection, he was doing a terrible job at it. The jacket was way too big, but it was warm and smelled like him. Riley immediately felt safer, like his actual arms were enveloping her. Fresh memories of being wrapped up in him lurked in the back of her mind. She told them to fuck off. 

Water bottle grenade in hand, Riley slipped out of the suite, fighting the urge to look back. 

Walking through the hotel without raising suspicion was easy enough, but getting to the hotel’s underground parking lot was another matter. Since the hotel only had valet parking, there was no guest entrance to the lot. After consulting the building’s blueprints, Riley had found the series of hidden staircases she crept down now, narrowly avoiding getting caught by a pair of roaming guards. With every step, her heels clicked on the concrete, and the sound echoed up the stairwell. She’d been planning on begging Matty to let her keep the designer shoes, but at this point, she would give anything to have her favorite boots instead. 

At the bottom of the stairs, Riley clutched the water bottle and peeked into the lot. There wasn’t a soul in sight other than the twenty-nothing year old kid on his phone in the valet booth. His right thumb moved rapidly across the screen, as if he were playing a game. Lucky her. 

She chucked the grenade as far as she could away from the booth--and the exit. It exploded with a loud bang, causing the boy to practically jump out of his skin before running to investigate. “Boom,” she said with a smirk. 

Riley walked right into the booth. Keys covered two walls from floor to ceiling, each labeled with a number. Her eyes caught on a set of Lamborghini keys just below eye level. Perfect. She hit unlock, and the car chirped from across the lot, lights flashing. 

First checking to ensure the valet employee was still distracted, Riley jogged between cars and through the aisles, ignoring the way her stilettos pinched her toes. 

“Hey!” A male voice called across the lot. Shit. The valet employee finally saw her. Riley sped up. She probably looked ridiculous, running as fast as she could while trying not to fall on her face. 

When she finally reached the sleek, black convertible, Riley flung the door open and slid inside, yanking off her right shoe. It still had that new car smell. Aside from being pissed at her for not giving the car the reverence it deserved--or something like that--Jack would’ve been so jealous if he knew. Not only was it the nicest car any of them would ever drive, but the real icing on the cake was that Mac wasn’t there to destroy it. 

The engine roared to life. Bozer practically screamed in her ear. “Damn, Riley. What kind of car did you get? Also, when you exit, turn right.” 

“You’ll see,” she responded gleefully. Riley gunned it out of the lot, following Bozer’s instructions. 

As soon as she pulled out into the street, Bozer shrieked. “A Lamborghini?!? You stole a fucking Lamborghini?” 

Riley cackled with delight, speeding off in pursuit of Pierre. 

*****

Meanwhile, Mac set off in search of Desi. Riley’s laughter rang in his ear, a warm sound that reverberated through his bones. He tried and failed to ignore it. 

He knew Desi was still in the hotel. Bozer was monitoring all the exits using a Phoenix satellite, so if she had left, Bozer would’ve seen it. 

Mac knew this was all his fault. If he hadn’t been distracted by kissing Riley, then Desi wouldn’t have been kidnapped. Plain and simple. 

At the thought of kissing Riley, he was transported back into that damn closet, where they’d kept kissing for a few seconds, even after they ditched their audience. 

Those precious few seconds nearly undid him. 

There was no need to continue the show, yet she still kissed him like he was the very air she needed to breathe. And the way she’d pulled him closer by his tie…It was just enough to foster a small hope that maybe, just maybe, she might have feelings for him too. 

He just hoped those feelings were strong enough to forgive him for throwing himself at her without her consent. He’d kissed other girls as ruses before, but this was Riley, and it was different because she’s his best friend and there were uncommunicated feelings involved. Even if it made her uncomfortable, Riley played along with his ruse and totally sold it because that’s her job. That didn’t mean she wasn’t probably pissed. He crossed a line he could never uncross, and no matter what she inevitably said about it, a piece of her hard-earned trust was gone. 

Mac shook his head. Getting caught up in Riley was what got him in this mess in the first place. He needed to focus on finding Desi. 

He shoved thoughts of Riley into the far recesses of his brain and got to work. Starting from the ballroom--where the auction was still going--he tried to retrace Desi’s attacker’s steps. If he was the kidnapper, then he would’ve taken Desi down the hallway to the left. It was, by far, the least traveled, and it had a multitude of doors and other hallways branching off it, providing plenty of hiding places and alternate routes. 

Mac didn’t like working on mere speculation, but it was the closest thing to a lead he had. Whoever took Desi was careful to leave no trace of either person. 

“Okay, Mac.” Bozer said. “In this direction, there are four places they could’ve gone: an out of the way conference room, a janitor’s closet, upstairs to a room, or downstairs to the basement.” 

The conference room seemed too obvious, but Mac wanted to check it anyway. “Where’s the conference room?” 

“It’s-- Hang on. Riley, go straight through the next two roundabouts. Once you’ve gone through the second one, you’ll have crossed into France.” 

“Got it.” 

“Sorry, Mac. The conference room is down the hall, second to last door on the right.” 

“Thanks.” Mac marveled at how Bozer simultaneously juggled helping him search for Desi while guiding Riley through the streets of Monte Carlo--and now, apparently, France. He imagined Bozer at the computer, bouncing between maps and satellite imagery on one monitor and building blueprints on the other. 

Mac checked the conference room and the janitor’s closet. Both empty. He hated it, but he was slightly relieved Desi wasn’t stuffed in the closet. Something about the irony of finding his ex--who was kidnapped while he was in a different closet with a different woman--in a closet made him feel sick. 

Riley’s voice floated over comms. “Hey, Mac! Any leads on finding Desi?” Her calm and collected tone yanked him out of his guilt spiral. It was like she knew he was caught up in his head, even while hurtling away from him at breakneck speed. He silently thanked her. 

“Nothing yet. I’m going to check the basement next.” 

“Riley Davis, you are driving over a hundred miles per hour.” Bozer used his best chastising-mom voice. “Pay attention to the road!” Riley didn’t dignify him with a response, but Mac knew she rolled her eyes and pressed the gas pedal a little harder. 

*****

Riley couldn’t believe her luck when she caught up to Pierre’s blue sedan without running into any cops. She’d been driving well over a hundred miles per hour, weaving around literally every other car on the road without using her blinker like a true Californian. Catching Pierre was hardly different from her daily commute to work. 

Driving that fast, she couldn’t afford to get distracted, so she banished every trace of kissing Mac from her head and focused on catching the con man. 

She tailgated Pierre long enough for him to realize she was following him. He turned off the highway, but Riley was hot on his heels. 

“Bozer! How do I cut him off?” Her plan was simple: let Pierre think he lost her in the streets and cut him off before he could get back to the highway. 

“Take your next left, then an immediate right.” 

Riley let a couple cars merge between her and Pierre. Predictably, he kept going straight, which was the quickest way back to the highway from what Riley could tell. Following Bozer’s directions, she turned onto a parallel street. 

The cars on this road drove infuriatingly slowly--slowly enough that moments from the auction and the goddamn closet clawed their way in from the edges of her mind. As much as Riley tried to ignore and deny it, she had put all her cards on the table with that kiss. 

In doing so, she’d screwed everything up. Before Bozer interrupted them, Mac had been about to say something. A rejection, most likely. Short of verbally confessing, Riley had made her feelings crystal clear, and Mac didn’t feel the same way. He’d played a role to cover their tracks, but he meant none of it. She wasn’t even upset that he’d launched himself at her without asking first. If anyone else tried that, Riley would’ve kicked their ass the moment they had some privacy. But, this was Mac. She trusted Mac. And, if she had said stop, he would’ve immediately stopped, even if it got them in a heap of trouble. 

But, even though she trusted him with her body, with her whole life, she didn’t trust him not to shatter her heart into a thousand tiny pieces that even duct tape and paperclips couldn’t put back together. 

She cursed at a car that nearly swerved into her lane. Riley had no idea what to do next. There was no way Mac didn’t know how she felt, but she felt none of the relief that came with actually confessing feelings. Should she confess, even though she already knew he couldn’t reciprocate? Or was it better to just keep it to herself and learn to let him go? Both options sucked. 

Some part of her knew it was best to just cut her losses and break her own heart, but she wasn’t ready to go down that road just yet. 

In addition to her situation with Mac, Riley had no idea what to do next in a literal sense. Bozer had been eerily silent for the last couple minutes. 

In the distance, the street came to a dead end. “Bozer…”

“TURN RIGHT!” 

Riley nearly jumped out of her skin, but she skidded around the corner and mentally flipped Bozer off. He really needed to work on giving better directions. 

Riley brought the car to a screeching stop in the next intersection, blocking Pierre. She put the car in park, flung her door open, and stood, pointing a gun right at Pierre’s face. 

“Pierre! Get out of the car and put your hands up, or I’ll shoot.” 

“Shoot?” Bozer asked. 

“Since when do you have a gun?” Mac followed. 

“It’s Desi’s spare,” Riley explained, “now shut up!” 

She wiggled her gun at Pierre, something she’d seen Jack do a thousand times. Pierre, smartly, did exactly as she commanded. Slowly, he stepped out of his car and raised his hands up by his head. Keeping her gun trained on his chest, Riley walked toward Pierre, stopping only a few feet away. 

“Miss Jackson,” Pierre babbled, “I’m sure we can work something out.” 

“Cut the crap. Who do you work for?” 

“I work alone.” Pierre didn’t seem to be lying. If he worked alone, then who the hell took Desi? 

“Tell me something.” Riley stepped closer. She still wasn’t all that comfortable with guns, but mercifully, her arms held perfectly still. “Do you consider yourself good at your job?” 

“Of course, Mademoiselle.” 

“Then tell me why a skilled con man would try to pull such a pathetic, obvious scam.” 

He gave her the same sick smile he’d given her at the pool. Riley really didn’t like this guy. Schooling her expression into cool boredom, she raised the gun and pressed it to his forehead. “I’ll only ask once more. Who hired you?” Pierre’s eyes widened, realizing who was the predator in this situation and who was the prey. Good. Be scared, Riley thought. Maybe then you’ll give me better answers. He didn’t need to know that she wouldn’t actually shoot him. 

“Okay, okay! Let’s not get hasty. I was hired by a man named Viktor Petrov to run this specific job. He supplied the locket and the chip.” 

She didn’t dare lower the gun. “I need more information than that. Who is he?” 

“I don’t know. He hired me to run it, and gave me ridiculously specific directions, like he didn’t trust me--a professional con man--to successfully run a con. Oh, and he let me keep all of the profit from the sale of the locket. That’s all I know, I swear.” Riley was pretty sure he was telling the truth. 

“Riley,” Bozer said in her ear, “I’ve got Interpol agents closing in to pick up Pierre. Did he tell you anything useful?” 

“I’ve got a name, but it’s a common one.” She eyed Pierre. Even with a gun between his eyes, he shamelessly dragged his gaze up and down her body, taking in her fitted, navy gown and Mac’s gray suit jacket. Her stomach churned. 

Behind her, a pair of Interpol agents announced their presence. Riley breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to endure Pierre’s creepy staring anymore. 

Slapping handcuffs on the con man, one of the agents said, “We’ll take it from here.” Riley waited until Pierre was securely in the agents’ car before returning to her own. 

She prayed their only lead wasn’t a dead end. 

*****

Mac had nearly cleared the whole laundry room before finding Desi unconscious and slumped against a washing machine, wrists and ankles zip-tied together. A rag was tied over her nose and mouth. Shit. Shit. Shit. He yanked the rag off and checked her pulse. She’d been drugged--a quick sniff confirmed his chloroform theory--but she was alive. 

He cut the zip ties before shaking her shoulder to wake her up. After a few minutes, Desi groaned and cracked her eyes open. “Hey,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve got you.” 

She mumbled something, and it took Mac a moment to realize she’d said “I know him.” 

“Know who?” 

“The man who did this.” Desi coughed. “I...we hooked up once.” Her voice was high-pitched and loopy; she was high as a kite. “Okay, maybe a lot more than once, but before you judge, you need to know that he’s really hot.” Desi tried to sound stern but failed miserably. “Viktor Petrov. He’s a mob boss who poses as an art collector.” Mac checked her for injuries while she explained. “I didn’t find out about the mob boss part until later...about five minutes before he discovered I was a spy. It was all downhill from there.” No shit, Mac thought. “He must’ve been at the auction and recognized me.” 

“Then let’s get you out of here before he comes back,” Mac said, hauling her to her feet. 

“Goo--I think I’m going to puke.” Mac dutifully held her hair back as she hunched over and vomited on the floor. He couldn’t help but think this was his fault. If only he’d been paying attention…

Not even looking at him, Desi snapped, “Give yourself a break. This isn’t your fault.” 

“It feels like it is.” 

Desi straightened up. “I know a hundred different ways to take someone out with just my bare hands, yet I still got drugged and dumped in a hotel laundry room. It happens to the best of us. The important part is that you found me, I’m fine, and now it’s time to move on.” 

Move on. She didn’t know him at all if she thought he could just move on. First he’d fucked up his relationship with Riley, then he fucked up keeping his partner safe, all in the span of a few minutes. He was on a high speed train of fuckery that only crashed at the end of the line. 

“Let’s go,” Desi commanded. 

They stumbled back to the suite without any trouble.

[woodrokiro]

Hollowed (fic), Part Six

Fandom: Bleach

Pairing: IchiRuki

Summary: They call her a miracle, but he looks at her as if she’s normal. It scares her. Fantasy/Futuristic/Zombie kinda?AU. Read Parts One, Two, Three, Four, and Five.

As Ichigo approaches Rukia’s quarters, he can’t help but be on edge for what he might find.

What was it that Yamamoto said she’d be, after going to the medical facilities? ‘Frail,’ ‘tired?’ What, like she’s sick?

Ichigo doesn’t know a whole lot about medicine, but considering his dad often helped out Uryu’s father with medical visits within the village, he does know some. Sure, there are some herbal medicines that can make a person drowsy. The stronger pill-form antibiotics that he read about from the Old World haven’t been made available in years… Although, he admits to himself, this is the military compounds he’s talking about, who would have more access than anybody to rare medicinal goods. 

Still… He can’t imagine the girl he spoke with to be in such a weakened state that she’s incapable of making decisions. What sort of medications or treatments or whatever are they giving her?

He approaches the door to her rooms. And why do they keep giving them to her, even though it’s obviously not working? And why did she have to go to the medical facilities right then after the Hollow--

He opens the door and finds the girl in question completely nude. 

---

She doesn’t really notice him until she hears a strange wheeze-scream coming from outside the screen. 

She looks up from her book to take a glance at his beet-red face, the finger pointed accusingly at her. She lifts her eyebrows. “Good morning.”

“YOU’RE NAKED.”

“Well, I suppose I am--ah, no I’m not! I’ve got this bandage around my arm.” She points to her shoulder, the crisp white bandage tied tightly around it.  

“That doesn’t make a diff--!! What is wrong with you?!”

“Nothing’s wrong. I was in the middle of changing and got caught up in some reading.” 

“Yeah but you still knew I was coming??”

“Of course. But if you’re my personal guard protecting me at all times, this shouldn’t matter to you. I’ll be changing in front of you quite often.” 

“Do not gaslight me about this, like this is in any way normal--” 

 “If it really bothers you that much, you can turn around.” 

He pauses, opening and closing his mouth like a fish before spinning around wildly. “You know what, I--whatever. This place is so fucking bizarre. Can you just put something on?”

“Certainly.” She reaches over the other end of the table for the silk robe she discarded, slightly miffed.

No, she can’t say that she’s always up to date on social cues from the outside world; but she’s not that naive. She knows it’s not normal to be naked in front of anyone, let alone a person of the opposite sex. 

But it’s different here, she considers as she pulls her hands through the sleeves. She’s different. Most here have always viewed her as something Other: not Creature, and certainly not Human either. The medical grounds certainly find her fascinating, but she is Lady Rukia, the link to saving humanity. 

No one has ever quite seen her as Woman before. 

What a strange boy. 

She tightens the knot at her waist. “There. Are you satisfied, sir?”

He glances behind him, scoffing. “Yes. My sincerest apologies for reacting like any normal person would. And don’t call me ‘sir.’ Just call me Ichigo.”

“Ichigo. All right.” She crosses her arms.

She is looking a bit tired, he notes; there are creases under her eyes, a paleness to her already milk-white complexion--and the way she holds herself is almost like she has to will herself to stand. 

His mind jumps back to her bandaged shoulder, though… He doesn’t remember her being injured any point. So why does she have--

“Were your sisters all right yesterday? And your friends?”

He’s caught off guard, and scratches his head self-consciously. He would’ve thanked her from the start, if she had been clothed--but he’s still embarrassed that she brings it up before he does. 

“Oh, um. Yeah, they were. You were right, I guess: none of the ‘service’ or whatever were within its radius, and my friends posted in military were okay. Hey and--I just wanted to thank you for doing that. I know you technically weren’t supposed to release me, but I appreciate it all the same.”

“Of course. It wasn’t of much consequence to me, I hope it wasn’t to you.” She looks down at her table, picking at an invisible speck on the pristine table with a thoughtful look on her face. “Family is important.” 

“... Sure. Yeah.” He’s stumped on what to follow up with that before he suddenly remembers. “Oh, hey! By the way, I met your brother on the way here. He’s, uh…” He grits his teeth. Shit. 

She watches him struggle awhile to come up with a decent adjective, her eyes dancing with a shade of laughter. “Formal?” 

He lets out a scoff. “Yeah you can say that.”

“He can be, yes. But he’s actually very kind. He’s done a lot for me, more than I can ever thank him for.”

Ichigo doesn’t know about that--the thought of caging up his sisters like animals regardless of the reason makes him want to hurl--but before he can retort, a maid enters from from one of the doors in Rukia’s room. 

“There ya go, m’lady! Fresh sheets on the bed, and flowers from the garden on your nightstand too. The blooms haven’t been really good, Sentarou says--but I told him he better go back out there for your bouquet. ‘Only the best for Lady Rukia!’ I said, and he sped right out and brought back some really nice roses. He can be a real good gardener when he’s not lazy.” The blonde scrap of a girl turns to nod at Ichigo. “Heya there. New guard, huh? Keep that phrase in mind. ‘Only the best for Lady Rukia.’”

Ichigo’s too busy with a dropped jaw to even speak to the girl inside the room with Rukia.

“Thank you, Miss Kiyone. Give my thanks to Mr. Sentarou too, I’m sure the roses are lovely.”

“‘S no trouble at all!” The maid peeks over Rukia’s shoulder at an ornate tray of food on a cabinet that Ichigo didn’t even have the chance to notice. “Aww, milady, you haven’t even eaten yet! Ya not feeling well again?”

Rukia waves a hand away at the thought. “No, no. It looks wonderful, I’m just not hungry. Please, take it for yourself and your mother to enjoy.”

Kiyone puts her hands on her hips. “Now, milady. That’s the third time this week you’ve done this with your meal. I shoulda never told you ‘bout my mom. She’s not that sick, really, just has a cold. You can’t keep giving your food to us, at least take a few bites and then, if you so want we’ll take the rest--”

“No because then you can’t eat it at all.” Rukia says it so sharply that the girl jumps. Rukia stops, takes a breath and continues softer: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… I’m already giving you the food I won’t eat, it wouldn’t feel right if I gave you the picked over remains. Please. I’m happy to give them to you.”

Kiyone twists her mouth, but picks up the tray and with a curtseyed “thank you, Lady” clicks open the screen door and walks out the room, past Ichigo. 

The two remain in silence for a minute. Ichigo watches her rub her shoulder absent-mindedly.

“So… Can you explain to me what that’s all about?”

Rukia frowns. “What? I wasn’t hungry.” 

“Yeah, I gathered. I’m asking why you near screamed my head off yesterday with just touching the screen and yet here comes a little girl, no older than my sisters and she’s changing your sheets?”

“It-it’s complicated.” She huffs. “I don’t want anyone to come in here. I’d be happy to do the cleaning and tasks of my own rooms. Lord Yamamoto and Brother are adamant that I don’t ‘strain’ myself, so Kiyone is the only one that comes in, and I keep my distance from her just in case, and she goes to the medical facilities for check ups regularly, and--”

“What the fuck is it that you have?” Ichigo interrupts incredulously. “What? Is it infectious? Do I need to be worried--”

“No. No.” She rubs her eyes, and Ichigo realizes she must be really tired and stressed out but this is important, nobody in his group can afford to be sick right now. “Of course nobody knows the full scope of my… My condition, but I am near positive that Kiyone won’t be affected. Ever. If I thought there was any chance, I’d put my foot down.”

“But for now, you won’t because you like the service?”

“Do not mock me. I hate this as it is. But I have to pick my battles.” She glares at him, and Ichigo can’t help but notice for being a frail, tiny woman dressed in only a robe, in this moment she may as well be a giant. 

He thinks--not for the first time--about how he may have underestimated her. 

“With all that said, I do not feel comfortable with anyone on this side. It’s not personal, but that includes you.”

“And what about the times that I have to walk you out of here? Like that time you came out to see us when we first came here? What then?”

“In which case, there’s not much to be helped, but you and I will never go out alone. You will call forth at least three guards to assist you, although they will maintain a distance of at least six feet from me. Speaking of which,” she gets up, and the movement is so fluid and regal that Ichigo blinks. “I’d like to go for a walk. Ring the bell outside the hall and send a messenger for that assistance. Meanwhile, I’ll get dressed.”

 She is about to walk into what is apparently her bedroom when Ichigo finally calls out. 

“Are you all right to go out? I mean… If you’ve been sick. Do you really want to go out in all those heavy clothes, in your condition?”

She turns to look at him from the doorway, assessing him. “I’m all right, thank you,” she replies coolly and Ichigo sees the similarity between her and her brother clear as day. “The fresh air will do me good. And I won’t be in those ‘heavy clothes.’ Those are only for certain occasions. Besides,” she smiles dryly, “Sometimes I think those gowns are so I won’t blend in. Easier to keep track of the only girl in ornamental garb.” 

She shuts the door, and it may as well have been on Ichigo’s face.

[citizentruth-blog]

Don't Trust Your Lying Eyes, Say the Liars

What's the matter, Nick? Don't feel like wearing your MAGA hat now? What about that smirk? Stop it before I throw up. (Image Credit: Savannah Guthrie/Twitter) A while back, I attended a Saturday morning meeting for a group of Democratic Party supporters in northern New Jersey. Former FOX News personality and Democratic strategist Julie Roginsky was the special guest. She talked about, among other things, having conversations with people who hold different political views, and at one point, fielded questions from those in attendance. Anna Wong, a tireless activist and someone I know from her work with Indivisible NJ-5, stepped up to the mic, and with a sense of due frustration, asked how we're supposed to reach across the aisle when we can't even agree on a set of facts, let alone whether facts matter. Anna's question and how she delivered it prompted laughter from the audience—myself included—but she was very earnest in her query. Thinking back to this scene, as I frequently do, I too wonder how having a dialog with people of opposing ideologies is possible when both can't agree to the same qualitative or quantitative data—right down to what we see. The episode which jumps to mind, especially as a tone-setter for the Trump administration, is the whole business about whose inauguration crowd was bigger: Donald Trump's or Barack Obama's. It seems like eons ago when Sean Spicer—remember him?—was trying to persuade us to believe that the president's detractors were manipulating camera angles of aerial views to diminish Trump and his achievements. Meanwhile, in the real world, objective visual analysis showed Obama's numbers clearly bested Trump's. Like, it wasn't even close. If Washington, D.C. transit numbers are any indication, Obama walloped Trump in attendance, managing 513,000 trips on the Metro by 11 A.M. in 2009 to his successor's 193,000 by the same time. The numbers, at least in this case, don't lie. And yet, Trump et al. held to their erroneous claim. As Groucho Marx would say or is thus attributed, who are you going to believe: me or your lying eyes? Like some errant, erratic philosopher, President Trump seemed to be arguing against the very existence of verifiable truth. To borrow a phrase from Kellyanne Conway, there were no lies—only "alternative facts." Seeing is believing? No, no—believing is believing. If you're not on the side of the president, you're not on the side of America. How are we supposed to make the country great again if you don't buy in? We're in 2019 now, but the same tactics are being used by conservative commentators and, in turn, centrist media outlets to make us question what we see and know. Back in November, there was an uproar from the right after CNN reporter Jim Acosta was alleged to have manhandled a female aide who tried (unsuccessfully) to grab his microphone during a Trump press conference. Abuser, they cried! Assault, they railed! Of course, there was a proportionate uproar from the other direction when the Trump administration moved to revoke Acosta's credentials (and deservedly so), but with various critics calling for his ouster at CNN, one might've been concerned the network would give in to the calls for Acosta's head. What was truly disturbing about the whole episode was not Acosta's conduct—the CNN correspondent may have been a bit defensive about giving up the mic but he did excuse himself as the young woman grasped for it—but rather the attempts to discredit him. Instrumental in the effort to get Acosta canned was a video shared on social media by InfoWars editor-at-large Paul Joseph Watson and later passed along by Sarah Sanders that showed the interaction between Acosta and the aide. The clip appeared to show Acosta arresting the woman's arm with a "karate chop" of sorts. Casually omitted from proliferation of this video segment, however, was the knowledge that the action had been slowed or sped up at points to make Acosta's movement seem harsher than it actually was. The audio of Acosta excusing himself also was removed. The footage from the press conference was, in a word, doctored. By the time the clarifications could be assigned a day later, the right was already off and running with its narrative. To this day, conservative trolls maintain that Acosta should've been fired for his "attack" on the aide. In doing so, they have chosen a very convenient point at which to come to the defense of a young woman when members of the Republican Party are generally so intent on circumscribing women's power and freedom. But I digress. These cases are a little bit different in their presentation. With the aerial shots that proved Obama's crowds were bigger beyond the shadow of a doubt, there was little Donald Trump and his cronies could do outside of arguing for the relativity of truth in the abstract. Re Jim Acosta vs. the female White House aide, there was intentional manipulation at work(Watson denies it, but it's not like he and InfoWars have built a strong sense of credibility), though there were other versions of the clip from more trustworthy sources available. Either way, you were made to doubt what you saw or thought you saw. The eyes, they play tricks. And as we know, tricks are for kids. You're not a kid, are you? It is within this context that we can view the much-talked-about interaction between Covington Catholic High School (KY) students in Washington for a March for Life and Nathan Phillips, a Native American and veteran present for the Indigenous Peoples March. The iconic moment, if you will, happened when Nick Sandmann, one of the students and one of a number of them wearing a MAGA hat, stood face to face with Phillips while the latter beat a drum and sang. As Phillips has said in interviews, he was attempting to intercede between the students and members of the Black Hebrew Israelites, who shouted epithets at the high schoolers and preached about how they were "cursed Edomites." In the initial reaction to video from the interaction, most people regarded the Covington Catholic H.S. students fairly negatively. They were akin to a mob, standing in menacing opposition to Phillips, who was but one man. And that smirk. The enduring image of Sandmann staring motionless and speechless with a smirk on his face conveyed notions of racism and white privilege. Here were a bunch of white kids ganging up on an older person of color, a veteran and Native American no less. What better symbol of Trump's effect and how discriminatory values are inculcated in future generations? Not soon after, though, the narrative began to change. Additional videos were released that showed additional footage, including the students being egged on by the Black Hebrew Israelites. All of a sudden, these boys were the victim or were regarded with less contempt than before given the circumstances. Actually, now that I look closer, Phillips accosted them, not the other way around! We owe them an apology! We're so sorry, Covington Catholic High! Our mea culpas and retractions can't come fast enough! Thankfully, not everyone is buying the "both sides" arguments and self-flagellation many among the media, their associated outlets, and Hollywood's elite have begun to make. Laura Wagner, reporter at Deadspin, for one, advises us not to doubt what we saw with our own eyes. Recounting the predictable shift from immediate condemnation of the boys' conduct to downplaying if not outright denying any wrongdoing, Wagner addresses the notion that the kerfuffle on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial is nothing more than a Rorschach test for what you personally believe: One lesson of the past two days is that you will see what you want to see here, if you are determined to do so; that does not mean that there is anything to be seen but what is there. I see a frothing mass of MAGA youth—who, since we’re taking in all angles here, go to a school where students fairly recently wore blackface to a basketball game—frenzied and yelling and out of control. I see four black men who seem to belong to the Black Israelites—a threat to women in their orbit, but not to random white people they’re heckling—yelling insults at the students. Then I see Phillips, as he has stated from the beginning that he did, walk up to the teens, in what seems to be an attempt to diffuse the situation. I see them laughing and dancing, red MAGA hats bobbing up and down in glee. I see them yell in Phillips’ face, and I see that he doesn’t falter. I see the smugness of a group secure in its relative power over someone more vulnerable than they are. Nothing about the video showing the offensive language of Black Israelites changes how upsetting it was to see the Covington students, and Sandmann in particular, stare at Phillips with such contempt. I don’t see how you could watch this and think otherwise unless you’re willing to gaslight yourself, and others, in the service of granting undeserved sympathy to the privileged. And yet, that's exactly what happened. Various individuals backtracked, excused themselves, blamed their "reptile brains." They ignored their initial emotional responses and, without much else informing their decision-making, reversed their position. I apologize. I regret. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. As far as Wagner is concerned, the reason for this is simple: it makes them seem more reasonable and trustworthy. They're not among the followers of the news who react impassionedly to it, betraying their better judgment for the sake of an outrage fix. Even if that means, as Wagner puts it, "siding with some shithead MAGA teens and saying that 2 + 2 = 5 in the face of every bit of evidence there is to be had." Whatever the reason, the final outcome still stands. These people failed to believe what they had seen with their own eyes. One criticism from people tracking this story is that these kids are being demonized by some, but what would you have them do instead? Unfortunately for promoters of this line of thinking, the answers are pretty easy. Walk away. Find a chaperone. Certainly, don't make mocking tomahawk chants. For those suggesting "boys will be boys" or pointing to the folly of youth, that shouldn't be an excuse. If Gillette can make an advertisement about toxic masculinity (which you may hate for being too preachy, but that's another story), these Catholic school kids can behave in a respectful manner. Blame the parents if you want, but let's have some responsibility assigned. Otherwise, some might point to the remarks made by Nick Sandmann and agree with his side of the story. But come the eff on. Why would this kid and his family need to hire a PR firm if, as the saying goes, the truth shall set you free? And that smirk. I know I'm harping on it, but it's pretty hard to get past. Sandmann says he was trying to diffuse the situation, but he could've taken any of the prescribed actions to do that rather than standing within feet of Nathan Phillips and smiling like an entitled little asshole. That Savannah Guthrie would encourage his defense of his "right" to stand on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and listen to Phillips as part of a softball interview is downright nauseating. The last objection to deliberation on this altercation may be perhaps the most valid: "Who cares?" That is, why are we spending so much time on whether some high schooler was smirking at an older Native American man when there's a crisis in Yemen, lead is still being found in drinking water, and other catastrophes abound? Relatively speaking, the events of this past weekend are a blip on the proverbial radar. Their symbolic value, meanwhile, carries more weight. It's about media portrayal of members of different ethnicities. It's about how pressure by conservative commentators and right-wing trolls—including threats of violence and release of personal information—can influence individuals and media outlets to spin the national conversation toward white victimhood. And it's about how people irrespective of gender or political ideology can be made to doubt what they see. It has nothing to do with "intelligence" either. When group dynamics are at work, the pressure to conform is a powerful force. We're all susceptible. Returning to the anecdote from the start of this piece, if it's hard to agree on what is factual or whether that matters, it's that much more difficult to have a meaningful conversation when something is right before our eyes and we can't come to a consensus on what we see. That's the most disturbing implication of the Covington Catholic/Nathan Phillips standoff and why people like Laura Wagner invoke 1984's dystopia. When you're made to question your own judgment, you're liable to believe anything. Should Nick Sandmann or anyone else involved herein be sent death threats? Of course not. But should he and his peers be absolved of all culpability? I submit no, and neither should the antagonists of the Black Hebrew Israelites. If you saw what I saw, you're not wrong—lying eyes and all. Read the full article

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U2 – Songs of Experience

While he’s been coy about the exact details, Bono apparently almost died in 2017. In general, it’s been a rough few years for the frontman of the world’s biggest rock band. The backlash against U2’s last record, 2014’s Songs of Innocence, was perhaps fiercer than for any other album released this decade (though the hate was more for the gung-ho iTunes release strategy than for the actual music). Then, a few months later, Bono crashed his bike, fractured his face, and shattered his arm. The injury, he later said, may have put a permanent end to his guitar playing days. Still, neither Bono nor U2 have slowed down much. If anything, they sped up. This year, the band zipped around the globe playing The Joshua Tree for its 30th anniversary. Even at a relatively brief (by U2 standards) 51 dates, the tour grossed $316 million—enough to be the year’s highest grossing concert tour. Meanwhile, U2 have spent months tinkering with Songs of Experience, the sequel to their maligned 2014 album, which was supposed to come out a year ago. Even with the 12-month delay, Songs of Experience still arrives just three years and two months after its predecessor—the band’s briefest album-to-album gap since the early 1990s. Songs of Experience is anything but business as usual for U2, though. The darkest LP in the band’s catalog since 1997’s Pop, Experience is overhung with specters of death and musings on the apocalypse. While the record was reportedly just about ready to go at this time last year, it seems likely that the band either rewrote most of the songs or scrapped everything and started from scratch. It’s tough to imagine U2—a band that has spent the better part of the new millennium in victory lap mode—writing an album this gripping and vital before the events of 2016. Bono’s near-death experience and the political fallout of 2016—Brexit, plus the election of Donald Trump—inform most of the songs on this record. The result is the least complacent U2 have sounded in 20 years. It’s less eager to please than its overproduced predecessor; more fully-realized than 2009’s experimental, meandering No Line on the Horizon; more unflinchingly personal than 2004’s How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb; and more willing to ask difficult questions than 2000’s comeback crowd-pleaser, All That You Can’t Leave Behind. It may or may not be the best of those LPs, but it’s almost certainly the most fully realized. The advice that Bono gave himself during the making of this record was to “write as if you were dead,” probably because he almost was. Whatever the reason, the advice proves a good mantra for Bono, who, for the first time since “Vertigo,” seems like he isn’t chasing a hit. Not that he’s stopped writing sterling hooks. Lead single “You’re the Best Thing About Me” sounds like a darker version of “Sweetest Thing,” with plenty of that song’s exuberant infectiousness. “Get out of Your Own Way” is a stadium-sized epic on the order of “Beautiful Day.” And “Love Is Bigger Than Anything in Its Way” is the album’s grand climax, a euphoric number that shows U2 is still better at doing the big inspirational anthem better than any other band on the planet. Elsewhere, though, Bono allows himself get dark. Opening track, the menacing “Love Is All We Have Left,” is a contemplative prayer where Bono lets his voice get put through a vocoder for the first time ever. “This is no time not to be alive,” his altered voice intones, like a message from the other side of consciousness urging a dying man to keep going. Then comes “Lights of Home,” which opens with the words “Shouldn’t be here, ‘cause I should be dead,” sputtered over a ragged acoustic riff borrowed from Haim’s “My Song 5.” A second later, he goes after the savior himself: “Oh Jesus, if I’m still your friend/What the hell you got for me?” Bono has gone on record about dealing with doubt, fear, anger, and temporary loss of faith during his brush with mortality last year. “Lights of Home” is the sound of him reckoning with those things in song, and it’s one of the most thrilling U2 tracks in years. Songs of Experience is a strong record on its own, but it’s even better when played immediately after Songs of Innocence. In sound, influence, and story, Songs of Innocence was an album about growing up. The songs tackled first love (“Song for Someone”) and first loss (“Iris”). They looked at what it was like growing up in a violent, dangerous neighborhood (“Raised by Wolves,” “Cedarwood Road”), and at what it took to leave those streets behind to chase dreams (“This Is Where You Can Reach Me Now”). By the time “The Troubles” spun around at the end of the record, it felt like a much-deserved end credits roll on the trials and tribulations of youth. Played in chronology with Songs of Experience, though, “The Troubles” seems like a coy warning of bigger troubles just around the bend. As it should. Songs of Experience is supposed to be the record about adulthood, in the same way that Songs of Innocence was the record about youth. Just as adulthood brings more complicated challenges, these songs are less straightforward in their thesis statements than the tracks on Innocence. “You’re the Best Thing about Me” seems like a cut-and-dried love song based on its title, but the key line “You’re the best thing about me/And the best things are easy to destroy” adds a dark subtext about the fragility of everything—even love. To underscore the complex messages, the band reprises bits of several songs from the previous record. “Free yourself to be yourself/If only you could see yourself” was the repeated line that closed out “Iris,” a song that was, in part, about Bono looking forward to seeing his mother in heaven someday. It comes back at the end of “Lights of Home,” a haunting acknowledgement that “someday” might not be as far off as any of us think. The other reprisals are similarly resonant. On the blistering “American Soul,” the bridge from “Volcano” gets repurposed as a chorus. On Songs of Innocence, the line in question—“You and I are rock and roll”—captured how Bono and other young men of his generation (particularly the lads in U2) sought refuge in the expression of music. “American Soul” is a parallel, about how so many people came to America seeking a different kind of refuge. When Bono sings “You and I are rock and roll/Came here looking for American soul,” it’s a show of solidarity for all the people currently facing adversity at the hands of our esteemed Commander-in-Chief. The final reprise is “Song for Someone,” whose chorus re-appears in “13 (There Is a Light),” this album’s slow-burning finale. On Innocence, “Song for Someone” was a declaration of love from a boy who probably didn’t know what love was yet. (Bono wrote it about falling in love with his wife, which happened when they were both kids.) Here, it feels like a prayer for resilience at the end of the world, from a father to his kids before they shed their innocence. “I know the world is done/But you don’t have to be/I’ve got a question for the child in you before it leaves/Are you tough enough to be kind?/Do you know your heart has its own mind?/Darkness gathers around the light/Hold on.” For Bono, part of “writing as if he was dead” was saying the things he needed to say to family and friends before he ran out of time to say them. This letter to his children is the most poignant of those missives. Not coincidentally, it’s also the first time the end of a U2 album has felt like it could fittingly serve as the end of U2. That’s probably not going to happen, though, if only because there are a few songs here where it feels like the band legitimately can’t wait to get out onstage to play them live. The clearest example is “The Little Things That Give You Away,” the album’s biggest triumph. Already used as the grand finale for many shows on The Joshua Tree anniversary tour, “Things” is an instant career highlight, boasting a patient, cathartic crescendo more effective than any the band has attempted since “Bad.” With U2, especially on this album, it’s easy to put the focus on Bono—what with his talk of a near-death of experience and his pointedly personal songs about his wife and kids. This song, though, is a glowing reminder of how important every member of the band is. Rising out of a near-ambient intro into a sparkling tidal wave of sound, “Little Things” is everything most U2 fans love about U2: Adam Clayton’s runaway train of a bass; Larry Mullen Jr.’s drums, both as gentle as a heartbeat and as thunderous as a car crash; and The Edge’s effects-laden guitar, recreating that heavenly “Where the Streets Have No Name” sound like he knows it’s his Ninth Symphony. In the midst of it all, Bono cries out at his most emotive: “Sometimes, the end is not coming/It’s not coming/The end is here.” Again, it sounds like a swansong, but I prefer the prophecy Bono gives himself just a few songs later: “If you listen you can hear the silence say/When you think you’re done/You’ve just begun.” --- Please consider supporting us so we can keep bringing you stories like this one. ◎ https://chorus.fm/review/u2-songs-of-experience/