#mostly things that I have slotted to happen in their childhood would still happen they’d just be teenagers/adults

[shaykai]

Vat/Orin childhood schenanigans is fun yes, but consider, they still try to pettily rip eachother apart as adults, the same way they would have as children

Oh yeah they would for sure- and honestly I think their relationship would be worse if he showed up later (which is always fun. Throw some animosity onto the gas fire that is their relationship)

Like she’s being prepped to start running the cult and taking over from Sarevok and then some drow walks in and is basically just handed everything (I assume there are some trials but like. It’s Durge. He passes dhshshsj)

I think they’ll lose some of their bond (mostly on Vat’il’s end. He does care about Orin! It’s just in a super messed up version of love kind of a way) but it’s also not like they were ever super close so it works out

[spaceman-earthgirl]

This fic was commissioned by @riversky based on the prompt:

"Linda survives and is taken into the Danvers family and superfam and she'll eventually be known as the third Danvers sister cause it's what she deserves!!!!"

Thank you again!

Read it on ao3

---

“What’s going to happen to her?” Kara asks.

Alex can see the worry in her eyes as they watch the woman currently curled up in the med bay, looking so small and fragile. Alex keeps having to glance at her sister to remind herself that it’s not Kara in the bed.

The urge to hug her still remains.

“I don’t know,” Alex says, her own eyes on Linda. The poor Kryptonian has been through so much in her short life, and now she’s here, thankfully unharmed, but to her, she’s lost the only person who ever cared for her.

“She can’t say here,” Kara says.

“No, she can’t,” Alex agrees, because she’s not a prisoner, she saved Supergirl’s life, and she deserves more than the shitty hand she’s been dealt.

“She could come stay with me?”

“You know that wouldn’t work, she looks just like you.”

Kara sighs. “I’m not leaving her here.”

Alex wonders if Linda can hear them from their place outside her room. She kind of hopes she can, only so she knows that she still has people who care about her. Alex would offer her own place, but it’s barely big enough from her and Maggie and there’s only one room. Maybe she could move-

“What about Eliza?” Kara asks. “Do you think she’d look after Linda for a while?”

Alex loves her sister, why didn’t she think of that? “She already took in one Kryptonian, I’m sure we could persuade her to take in another.”

---

Alex finds it incredibly disconcerting when she visits Midvale for the first time since Eliza took Linda in, to see her sister-who’s-not-her-sister in her childhood home.

She knows Linda isn’t her sister, she’s know they’re different, but she looks so damn similar and she’s in her house and it’s confusing.

“How’s she doing?” Alex asks as she watches Linda move around the kitchen. At least it looks like she can cook better than Kara.

“Good,” Eliza smiles. “It’s nice having her here. She really likes baking, though I think just likes the treat you get to eat at the end.”

Alex laughs, a love of food is something she has in common with Kara.

“She loves the beach too, she goes for a walk every day, though she hasn’t been swimming yet. She loves hearing stories about you girls too.” Eliza lowers her voice, glancing at Linda to make sure she isn’t listening in. “I think she might be lonely here with just me.”

Alex hadn’t wanted to overwhelm Linda, that’s why she came by herself this time, but maybe she’ll bring Kara and Maggie next time.

“Alex, would you like a cookie? Eliza said they’re you’re favourite.”

Alex smiles at the gesture as she takes one from the offered plate. Maybe she is a bit different to Kara, Kara never shares food.

---

“Alex, can you teach me to surf?”

The question surprises Alex on her next visit to Midvale. “Do you know how to swim?” Alex asks tentatively, not wanting to diminish the enthusiastic look on Linda’s face.

“I do, I saw some children swimming and it looked like fun. I like swimming.”

Alex drags Kara and Maggie to the beach with them the next morning, though Maggie doesn’t need much persuading, she’s been wanting to watch Alex surf since she found out she could. Kara takes a little more coaxing, not a fan of the way the sand itches against her skin, but she agrees after Alex promises to buy her way too much food when they get home. She mostly just needs Kara there in case Linda can’t swim, because there’s no way she’ll be able to drag a heavy Kryptonian out of the waves on her own.

By the time they make it back to the house, Alex is exhausted, cold and covered in sand, but the grin Linda has on her face for the rest of the day is worth it.

---

Linda and Kara are different, and Alex has learned to see them as two different people now, but they’re also similar in a lot of ways.

One way is that stupid pout and wide-eyes thing they are both scarily good at.

Another is their obvious love of food.

And third is Lena.

Alex hasn’t invited Lena to Midvale yet, they’ve talked about it, without Linda, unsure if she’s ready to see the sister of the man who treated her so horribly, who manipulated her and almost killed her. She’d told Kara not to bring Lena up when they’re in Midvale, unsure how Linda would handle the memories (she makes a mental note to talk to her mother about getting Linda into therapy).

But, Kara being Kara, she can’t go very long without bringing Lena up in some way, shape or form.

“Lena?” Linda questions, Alex glaring at her sister. Linda surprises them though, or maybe she shouldn’t be overly surprised, knowing her sister. “She’s pretty.”

Kara’s cheeks go red, her mouth falling open. She stumbles over her words for a moment before she finally comes up with a response. “She is.”

“Can she come visit next time with you?” Linda asks.

Kara looks like she’s about to say no so Alex cuts in before she can. “I’ll ask her,” Alex smiles. “I’m sure she’d love to.” She thinks she should ask the boys too, or better yet, invite Linda to the city of a weekend, she thinks she’d like that.

Kara shoots her a look that says “what are you doing?”

Alex raises an eyebrow, hopes Kara catches her meaning.

You better ask Lena out soon you useless bisexual.

If Kara didn’t get it, she’ll tell her again later.

---

Alex is excited for Linda coming to visit, not just because she’s going to finally see the city again, but because it’s Maggie’s birthday and she has a surprise party planned for her.

Maggie is surprised, or she acts surprised, Alex can tell when her girlfriend is lying and she’s going to find out who exactly let her secret slip, but that’s for later, right now is for celebrating.

And they do, they have fun, Linda seamlessly slotting in with the rest of their friends, Alex happy to see her smiling so much, a far cry from the alien they’d first taken to Midvale.

But then it’s Alex who gets her own surprise, who should’ve seen this coming, Alex who should’ve thought about this more, because Linda asks, “when’s my birthday?”

Kara’s the one who answers, quoting the date as the day the Harun-El was used, the day she materialised at the Siberian Border, since it’s technically the day she was ‘born’.

“Is it?” Linda asks, turning to Alex. Alex has noticed it before and she notices it again now, the way Linda seems to gravitate towards her, wants to know her opinion on things, wants to know more about Alex herself.

“I think so,” Alex agrees, realising it was last month, meaning they’d missed it.

Linda’s smiling though now, she doesn’t seem to mind

But Alex already has thoughts swirling around her mind, how to make it up to her now, and then how to make her next birthday even more special, she can see Kara thinking the same thing, because she deserves it, she deserves so much more than life has given her so far.

---

For Linda’s next birthday, they officially ask her if she’d like to become a Danvers.

She surprises Alex again by asking, “aren’t I already?”

Alex laughs, pulling her into a hug. She never thought she’d have one sister, and now she has two.

Kara crashes into them, arms going around them both. The only thing that stops them all tumbling over is Linda’s strength. “Of course you are!” Kara grins.

Alex loves her family as the rest of the superfriends pile into the hug. They’re an entirely unconventional one, and she has two aliens as sisters, but she wouldn’t change a thing.

[petri808]

Hauntober prompt Ghost (sort of lol)

Bakudeku requested by @nona-inc Angst w/happy ending, AU modern times. Longer than I’d planned to write but stories go where they wanna lol.

Got the idea here

A Second Chance

In his adulthood, Izuku Midoriya did quite well for himself career-wise. He had a nice home and lived comfortably even though it was alone. Relationships had never really crossed his mind, which he chalked up to the turmoil of his childhood. It wasn’t a terribly horrible one but coming from divorced parents is never easy on young child minds. Why get close to anyone if they’ll probably leave eventually? That was a lesson bolstered by the end of primary school when his best friend ditched him for the popular kids.

It was Halloween night, and Izuku’s simply followed his normal routine after work consisting of dinner while watching a bit of television. Trick or treaters were a rarity in his neighborhood, so there was no sense in celebrating the holiday. As he waits for the news, he lets the current show drone on in the background while he scrolled mindlessly through his social media. He didn’t pay a lot of attention to what acquaintances posted and mostly looked for interesting or funny posts instead.

“Deku...”

Izuku’s brow furrows slightly at that ancient nickname. He looks at the television characters on the screen, had one of them said it? But instead of the tv show, he finds a fuzzy, staticky screen. He grabs his remote assuming something had gone wrong with the channel or service when...

“Deku, I’m sorry...”

“What the?” Izuku starts clicking the buttons and getting no response. The screen stays stuck, yet that voice... it was a familiar voice from long ago...

“...I’ve watched you from afar for all these years, because I could never admit how much I loved you and now it’s too late. I’m so sorry Deku. You’ll always be my only true love.”

Silence. Dead silence for a flash of a second when the television loudly blares back to life and startles Izuku out of his seat into a standing position. “What the fuck is going on?!”

The show had ended, and the news is now on in its regular-timed slot.

‘Breaking news, a major four car accident on the I10 highway has left 3 people dead and one in a critical condition. The victim identified as 37-year old K. Bakugou had been transported to the hospital for treatment. Police have closed off the highway in both directions, so anyone traveling in that area should use alternative routes...’

As he watches the footage of the accident story, Izuku’s hand unconscious covers his mouth and tears gather in his eyes. “Oh my gosh....” That was the voice he’d just heard! Of course, Katsuki was the only one who ever called him Deku.

He quickly calls one of the nurses at his hospital and they confirm that the man had in fact been transported there 15 minutes ago.

“Oh! Dr. Midoriya! We were just about to call you! Yes, patient Bakugou was brought in unconscious, lacerations to his arms and chest, broken leg, possible punctured lung, internal bleeding, concussion, and brain swelling which is why I was just about to call you in.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The entire way there, Izuku struggles to rationalize the message. If Katsuki was unconscious, how could that have been his voice? Then again that’s if you believed his television had somehow sent the message in the first place! Oh, this was entirely crazy! Izuku didn’t even know why his logical mind was allowing him to believe it had happened if not for the coincidence of the news coverage.

But as a neurosurgeon, he had to put all those questions aside and focus on the task at hand. The description the nurse had given him already indicated major problems, but it wasn’t until his own physical examination that determined the true extent of the damage. Primary surgical nurse Uraraka already had set up the operating room by the time Izuku arrived.

“The patient was revived once by EMTs in the ambulance and a second time in the ER after his heart stopped. Right now, the patient is intubated and prepped for emergency surgery.”

“Thank you, nurse Uraraka.”

Along with a fellow doctor, Izuku switched into a hyper focused mode. He works to repair the damage to the patient’s brain while the other doctor simultaneously focuses on internal chest injuries. Time was of the essence to stem the blood loss and mitigate further damage if they had any hope of saving the man, because even if he made it through the surgery, only a miracle would bring him back at this point.

It was now a waiting game. They keep Katsuki in a medically induced coma for the first three weeks as his body worked hard to repair itself. Once he was brought out of the induced coma, he still didn’t wake up, was breathing with the assistance of a machine, but at least the man’s heart was functioning normally. Surprisingly, Katsuki’s parents remembered Izuku and were grateful their son was in familiar hands. They’d initially flew in after the accident, but the cost to stay for such a long length of time would be too steep. So, after they returned home, he kept them up to date.

Each day that passed by, Izuku would check in on Katsuki’s progress like a normal doctor would, but at night he’d go home and ponder the ghostly message that had come through the television. He’d told no one about it because who would believe something so crazy? It just didn’t sound like the man, or rather child he remembered. Never once was there any indication Katsuki had romantic feelings for him, especially considering it was him not Izuku that ended their friendship. They saw each other in passing though middle, then high school and still nothing. So why is he now being told this?

Some say that when you die, any regrets you have must be released or your soul cannot ascend to the next plane. Izuku wasn’t religious or spiritual and before that Halloween trick he would have said he didn’t believe in anything beyond what he couldn’t see, touch, feel, and analyze. Ugh! Maybe that’s why this was all driving him so crazy. He wanted answers but the one person who could give it to him was stuck in a coma.

“Everything okay doctor?” One of the LPN’s asks Izuku. “I just need to check on the patients vitals.”

“Do what you need to nurse, I’m just visiting before I go home for the night.”

“Yes, doctor.” The woman makes her chart notations and leaves them alone again.

Because of Izuku’s standing at the hospital, he’d gotten Katsuki a private room. The man was taken off the breathing machine a week earlier and this way he could monitor the man without being pestered. There were times he would spend a few hours just watching the man sleep, trying to study what had become of his childhood friend. Through research, Izuku learned Katsuki had moved here around the same time that he’d started his internship at the hospital. Before that the man lived in the same town as the medical school he attended. It appeared Katsuki really was keeping track of Izuku, never married, and just worked in the marketing field.

Izuku squeezes the man’s hand with his eyes closed in a silent conversation. The only sounds being the beeps and noises of the machines to break the stillness. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t know what to think, what to feel, just that this man was dredging up long buried emotions that part of him was afraid to open up. Hadn’t he built up a good life, albeit a lonely one, it was still by his own wit and merits whereas Katsuki always had it so easy. The man was a smart, handsome jock, popular, and had been on track to do great things. While he was the geeky kid with freckles and wild green hair who the popular kids teased.

They were so close as little kids, all through preschool and the first years of primary. Katsuki was the extroverted one pulling him along on make believe adventures to emulate a shared love of a comic book character. In fact, it was with Katsuki’s help that he’d weathered his parent’s divorce. He idolized the stronger boy and wished he was Katsuki, not a weak like little nerd... perhaps having his child’s heart broken, really was the reason he swore off ever caring about anyone else again.

Did he just?! Izuku’s eyes pop open when his hand squeeze is returned by a weak one. Katsuki’s eyes are still closed and nothing else seemed unchanged. Perhaps it was just a nervous tremor, they happen sometimes. But no there it is again! Izuku stares down as the weak squeeze slowly turns into a grasp of his hand.

“Katsuki?”

A third squeeze. That meant the man was alert enough to hear and understand! Friend or not, it was the kind of thing to get a neurologist excited! Izuku quickly moved into doctor mode again and starts checking all the stats as well as alerting the nurse on shift.

“Welcome back Mister Bakugou.”

The man squeezes his hand.

“I’m your doctor, Midoriya. You might remember me...”

The man squeezes again and tries to talk, but after being intubated for a long time the throat tends to be dry, sore, and the muscles weakened. All that comes through is so faint it’s barely audible.

“Mister Bakugou, you’ve been unconscious for almost two months now, please try not to talk just yet, everything will be fine.”

But that only makes the man angrier. Furious red eyes flashing, Katsuki grips harder to Izuku’s hand using what little strength he has to try and pull him closer. So, Izuku leans in. “Calm down, it’s gonna...”

“Ma—y...” angry growling noises. “Mar...”

Obviously, the man wasn’t going to stop until he gave in, so Izuku leans in even more until his ear is practically next to Katsuki’s mouth. “I’m sorry?”

“Marry me damnit!!”

Izuku shoots straight up. “What?!” Is the guy serious?! The first words out of his mouth is that?! Wow... Katsuki really hasn’t changed, feisty as ever even after almost dying.

“Pa-pa—per pen!”

“H-hold on, just try to calm down please! I don’t want you to strain your heart!”

Midoriya grabs the chart, flips the paper over to the blank backside, and puts a pen in Katsuki’s hand. He holds it steady as the man scribbled shakily. ‘No waste 2nd chance marry me Deku.’

“Mister Bakugou, this is...”

The man pounds his fist on the bed then scribbles more. ‘Stop call me that! nickname!’

Izuku sighs and squeezes his eyes closed for a second. He hadn’t used that name since primary just like he’d hadn’t heard Deku all these years. “Kacchan. Happy now? I-I can’t just say okay. You—y-you ditched me remember and now you suddenly pop up and expect me to marry you?! Kacchan you almost died, I get it, that’s a scary thing to deal with, but you just need time to process...”

Katsuki writes, ‘Nothin 2 think bout. No more regrets,’ Then he mouths out the rest in a whisper, “I love you Deku.”

Izuku sighs, “I’m not saying yes or no Kacchan. Just get well first okay, then we’ll talk about everything.”

“Fine.” The man closes his eyes again seemingly satisfied with the answer.

He squeezes Katsuki’s hand. “I’ll see you in the morning Kacchan.”

When Izuku leaves that evening, he couldn’t help but walk out with a flutter in his chest and a pang in his heart. There really was a lot he still needed to get off his chest, but... he felt the honesty from Katsuki. If his dying regrets had been strong enough to reach him via spiritual mail, and the first thing he wanted to talk about was love, then... ‘take the second chance Izuku.’ Not everyone gets one.

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 19

AO3 link here

He wakes up alone that morning. The note that Peggy’s stuck to the bathroom mirror reminds him that she’ll bring Emma and Drea with her after work. (They’d already discussed this together last night, dreamy and worn out as they curled beside each other, but she might have thought him too close to sleep to have remembered.) Perhaps Eric too, she’s written, a hastily added postscript even though it’s above the signature. Emma had mentioned that they were back together, and no matter how much Peggy had been encouraged by their breakup after high school graduation, Steve has the feeling that it will stick this time. It’s fine with him; Eric is a nice person, and Steve doesn’t doubt that Emma will live her life and find success whether they’re together or not. Staying with her high school sweetheart won’t limit that.

He doesn’t technically have work himself - he'd been called in on Saturday, and was taken off the schedule for today in exchange despite his protestations - but if he slides into the office around 10, Bella will be shut up doing budgeting and he can tuck himself away without being noticed. He needs the distraction.

Nate’s already down in the kitchen when he gets there, although he’d finished with school yesterday and doesn’t really need to be up either. He’s hunched over a book at the table but glances up when Steve enters.

“Food on the stove,” he says, removing the fork he has stuck absently in his mouth. The plate already on the table in front of him has the remnants of his own portion of scrambled eggs, along with traces of the strawberry jam he likes to mix in with them. It’s a good thing Emma isn’t here yet: she thinks it’s a sin.

Steve brushes a kiss to his head on the way past. “Thanks,” he says, going to fill a plate. They’re all used to Steve’s metabolism: Nate left probably eight eggs worth in the pan despite his own teenaged appetite. He sits down across from his son, whose nose is back in his book, another one of the science fiction novels he loves. Nate isn’t a fast reader - he spends a lot of time thinking about what he’s reading, taking in the words, their implications, what it all means - but he is steady and voracious. His bookshelves upstairs are lined with carefully cracked paperback spines, slotted in one at a time as he finishes them.

“What are you up to today?” Steve asks.

Nate finishes his page and looks up, blinking, though more from leaving another world than from the bright sunlight filling the kitchen. “There was a problem at the printer and they didn’t get the yearbooks done in time to sign them in school, so we’re all going to Nancy Taylor’s house to do it there instead. Then we have graduation ceremony rehearsal at the school anyway, so we’ll probably go over there all together.”

“Sounds good.” Steve focuses on forking up more eggs. Of all of his children, Nate would probably best accept his tearing up over the thought of these kids spending one last assured day together before they all go their separate ways, but it’s a little early for him to start falling apart.

The work distraction is actually fairly successful. With Mary Alice’s retirement, his caseload has increased, and he manages to lose himself in files and phone calls for most of the day. He doesn’t even notice that he’s worked through lunch until Bella, finished wrangling the budget for now and in a mood from the effort, tells him loudly that even if he is going to ignore both her instructions and official regulations, he isn’t going to starve while he does it. He gives a token protest, but ends up biting ravenously through a couple of sandwiches as he stops at red lights on the way across town for a home visit he’d been able to hastily set up.

It’s actually easy to check his personal life at the door when he’s talking to families, to the kids he works with. His feelings can matter later; it’s the job that he needs to focus on now.

He’s surprised when he returns to the car and finds that it’s 4 PM. By the time he has gone back home, changed clothes, and driven over to the school, it’s about forty-five minutes to the start of the ceremony. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he sets off across the grass of the sports field where they have set up a small stage and seating all around. Back when Rose and Drea had graduated, the school had chosen to use the auditorium, but Steve guesses that the weather today was too fine to resist. The temperature has dropped from its peak of several hours ago, and a breeze brushes through his hair.

He stakes out seats, making sure to get an extra for Eric just in case. He sees some people he recognizes: parents and siblings who he’s run into around town or at past school functions for Nate and the girls, Nate’s old English teacher Mrs. Krentz, who comes over to gush praise again even though she retired last year. He tries to store away the details of it all to tell Bucky about in their next phone call; Libby will be graduating in just a couple of years. (Buck will probably have another one of his good-natured breakdowns when it happens, starting off with mentioning how young most of the other graduates’ parents are.) Mostly, though, he sits and waits.

Drea finds him first. There’s a looseness to her spine, a grin on her face, as she walks across the grass, says, “Hi, Dad!” and wraps her arms around him. Though she likes school and he can see the little smile that lives at the corners of her mouth even when she is simply telling people where she’s at college, there’s a feeling each time they drive up to Cambridge that she is constructing defenses, restructuring herself in some way. All of that is gone today. She’s wearing a belted denim dress - she never went in for Emma’s long florals, or the sorts of busy patterns and fire-bright colors that Rose prefers - and she’s gotten her hair cut since he last saw her. It’s just a couple of inches, but he smoothes a hand over it as they embrace.

“It’s good to see you,” he says quietly. “I know Nate’s looking forward to it.” The day Nate had called with the date of the graduation, Drea had circled it on her calendar while he was still on the phone (“In red, Nate, I promise”) and when they’d hung up, Steve watched him smiling with unconscious excitement. It’s not that he mopes around, whining over being left behind as his sisters have gone off one by one, and it’s not that he loves Emma and Rose less, but it’s still unfamiliar to him, being apart from Drea.

“I guess I could stand to see him,” Drea says, shrugging, but she is smiling too.

Peggy comes up behind Drea as she is pulling away. Emma and Eric are with her, Em’s hand tucked into Eric’s back pocket. Peggy catches Steve’s eye as he takes that in, raising an eyebrow and pulling her mouth just barely to the side. Steve covers a grin by dipping to kiss her cheek.

“Lovely group of seats,” she says innocuously as Steve turns to greet the other two.

They all settle in beside each other. Peggy always likes the aisle seat - quick egress - and Drea slides in after her, Emma and Eric next, and Steve bracketing the other end. Emma talks about her summer courses. Drea tells stories about Tony’s antics, the mischief he’d gotten into as he tried to prevent her from leaving even for just a few days; she’s obviously charmed by that in a way that Steve isn’t sure he would be.

The seats fill up around them, chattering relatives and friends, staff members. It is almost time.

The crickets are starting to chirp, but Pomp and Circumstance drowns them out, the high schoolers in the band clearly putting their all into it. The graduates enter in twos, each member of the pairs representing one of the school colors. Nate walks with Jillian Lee. Nate went out with Jilly on a couple of occasions, but not much came of it as far as Steve knows. She is standing very straight and walking steadily, wearing a respectable green cap and gown. Nate is stuck in the version that’s meant to be the corresponding gold but looks instead like unfortunate mustard. The robe doesn’t even fit him right, slightly too short above the ankle and draping loosely over his bony shoulders, but he manages to pull it off just through his own lack of perturbation over those facts.

As the last of the graduates file into their seats and the band silences their instruments, Drea intones quietly, “Guests, faculty, scholars,” anticipating Principal Connor’s traditional, pompous opening. After a bit of microphone feedback, he echoes her precisely, and Steve, smiling and shaking his head, angles himself to begin translating the words for Emma and Eric. Em places a hand on his after only three sentences.

“This speech - I think I can quote all of it now.”

Steve looks up at the stage. Principal Connor raises a finger in the air to emphasize a phrase. “That’s new,” Steve points out. Em rolls her eyes.

“Only one more time,” she says, hands weighty and mouth parted to emphasize the exhaustion of it all.

“Only one more time,” Steve repeats, the words coming slow and numbed on his fingers. He feels a little stricken and barely manages a smile for her.

The valedictorian and salutatorian speak one after the other. It’s obvious that they, at least, have written new speeches of their own: the words of triumph and hope, of lessons learned and more to come, might be cliche, but they are still somehow new. Even if he’s heard nearly the same sentiments at the girls’ graduations, for these kids, they are only just discovered.

When it is Nate’s turn to walk across the stage, he does it with a firm step and his family cheering loudly from the crowd. Steve, applauding hard, can’t even tell if he can pick them out in the audience, but he watches Nate raise his diploma in the air with a smile on his face and is certain that it’s meant for them. It is that same smile Steve knows so well, that peaceful, open-armed upturn of the mouth that Nate has displayed since childhood. Sometimes Steve thinks that Nate was born smiling like that, that this was the way he greeted the world on his first moment in it. He’ll never know if he’s right - that first smile belonged to someone else - but he has a lifetime of Nate’s smiles saved up and that’s something that not many people have.

As Melvin Casper is called next and they all sit back down, he and Peggy catch eyes, even down the row from one another. Despite the smile he gives her, she tilts her head, closes her eyes in an understanding blink which she holds for a beat longer than usual. I know, it seems to say, but also, How lucky have we been?

There’s a bit of a debate regarding the pictures. Nate fights his way through the crowd to find them with Emma and Peggy in the middle of a standoff over whether Eric should be included in the family photos and Steve and Drea are trying to make polite, distracting smalltalk with the man in question.

“Eric can take four, five,” Nate compromises calmly, “and then we’ll find someone to take some with him.” He searches around for a moment, then raises his voice. “Ricky! Hey, Rick, come over here for a minute.”

Ricky Blake, cap in hand, has been standing nearby, taking his own turn to greet Mrs. Krentz. He glances over at the Carters, at Nate and his beckoning hand, and excuses himself.

“What’s up?” he asks as he walks over, and Steve notices that he’s lost the awkward sort of meticulousness to the way he does the sign. He does it confidently now, casually, even if he doesn’t quite have the accompanying mouth movement down.

Eric actually has a good, artistic eye and arranges them all so that Nate is the center of the photos without throwing his shadow onto the rest of them.

When they’re finished, Steve goes to reclaim the camera.

“How are you, Ricky?” He puts out a hand to shake. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Mr. C.” A grin spreads across Ricky’s face as he grasps Steve’s hand enthusiastically. Even when Steve first met him, he was slightly bigger than average for a kid his age. Now Steve looks firmly up at him; he’s probably six and a half feet tall, and solid across. His graduation gown, unzipped in front by this point, has clearly been altered to fit him. He looks around. "Rose couldn't come?" He's always had a bit of a fascination with Rosie.

"No, she wasn't able to take the time off of work. She'll call tonight."

"Too bad."

“Did you decide on your plans for next year?” Steve asks. The last time they spoke, a few months ago, Ricky was still considering whether he wanted to end up at GW like Nate. He’d laid out the entire pro-con list while leaning against the counter watching Steve make carrot cake and waiting for Nate to finish getting ready for the concert they were going to.

“I’ll be staying in state,” Ricky replies, and though Steve is watching closely, his smile does not slip, the light in his eyes does not dim. “Maryland has a better education program anyway, for undergraduates at least.”

Steve can feel his eyebrows jump up. “Education?”

“Yeah.” Ricky glances back over his shoulder. “I was just telling Mrs. Krentz. I want to be an English teacher.”

“You’re going to be great at it,” Steve says with confidence. He doesn’t bother asking how Earl Blake took this news.

“Thanks, Mr. C.” Ricky looks down at the ground and then back up. He fiddles with the tassel on the cap he is still holding. He clears his throat. “I just—I wanted to tell you how much you helped me. You’re a good listener, and—um, it was important to me, to watch you with your kids or talking about your work. So, thank you. I just wanted you to know.”

For a moment, Steve can't say anything. Finally, he manages to speak. "I don't think I did much," he says with soft feeling, "but if I did, it was my pleasure."

There's always a bit of a wrench watching Ricky go back to rejoin his family. He's taller even than his father now, but there's still a little stiffening to Ricky's shoulders when they are near each other. Tim, still only just gaining some height of his own, shifts to stand beside his brother.

He thinks about how everyone still calls him Ricky, a child's name. He could have grown up into a Rich or a Richard by now, but he hasn’t. Perhaps he will never make the change. Or perhaps it just isn’t time yet: how easy it is to see Ricky and Nate and all the others on this day, at the top of a climb, and to think that it is all over. Maybe he should try to remember that it is only just beginning.

Peggy is leaning against his chest, his arm around her, before he even fully registers her there.

"We've done well, haven't we," she says, looking over at the children with pride, and he nods against her and kisses her hair.

"More to come?" he asks, a little waver in his voice, and she looks up at him, surprised.

"Of course," she says, taking his hand. "Always."

The custodial staff is beginning to come in to fold up the chairs. It is time to go.

"I want to finish telling Mom something," Drea says as they head over to the parking lot. "I'll ride with her."

Emma has her bag in Peggy's car, so she and Eric decide to join them as well. Steve squeezes Peggy's hand, still in his. She looks up at him fondly. Em's as stubborn as she is, and clearly trying out her version of exposure therapy. It's a good thing that Eric's a good sport.

"What about the man of the hour?" Peggy asks, looking over at their son. "Are you certain you don't want a nice dinner out?"

"I told you what I wanted," Nate says. Steve has the lasagna already prepared to go into the oven as soon as they get home. Every restaurant in town will be crowded tonight anyway, but that's not the reason Nate chose it. "And I'll ride over with Dad."

Peggy's parked farther in. She parts from Steve with one last squeeze of the hand and a "See you in a moment." Nate and Steve walk over to Steve's car together.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asks.

Nate takes in a deep breath of the night air. "Really good. Proud. Excited. Tired, a little, too." He looks over at his father. "How are you feeling?"

"Good. Proud of you." Steve repeats. "A little sad that this part of things is over."

"Sure," Nate says easily. "But there are other parts. And I want you there for all of those. We all do."

Steve looks over at him. “You ready for what comes next?” he asks.

Nate stretches his hands up toward the slowly darkening sky, fingers spread on one, diploma still held tightly in the other. “Course I am,” he says. The departing crowd is loud, all shouts and laughter and car engines, Nate’s voice quiet even in its surety, but Steve hears it anyway. He would hear it anywhere.

He looks at his youngest, taller than he is now by a half inch, maybe a bit more. It’s clear that Drea and Nate have height in their genes. His slim build, the lankiness of his limbs, just makes him look even taller, but he’s never seemed awkward with it. Nate always just puts one foot in front of the other, attentive about it but confident too, trusting that he’s placed himself on solid ground.

“Course you are,” he agrees. Under the beginnings of the slimming moon, he puts an arm around his son’s shoulders, pulls him close, and holds tight.

More chapters here

[martiniblves]

mijoo and her iconic entrances DFKLSJGDF

yes, i really am recycling the intro some of you probably Just caught when you followed me DGSFLJLGSD

hey y’all, i’m kat, english student and an old hag :/ also slowly coming down from an anxiety moment, hence only deleting old shit now and potentially going rogue from my blog for the night after posting this ( aka, best if y'all send me your d*scord users bc it's much easier for me there ) sfdgjgfd i’m super excited for this group and can’t wait to read all about your muses !  and hoping you feel the same, i’ll get right to introducing avalon bay’s resident messy brat, dahlia !

[ lee mijoo ] dahlia kim, twenty-four, cis female, she/her, radio dj — a world-class traveler in the making, self-proclaimed “ reformed ” groupie, has been a tennant at avalon bay for two years, her cherry blaster obsession is the sweetest thing about her, she slept with an ex-best friend’s roommate and crush as revenge. [ kat, 22, nt, she/her ]

she often goes between dahlia and dia, first and foremost sdfglkj

came from a super small town in upstate new york where there wasn’t much to do or much to see, so growing up she had an adventurous streak that would run rampant when she was able to go off by herself, able to drive, and finally able to leave it behind

her family life was rather average, her parents scraped by financially but her and her two younger siblings never really went without — aside from a toy or two at christmas or a brand new car for their sixteenth birthdays sfgkljgdf

gets on fine with them, but her and her little/middle sister have had an on-and-off contentious relationship that, at the moment, is very much ON SDFGFG

small town life was.. okay overall, she was social Enough and polite but never really maintained any close relationships with her childhood pals once high school came and went, mostly bc the town was full of gossips so everyone thought poorly of each other and passed it onto their kids LSKFDGJGDFL

and yes, i’m kinda basing this off of the antics of adults from my hometown, what about it ??

she spent most of her formative years with her head in the clouds and music always around her or on her mind

so you bet she wound up taking guitar and piano lessons when she was a kid and well into her teens, and dare i say she was pretty good at it fsdglkjgdf

having that skill gave her the boost of confidence she needed from middle school onward, having been a tad reserved before then

idk what else to add bc i honestly can’t think of anything else about her past Before moving away. dull as hell probably, more than it’s already been said LKGSDF

upon moving to the city, she attended nyu just to keep her parents from completely losing their minds over her not.. wanting to go on a sure path, majoring in communications and spending much of her time as a dj for the campus radio station’s late night shows

soon began searching for dj gigs at major radio stations once she’d graduated and landed a spot as an intern to meet with artists the station wished to interview, etc, and even had an opportunity or two to interview them herself

through that job, she became more exposed to the groupie lifestyle and — having always been somewhat intrigued — soon became one ( of sorts ) 

sorry if you’re a fan of h*lsey bc this might come across as a dig, but this is where she becomes the chill version of groupie!h*lsey that h*lsey wishes she had been DFLSKJDGSFL

she liked the attention from drummers, singers and rappers alike — plus having sex with talented, rich people whenever they were in town didn’t hurt one bit — and she kept it all separate from her job, although it did help the station land more interviews, tickets for contests, etc

wasn’t big on hard drugs, but she never shied away from a bong being handed to her or a couple of xanax tablets, just so we’re clear here sdflkgjfdgk

however, the no-strings set-up quickly shifted for dahlia upon meeting a rising indie band’s lead singer

he was smooth as hell, which she already knew alongside his tendency to get bored easily with fangirls-turned-groupies like the rest of the musicians she’d met, so when she played along with his game, it didn’t take long for him to maintain an interest in her and for them to forge something of a friendship

she’d never admit it to anyone, but he was her first love as the initial sexual attraction very quickly became romantic after long conversations about music and aspirations, mundane happenings in their lives separate from their encounters and who should’ve won immunity on the recent ep of masterchef; dia knew he wouldn’t settle down now and she knew that while she was his number one at that point, she wasn’t the only one he had. a couple of months passed where it seemed like he was going only to her, that his interest rarely waned to the other girls that would swarm him, which led her to believe he was at least somewhat into her and to her confessing when they were both drunk one night — only to be shut down but not shut out

dejected and heartbroken, she still couldn’t quite distance herself from him like she knew she should and the front she put up — that she exaggerated her feelings and would get over it — made him none the wiser

however, he couldn’t get over the thought of his fwb still being in love with him and cut ties with her abruptly before his nth departure from nyc

it took her right out of her bubble, left a horrible taste in her mouth to even go back to being a groupie for others over how poorly it all went with him, so she abandoned the sexual aspect and potential intimacy of it — but not before taking herself completely out of that lifestyle for a few months to get over him

which.. lbr, she’s only 90% of the way there to this day sfdlkkdfsgl

upon going back, she showed up to shows and parties solely as a friend of the performer.... before that got old Quick and she realized how soul-sucking it was for her sexually frustrated And repressed ass KFSLJGS

though ask her pals and they’d think she’d given it up altogether, hence her supposedly being reformed

.. at least she isn’t indulging in drugs like she occasionally used to, so that counts for something lksdfjlgdf

as for her time in radio, she got promoted to a morning slot as a dj with a couple of co-hosts last year, though once an afternoon slot opened, she high-tailed it out of there

anything to get back to her chill, late night roots and this was the first step

lastly, she moved to avalon bay 2 years ago, after uni was done and she had to move out of the dorms. in that time, she’d become best friends with another girl and had a massive falling out bc the other was. well. changing for the worst sgfjgfd

she became selfish, judgmental, advantageous and disloyal, and soon dia had enough of her hypocritical and generally nasty antics ( and not without a brutal argument that left both of their egos bruised )

dahlia isn’t always one for petty revenge, but when the ex-bff’s roommate and crush — who dia had a slight interest in as well — bumped into her in the hallway of their dorm one night, she took her chance to knock the other down a peg by initiating a flirtatious conversation that quickly turned sexual

with her ex-bff being on the other side of the wall of said roommate’s room

safe to say that their ( final ) conversation in the morning was a fucking disaster SDFLGKJGFDK

it’s not something she’s entirely ashamed about, but dia doesn’t feel the need to disclose what happened

PERSONALITY AND OTHER SHIT

she loves her friends, would die for them, would kill for them. let’s get that straight first and foremost !

does that mean she’s the nicest or even the most tolerable person ?? fuck no SFGLJGKDF

i described her to one of my pals as a “ chaotic free-spirit with a mean streak when she doesn’t get her way, ” which. could also describe a couple of my bitchier muses tbh FLDKGJDS

but she’s stubborn, irritable and has a sense of high self-worth and self-preservation

she obviously has an attitude that can and will come out if you hurt her or someone she cares about/someone she thinks doesn’t deserve it

or if you think you’re a god or something

and it can get ugly.. as explained above dfskgdgkf

however, we love confident women on this blog and here you have one !

she’s chill for the most part, so you ( probably ) won’t have anything to worry about if you stay on her good side gfsdkljgfd

passionate af about radio and music as a career, wants to have a gig like zane lowe’s beats hosting job or even annie mac’s one day

although she also wishes to put out music of her own at least Once before she dies dfgsljdfgk

bit of a wild child, likes to party and just do her own thing — partially bc she’s scared of getting older and having to give that all up/being forced to act her age

doesn’t mean she doesn’t like her quiet nights in though !

closet romantic, just wants to be swept off of her feet..... but no one needs to know that, at least she doesn’t think so FSDJKGFD

won't let you see it anyways, at least unless she's Interested and knows you're not someone who's only useful for her in the short-term

also quietly doting, will never be the mom friend bc it’s too much responsibility and patience, but will always be a good shoulder to cry on who tells you your feelings are valid before she tells you to toughen the fuck up and amend a situation yourself, might even tell you how

some exceptions may apply FDLSJGSFLK

a bit vulgar at times, just warning you now fgldskf

wants to see the world and has travelled a little as it is bc of her connections. loves it

JFKDGS

has a pet succulent bc she Knows she can't look after the big fluffy dog of her dreams rn

named him bobby after one of the characters from the love island game DFLKGSJF

i honestly dk what else to add rn, plus i’m eager af to post this so we’ll end it here ! cute extras can always be posted later !

[quasieli]

4 8 15 23 and 42 for the dnd q's!

4. What relationship does your character have with their parents and siblings?

Great question to start with! Saube has a really good relationship with their little sister, Verlore (Ver for short). They love her to death and would do anything to protect her. They were really hesitant about leaving home to go out and see more of the world beyond Sweetvale (their hometown), but Ver was the one who encouraged them more than anything. She wanted her sibling to be able to have more because she feels like they were really robbed of a childhood, having to take on a lot of responsibility at such a young age. 

The reason behind Saube having to take on responsibility is due to me falling into the D&D trope of “both parents can’t be alive”. Mom died when Saube was 6, giving birth to Ver. Dad is still around but never really recovered from the loss of his wife and ended up becoming somewhat of a distant parent. Saube has some really mixed feelings about their dad and still hasn’t quite figured out how they truly feel about him. 

8. What location encountered in the campaign has your character felt the most “at home” in, or just generally liked the most?

Our campaign is still pretty new so we haven’t been too many places yet. The first session took place in their hometown, so that would be an obvious answer. For a non-hometown answer, I don’t think they’ve really liked anywhere they’ve been, mostly because they’ve been in danger a lot. They find the caves they traveled through to be pretty interesting, especially because they found some cool, weird eggs in them and they love weird natural things, but they also know the caves are super dangerous. 

15. What battle in the campaign has been most memorable to your character?

It’s probably gonna be our next fight actually! The way our last session ended, we’re in trouble! We got snuck up on while trying to take a long rest and recover, and well, Saube has 1 spell slot left, a low AC and 17 total HP! It’s even worse considering we’re a party of 5 (including an NPC friend helping us out), 4/5 are level 2, and the people who want us dead are likely wayyyyy more powerful than us and there’s like... 60 of them left alive? I forget the exact number. Lets pray we don’t have a TPK! 

23. If your character could go back in time and change one thing about their life, what would it be?

They’d probably try to find some way to save their mom. They weren’t there when she died, so they don’t know the exact circumstances of what happened, but if adult Saube could go back to that time, they’d find like a cleric or a healer, or just anyone who could help both their mom and Ver stay alive and safe during that. 

42. What does your character think is the true meaning of life?

Oof, I think that’s an “ask again later” sorta question lol. I feel like Saubes only very recently started to think about those sorts of questions, having been put in a place where they’re trying to live their own life, rather than just living to protect the life of their sister (and to some extent, their father). They’ve been thinking a lot about fate lately, but haven’t quite come to the conclusion of how they feel about it yet. They’re in a very transitional part of their life right now, and there’s so much they’re still trying to figure out. 

[nevertellmetheodds2017]

Cycle 4, day 2

yup, that’s how we keep time now. It might be Friday June 12 for you, but for me it’s cycle 4, day 2. Ok, I wasn’t sure there was going to be a post today but the IV steroid is, I think, doing something. I’m not going to go jogging around the house but I’m awake, afebrile, not currently crying or manic, and not experiencing any pain; I’m 0 on that chart aka “ 0:  Haha!  I’m not wearing any pants! “ and this is totally true!!!!  So you’re gonna get a blog post & it might end up long. Last night I took a full zopiclone (I’ve been sort of managing with 1/2 for a while) but I knew the steroids might get me so I took a whole one. I still woke up twice, but not for long. Would be nice to get an actual 6 or 7 h solid. Other than that, nothing really happening. Steroids suppress fevers a bit so I’m kind of coasting today. I’m all prepped for the weekend. I love that I have the hydromorphone on hand though I haven’t taken a single one yet. Tomorrow I go for a type & cross & I have a scheduled transfusion for Monday morning. My Hgb was 86 last Wed so I’m guessing time + chemo will knock it to 85 of below & that’s the threshold for my 2 units. Ok, here ends boring cancer stuff.  Let’s go back down childhood in Poland memorylane. This is all a bit weird as I’m not a looking back type of person. I don’t reminisce much. I know people who remember stuff from 25 years ago, entire conversations, people’s names & I’m like “what? I don’t remember any of this...”  I’ve always been a look forward or be in the present but yanno, terminal cancer kind of changes some things.  So, jumping off from beverages, I’m going to tell you about another Polish (non alcoholic) drinking experience. Behold, the streetcart soda fountain. Oh how I looked at these longingly as a child. 

You’re walking down the street, it’s a hot day, & you spy relief in sight! Here you can get plain carbornated water or for double the cost, carbonated water mixed with some sweet red syrup usually pretending to be sour cherry juice or something similar.  The hitch is, you have to drink it on the spot and give the glass back. Cause it’s real glass. Also, the little cart doesn’t have a sink for a proper wash. What it has is like a little fountain surrounded by a moat. The operator of the cart would put the glass upside down over the fountain, the fountain would squirt water into the glass and it would rinse the inside, and fill the little moat so the lip of the glass was submerged and then they’d agitate the glass a bit like you’re screwing in a light bulb and then pull it out and it’s ready for the next customer. Yes please, I’ll have some carbonated disease & whatever that last person had in their saliva,  please!  Remember at this time, tb was still active. But I would have been OK because I was vaccinated! All kids by the late 60′s were tb vaxd in Poland but just think it through....it was because tb was endemic. Plus, even though Poland was making huge strides in improving housing and sanitation, there were still tons of communicable diseases around. How about some typhoid or diphtheria? Yummmm! Oh also? There’s no refrigeration or ice inside the machine so you’re getting a drink that is whatever the tap water temperature is. But that’s ok because the whole country is used to drinking at whatever the room / ambient air temp is. You can get hot tea (cheap) or coffee (if you’re a rich fancy pants) but cold drinks were hard to find.  I always wanted a drink from there and my mom said no. But I don’t think she always said no because I know DID have some on ul. Swietojanska. But that might have been when I was old enough to go there by myself (like when I was 8 or 9 lol; FREEDOM!).  The name of these things is “saturatur” and - I did some research on them - they connected to municipal water, either from some nearby shop or a fire hydrant. They were either operated by the local government or an individual could apply for a sort of franchise from a co-op and be sort of independent? Communism in Poland was complicated. There was a bottle of gas to carbonate the water inside the cart. Simple design. At night they were chained up to some tree or dragged into a nearby shop. Here are some more to feast your eyes on: 

OMG, these 2 women are cracking me up. I bet you they were asked to pose for the photo and this was the best expression they could muster, because let’s face it, life for them sucked and the shoes were awful. Btw, the sign says that Goethe lived there during some months that I can’t make out, in maybe 1790? They don’t seem impressed by this. Plain soda is 2 zl and with juice is 4. Steep prices. This must be the 70′s. Earlier in time it was 0.5 for plain and 1 for with juice. 

There are line-ups! Hurry up and gulp your drink so the next person can use your damned glass! 

omg, that bag with the circle handle? I think I had that bag!  The Polish soda water experience that was a bit before my time was the self serve soda water machine. I have a vague memory of seeing them at some train stations when I was young but they were mostly on the way out by then. I don’t remember coveting a drink from them.  This is a soda water dispenser with one or two glasses which are attached by a wire to the machine so they can’t be stolen. I don’t think there was any way to wash them at all. You just wiped & took your chances, I guess? 

You inserted your coin at the top in the slot and got your change at the bottom. Fancy. And again, plain or with color & sugar.

oh, another line up! Quick child, fill your glass, gulp it down, and let the next person drink! 

[spinach-productions]

Baby Spinach, chapter 4

Summary: cleaning up after two magicly superpowered kids takes a lot of work; cleaning up after a suspicious childhood takes more work.

Wordcount: 4034

The next morning, Gaster calls Gerald for the second time in so many days.

“What happened?!”  He exclaims upon opening the door to the wreckage of Gaster’s former apartment.  Splinters of glass and wood are imbedded in the walls, the furniture is upended and dented in places, and papers are scattered absolutely everywhere.  The only visible floor is a narrow path leading to the bedroom.  Gaster carved it out with a broom the night before in order to put the children to bed.

“Shh,” Gaster shushes him, pointing towards the bedroom, where Sans and Papyrus are still asleep. 

“What happened,” Gerald hisses quietly.

“You were right about children getting upset.”

“This is more than upset, it’s a natural disaster!  The kids did all this?”

“I did mention that they have extreme magic capabilities.”

“You did not.”

“I didn’t?”

“No!”

“Oh.”  Gaster looks at the mess.  It is, perhaps, a bit much.  “Well, would you mind helping me clean up?  This is really a two-person job.”

Gerald sighs heavily.  “Alright, but we need to have a discussion about the kids as soon as it’s done.”

The two of them make quick work of clearing the floor, throwing out the worst of the debris and pushing everything else into a pile by the kitchen door.  Nothing is irreparably damaged, and quick check reveals that both the pipes and electrical wiring are all in working order, so they move on the putting things back into a semblance of order.

“What did you want to talk about,” Gaster asks as he slots books back onto the bookcase.

Gerald continues to file a rough edge of the kitchen table. “What exactly happened last night? You were gone when I got back.”

“I thought it might be best be if the children and I were out when you got back, so I took them to the lab.”

“I’m hoping you didn’t know they were this volatile at that point?”

“I didn’t know Papyrus’ magic had already kicked in, no.”

“Doctor, are you telling me you knowingly brought a child with extremely unstable magic into our top security government facility that houses the most delicate, dangerous experiments in the Underground?”

“I’d hardly call their magic ‘unstable’,” Gaster replies.

Gerald wipes a hand over his face.  Three more are making increasingly exasperated gestures in Gaster’s direction.  He sighs heavily and turns the file over a few times before setting it on a chair.   “I have to report this.”

“What?  Why?”

“Because they tore your home apart!  I can’t even tell what kind of magic did this.”

“They didn’t mean to, it was an accident—”

“I’m sure it was, but what if they’d been around someone less durable than you?  Someone could have been seriously hurt, and with whatever they’ve already been through, what do you think hurting someone would do to them?”

Gaster laces and unlaces his fingers.  It’s an old agitated gesture, learned when he was first figuring out how to use hands.  He’s not sure if the agitation stems from anger that Gerald thinks Sans and Papyrus could hurt someone, or concern about what could happen if they did.  “They’re just children, Gerald.  They didn’t know.”

Gerald drifts across the room and puts two hands on Gaster’s shoulders.  “I know, and I’m not saying they can’t stay with you, but they need support and guidance to make sure they aren’t a danger to others or themselves.  Do you even do have the same kind of magic that they do?”

He looks at his own hands, still contorting around each other in an effort to calm himself.  They’re connect to his body through a series of purple strings.  “No.”

“They clearly need you, but they also need help from someone who has experience with their abilities, and possibly some kind of trauma counseling for whatever drove them into that bush in the first place.  It would be best if they could meet with someone who understands where they’re coming from and what they’re going through.”

“They stay here, though,” Gaster says firmly.

“They stay here,” Gerald agrees.

“We stay here,” says a quiet voice from the doorway.

The bedroom door is open.  Sans is standing just inside the threshold at a distance where he can still close the door.  He’s gripping the knob for support, but otherwise looks absolutely resolute.

Gerald smiles gently.  “You stay here.”

He and Sans watch each other for a moment.  Gaster gets the distinct impression they’re sizing each other up.

“You try anything weird and we’re gone,” Sans says.

Geralds nods.  “Understood.”

“And my magic is perfectly under control.  We’re not going to any specialists.”

“I’ll leave that decision between you and Gaster.”

“We’re not.”

“I understand,” Gerald says, “I want to hear what you have to say about that, but first maybe we can clean the house and I’ll make some lunch?”

Every piece of displaced houseware suddenly leaps into the air and begin to shuffle itself back into order.  They’re not in exactly the right place, Gaster notes as his books arrange themselves upside down and slightly out of order on the shelf, but everything settles approximately where it belongs.  Through the process, Sans glares at Gerald with folded arms.

“Well,” says Gerald as the chipped cups and plates file neatly into the cabinet, “That does explain what kind of magic you use.”

A pan clatters onto the stove, and as the food sorts itself into the cupboards and refrigerator, a loaf of bread and block of cheese are land pointedly on the counter.

“Right,” Gerald says, drifting to the cutlery drawer for a spatula.

Sans sits at the table while he cooks.  He glowers with his arms crossed, and it’s very clear that Gerald’s precense will only be tolerated for the length of time it takes to make lunch.  Papyrus, on the other hand, is over his mood and completely thrilled to have company. He babbles at everyone who will listen (which is mostly Gaster) and kicks his feet in the booster seat Gerald got the day before.  He lets Gaster hand him various (child safe) things for inspection, moving them between his hands and chewing when appropriate.  He also sometimes reaches over to pat the back of Sans’ head.

“There we are,” says Gerald, carrying four plates, “Three grilled cheese sandwiches and one small cup of mashed carrots.  Would you like ketchup with yours, Sans?”

“I don’t know what that is,” Sans grumbles, pushing the bowl of mashed carrots out of Papyrus’ reach.

Gerald sets the bottle near his plate.  “Mostly tomatoes, with some vinegar and sugar mixed in for flavor and preservative measures.”

Gaster eyes the bottle with distrust.  He will allow it in his home until Sans official decides he doesn’t like it.

Gerald watches Sans glare at the plate for another moment, then tilts his head the way he does when he’s figured out a puzzle.  “Sans, please point to any part of the sandwich.”

Sans raises an eyebrow at him, but points to a small section near the corner.

Gerald breaks off the piece, dips it into Papyrus’ mashed carrots, and eats it while sharing a look with Gaster.  Why does an eight-year-old think there might be something wrong with his food?

Mollified, Sans grabs the sandwich and stuffs half of it in his mouth.  After a moment’s thought, he grabs the ketchup and tries to pour some on his plate. It resists, then falls out and splashes over the plate and table.  Sans freezes, looking first to Gerald, then to Gaster.

Gerald puts a napkin on the table and slides it to Sans.  “No harm done,” he says gently.

Sans hesitantly takes the napkin and wipes up the worst of the mess without taking his eyes off Gerald’s face.

“I’m not angry,” he says, still gently.

Sans doesn’t look away, but he does start eating at a slower pace.

As always, Gaster is impressed by Gerald’s ability to understand people.  He reflects that it’s a skill he’d like to learn one day as he takes a small spoonful of mashed carrots and tries to feed Papyrus.  Papyrus gurgles and bats the spoon out of Gaster’s hand, sending it clattering across the table.  Sans freezes again.

Gerald smiles and uses a fresh napkin to sop up the mush. “Looks like this table is due for a cleaning, huh doctor?”

“That seems to be the case,” Gaster replies.  He tries to feed Papyrus another spoonful and is met with the same results.  “This is not how mealtimes are supposed to go.”

“Here,” Sans says, taking the spoon from him.  He makes a complicated flight path with it to get Papyrus’ attention, then taps on his mouth with the other hand.  Papyrus watches the spoon zoom through the air, past his face a few times, then bites down on it when it gets close enough with a delighted noise.

“I don’t know how you did that,” Gaster says.

“He likes it when food is interesting,” Sans says around the second half of the sandwich, which he’s now eating with one hand as he feeds Papyrus with the other.  Most of the carrot mash ends up on Papyrus’ face when he grabs the spoon and sends it flying; roughly half of the food ends up in Papyrus’ mouth.  Sans immediately cleans up each spoonful that doesn’t make it.

Lunch passes in more or less the same fashion until Sans begins to examine the ketchup.  He pushes the puddle around his plate with his fork, then cautiously rubs some between his thumb and forefinger, then even more cautiously licks his finger clean.

And seems to experience some kind of enlightenment.

“What did you say this was,” he asks faintly.

“Ketchup,” Gerald replies, pushing the bottle his way.

Sans looks between the ketchup and Gerald several times.

“You can keep that,” Gerald says.

Sans grabs it off the table and stuffs it into his jacket. “You brought this?”

“Mhmm,” Gerald says.  He’s making a face like he’s trying to take the situation very seriously, but is also smiling around the edges of his mouth.

“I still don’t trust you,” Sans says.

“Trust isn’t given automatically; it has to be earned.  I wouldn’t expect anything less of you.”

Sans continues to watch Gerald’s movements, but as he also clutches the ketchup tight to his chest as he collects Papyrus for their nap.

“Not one word from you,” Gerald says as Sans leaves the kitchen.

“It’s important to Sans, I’m willing to let one bottle go,” Gaster grumbles, “But just the one.”

Gerald pulls the not-smiling face again.

-

Gerald sets up an interview with a specialist for that evening. He takes Gaster aside to explain the situation: child social services is sending an agent to gather more details about Sans and Papyrus' case in person. They've agreed that Gaster is doing an excellent job sheltering and building a connection with the kids, but the agent wants to collect more information about their circumstances and background to see what kind of support they might need in the future. It hadn't occurred to Gaster that he might not be able to adequately provide for the children’s' emotional needs. He feels an unexpected twist of emotion at the idea.

“Don't worry, the agent has years of experience,” Gerald says as he gathers Sans' library books. “I worked with her during my rotation in the daycare center, you won't find anyone better in the field.”

“I don't care,” says Sans from the end of the couch. He's somewhere between angry and scared, and is consoling himself sitting between Papyrus and the door. They've rearranged the sitting room so Gaster's armchair sits across from the couch, giving the specialist somewhere to sit and Sans somewhere to hide.

“I won't let anything happen,” Gaster says, from where he's sitting between Sans and the door.

“For what it's worth, I won't either,” Gerlad says, placing the books by the blankets and pillows in the bedroom closet. They’re saved from further conversation by a knock on the door. “Ah, there she is.”

“I'm right here,” Gaster says as Sans curls further into himself.

“I know,” Sans whispers as Gerald drifts to the door.

Gerald says as he opens the door and extends an arm for a handshake.  “Hello Lieutenant, thank you for coming.”

“Pretty sure I told you to call me Donnie,” says Donahue, taking Gerald’s arm in a firm grip. She's swapped her official uniform for a band t-shirt and some jeans, but civilian clothes can't hide the fact that she's First Lieutenant of the Royal Guard.  She carries herself too confidently, and she very obviously spends her free time on strength training.  “I hear there's some neat kids in here.”

“There are. Two of them, in fact.” He shows her into the room. “Donnie, this is Sans and Papyrus; Sans, I believe you and Papyrus have already met Lieutenant Donahue?”

“Just 'Donnie',” Donahue repeats. She crosses the room and throws herself into the armchair.  Gaster raises an eyebrow at her unprofessional demeanor, but doesn’t comment.

“I thought you were a guard,” Sans says from where he's scooted behind Gaster.

“The Guard paid for my education, so I act as a liaison between them and child social services. Basically, I've got the resources and muscle to make sure kids are treated right.”

“We are being treated right.”

“You definitely are now, but I need to make sure you're getting all the resources you need.”

Sans glares over Gaster's shoulder. “Are you implying that Gaster is mistreating us?”

“No way. It's easy to see how much this guy cares about you. I'm saying you need stuff that he can't give you. You've been doing great on your own so far, and you've been doing a great job taking care of the little guy. I want to give you everything you need to keep doing great. Plus, I want to know more about you.”

Gaster can't see Sans, but he can hear the suspicion in his voice. “About me?”

“Sure. I've never seen you before and you seem pretty cool, so I'm wondering where you've been up until now.”

Gaster privately admits to his own curiosity around Sans’ and Papyrus’ origins.  Their accents suggest they learned to speak somewhere in Waterfall, but their knowledge of the Capital City’s layout is too broad for them to be anything but locals.

Sans hesitates. “Around,” he finally says.

“I heard Doctor Gaster found you in a bush, did you live there?”

“For a while, yeah.”

Donnahue leans against her knees with her forearms. It effectively paints the picture of having a friendly chat. “Did you like living there?”

“No.” There's no hesitation this time. “I hated it.”

“Then what were you doing there?”

“It... was better. Than what we had.”

Donnie nods. “Sometimes it's better to live somewhere you hate less.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you always live in that bush, after you left the place you hated?”

“No. We moved around when people started to notice us. In the summer we'd sleep on benches, but it got cold.”

Donnie asks about the kind of places they stayed (wherever they could find somewhere to sleep) and how they got food and clothes (things that were left out, and on occasion the garbage, the garbage, they're just children and they were eating out of the garbage). She seems to be teasing out details of their previous whereabouts without asking directly; the children seem to have run away from somewhere in the capital approximately three months ago. It's impressive to watch her work.

“Sans, I'd like to ask you an uncomfortable question. You don't have to answer it, but I'm going to ask, okay?”

Sans gives a reluctant nod.

“Why did you decide to start living in parks and bushes?”

Sans breaks eye contact. His fingers dig into Gaster's shoulders. He'd started to come out from behind him as it became apparent that Donahue just wanted to ask a few questions, but upon mention of his former residence, he shrinks back again. Gaster's hands aren't biologically attached to his body, so it's a simple matter of manipulating the magic to place one on Sans' back and rub in circles while Sans puts words together.

“I had to protect Papyrus,” he says finally.

“Can I ask what you were protecting him from?”

Gaster squeezes the hood of Sans' jacket; Sans squeezes the fabric under his hands. “No.”

“That's okay,” she says gently, “You don't have to tell me. No matter where you came from, I'm glad both of you are here now.”

Sans ducks his face into Gaster's shoulder. “Me too,” he says quietly.

-

Sans locks himself in the bedroom once the interview is over. The bedroom closet nest, furnished with a mountain of pillows (courtesy of Gerald), is stocked with books and snacks and a few chewable baby-toys. It was constructed so he would have somewhere safe to hide after meeting with Lieutenant Donahue. Gaster takes advantage of the childrens' absence to sit down with Gerald, Donahue, and three hot drinks.

“Something's definite up with their past,” Donahue says, taking a sip of her scalding hot coffee, “The number one reason kids run away is because something is going on at home. Papyrus is too young to tell, but Sans is terrified of something they left behind. Plus, from what you've been describing about your conversations, Sans' education and development are all over the place.”

Gerald, who is holding his own hot drink (a cup of tea), nods in agreement. “They're not like any children I've met. Sans can hold an in-depth discussion about energy transference as in pertains to the expression of magic, but he's never seen a bottle of ketchup before.”

“That's exactly what I'm talking about. He knows too much in a few specific areas and nothing about anything else. There's a good chance someone was grooming him for something, and the fact that he said he left to protect Papyrus could mean that he was next on the list.”

Gaster listens to the conversation with a pinched expression. The fact that Sans and Papyrus might have actively run away from someone, as opposed to wandering off or being forgotten, has eluded him up until this point. The thought of someone inspiring the behaviors he's seen is unsettling. “As much as this pains me to ask,” he says, “Do you think I'm the right person to be looking after them? I already have a difficult time understanding people, and I'm afraid that I might not be able to properly support these children.”

Donahue sets her empty coffee cup on the matching saucer. It's still hissing with heat, and a few puffs of steam escape from between her teeth as she talks. “I think you're fine. These kids see you as a safe adult, and if they're going to recover from this, that's something they're going to need.” She sets both the saucer and cup on the table. Her face is steeled in a way that suggests an unpleasant topic is coming up. “You're not going to like this, but I have to see if I can find their previous guardian.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Let me finish. I need to try and figure out where they came from because they might have living relatives, or there might be other kids in the same situation, or maybe because this whole thing might be a big misunderstanding. I doubt that one, but it's standard procedure in a case like this to make inquires.”

Gaster sighs heavily. He doesn't like the idea of digging into the Sans' and Papyrus' past. What if Donahue finds the decision to run away was unjustifiable and they have to be returned home? Or, what if it was perfectly justified because someone saw fit to hurt these two gentle children? He isn't sure which answer is worse

“I'm heading back to the office,” Donahue says, extracting a small square of cardstock from her pocket. “Here's my card. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to call.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Not you, too. Just call me Donnie.”

“Donnie, right. Thank you for your time.”

“No sweat,” she says, “I'll be in touch. Gerald, see me out?”

Gerald drifts to the door with Donnie. They have a short, quiet conversation just outside Gaster's hearing range, and then she's gone.

“I think that went well,” Gerald says when he gets back.

“As well as could be expected,” Gaster agrees, “Do you think they'll be allowed to stay here?”

“Donnie is optimistic. The foster program is overcrowded as it is so they're willing to look at alternative housing, plus the kids really like you. Trust is the best way to get someone to open up and accept help.”

“She'll want to meet with them regularly, yes?”

“Probably. She wants to build a rapport with Sans, hopefully get him into some kind of counseling, and eventually a schooling program so he can interact with other children his age.”

Gaster reviews what he's learned about Sans and frowns. “I'm not sure he'd get along with children his age.”

“Maybe not, but being around them would help him learn how to behave in social situations. It couldn't hurt to give him the option.” He finishes the last of his tea. “I need to get to the lab, it's my turn to watch the determination experiments this afternoon. Would you like me to make some lunch before I go?”

“No, you've done so much already. But if it's not too far out of your way, I'd appreciate it if you could collect the reports on the desk in my office.” He glances at the closed bedroom door. “Given the situation, I think it would be best if I worked from home for the next few days.”

“I'll bring them after five,” Gerald says, adjusts his respirator and collects his bag, promising to call ahead when he's on his way back. They exchange few short goodbyes, and he leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him. Memories of Donahue's conversation tumble in to fill the sudden quiet. Gaster sits on the couch and waits for them to sort themselves out, but several minutes go by without yielding a pattern. He frowns and puts on the kettle for a second cup of tea. This might take several hot drinks to get through.

“Sans,” he calls, knocking on the bedroom door, “I'm making tea, would you like some? Or maybe a hot chocolate?”

The lock clicks and the door eases open. Sans' face appears in the gap. “Uh, no thanks, but could I get some stuff for Paps? He's getting hungry.”

“Of course.” Gaster stands to one side so Sans can pass him and move to the kitchen. He peeks into the bedroom in time to see Papyrus tumble out of the closet with the corner of a blanket held in his tiny fist.  Papyrus considers this development from his new spot on the floor.  “What did you think of Lieutenant Donahue?”

“She was okay. Kind of dangerous-looking at first, but she doesn't act dangerous,” says Sans as he drags a chair to the cupboard.

“She'll probably want to talk to you again.”

Sans picks at the corner of the cabinet door. “Why?”

“She wants to learn about you, I think. She wants to help.”

“We don't need help,” Sans says firmly, “Me and Paps are doing fine now.”

Gaster opens an adjacent cabinet, pulling a box of tea from the shelf. “Everyone needs help sometimes, Sans. There's nothing wrong with that.”

“Not me,” he grumbles, grabbing a jar of pea-flavored baby food and hopping down from the chair.

“Will you do it to help me, then? I'd really like to make sure you're getting the support you need to grow up healthy.”

Sans pauses. He looks at the jar of food in his hand, and the chair he just used to scale the cabinet. He takes the chair and pushes it back into place at the table. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Gaster smiles. “Thank you.”

Sans wanders back to the bedroom.  He scoops up Papyrus to give him dinner, but doesn't close the door this time.

- Baby Spinach - Part 4

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[mwsa-member]

MWSA Interview with Bill Riley

Date of interview: 27 October 2019 Bill Riley is a writer and retired US Air Force lieutenant colonel with interests in space exploration, coffee roasting, global communication, intelligence activities, and ancient ruins. Bill was an intelligence analyst during the Cold War. Later, he specialized in strategy and communications. During his career, he’s worked with intelligence and special operations professionals from every service, virtually every intelligence agency, and several friendly foreign governments. Bill’s deployments took him through combat zones across the Middle East where he played significant roles in Kuwait and Iraq, supported joint coalition operations, and helped nations rebuild after wars. He was the first US electronic warfare officer in Iraq for Operation Iraqi Freedom, he led the air force’s largest network operations and security center, and he was the first cyberspace operations officer to receive the Air Force Combat Action Medal. He holds degrees in literature, public administration, and strategic leadership, and he is a graduate of Air Command and Staff College and the Air Force Space Command VIGILANT LOOK program. Bill lives in Idaho, just outside Boise, with his wife and two sons. Find him at billrileyauthor.com Look for him on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter at billrileyauthor

Interview

MWSA: How has MWSA helped your writing and/or marketing skills? Bill Riley: I've been a member for less than a year, and MWSA has already directly helped me in two ways. The biggest is networking. In a short time, I've had the opportunity to meet many writers willing to answer my questions and discuss both the art of writing and the struggle to make writing a career. Very well established authors have been generous with their time and advice, and both new and experienced writers have shared valuable tools, perspectives, and approaches with me. The second benefit has been feedback and recognition. These go hand-in-hand, and the review process MWSA offers is phenomenal. The volunteers who conduct book reviews are professional, constructively critical, and provide notes that provide feedback on what worked and didn't. This dovetails into the MWSA Awards program, which represents the genre of Military Writing in the United States. It judges each submission against professional literary criteria, not against the books submitted in a given year. This means we compete against the best standards of writing and storytelling, not each other. Baghdaddy won the 2019 MWSA Founders Medal and Gold Medal for Memoir, and I was blown away. It was exciting and humbling. As a writer, it was a moment I'll never forget. Now, being able to market Baghdaddy as an award-winning author has opened up speaking and media gigs that were difficult to get before. So please submit your work, the feedback is excellent, and you never know what'll happen. MWSA: Baghdaddy is an intensely personal sharing of your life’s journey. At what point and how did you decide it needed to be written?

Bill Riley: I witnessed the effects of Saddam’s rape of Kuwait and his failure to honor the terms of his surrender. Later, I was stationed in Iraq and experienced the unique challenges of trying to rebuild that country while some of its people were trying to kill me. My father tried to prepare me for the worst that life could throw at me. He taught me hard lessons that often hurt, and I resented them. After he passed away, I tried to put things in perspective. I realized that there wasn’t a lot of difference between the skills I needed to survive my childhood, be a father, and go to war. I met some amazing people along the way, and connecting those dots brought me to Baghdaddy. MWSA: What attracted you to intelligence and national security? Bill Riley: I wish I could say I had a noble purpose or a higher calling, but I didn’t. I was the stereotypical enlistee, in a bad situation without other good options, and the air force offered me a way out, an opportunity to prove myself, and a fresh start. Funny story: I entered the air force without a guaranteed job. I was an “open general” recruit, which is another name for “whatever the air force needs most.” A.k.a my recruiter Jedi mind tricked me into meeting his quota. Halfway through Basic, our military training instructor lined us up and said, “I have to send five volunteers to the new special ops pre-qualification course. Who thinks they have what it takes?” You’d think everyone would want in, but no. He got four volunteers, and I was “voluntold” to be the fifth. I was annoyed. It was just one more thing I had to do. But I said, “YES, SERGEANT,” on cue. I figured it would be obvious I wasn’t into it, nature would take its course, and I’d be out. The thing was, it wasn’t bad. Yeah, it was chaotic and exhausting, but there was no yelling, I ran and swam, and avoided the most tedious aspects of basic training. Our ability to observe and improvise was tested, and we wrote short essays to answer unanswerable morality questions as our group got smaller and smaller. When there were five of us left, we were given our final task. Dive in the water, reach the other side of the pool, pick up a mask from the bottom of the deep end, clear it, put it on, and swim back to where we started. All underwater, all in one breath. Problem was, when I’d almost gotten to my mask, some asshole with a padded stick hit me and knocked the mask away. I grabbed it, but another stick knocked me in the head, and I let go. I was running out of air, but surface and you lose, and I was pissed. I swam to the wall just above the mask, and the sticks came at me again. This time I grabbed both and kicked off the wall as hard as I could. One stick came free in my hand, and there was a big splash. I grabbed my mask, cleared and donned it, and swam to the finish line. When I broke the surface to gasp for air, a hand the size of a ham grabbed my head and hauled me out of the pool. It was a huge, unhappy sergeant in soaking wet fatigues. I figured I’d screwed up. I just hoped they’d let me finish Basic. They congratulated me. I finished first in that class and was offered a spec ops class slot. But there were only two slots, and there were three of us. In the pit of my stomach I knew I wasn't the right man for the job. I didn't want it like the other candidates did, and I figured their passion had to mean something. I declined the Pararescue slot I was offered, got yelled at by a major, for what seemed like a long time, then the big sergeant I dunked in the pool came in. He told the major that while he questioned my decision-making skills for not going in the program, I had integrity and grit and he recommended me for an intelligence job that just felt right. No one had ever told me I had grit or integrity before. I stayed because there’s a sense of community in the military that, for me, was like family. MWSA: Your book’s cover art elicits strong reactions. What were your thoughts behind it? Bill Riley: The Baghdaddy cover is polarizing, and I love it. I wanted it to cut to the heart of my story, and with one glance it does. I wish we lived in a world where there weren’t child soldiers, but we do, and they’re a part of this story. The art also captures the warlike aspects of my upbringing, and it feels personal. My father once said, “One definition of adult is surviving your childhood,” and I never forgot it. Each story element meets on this cover. You know the moment you pick it up. MWSA: Baghdaddy provides a firsthand view of war; what are the most common misconceptions held by many Americans? Bill Riley: We see war mostly in snapshots, and not everything gets the coverage or the attention or focus it deserves. There’s been a terrible war in Yemen for years, but the media barely covers it. The same was true of the atrocities of Saddam’s occupation of Kuwait and the campaign of rape and terror employed by Slobodan Milošević during the Bosnian War. Few were interested in investigating and reporting until the world couldn’t look away anymore. The first time I was in Iraq was just after President Bush declared victory. We absolutely met and exceeded the first phase objectives of the war, but even at the highest levels of power, there were misconceptions over what “victory” meant, and unfortunately, an agenda often drives what gets reported and what the public sees. I was with an army signals unit on the outskirts of Karbala, about fifty-five miles southwest of Baghdad. There was a friendly village just off the major supply route, and we encountered a news crew at the burnt and twisted remains of a blown-up semi-tractor-trailer. People from the village were rummaging through the blast field, looking for salvageable spoils. We waved, the Iraqis waved back, and the reporters were busy setting up their shot. We pulled over, and I went to touch base with the news crew just as they were assembling a group of men and boys with slung Kalashnikov rifles in front of the still-smoking vehicle for a picture. Back then, if a supply truck fell out of a convoy along the route, the driver detonated the vehicle and cargo so it wouldn’t fall into enemy hands. The vehicle in front of me, and the reporters was one of those. We knew it, they knew it. The title that ran on the picture in a scathing news story was, 'Insurgents Destroy Military Supplies.' It was a good picture, and insurgents did destroy military supplies, just not that time. If you look closely at the picture, you can see all the boys smiling for the camera. Don't get me wrong, there is still great reporting. Unfortunately, we've also reached a point of manufactured and skewed news saturation. The difficulty in separating the truth from the lies has, more than anything, led to misconceptions. MWSA: You're currently writing a YA series. What can you share about the series, and does it have a connection at all to Baghdaddy? Bill Riley: Absolutely, it does. Thank's for asking about this, I just finished the first book in my new Cypher series. In it, I draw on my military background and time in secret organizations, and while I was raising boys when I was often away doing things I couldn’t talk about. I’ll take readers to places they haven’t seen before in Young Adult Fiction, and it will be a wild and surprisingly moving ride. The first book is called Ashur’s Tears. In it, near-future technology collides with magic in a vibrant world where the government has a lot to hide. An apocalypse-class artifact has been stolen, powerful factions have emerged, and demons are poised to invade the world if a disgraced temple guardian and the three Cypher children can’t find their father and stop it. I love this story, and I can't wait to share it, probably late 2020/early 2021. You can check out billrileyauthor.com for updates and events.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

YOU GUYS I JUST THOUGHT OF THIS

Or rather, a large organization is forced to adopt. Without hope of gain, they'd have only fear of loss. Incidentally, nothing makes it more patently obvious that the old chestnut all languages are equivalent is false than designing languages. I suspect there are already some highly partitionable businesses that lean this way.1 I've noticed this too. That was contrarian advice 10 years ago, but it's clearly now the established practice.2 First of all, he was intellectually curious. A lot of people have a great teacher at some point in their childhood. He died at 59 of lung cancer.

When, if ever, is a way of predicting performance.3 If you try to attack this type of software. In the US this process still shows many outward signs of corruption. To me she seems the best novelist of all time. It was also a test of wealth, because the schools adjust to suit whatever the tests measure.4 They use the latest stuff. Kenneth Clark is the best nonfiction writer I know of, on any subject. But while some openly flaunt the fact that he has to do all the company's errands as well as Newton, for their time, but Newton is my model of this kind of thought.5 It's hard to beat this phenomenon, because the essence of programming is to build new things. So let's be clear what reducing economic inequality means. Indeed, if you felt Lisp programs using a lot of animals in the wild must feel better to a wide-ranging predator like a lion.

If you have an empty slot in your schedule, why not? He knew you were saving that piece of cake. And the only thing you can offer in return is raw materials and cheap labor. But I did not till recently understand the role risk played. But in addition there's sometimes a cascading effect. In 1958 there seem to have been two ways of thinking about programming. Anything you might discover has already been invented elsewhere. Organic ideas are generally preferable to the made up kind, but particularly so when the founders are young. But this year there may have been. The younger employees were paying their dues.

It's so easy to get distracted working on small stuff. Because that machine was not just a machine. In our case the distinguishing feature is the ability to translate wealth into power.6 There's an even better way to block the transmission of power between generations: to encourage the trend toward an economy made of more, smaller organizations will care less about credentials.7 A group of 10 managers to work together. You'll find that you can't stand programming in clumsy languages.8 Recently we managed to recruit her to help us run YC when she's not busy with architectural projects. It seemed to me as a twelve year old football expert that the best of them all was Jack Lambert.9 I can't figure it out, because she's gotten into sync with us.

But when someone on the manager's schedule is that they understand the cost. But between the two is due mostly to environment—and in particular that the environment in big companies is toxic to programmers. School was boring. I think most of them are the same for every language, so they don't affect comparisons much. This metric needs fleshing out, and it could require interpretation in the case of specific languages, but I wouldn't describe them as intellectually curious. This is a list of the n most admirable people. In theory, exit polls gave him a 52-48 victory. The quote I began with mentions two other qualities, regularity and readability, not succinctness. Reading The Nude is like a small boat in the open sea. Your boss is just the way that constraint is imparted to you. The use of credentials was an attempt to seal off the direct transmission of power between generations, and cram schools represent that power finding holes in the seal.

But that could still be a bad move, because macro definitions are harder to read than ordinary code. Locally, all the news was bad. And they will. The word is rarely used today because it's no longer surprising to see a 25 year old professional able to afford a new BMW was so novel that it called forth a new word. Parents will die for their kids.10 But they would do. You can adjust the amount of work you have to push down on the top as well as Newton, for their time, but Newton is my model of this kind of thought. You tend to keep your voice down, because there's a good chance the person at the next table would know some of the people working for him who made more than he did, because they'd been there longer.11

But in a large organization, and the language won't let you. This is one of them: he wanted to seem aristocratic; she was afraid she wasn't smart enough. Small in what sense though? Apple happened because Steve Wozniak wanted a computer. It seems to me that succinctness is power, or is close enough that except in pathological examples you can treat them as interchangeable, granting the same status to sweat equity and the equity they've purchased with cash. We'll have precise comparisons, but not accurate ones. A few months ago I read a New York Times article on South Korean cram schools that said Admission to the right university can make legacy status have as much or as little weight as they want, by adjusting the size of group that can work together, the only way I can imagine for larger groups to avoid tree structure would be to push for increased transparency, especially at critical social bottlenecks like college admissions. In the group one level up from yours, your boss represents your entire group. If anyone has examples, I thought succinctness could be considered identical with power.

Notes

When I catch egregiously linkjacked posts I replace the actual amount of material wealth, seniority will become as big as any adult's.

He adds: Paul Buchheit points out, if you threatened a company has to be closing, not competitors. The best technique I've found for dealing with YC companies that can't reasonably expect to do it is still possible, to take board seats for shorter periods.

They assumed that their experience so far done a pretty mediocre job of suppressing the natural human inclination to say that I'm clueless or even shut the company really cared about users they'd just advise them to. If they no longer a precondition.

Maybe it would be very unhealthy.

Investors will deliberately affect more interest than they expected and they have to solve the problem is the most, it's software that was killed partly by its overdone launch. But a company tuned to exploit it. There is one of them material.

On the other extreme—becoming demoralized when investors behave upstandingly too. That would be on demand, because we know nothing about the qualities of these companies unless your last round just happened, the thing to do sales yourself initially.

The most striking example I know what kind of power programmers care about. A lot of time on schleps, but it's also a good plan in which many people work with the sheer scale of rejection in fundraising and if it were better to overestimate than underestimate the importance of making a good plan for the most useless investors are just not super thoughtful for the future as barbaric, but Joshua Schachter tells me it was true that the valuation at the valuation is the following recipe for a startup.

It is the discrepancy between government receipts as a high school textbooks.

Indifference, mainly.

If you wanted to have to rely on cold calls and introductions. I mean forum in the narrowest sense. But the most accurate mechanical watch, the average reader that they probably don't notice even when I was insane—they could just expand into new markets. When investors can't make up startup ideas is to use an OS that doesn't lose our data.

And even then your restrictions would have seemed shocking for a year of focused work plus caring a lot about some of those things that's not art because it doesn't cost anything.