#team star ortega kin

[dollarstore-kins]

Transgender Ortega icons!!

-Mod ET

[kinsonas]

★ TEAM STAR ★

FAIRY TRANS ORTEGA ; FIRE BI MELA ; POISON GENDERFLUID ATTICUS ; DARK GAY GIACOMO ; NORMAL NONBINARY PENNY ; FIGHTING LESBIAN ERI

[tristanlovesthequeen]

The Paddock

Tristan Chase Sparrowe

11/25/2016

The Bull

One day in the fall of autumn, when the moon is high and bright, orange in hue and full in complexion, when the clouds hang oppressively low in the sky I wandered through the meadow to the buffalo paddock, newly installed by decree of the mayor of San Francisco about two months ago.

The headlines in the newspaper were all the same, dismal in hue, recording the afterthoughts of the Mayor. “'The park commissioners expect soon to procure a buffalo cow who will lighten the hours of his confinement,' Harrison says”. Tomorrow the buffalo, Anastasius will be married to his bride-to-be, a new import from a ranch in Wyoming, where my uncle lives with his wife, and a dog, where they have retired and where my uncle hunts and participates in environmental conservation.

It's brisk, with many clouds of smoke blowing from the corners of my mouth into the Fall air. The grass has just been clear cut, and the smell invades my nostrils. The dew from the morning and previous evening cling to the individual hordes of grass scintillating in the dawn evening light. I have been up for a day and a night approximately and everything seems to vibrate around me.

I am here with a specific purpose. No one is around the buffalo paddock the night after Thanksgiving, the city itself is deserted, let alone the park and its many intertwining trails. I could walk for miles on these days in San Francisco, traversing the entire seven by seven without seeing a single person.

I reached into my backpack and extracted a long pair of bolt cutters I had purchased for a penny at Goodman Lumber two days ago.

A swift look to my left, and to my right, and into the stable at Anastasius as he sleeps. The strong bull grunts and twitches in his sleep as steam puffs from his nostrils. His side rises and falls as he breathes and his ears twitch a bit. It is a pity for such a sculptural beast to be imprisoned as he waits for a wedding he has no say in and a migration pattern that is now limited to across the paddock. Either way, an option might be a change of pace for him. A change of scenery, a chance to spread his wings before wearing his proverbial wedding ring around his hoof.

A link in the chain link fence snaps open and then another, and another as I make an archway about the size of an Ort cloud in the distance. Finally the metal links curl like a pad of melted butter to the wet grass. Anastasius sighs deeply and continues his dream. I ponder where he might be in his mind for a moment. The plains with his kin, avoiding native species of humans and the great white hunters of the fields where they used to graze. Possibly butting heads with an alpha male or turning on his heels to run. In space or in a hell like place, with demons floating above his massive cranium. An endless pasture where he sits in a cloud of cow fermones, butterflies braiding his mane.

I find myself walking a few paces ahead, erstwhile extracting the axe from a loop in the lining of my coat. I question my motives one last time before raising the axe above my head and, hearing the blade glint I let it fall into a mass of decomposing wood that surrounds the buffalo encasement. A crack resounds and a group of black birds flutter into the air squeaking as they fly. Anastasius stirs. I let the blade strike again, over and over until I break a hole in his cage. I kick the horizontal beams until they become diagonal and finally...

The bull's eye catches my attention. He has been watching me for some time. I breathe “You're free now lil' buddy,” and continue to circle around back towards the hole in the cyclone fence. Anastasius whines a bit. And grunts again.

I consider my motives and consider this new found freedom that I now share with the bull. It never felt like optimism to free the bull, just felt like a circumstance, a necessity, of the era that I live in. The symbolism of this pack animal now caged by himself, a migratory creature that is now forced to stay in one place. A metaphor for the elimination of the Native Americans who relied so heavily on the existence of the herd. And the grasses that cultivated with the motion of the species, and now wanes due to it's disappearance. What a pity. I wonder why he does not leap anymore, if he is lacking some sort of bacterial family in his gut or if his brain is lacking a certain chemical, why he has accepted his fate as a caged being, why he does not call out or try to create an alliance with a human to help facilitate his escape.

A mild panic surges through my veins and works its way into my knees making me weak for a spell. I tuck all my tools and hike back towards the main road. I decide to wait for a moment by a streetlamp and spark up a cigarette.

I think about the stars for a moment and try to locate Orion's belt. Somehow when compared to the power of the cosmos, my own worldly problems seem immaculately minuscule. And then came a dull rustle from the bushes lining the Fulton street border of the park. Anastasius slowly emerges from the darkness, then pauses, kicking his hind legs out to stretch. One, and then the other. A glow from my cigarette and the plume of smoke from my lungs catches his attention and he freezes.

Now that nothing is separating myself from such a large powerful animal I feel the weakness in my knees again and somehow the cigarette's effects seem more intense. I lower my head a bit to acknowledge his presence and say “fair thee well monsieur.” He lowers his head back at me and then he trots off in the direction of Ocean Beach.

His silhouette pirouettes and fades into the darkness of the night. When I arrive home I undress and lay in bed, and count to slow down my brain. Again I imagine the distance of the night sky, the size and millions of stars in the sky, compare them to the personalities here on earth and the endless multitudes of people. Once again I feel terribly small. Eventually I drift off and I, too am one with the cosmos.

The next day is the opening ceremony of the arrival of the new bison to the paddocks. Anastasius is to have a wife.

I make my way towards the modest crowd of people who have showed up to see the young bull procure a new wife. News teams are there and flashbulbs take snapshots of the Mayor arriving and emerging from his Lincoln town car led by police escort.

No one seems to suspect that Anastasius is not present, then again no one seems to care. The mayor stands up on a soapbox and gives a short speech, then motions like a circus conductor with his left hand to the truck containing the cow. Two men stationed on either side of the truck wearing overalls boots and golfers caps let down a metal ramp and a gate to the flatbed.

The cow, Anastasia, seems to be alarmed by the noise of the cheers of the crowd and the visage of a small excited yapping dog. She immediately starts to gallop into the paddock making a swift round and then charging out of the hole in the fence that I had cut the night before.

The music from the bandstand stops and the crowd gasps. The mayor throws his pork-pie hat to the ground and starts to shout at his assistants. A moment passes and sirens from firetrucks and police vehicles start to whine.

A large gap toothed grin stretches across my face. I laugh for a moment and then my forehead crinkles and I start to grimace. I don't pretend to understand what is going to happen to the bison nor do I feel guilt about setting them free. Seeing this crowd in a frenzy sets me off in an opposite trajectory from the crowd and the escaped cow.

That night at home with a hot toddie sitting by my wood burning stove with the neighborhood cat, Noodles, listening to the radio, the broadcast starts to announce, “In other news, police officials say they located the escaped buffalo which were to be married today on Ocean Beach and Ortega. The bull, Anastasius, and the cow, Anastasia were standing near the sea foam giving each other Eskimo kisses when authorities arrived. The mayor arrived shortly thereafter to find the police troop crying tears of joy. The band played “Auld lang syne” and the mayor hugged his wife. The mayor's assistants opened bottles of champagne and as the corks flew into the air the buffalo walked side by side down the coast.”

Noodles meowed and rolled around on his back.

Bibliography

1) http://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Oldest-bison- at-Golden- Gate-Park- dies-at- 22-

5870761.php

2) http://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Golden-Gate- Park-baby- bison-found- dead-

2443708.php

3) https://localwiki.org/sf/Golden_Gate_Park_Buffalo_Paddock

4) http://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=Buffalo

http://poormagazine.org/node/5456

http://sheriffmichaelhennessey.com/Sheriffs_Stories/Getting_Buffaloed.html

“12 Short Stories of the Bison in Golden Gate Park.” JSTOR web article.

The Bison or Buffalo in the United States. The Indiana Quarterly Magazine of History, Vol 6. No.3 (September, 1910) pp. 114-117. Trustees of Indiana University. Http://www.jstor.org/stable/27785281. JSTOR web article.

Poaching Pictures Yellowstone. Buffalo and the Art of Wildlife Conservation. Alan C. Braddock. American Art, Vol 23, No.3 (Fall 2009), pp.36-59. The University of Chicago Press on behalf of the Smithsonian Institution.Http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/649775. JSTOR web article.

[fallenhero-rebirth]

Sticks and stones

Still sick, so here’s another snippet, me playing around with Julia Ortega and Marshal Hood, trying to iron out their relationship in the past. Blame @saturnsage as always.

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Running forward tap tap tap three steps, over the wall, land in a roll, leaving gravel stuck to your back, your braid a black streak behind you.

"You should cut your hair, Julia." A creak, a crack and the wall crumbles, shards a hailstorm at the spot you were a moment ago.

"Not likely," you shout back, glad for your goggles, glad for your reinforced skinsuit, glad that the Marshal isn't out to hurt you.

You know that he could. You've seen the footage, Marshal Hood is not to be trifled with, controlling dirt he calls it jokingly but you've seen him crack the ground and bring down buildings and he wasn't called Mount Hood for nothing back in the day.

"It's just begging to get grabbed," he advices, and you sprint around the corner just in time to have the shrapnel smack into it instead of you.

"Then they have to get within my reach, the idiots." You leap up, grabs the overhang, pulling yourself up on the half-ruined roof. It's as close to a training area as you have out here, ruins nobody minds being demolished.

Keep on the move, never stopping to think, keep you body going from one moment to the next because that's Hood's disadvantage, he's slow, his powers takes a moment to charge, and if you are elsewhere after that moment you can stay ahead. Stay safe. Don't think, just move, and oh boy, you love moving more than anything in the world. Feeling your heart pump, your muscles tense, everything moving with a strength and grace you didn't have before. Faster. Better. Broken and rebuilt and sure there's trademarks branded into your joints but you wore them on your chest before, sponsored equipments wanting to cash in on your guts.

You laugh as you fling yourself over the edge of the roof, too high, too fast, but there's just an open space there, dirt and gravel, no walls, and you land heavy, land hard, but close enough to bring your palm to his gut, jolting him hard enough to throw him to the ground.

"Shit, shit, are you okay?" You're leaning over him a moment later, 'cause Hood is not getting any younger, and you might have left your dad in the grave with an unresolved argument but there's nothing to do against a bad heart, bad luck, a bad call and you laugh in relief when he gives you a thumbs up. Bigger than your dad. More grizzled. Older. Whiter.

Kinder.

"That was a stupid move," he grumbles, rubbing his stomach. "If you had missed, you'd be caught right in the open."

"That's not a bad space to be against you, though." You offer him a hand up, bracing yourself, you're tall for a girl, tall enough to annoy most men but he's not small and he's heavy and his hand makes yours feel small and fragile even with the mods.

"True," he admits, brushing himself off as you push up the goggles on your forehead. "Good job anyway, Charge."

"Just fun to get a workout, I was getting bored." You stretch towards the skies, annoyingly blue, the darker blue of both your skinsuits covered in dust. You peel off your goggles entirely, wiping your sweaty forehead. "Sentinel better find something soon."

"s... he will." Marshal Hood looks up at the skies as well, still stumbling over the new pronouns. So many changes to get used to. "You should keep the goggles. Eye protection is useful. Especially with your condition."

"Not my call," you say, patting him on the shoulder, too worried, you should wear goggles and a helmet and kneepads and in the end you should be annoyed but it's hard to be. Just a different kind of feeling, a different vibe, not disapproval but caution, a way of looking at you that makes you want to be someone. Better. Smarter. Part of a team, and that is new, because you hate people bossing you around. I'm not gonna call you Sir, the first words thrown in his face, and he had chuckled and told you to call him asshole if that made you feel better.

"I know." The sigh is deep, he knows it, uniforms are picked, and you look far too good to be covered up in armor, face out in the open, no mask, bright smile for the camera. They didn't give you nice dental work for nothing.

"Don't look so grumpy," you bend down and pick up a rock, throwing it at a distant sign, leaning askew in the ruins. Bullseye. "I can move better this way, no need for heavy armor if they won't hit me."

"And if they do?" Another rock rises from the ground on its own, flying towards the same sign.

"Not gonna happen," you say, throwing yourself flat on the ground and the other rock he had levitated flies harmlessly over your head. "And I thought we were done training, cheater."

"How did you know?" He looks amused, offering you a hand this time, but you tense your body and jump back to your feet on your own, look dad, no hands and you slap your brain into shape because he's not your dad. Just your team leader. Maybe mentor, but no way you're going to tell him that.

"It fit the moment." You don't really think too much about it, there's a flow to the world around you, like the movement of your body, the effect of gravity, the friction of your limbs. You can't think too much, better to just go with it, thinking is for Chen, analyzing, planning, you don't put words to it the same way. Same results though. Still five to five in your fights, someday one of you will get the upper hand. You're two to ten with Hood, but you're getting faster. Better.

"You've got good instincts," he admits. "You just need to be able to describe them."

"Why?" You flex your hands, feeling your emitters charge and release. They still feel awkward after the last upgrade but the increased output should be worth it.

"Because you're going to need to teach someone else how to do that one day." Straight face, furrowed brow, and you look up at him with a surprised laugh.

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen, I'm not a teacher." You're responsible for yourself, and only you, and maybe your team, your group, and oh boy, that's escalated. Being a Ranger. You're glad you're not the one holding the reins here, the stakes are higher. You never even ran your own group back then, you just starred in the videos, Marek did the heavy lifting when it came to planning.

"We'll see," he says, cryptically, giving you another one of those looks.

"Don't you even think about it," you mutter, starting to pace, the pace turning into a walk as he follows, because standing still hurts in ways that movement doesn't. "I'm here because Chen talked me into it, that's all." A lie, another lie, and yeah he knows it because he knows the amount of money invested in your body. More than for just a boring, normal life.

"You're born to this Julia, why not admit it?"

"Because that would mean my father was right, and he was an asshole about it so that's never gonna happen." You jump up on the wall, balancing on it as you keep walking.

"The man is dead."

"Damn right he is."

"You do know that he can't tell you what to do anymore?" The wall starts disintegrating beneath your feet, slowly, bricks torn apart, but you keep your balance, little stepping stones floating in front of you. Show-offs, both of you. Maybe that's why you like him.

"So why do I still hear his voice in my head?"

"You're the only one that can tell you that."

"You suck at this, you know?" You give him a glare, leaping to another stone, landing on one foot, as elegant as if you had done the ballet they wanted you to. "You're supposed to tell me that maybe that was because he had a point, and maybe it was time for me to listen to it. You know, be all responsible and shit."

"Hmmm..." He ponders it for a while, rubbing his chin, all covered in black scruff because there's no cameras out here. "That doesn't sound like me. I think you came up with that on your own."

"And that's because you suck." You land on the ground, giving him an exasperated smile. "I don't like being responsible. Why do you keep making me do it?"

"Because you're better at it than you know." A fond chuckle as he puts a big hand on your shoulder. Heavy. Warm. Covered in faded, black tattoos, kin to the ones that's snaking up his neck and into his hairline. "As long as nobody pushes you into it."

"Guess I have Chen for that. Fucking duty and shit."

"Chen needs to lighten up," he agrees.

"I bet you tell him that I need to be more responsible." You shoot him a suspicious glance.

"Now does that sound like something I would do?"

"You're nothing but a dirty manipulator, old man," you say the words with your brightest smile, shrugging away from his hand, pulling your goggles back on. "You're lucky I like you."

"You need another run-through?" He wipes his sweaty forehead, shaking his head.

"I'm bored," you whine, "and you keep saying I need to stay sharp."

"Fine, girl, I won't go easy on you this time."

"Good." You smile your wickedest smile, throwing yourself backwards, recklessly, stones hitting empty air and this is the life. The adrenaline. The thrill.

The companionship.