#their actual plan for targeting men is to frame it around protecting others rather than protecting yourself

[nathanielthecurious]

hey guys i keep hearing about this concerning new side effect where the covid vaccine turns you into an alpha chad and makes your dick bigger :/ stay safe out there

[salenakingston]

Mystery March Day 24 - Fear

(How about another gift fic? This one is for @clownsuu‘s Yandere!Lewis. What an interesting portrayal of Lewis and the dynamic between him and Arthur, and also perfect for this prompt. I saw that there were no other published works for this little au spin, so I hope you like it! <3)

The fall should have killed him. Whether it had been a surprise or not, Lewis’ motivations were made clear with one small act. Hunt down the man that ruined his life, recreate the location of his demise, and then drop him in the same manner he perished in. But something was wrong. Arthur’s reaction had been unexpected… Shock. How?

And he was still falling. A heart, dark and shattered, the illusion being brushed away. The ringing of the shotgun bringing it all to an end… at least for this one moment. The danger hadn’t retreated just because the spires were gone. There was still the plant woman with a sword in the shape of giant sheers, and even when that was taken care of, their once friend had turned against them.

If there was one thing this made the ghost realize it was that there was more to the story of his death. Well, maybe there were two things. Between the possession, the danger brought about by the ghost’s own hands, and prior experience, it was that Arthur was a magnet for danger. Well, to be fair, all of them were, but the blonde more than any of them. The rest of them had a means of protecting themselves.

Fire for the ghost, ice for the bluenette, and a secret form for the ‘dog.’ What did Arthur have? He had intelligence, creating rather than fighting. Even in a fight, he ran more than throwing a punch.

Perhaps it was that conclusion that caused Lewis to follow his former best friend. He had come back to the group, all of them working to adjust to one another. Tension ran between them, especially between the two men. This wasn’t unexpected considering the circumstances around their situations. The ghost held his attention on the metal arm, having been one of the other changes to the blonde’s life. The greatest thing taken away from his once friend, and only fueled the new goal to make sure nothing else happened to him.

Anytime there was a choice to split up, Lewis insisted on going with Arthur. It was one of the most unpredictable decisions of their new dynamic. This new desire to make sure the blonde remained safe was a bit strange, but no one saw a reason to argue against it. If anything, Vivi and Mystery saw this as a good opportunity for Lewis and Arthur to rebond. Even the blonde seemed on board with this plan the more times he was placed in the ghost’s care.

Everything was going fine except for one problem.

The blonde was still not entirely safe.

He could use his powers to protect him, but he couldn’t always account for stray targets moving for him, or what the outcome would be if his partner decides to run rather than stick around for his protection. More over was the danger he couldn’t protect the man from when they were on their downtime. There was no denying that Arthur had his problems, ones Lewis got to see first hand; and even though they were getting better, there were still moments when they would creep up.

What was he meant to do about these? Kind words of encouragement didn’t seem to do much.

Arthur had to admit that things were starting to go from alright to a little uncomfortable. There was quite the difference from endearing worry to hovering over him. Even when asking for a little more space, he could swear the feeling of someone watching him was always lingering. It was hard to find a reason as to why this was happening. Why would Lewis change so much? Sure, he was glad the two of them reconciled on past events, but then why was the ghost continuing to hang so close?

The best he could do for now was ignore it.

Lewis was hatching other plans.

Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely sure what brought on this new drive to make sure his blonde friend was safe. Perhaps out of guilt over nearly bringing death over a misunderstanding? Perhaps now seeing just how much risk this one friend was putting himself in? The way this friend was destroying himself when it seemed like no one was looking? In life, he would have done anything to make sure his best friend was taken care of.

Now that relations were repairing, why should he stop that promise?

The ghost found himself in the blonde’s room one night, watching the way he tossed and turned. It hurt watching the way his face scrunched up, sometimes having tears fall from his eyes. Large hands and arms wrapped around the man’s trembling frame. Arthur’s body seemed to turn towards his chest, making the ghost hold him closer. This had to stop.

He floated through the door, leaving the blonde’s home, and made his way towards a familiar mansion.

When he woke the next morning, it wasn’t hard to tell something was wrong. He looked around, confused as to why there was so much purple in his room. The more he woke up, the more a certain fact clicked in his head. This wasn’t his room. His work table was gone, and this room was far too clean to be his own. Even so, he knew where he was.

And this was confirmed when the ghost walked through the door, “Oh, you’re awake.”

“Lew? What happened? Why am I here in the mansion?”

“I brought you here.”

“Well yeah… I got that, but why?”

There was a long pause. That was something that made the blonde uneasy. Why did something about this feel so wrong about this? Lewis finally spoke again, “You were having a nightmare. I thought you might be better here. You did seem to calm down some when I did.”

“Oh… thanks Lew.”

“I’m making some breakfast if you’d like it.”

“Yeah… that sounds nice…”

The ghost disappeared, leaving the mechanic all on his own. He could see a set of his usual clothes resting on the dresser. Did Lewis think of everything? The only missing aspect in this room were many pieces of metal and papers with detailed blueprints across the floor. He pushed himself out of bed, changed, and made his way to where he remembered the kitchen being. Sure enough, there was the suit-wearing ghost, plating up breakfast. He managed a smile, “Hey Lew. I’ll have to go to work after this. Did you happen to bring the van with you?”

“Oh, no I didn’t. I guess I could get you to Kingsmen.” Two plates were set down, a chair pulled out for the blonde friend.

Arthur took a seat, looking at the amount on the plate in front of him. It was far more than he usually ate. Maybe he should have expected this. After all, it was the Pepper cooking. This was normal. He reached for his fork, starting, “Yeah? I would appreciate that.”

Lewis didn’t like how some of his food was going to waste. It got to one point where the blonde was just pushing it around. That was something he would have to work on. Guess he couldn’t exactly force the man to eat. The noise was starting to grate on both of them, a good sign that it was time to go. He held his end of the promise, taking his friend to his workplace, though turned invisible rather than leaving.

He couldn’t leave. He had to make sure everything was going to be alright.

As the day went on, the more antsy the ghost was becoming. It was true his friend slept a little better, but that didn’t fully change his fatigued state. There were still circles under his eyes, lack of sleep and nightmares were the direct cause. It didn’t help that since the cave, he’d grown a tendency to stay up far later than normal working on one of his many projects. Sometimes it wasn’t even the same one. Just another problem to fix for his safety.

Speaking of his safety, or rather it was the lack of this which was causing the unwanted visitor to become increasingly worried. Accidental injury was not uncommon here, and just because it happened to the metal arm rather than his flesh one didn’t change the fact that it was dangerous. Imagine what would be done if it was still flesh…

No, he didn’t like that image, and the more it sank in, the more he hated it. This had to be fixed too.

By the end of the day, Arthur had begun to walk home, seeing as his ride was still not here. His uncle could probably give him one, but why bother him with that? His eyes popped open when he felt himself being lifted off the ground, a pang of fear racing through him, “Whaaa?”

“It’s just me Artie.”

“Oh Lew. Are you taking me home?”

“Yeah.” Sort of.

He was flying in the direction of the mansion. That wasn’t home. The blonde dared a small pull on the sleeve of the suit, “Umm.. Lew, my home is the other way.” But Lewis ignored him. Ignored him.It was so off putting, one that made worry strike. He tried again, “Lew?” Once again ignored.

Lewis knew what he had to do. He had to keep Arthur safe. He wasn’t safe at Kingsmen. When they returned to the mansion, the ghost promptly took his friend to his room, and sat him down on the bed. He turned around, floating towards the door, “It’s been a long day. You should try and get some rest. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Lew!”

The door shut, a distinct click following it. Lewis actually locked him in.

The blonde began to tremble. What was happening to his best friend? Did something happen at one of their jobs that changed him like this? Maybe Vivi would know something that could lift whatever was causing the ghost to behave so strangely. Ok, then all he had to do was make it to tomorrow. He’d be off from work anyways for their usual going out days.

Sure enough, Lewis came back, but whatever appetite that might have been there was gone. His head turned away, “I think I may just go to bed, Lew. I’m not really hungry.” There it was again, this strange habit of not eating anything. Magenta on black narrowed pushing the plate towards his friend. He had to eat something, “Eat Arthur.”

There was that fear coming back for the blonde. The tone of voice… so commanding. It was as if he put a hidden threat behind those words. Swallowing silently, he took the plate, working to push past the sick feeling in his stomach so that he could eat, even if that meant releasing it all once the ghost left. Which he wasn’t doing. He was watching him eat.

When the plate was nearly empty, he offered it back to his friend, “I really can’t eat anymore Lew, I’m sorry.”

Lewis looked it over, apparently satisfied enough to give a nod, “Alright. Get some sleep then Arthur.”

Lewis might have left right after that, but the feeling of being watched continued to linger through the room for the entire night.

The next morning was not that surprising, almost a repeat of the last morning and night in the mansion. He was expected to eat, no matter how much he didn’t want to, or how sick it seemed to make him. When prompting the idea to go into town, at least the ghost seemed to be alright with the idea… so long as he could come with. Actually, that might not be a bad idea. He’d get the chance to see Vivi and Mystery again. Maybe it would be something all of them needed.

Lewis was a little on edge. He’d changed his form back into his old look, sunglasses to cover his eyes so no one would suspect his true condition. Anyone around them could be a danger. He kept his watch. It wasn’t until Tomb Tome came into view that worry spiked again. He shouldn’t be. He knew who would be here. Vivi and Mystery. His love, their mascot.

One of them was a liar. The one that ripped Arthur’s arm off in the first place.

Ok, so he had to keep Arthur away from Mystery, but Vivi couldn’t possibly be unsafe. But then what about all of the blonde’s habits? Why didn’t she help him? Surely they wouldn’t have spiraled as much as they had at the start of this whole mess. She should have done more.

If she wasn’t much help then, then what help would she be now/ She couldn’t keep Arthur safe. Neither one of them could.

Arthur appeared to be picking up the pace, especially when it looked like the bluenette was about to make her way out the door. Without much thought, the ghost took a hold of the metal wrist, knowing he’d be able to hold it harder than his real one, dragging his friend away. This was a mistake. They had to go back to the mansion, even if that meant dragging the blonde all the way back like this.

When they did finally return, Arthur tugged harder on the metallic limb, finally getting it free. Amber eyes narrowed to his friend, “What the hell Lewis? Why did we leave?! They were right there!!” Once again, the ghost didn’t say anything. Why should he? Why didn’t Arthur understand everything was being done for his safety. He was the only one that could keep him safe. Instead of giving an answer, he took hold of the wrist again, pulling his friend back towards his room. He gently sat him down, feeling the trembling his friend was producing. It would be alright. He’d stop soon and see his best friend was just trying to help him.

All it took was time.

And nothing seemed to get better. If anything, it got worse.

If Arthur feared the Lewis that was gunning him down in an effort to end his life, then this one was far more terrifying. One small step out of line and there was no telling what the ghost would do.

When he tried to escape out the window, Lewis at first boarded it up, but then made it disappear completely upon other multiple attempts. The ghost had been kind enough to transfer over the blonde’s workspace, tools, and materials, if only to give him something to do while in his room. With said tools, Arthur had tried picking the lock on the door, but with no success. Whenever he was allowed out of his room, Lewis stuck to him like glue.

He’d tried to run before, having gotten a better idea of the mansion’s layout, but the front doors were always locked, and before he could reach a window, a chill was sent down his spine, feeling another soul dancing with his’ inside his body. Possession. Of anyone present to learn the truth of the cave, he would think the ghost would understand the most what fear came with this feeling. His body moving on its own. If he could shriek, he would.

Every time the ghost resorted to such a measure, it left the blonde trembling beyond reason, digging up memories he wished would be buried forever.

Meals and sleep were not any better. Lewis was constantly cooking for him, and when he wasn’t feeling hungry, or couldn’t eat everything on his plate, he was forced to finish. Sometimes it would be through possession, but other times, more drastic measures were taken. When it came to sleep, well there wasn’t any. Even the nightmares were preferable than having the ghost watching him all night. The only times he did seem to be sleeping were when he had no other choice than to pass out from sheer exhaustion. Every time he woke up, he would find himself tucked in bed, the ghost never too far away.

How long has this been going on now? Months? To be honest, the blonde was losing track, and the fear growing inside of him wasn’t ever going down. He had to confront Lewis about this or nothing was going to change.

Sure enough, the moment he was allowed out of his room, the ghost was there. Fear was holding him back from speaking. No, he had to do this.

“Lewis.”

“Yeah Artie?” That nickname.

“Lewis, this has to stop.”

Both of them stood still, the ghost falling silent. His arms crossed. This wasn’t going to stop. He was the only one able to keep the blonde safe. No one else. Anyone he previously might have trusted became nothing more than another resident of Tempo. There was no connection to them, not even the once love of his life.

“Lewis!” Oh, he must have gotten lost in thought.

“Lewis listen to me!” He turned his back on his friend.

“What are you planning to do with me?! Keep me locked up til I die?! What about Vivi?! Or Lance?!” Silence.

“Are you even listening to me?!”

Oh, he was listening alright. When the ghost turned back around, fear was coursing through the blonde’s body. He’d done what he needed to do, and now it was Lewis’ turn to correct this. He ran.

The ghost was never far behind, and once caught up, a very familiar chill ran over the fear. Lewis had possessed him again. Rather than walking him back to his room, or somewhere else in the mansion, his body stood perfectly still. Arthur’s soul was trembling, but soon felt an embrace. A terrified wail echoed around him, a small ‘shhhh’ following it. As if that was supposed to calm him down. A voice was heard, but it didn’t put him at any ease.

“Don’t worry Artie. You’re safe with me.”

[remnantoforario]

Unmerry Men AKA The Problem With Robyn Hill

I’ve been sitting on this rant for a while. I’m sure there are people who have talked this topic to death since Volume 7 ended, and did a much better job than I am about to, but I still feel the need to throw my hat in the ring (or shoot my arrow at the target given the subject matter) and say definitively and without question: that Robyn Hill is a terrible character. 

Get some snacks. This is going to be a long one. 

Let me preface this rant by saying I don’t hate Robyn HIll...in CONCEPT. That last word is very important. 

The idea behind her character is a sound one: Atlas is characterized as a country with a VERY clear disparity between the rich (Atlas)

and the poor (Mantle)

So it makes perfect sense that there would be a Robin Hood (see what I did there) type character that would bridge this gap between the two and seek to make things equal, or at least a little less lopsided. As an idea this is great, but the problem (as with most everything in RWBY) is in the execution. 

Outside of Forrest extolling her praises in the back of a cop car in Chapter 2, the first time we see Robyn is when she stops Clover, Ruby, Qrow, and Penny from reaching the Amity tower site. 

During this introduction, she tries to coerce Clover into disclosing classified government information via her Semblance, and Penny has to expose her ambush tactics. Not the best first impression.

Now in a vacuum, this scene isn’t really that bad. Thanks to (clunky) exposition, we are already aware that there is friction between the military and the Happy Huntresses. As such it makes sense that we the audience first meet Robyn as an antagonistic force against RWBY and their allies.

The thing with this though is that all four of the writers of this volume forgot to lift the perception of Robyn being an antagonist until around the final third of the volume. Objectively, there is no reason anyone outside of her own group to want to trust or follow her. 

The M,K,K, & E are trying to position Ironwood and Robyn in the roles of the Sherriff of Nottingham and Robin Hood respectively. The main problem with this is that they fail to establish Ironwood as a tyrannical threat on par with the Sherriff. 

Does he make questionable decisions? Certainly. Are his choices morally wrong? In some cases, yes. But they are more often than not written in a way where the choices he makes are OBJECTIVELY best for everyone (even if they try to frame it otherwise). 

Closing the borders, hiding the Amity plan, diverting resources to FINISH said plan, and his other tactics (while at times misguided) were done in order to protect as many people as he could from Salem and her forces. They were all calculated risks that clearly took a mental and emotional toll on him. He’s a severely broken man trying to keep whatever he has left from falling apart, but everyone is working against him (including his own allies but that’s another story). 

This brings me back to Robyn. She is hailed as the “Hometown Hero of Mantle”, but all we ever do is see her take shots at Ironwood and Jacques and talk about how much the former ISN’T helping Mantle. My question to her, her hardcore cans, and CRWBY is “What has Robyn done to help Mantle?”. RWBYJNR and various talking heads mention how Robyn is helping the people of Mantle, but because the volume (seemed) so rushed to get to Salem’s arrival, we never see her doing anything that’s not directly tied to the plot. 

She’s not working on Mantle’s wall, she’s not in the streets talking to people, handing out medical supplies, giving away food, or anything that actively helps Mantle. We don’t even see her fight Grimm in the streets until the FINAL episodes of the volume. All she and her group do is actively antagonize the military and steal (which we never see them give to the poor). For someone hailed as the town’s hero, she doesn’t seem to really be doing anything to earn that title.   

After the election night massacre, she openly declares war on Ironwood essentially and begins stealing resources needed for the Amity project, until she is ultimately stopped by Blake and Yang. 

Now in theory I have no problem with Yang and Blake telling her about the Amity plan; my main hang up about it is that Robyn has done nothing to earn this trust. 

Until this point Robyn has been getting in their way as they try to reestablish global communications, but now they suddenly feel comfortable telling this sensitive information to a complete stranger and risking a leak even when they KNOW Tyrian is in the city? Instead of telling her that, why not tell her about Tyrian instead? I’m sure she would want justice for the people he killed. 

Then she is later invited to the Council meeting (despite not being a member) and made aware of classified information that she shouldn’t know of, as well as make a complete ass of herself and show why she probably shouldn’t have won in the first place. 

This leads to her finally believing Ironwood, but eventually that gets tossed out the window at the end of the volume where her actions almost directly lead to Clover’s death.  

As she, Qrow, and Clover are transporting Tyrian back to Atlas, Ironwood’s order to arrest RWBYJNRQO is issued. Now there are three things that are very important to keep in mind here after this order is issued: 

1. Clover is clearly conflicted about following this order. 

2. Qrow is calmly trying to talk things out. 

3. Robyn is NOT under arrest. 

Let me repeat that. ROBYN IS NOT UNDER ARREST.

So as Qrow is level headedly suggesting they all talk it out, Robyn (who again is NOT under arrest) starts a fight that results in Tyrian escaping his restraints, the plane going down (after Tyrian kills the pilot and co-pilot), Robyn herself being unconscious, and Clover being ultimately being murdered. 

Now tell me after all the information is presented, why we are supposed to care for this character? What have the writers done to position her as someone we should invest in? 

A lot of her accomplishments are told to us rather than shown, and whenever we do see her onscreen she’s mostly a nuisance that makes pretty much any situation she’s in worse. Yes, I know this is just one volume and she will obviously be a central character in V8 and possibly 9, but the damage has been done. Any attempt to salvage her will just be cleaning up the fall out from V7. 

Now since I’m not one of those people that likes to complain for the sake of it, I’ll voice my opinion on how Robyn could have been written better. 

The first thing we do is distance her from the Happy Huntresses. She will still be the leader, but that information won’t be revealed until AFTER the election. It’s not really a good look for a vigilante to try and run for a public office if they are still breaking the law. That’s like Bruce Wayne running for mayor of Gotham AS Batman (though the people would likely still vote for him). 

So as far as the public (including Ironwood and RWBYJNRQO) are concerned, Robyn is a normal Mantle city official and Joanna Greenleaf is the leader of the Huntresses. For those of you who don’t remember who she is (and I don’t blame you), this is Joanna Greenleaf: 

The second thing I’m going to do is give her a more established connection to Ironwood. My idea? Former military. Robyn was once a part of the Atlas military’s intelligence and recon division because of her lie detecting semblance. When she discovers corruption within the system (lets say something having to do with Faunus, the mines, Mantle, or the SDC) she exposes it but quickly becomes disillusioned with military life and is discharged. She then begins living in Mantle and becomes their representative. We can say this happened maybe five to ten years before the series itself starts. 

She served under Ironwood and has a deep respect for him, but does not agree with his decisions as defacto head of the Council. This is what leads to the friction between them. 

Next, we change up how she and the Huntresses are introduced in V7. When RWBYJNRQO arrive in Mantle the election race has only barely begun (we’re pushing it back). We see posters for Robyn and maybe hear snippets of an interview she is giving to a news station on one of the TVs. 

When the Grimm attack, instead of RWBYJNRQO running out to help immediately, they are cut off by the Happy Huntresses who quickly get rid of the monsters. Ruby and the others wonder who they are before the Huntresses scatter when Penny and the Ace-Ops arrive. The heroes are still arrested for stealing an airship and violating Atlas airspace (as they should have), but now there is some intrigue about who that group of women were. 

Forrest still gives his exposition, but leaves out Robyn because no one knows she’s their leader. 

When the gang arrive at the school they meet with Ironwood and Winter, but hear Ironwood complaining about “that woman” after having just finished a call on his scroll. 

Fast forward to the mine mission. Instead of Jacques showing up, this is where we gets their first full appearance from Robyn. She is brought via airship to the mine (along with an exasperated Winter and Penny) and begins to badger Ironwood about ducking their meeting, stating that Mantle still hasn’t received the supplies he promised days ago. You could also have her briefly greet the kids and Qrow before going back to argue with Ironwood. 

Things proceed as normal, but inbetween some of the bigger story events we see news reports of Robyn helping people around Mantle. Feeding the poor, cheering up the miners, handing out supplies, giving speeches, and other things to show that she really is the hero of the people. Not everything has to be directly tied to the plot, you can use extra devices like tv news and the like to expand on characters. They tried this in V7 but they didn’t go far enough with in my opinion. This would inform us more on Robyn’s character without her being the direct focus as well as give the audience an actual reason to get behind the things she says. 

The main aspect of Robyn’s character that I would focus on would be her relationship with Ironwood. Nothing romantic, just how their ideologies align (or don’t) and how they view each other. They respect one another. Robyn knows Ironwood is a good man, but she doesn’t fully understand why he’s doing the things that he is doing. She doesn’t know why he’s being so secretive. She wants to give him a chance, but he keeps denying her. 

On Ironwood’s part he knows that morally Robyn is in the right and genuinely wants to help everyone in both cities, but his paranoia will not allow him to simply tell her what is really going on. Salem’s reach is far and if she was able to turn Lionheart (one of Ozpin’s closest confidants) then she can get to anyone and that is frightening. 

This is why Robyn utilizes the Happy Huntresses. They are able to move outside the law and do the things she can’t (similar to Jim Gordon and Batman). She doesn’t want to condemn Ironwood because of all the good he’s done, but people are suffering and something needs to change.

Neither are wrong, but they can’t find common ground.  

I’d position Robyn more as a fringe type of character. She doesn’t directly intervene in the plot, but you know she’s always there bidding her time until she can be more prominent.

I have more ideas for her, but this post is long enough as it is so let’s just end it here. 

TLDR; Robyn Hill is a good character concept with horrible execution. Hopefully she will be somewhat better utilized in future volumes, or kill her off at the start of V8. At this point I’m good with either. 

[moonguilt]

and maybe i climbed it for you

(Written for the Rolling 20 zine, which I highly encourage you to check out!  Also, huge thank you to @kuranico for collabing with me on this!  Please follow them, they are an incredible artist!)

Pairing: Keith/Lance (and Pike/Thunderstorm Darkness)

Wordcount: 5023

Read on my AO3 here!

---------

“Hey there, big boy,” Pike purred, leaning in with his eyes lidded.  “I don't think I've seen many men in this area quite as ... muscular and rugged as yourself.”  His eyes twinkled as he flashed a wink and caught his lower lip between his teeth.  “In fact, I think some free time just opened up in my schedule.  What do you say … you … me … a little privacy?”  He slowly extended a hand, fingers gentle and searching—

———

“I cast Moonbeam.”

“Very well, Keith, please roll for—”

“Hey!” Lance sputtered indignantly, hands flying up in the air as Keith, looking all too leisurely where he sat at Lance's side, reached for the twenty-sided die.  “I was about to seduce him!  I rolled a seventeen!”  He snatched the die right before Keith could grab it, turning it to the side with the number “17” and shoving it in Keith's face for emphasis.  “You can't just barge in and attack him!  I was—I was—”  He let out a groan of sheer aggravation.  “I was really getting into character, too!”

“Yeah, we noticed,” Pidge piped up from across the table, leaning on her elbows and watching Lance's antics with a bored expression on her face.  “Ew, by the way.  Get a room next time.”

“I was trying!”

Keith just rose an unimpressed eyebrow at Lance, then wordlessly plucked the die from his fingers—Lance's skin tingled where their hands made contact—and tossed it onto the table, where it rattled around for a second before coming to a halt.

“Ah! Another seventeen!” Coran exclaimed, a cheery lilt to his voice, unfazed by Lance's huffing and puffing nearby.  “Very good, then, Keith.  So …”

———

Pike was generally not one for heroic quests.  He found them interesting, sure—but he wasn't one to be persuaded by the mere promise of noble accolades.  Money and fun, though—those were motivators he could get behind.  A little (or, well, a lot of) cash and a bit of adventure was all it took to catch his attention, and he prided himself on showing off his genius plans and his uncanny ability to outmaneuver the enemy.

He had agreed to join up with this traveling group on their mission to defeat something called a Xloraznor under the condition that he would: a) receive a sparkling heap of silver coins as his cut of the reward, and b) get to satisfy his thrill-seeking, wanderlust desires to his heart's content.

He considered his flirting skills to be not only top-notch, but also an essential part of his ideal adventure fantasy, and so it was getting on his nerves that a certain companion of his seemed incapable of letting him do his job.  Every time he attempted to charm his way past an enemy encounter, the party's obnoxious druid decided to attack the target instead, like some kind of boneheaded barbarian.  It was denying Pike any opportunity to show off his brilliant seduction skills, and it was making this journey much longer and more combat-heavy than it needed to be.

“Aren't druids supposed to, like, value life and all that?” Pike grumbled, kicking pebbles as the group trekked through the Forest of Clianuun on their way to Elmora-by-the-Falls.  “I thought that was your whole thing.”

Thunderstorm Darkness, in all his ridiculous, brooding glory, did not even spare Pike a glance as he stepped over a fallen branch and continued following the others toward a faint sound of running water.  “Do I look like that kind of druid?” he replied dryly, his tone flat.

Pike gave him a quick once-over.  Thunderstorm certainly had the animalistic qualities of a stereotypical druid, but admittedly not the nurturing, life-loving ones.  His attire was dark and rugged, revealing enough to expose rather dangerous-looking muscles along his arms, which started off pale and faded into dark black hands with vicious claws—a notable sign, along with his pointed ears and glowing silver eyes, of the galra blood in his veins.  His jet black hair fell in a braid down to his knees, and long bangs framed his angular face, which was decorated in red paint that Pike still suspected might have traces of enemy blood in it.  Thunder always seemed offended at the implication, but hey, he was the one giving off constant murder-vibes.

In all honesty, Pike probably would have protested Thunder’s place in their group by now, if it weren’t for the mildly annoying fact that he found the druid to be unfairly attractive.  It wasn’t his fault, okay?  Really, who walks around with their biceps just hanging out for the world to see?

“… Guess not,” Pike eventually muttered beneath his breath, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.  He opened his mouth, ready to formulate some off-the-cuff insult—

“Look!” Valayun's voice rang out ahead.  “There it is! Elmora-by-the-Falls!”  She pointed through the foliage and took off into the brush, and a moment later, her gasp sounded in the distance.  “Oh, it's beautiful …”

Eager to lay eyes on whatever Valayun was gushing about, the rest of the party picked up the pace and pushed their way through a swath of hanging fern-like vines.  What they saw when they emerged on the other side was … well, Pike thought “beautiful” was an astonishing understatement on Valayun's part.

Pristine marble towers stretched high into the sky, rivaling the treeline and glinting in the afternoon sunlight.  Vibrant pink ivy climbed up their shining surfaces, and expertly secured rope bridges connected the peaks of each tower so that citizens could easily commute from one to the next.  Flowers of all shapes and colors grew along the ropes and spilled down in great draping clusters to hang over the streets and houses below.  The buildings on the ground level looked like giant, upturned clay pottery—ruddy orange and round, with symmetrical designs carved all over the outsides.  No two houses looked the same.

The entire town of Elmora-by-the-Falls was bordered by a three-foot-tall hedge that was home to a species of flying bug that glowed violet, even in the daytime.  They buzzed, but not like bees—almost like birds, actually; their humming had a lovely sort of melody.  Pike found himself perking his ears just to catch the tune.

Beyond the grand display was the town's namesake: Clianuun Falls.  It was magnificent and awe-inspiring: bright blue water catching every ray of the sun as it tumbled over the crest of the cliff side against which Elmora-by-the-Falls was nestled.  The water drummed ceaselessly into a pool below, which then flowed out into a small river that burbled playfully as it trailed off into the forest.

Once the party managed to break themselves out of their trance, they started tentatively moving toward the town gate, staying quiet for fear of shattering the tranquility of the scene before them.  Even so, the purple bugs scattered to avoid the group, and as they passed by the riverbank, a pair of water sprites stopped dancing along the surface and chirped to each other before flying further downstream.

“This place is so pretty I could cry,” Block breathed, gripping his staff tightly with both hands—a nervous habit of his.  He sniffed once, and his lip quivered.  “Aw, man, I am crying!”

Meklavar patted him on the back, as high up as she could reach.  “Keep it together, Block,” she warned, her eyes alert.  “Just because it's pretty and flowery doesn't mean it's friendly.  Some species of flower are known for being beautiful, but will spit poison in your face if you aren't—”

“Relax, Mekky-Mek,” Pike said, then winced when Meklavar shot him a glare.  “Yeah, okay, the nickname could use some work.  Anyway!”  As they neared the gate, he turned around, opting to walk backwards while he fixed the dwarf with a cocky grin.  “I'm something of an expert in mood-reading.  And this place?”  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.  “Good vibes, my small, cynical friend.”  His tail swished back and forth at a lazy pace.  “This is gonna be a piece of cake.  We drop in, get what we need, maybe meet a few lovely—aiee!”

Pike jumped a full two feet in the air when he felt his back press against something solid and distinctly person-shaped.  He scrambled for balance and spun around, finding himself face-to-face with a grim-looking guard in a full suit of armor.  Her hand was gripped tightly around a halberd, and her eyes spoke of danger.

“Outsiders are not welcome in Elmora-by-the-Falls,” she intoned in a deep, gravelly voice.  “You will leave now.”  She raised her halberd and slammed the butt of the weapon into the ground, making a sharp cracking noise that had Pike covering his sensitive ears.

“Gah!  Hey, no no no no,” he protested, ears now flat against his head.  “I—uh.”  He cleared his throat, put on his best, most charming smile, and batted his eyes up at the woman.  “I'm sure there's something I could do to convince you …”

She met his sultry gaze with a hard stare.

Pike winced a little, but recovered quickly.  “You know … some kind of … arrangement, between you and me?”  He slowly, slowly licked his lips.  “You'll find I have many talents … especially in the—”

———

“I cast Moonbeam.”

“Wha—Keith!”  Lance clambered over the table, his long limbs flailing as he grabbed the die before Keith could so much as twitch.  “Stop ruining my class fantasy!”  His eyes were blazing with genuine annoyance as he shimmied back into his seat, clutching the die to his chest protectively.  “I have very high charisma!  This is supposed to be my thing!”

Keith returned Lance's glare with one of his own.  “Has it occurred to you that maybe my class fantasy doesn't involve sitting here watching you flirt relentlessly with every single NPC we come across?” he retorted, then reached a hand out toward Lance's closed fist.

“Back!” Lance objected, smacking at Keith's intrusive fingers with his free hand while lifting the one with the die as far away from Keith as he could.  “Back, you monster!”  His arm protested the strain, but he held strong as Keith started grappling with him, trying to pull the die-hand back down while Lance smooshed a palm into his face.  It would have been easier if Lance’s traitorous heart wasn’t beating rapidly in its cage at the physical contact, but … he wasn’t complaining.  In fact—

And then Keith stood up, and Lance realized:

Oh.  That's not good.

Lance shrieked and pulled his hand back down to his chest, turning away and curling into a ball with his precious die tucked securely against his sternum.  He managed to remain impervious to Keith's prodding for a few moments, until Keith decided to switch to the tickling tactic, at which point Lance broke down into laughter and gasped for mercy.  Keith, like the absolute demon he was, just smiled.

“… As entertaining as I'm sure this is for both of you,” Shiro spoke up, causing Keith to choke on his own spit while Lance willed his cheeks to cool down, “I have a Zumba class with Adam in an hour and I still need to get changed, so I'd appreciate it if we could keep things moving.”  His mouth quirked with faint amusement, but his eyes betrayed his exhaustion.

Keith sat back down and turned to Lance, raising an eyebrow expectantly.  He outstretched his hand, palm up, and made the universal “give it here” motion.

Lance grumbled as he pulled himself upright, pursing his lips and eyeing Keith contemplatively for a moment.  “Actually,” he said, his lips twisting into a smirk just as Keith's started to twist into a scowl.  “Coran, I have an idea.”  His heartbeat was still recovering from earlier, but he managed to slip on a cocky facade.  “So, you wanna go around killing everyone I flirt with, huh?”

Keith's frown deepened with confusion.

Lance's grin spread.

Keith's eyes widened.

———

“Why, Thunder, has anyone ever told you your eyes are like the sparkling gemstones of the Ilygia Mountains?” Pike inquired, sidling up to the druid's side as the others watched with expressions that ranged from surprise to intrigue to disgust.

Thunderstorm's face darkened with a flush that crept from his throat to his ears—

———

“My character would not blush!”

“I'm sorry, Keith, but that was a very good roll,” Coran admitted, looking up from the game.  “Thunder isn't immune to Pike's advances.”  He shrugged helplessly, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

———

“I love this outfit of yours, Thunder … It shows off your delicious biceps … How did you get so strong?”

“After my older sister was killed by a band of Arovian brigands, I swore to train every day so I could avenge—”

———

“Coran!  You can't just reveal my character's origin story without my consent!”

“My dear boy, Pike is quite the charismatic fellow!  Now, where were we?  You begin to feel like you can truly trust Pike with your heart's deepest secrets …”

“Hold on.  Lance, gimme that stupid die.  Coran, I'm rolling to seduce.”

———

If anyone had told Pike at breakfast this morning that he would be flirting with Thunderstorm Darkness before sundown, he would have laughed it off entirely.  The druid was as prickly as they came, and he had acquired a nasty habit of relying on violence for, well, everything.  Not exactly the safest target for Pike's romantic endeavors.  Sure, he was admittedly a handsome man, but he seemed like the type to bite Pike's hand off if he got too close.

But, here Pike was.

With his hand.  On Thunder's cheek.  In broad daylight.

This was meant to be a joke—a brief reprieve to lighten the mood and perhaps get that stuffy guard to crack a smile.

And now Pike was falling in love.  Which, first of all, what?  It was only a few minutes ago that he had started flirting for fun, but things turned very serious very quickly, and now suddenly he was practically swooning as Thunder turned his head to press his lips to the palm of Pike's hand.  Again, what?  If someone told him right now that some omnipotent force had waved a magic wand and decreed the two to be head-over-heels for one another, Pike would probably believe it.

Whatever the case, Pike was never one to question the power of true love.  And as Thunder fixed him with a heavy-lidded stare, dark and intense and enamored, Pike felt the words tumble out of his mouth before he could stop them:

“Will you marry me?”

———

“Oh my God,” Hunk whispered, biting his fist and watching with wide eyes.  “Oh my God, he went for it.”

Lance puffed out his chest, ignoring the blush that he felt flooding his face.  “That's right,” he declared, placing his arms behind his head and leaning back on the couch.  “I went for it.”  He fixed Keith with his laziest smirk, letting his left knee knock into Keith's right leg teasingly.  “I win.”

Lance thought Keith was sure to burn a hole in both of their legs from how hard he was staring at the point of contact, but instead, he just turned an unreadable gaze toward Lance and said, “Oh really?”

Lance's smirk faltered.

Keith didn't look away.  “Coran, I say …”

———

“Yes.”

Pike's blood pounded in his veins as the words reached his ears.  He blinked owlishly at Thunder, feeling his heart overflow with immeasurable joy, and suddenly beamed.  “Yes?” he repeated in awe, his smile blinding as he leaned in close.  Thunder's expression was fond and doting as he mirrored the movement, tilting his head as his lips grew closer to Pike's—

“What a joyous occasion!”

Pike and Thunder pulled back a bit, exchanging a bewildered glance before looking over toward the gate.  There stood, of all people, the guard from earlier—surrounded now by a small crowd of Elmoran citizens.  Her face stretched into a broad, happy grin as she regarded the pair, and the crowd, which consisted mostly of humans and a handful of elves, erupted in cheers.

“Congratulations,” she announced, stepping toward Pike and Thunder, both of whom were mildly frazzled by the shouting.  “Elmora-by-the-Falls is most honored that you have chosen our town as the location of your engagement.  Truly, we are humbled and grateful beyond words for your kindness this day.”  She laid a hand on both of their shoulders, her expression warm and inviting.  “Please, allow us to welcome you into our home.  You and your companions are our most treasured guests.”

Pike was still stunned into silence, but after a quick jab from Thunder, he nodded swiftly.  “Uh, yeah! Yes. Totally.”  He hurried to catch up as the guard spun around and marched off toward the town.  Finally, he and Thunder managed to spare a look over their shoulders.  The rest of the party just gaped, wordlessly shuffling forward as excited citizens began beckoning them all through the gates.

Elmora-by-the-Falls was even more splendid from the inside, Pike decided as he followed the guard through the winding cobblestone streets.  He looped an arm around Thunder's elbow and peered about in amazement, blinking as small children ran past them with cries of “a wedding! A wedding!”  Citizens stopped in the street to gawk at the procession, and soon people started emerging from their round, engraved houses to offer well-wishes and words of gratitude.  The children returned a few minutes later with two long necklaces made of pink ivy from the towers, and Pike graciously accepted both of them when Thunder failed to do anything other than squint in confusion.

“Thunder,” Pike admonished, donning his own necklace and then reaching to put the other one on the druid.  “It's a necklace. You wear it on your neck, stupid.”  Pike winced and shook his head all of a sudden.  “I mean, sweetheart.”  Weird.

———

“Ugh,” Lance groaned, planting his head on the table after his little slip-up with Pike's dialogue.  “This is too hard.  Let's get a divorce.”

“We're not married yet, 'sweetheart.'”

“Don't you 'sweetheart' me, sweetheart,” Lance grouched, peeling his face from the table and jabbing an accusatory finger in Keith's direction.  “This would never have happened if you hadn't tried to turn this into a flirting competition.”

Keith hummed, leaning back in his seat and picking at his gloves with an air of fake casualness.  “Well, at least this answers the question of who wins.”  His eyes, aglow with the glint of challenge, darted in Lance's direction.  Lance's throat suddenly felt quite dry. “Since you're throwing in the towel.”

Lance opened his mouth once, shut it, opened it again, then began making blustery noises of inarticulate indignation.  There was no way he could let Keith win at romance.  He would never live it down.

“Uh, no no,” Hunk interrupted, frowning sternly at the two of them.  “Nobody's throwing in the towel.  In case you've forgotten, the sorceress told us we need Clia Root from this place, and the only reason we're allowed to set foot here right now is because you two—”  He pointed at them both emphatically.  “—are gonna make moon eyes at each other and smooch under a flower pot or wash your armpits in the Clianuun Falls or whatever these guys do to celebrate a wedding.”  His voice and expression left no room for argument.

Lance grimaced at the mental image, but nevertheless turned to meet Keith's gaze.  They both stared at each other for a moment, then simultaneously nodded in silent agreement.

———

So, it turned out that weddings were kind of a huge deal in Elmora-by-the-Falls.  Like, a monumental deal.  Pike had done some asking around while he was being whisked through the streets.

According to Elmoran tradition, marriage was not something to be taken lightly.  It was extremely rare for romantic partners to decide to join each other in union; the vast majority of Elmoran people spent their whole lives unmarried, to the extent that there was, on average, only one wedding per decade in Elmora-by-the-Falls.  A wedding was said to bring the town spiritual favor and good luck for an entire year afterwards, so when someone did get married, it was received with overwhelming joy by the general populace.

It just so happened that Elmora-by-the-Falls had not hosted a wedding for thirteen long years.  They were practically itching to get the ceremony started, and so it was not long before Pike and Thunder found themselves shoved out onto a marble balcony by a plethora of eager hands.

The balcony was already meticulously arranged: a sturdy burgundy cloth canopy swayed in the breeze overhead, acting as a sort of ceiling, and holes had been cut in the fabric to allow flowering vines to drape down in various places.  The edge of the balcony was lined with a shorter variant of the bushes that bordered the town; the strange little purple bugs glowed as they flitted around harmlessly.  The sun was beginning to set now, so their glow was more prominent against the backdrop of Elmora-by-the-Falls at evening time.  To the left, the waterfall roared; it was far enough not to be an inconvenience to the ceremony, but close enough to cast a fine, cooling mist that Pike reveled in.

The centerpiece, however, was the small white table set up at the edge of the balcony.  It was simple and square, about two feet high, and on its surface sat two small wooden bowls, a pitcher of water, and an array of sparkling powders whose rich and varied hues reminded Pike of a spice stall.

Pike and Thunder shared a look, then instinctively reached for each other's hands—because that was a thing now, them being stupidly in love—before approaching the table.  A cheery old Elmoran woman followed behind, hurrying them along, while the rest of the party spread out to the sides of the balcony and watched with a mixture of fascination and wariness.

“There you go, you two, right up to the front,” the old woman babbled, then grabbed them and turned them to face each other.  “Now, you see the soul dust?”  She gestured to the wooden display piece that held all of the powders in little carved-out holes.  Pike shot a look of alarm toward Thunder and mouthed “soul dust” at him, but the woman either did not notice or did not care.  “You will select the soul dust that you feel best embodies your partner.  It must be an instinctive decision.  Follow what you are most drawn to.”  One crooked finger pointed at the pitcher of water.  “You will use the pitcher to fill the bowls with the waters of Clianuun Falls.”  The finger shifted down toward the two small bowls.  “And then you will pinch your chosen powder into your bowl.  It will disperse in the water, and you will drink it.”

Pike waited for her to continue.

She did not.

“Is that it?” Thunder spoke up, voicing Pike's own confusion.

The woman huffed indignantly.  “Is that it?” she repeated, shaking her head and tutting as she turned around and hobbled off to the seats in the back.  “The boy is about to bind his soul in sacred matrimony, and he asks, 'Is that it?'”  Her muttering became unintelligible as she lowered herself into a plush chair.

Thunder blinked once at her, then turned back to Pike with a glimmer of determination in his eye.  “Ready?”  He squeezed Pike's hand briefly before finally dropping it.

Pike flashed him his most swoon-worthy grin.  “Born ready, baby!”  He whirled around to face the table and immediately grabbed the pitcher, pouring it into his bowl—and into Thunder's, because he was a gentleman, of course.  He wasted no time in inspecting the powders; he knew exactly what he wanted, and he spotted it instantly: a bright vermilion, twinkling like fairy dust.  With delicate precision, he transferred several pinches of the substance into his bowl and gasped as the water took on a glittering red color and began to emit a beautiful glow.

Thunder seemed similarly certain of his choice—an azure powder, Pike noted with no small amount of intrigue—but far less concerned with finesse.  He was just scooping the stuff into his bowl as if he was seasoning soup.  It was maddening, but it was also very Thunder, and for some reason that was no longer a negative assessment.

Thunder's water swirled into a shimmering blue, then started glowing just as Pike's had. The druid let out a soft “oh” and waited for a second, then gently—surprisingly gently, considering his manhandling of the soul dust—cupped the bowl in his hands and cradled it in front of his chest.  He turned to face Pike again, waiting for the man to mirror him, and when he did, they both stood there, suspended for a long moment.  Their gazes flickered quietly between the bowls and each other.

“Well,” Pike finally chirped, taking a deep breath.  “Bottoms up.”  He knocked the whole thing back in one go, coughing a bit when it went down the wrong way; Thunder merely watched with amusement and tipped his own bowl back, and their Elmoran audience erupted with praise.  “Eurgh,” Pike groaned, wincing at the flavor.  “Your soul tastes weird.”  He raised his hands in a placating fashion when he caught Thunder's flat look.  “But like, weird in a good way!  You know, in a romantic way!”

Thunder, impatient as ever, simply grabbed Pike's bowl, stacked it over his own, set them both down on the table, and placed his clawed hands on Pike's hips.  “I want to kiss you now,” he stated honestly and with no hesitation.  His lips glowed with a faint blue gloss—the remnants of his soul dust concoction.  It made Pike's heart stutter.

“Wh—uh—”  Pike paused for a second to regain himself.  “Um.”  He watched as Thunder tilted his head, his gaze penetrating and inquisitive as he waited for permission.  His eyes dipped to Pike's mouth.  Pike swallowed.  Waited.  And then: “Yes.”  And then again: “Yes yes yes yes.  Come here.  Yes.”

And Pike marveled at the rumbling laughter that escaped Thunder's lips as he leaned in, more than happy to oblige.

———

“Sorry, everyone, but I think that's all we have time for tonight,” Coran announced, his tone predictably peppy as he reached across the table to collect the various devices and dice that had gotten scattered about over the course of the previous couple of hours.  “An excellent session, if I do say so myself.  At this rate, you'll get that Clia Root in no time!”

“What?!” Lance interjected, rising to his feet.  He barely noticed as Keith stood with him.  “We only just got to kiss!  You can't just cut it off there!”  He spread his arms with outrage, smacking Keith in the chest by accident.  Oh, Lance thought absently.  That’s a nice chest.

Rather than bat the hand away, Keith said, “Lance is right.  We're in the middle of an action.  We should finish the scene.”  His mouth was set in a firm line, and his brows were drawn together in a display of resoluteness.  It was oddly attractive.

God, Lance was starting to find Keith's stupid eyebrows attractive.  How far he had fallen.

“Hm,” Allura began, a mischievous, faux-thoughtful lilt to her voice.  “I thought you two weren't enjoying this?”  Her expression was innocent enough, aside from the hint of a smile that she tried to hide by busying herself with gathering her belongings.  “Did something change?”

Lance squawked and turned to the others for help, but the traitors seemed preoccupied with grabbing their things and getting out.  “This is—it's not—”  He folded his arms across his chest and glared as Hunk, Pidge, and Allura, gave casual little waves and strolled through the door as if Lance was not currently having a crisis.  Hel-lo.

He was so caught up in his indignation that he failed to analyze Keith's silence as they all packed up and prepared to leave.  It wasn't until Lance was halfway out the door that he paused and turned around, only to find that Keith had followed him, that easily-identifiable Keith-brand of concentration plain on his face.  Still reeling from his embarrassment, Lance was seized by the conflicting impulses of wanting to crawl into a hole and die, and wanting to keep staring until his eyes fell out of their sockets, because—

Because Keith was blushing.  Wow.  What a sight.  It was darker around his neck, fainter around his jaw, and bright as a cherry on the smooth skin just below his cheekbones, where it mottled like sunlight on an ocean floor.

“Hey,” he said.

“… Hey,” Lance replied.

“Do you want to grab dinner with me?”  He looked like he was sucking on a particularly sour lemon.  It would have been funny if it wasn't mildly alarming.  “I was thinking we could talk some things over.”  His head was held high, but his hands were shoved in his pockets awkwardly, like he couldn't decide what to do with them.  “For—you know, for our characters.”

Lance felt his throat tie itself into a knot, twisting around at the base of his neck.  He regarded Keith for a moment, trying to read this odd behavior while simultaneously trying to convince himself this is not a date, McClain; you guys hang out all the time.  Get your head out of Elmora-by-the-Falls.  He thought he did a pretty credible job of ignoring the fluttering of his heart and keeping his expression neutral as he said, “Yeah, man.  Sure.”  He lifted his shoulders in a huge shrug.  Oo, no. Overkill.  His shoulders sank back down.  Casual.  Chill.

“Cool,” Keith breathed with a smile, like he could just do that, like it was simple.

And maybe it was.

“Yeah,” Lance replied, turning toward the exit and burying his own smile in the collar of his jacket. “Cool.”

———

“Hey, Coran?”

“Why, yes, Shiro?  How can I help?”

“Didn't you say you came up with all of these plots in your head?  Did you just … invent the whole sacred marriage tradition on the spot?”

“Shiro, my dear friend, sometimes one must guide the hand of fate.”

[liskantope]

Some thoughts on BLM and our current unrest

[Content warning for death and violence and even sexual abuse (although that’s not part of this week’s issue) and, you know, discussion of a current topic that’s very upsetting for many people. I can’t guarantee that the opinion I express won’t be additionally upsetting although I’m hoping for an open-minded rather than strident tone here. Also, it turned out super long. And I didn’t even get around to the protest vs. rioting discourse!]

This post is long, and since Tumblr for some reason has done away with the light horizontal bars separating sections of writing (I can’t imagine why, and I wish they’d bring it back), I’ll adopt the style of Slate Star Codex and The Last Psychiatrist to mark different sections.

I.

(The following hypothetical situation is inspired by the crimes of Jerry Sandusky of Penn State and Larry Nassar of Michigan State.)

Suppose it becomes public knowledge that in many American universities there are officials working in athletics departments who are using their programs to gain access to children and teenagers for the purpose of sexually abusing them. Say it is discovered that this has been going on for decades at most of these universities, with the perpetrators using their privilege and power to keep the suspicions of the higher-up administrators on the downlow. This would of course become a dominating national news item and lead to a public conversation about how poorly structured the system must be at universities to allow for such despicable crimes to go on, how we as a society are putting people in power who care more about their power than about the basic safety of children and teenagers, and so on. If enough people felt like university administrations or state governments were refusing to take action towards dissolving these corrupt systems, or if they disagreed with the actions being taken, there might be full-scale protests or even riots along with the vigils that would take place in any case. I mean, I believe all of this is basically what happened when the Sandusky and Nassar situations broke out some years back.

Now suppose that in addition, when looking at all these horrific revelations from universities all around the country, it became noticeable that the victims of these sex crimes were disproportionately young people growing up in poverty; let’s say fully one third of the victims were growing up in households whose annual income was under $30,000. (I don’t recall the Sandusky case in great detail but something like that was probably true there to a more dramatic extent since he got access to his victims through a program designed for underprivileged children.) This makes the situation feel even more tragic -- don’t kids from low-income backgrounds suffer enough disadvantages already? These monsters that are protected by The System are adept at preying on the most vulnerable, and clearly this (hypothetical but altogether not unrealistic) phenomenon highlights the vulnerability of those who are not economically privileged.

Now in such a situation, class issues would definitely become at least a minor part of the discourse, but I have a hard time imagining that the entire main thrust of the public outrage would focus on classism, even if (and this is something I can’t imagine either!) the only cases being projected by the media to become common public knowledge, out of the whole series of university athletics sex crimes, were the ones where mainly poor kids and teenagers were targeted. In fact, I expect that if any media outlet tried to present the entire thing as being a class issue and implied that it affected only poor kids, there would be a lot of backlash especially on the grounds of this coming across as a big middle finger to the higher-income-background molestation victims. I just don’t see it happening. Primarily, the outrage would be centered on the fact that university administrations allow high-ranking people in their athletics departments get away with despicable violations of young people for decades. The fact that a disproportionately high number of those young people are from underprivileged backgrounds would be treated as sort of a secondary issue, if properly noticed by the broader public at all.

So, if you’ve read this far you probably see where I’m going with this. And I know that the above hypothetical scenario furnishes nowhere near a perfect analogy to what has people riled up right now. But why is it that in my hypothetical nightmare crime scenario, the prevalence of the crime itself (rather than which demographic is disproportionately on the receiving end) is what constitutes the outrage, whereas in the real-life scenario of numerous documented instances of police brutality and murder, the entire thrust of the public outrage is centered on the notion that this is all about racism, that yeah there must be something seriously amiss in a system that lets cops get away with brutal violence towards innocent civilians but pretty much every single statement expressing that sentiment will frame it in terms of racism while the existence white victims of police brutality is essentially never even acknowledged?

From what I can see, in this age where everyday happenings can easily be recorded by random bystanders and the recordings can easily become accessible to the public, we are seeing evidence that a number of American cops are way, way too liberal with lethal violence, either through direct training or through a tendency towards paranoia of how dangerous a civilian under arrest might be or through psychopathic tendencies that attract certain kinds of people to a profession where brutally violent behavior is too easily excused in the courts after the fact. I don’t know to what degree these relatively few pieces of documented footage reflect a large part of the police force rather than just “a few bad apples”, but on some level it doesn’t matter -- an event like the murder of George Floyd should not be tolerated and the fact that many such instances are happening every year seems unacceptable. This is true regardless of whether Floyd’s race actually played any significant part in Derek Chauvin’s decision to apply very excessive force. Then there are statistics to reckon with -- I don’t have the skillset that some have for knowing where to look up data and rationally analyzing it, but to my understanding it’s quite unambiguous that American law enforcement officers kill a lot more people than the police forces of most other countries, and this would seem to point to a serious problem. I have generally heard that in absolute terms, in fact more white men are killed this way than black men, but relative to the ratio of white people to black people, black men are killed disproportionately often. Of course there seems to be no room whatsoever for discussion of any possible reason this could be aside from purely racist motives on the parts of the cops, which is certainly one of my issues with the whole topic, but let’s set that aside for the moment and assume for the sake of argument that this disparity is entirely attributable to anti-black racism. Even with this assumption, does it make sense to present the entire issue of police brutality as a purely racial one?

Here is another analogy to something that is not only non-hypothetical but is an even bigger current situation: the pandemic. It’s frequently been remarked on that Covid19 has been killing at a significantly higher rate among racial minorities. And yet the broader framing of the crisis we’re in hasn’t been that it’s an African-American issue or that every failure of government officials to respond effectively is primarily an instantiation of racism. The racial component of this is treated secondarily, in fact with far less emphasis than the direct crisis which affects everyone in the country even if not in equal measures.

With the murders of George Floyd and Ahmaud Abery, as with every other story of a cop killing of a black person that goes viral, it’s not only that the narrative frames the race component as the primary issue -- the race component is framed as the only issue. This is done in such an absolute and unquestioning manner that I’m still a little taken aback whenever I see each new “We denounce racism!” announcement from almost every company whose mailing system I’m in: my Unitarian Universalist organization, the university I work for, Lyft, Airbnb, etc., not that any of them actually suggest a plan of action beyond donating to Black Lives Matter and other related organizations.

I think I can answer my own questions about why the narrative is coming out this way. Some areas of social justice enjoy a much more prestigious position in America than others do, and racism seems to dominate all the rest. (I’ve come to see this as a very American thing, no doubt due to the exceptionally dramatic nature of my country’s struggles against racial oppression, although it’s probably the case in Canada as well and maybe to a comparable extent in other Anglophone countries.) There is no surer way to make an issue more hot-button than by framing it as a racial issue, except in the unusual case (as in my Covid example) that the issue is actually of urgent and immediate concern to all citizens. Opposition to something like police brutality could have some momentum on its own, but as motivation for activism it has nowhere near the mighty strength in our culture that anti-racism does. In the hypothetical scenario about child abuse at universities, we have one type of social injustice, economic inequality, which has mostly been relegated to the background in the recent history of social activism (yes, Bernie Sanders has had a significant following, but my impression is that even many of his most diehard supporters get more passionate about racial inequality than economic inequality, at least when it comes to fiscal issues other than health care reform). Whereas child molestation is condemned in the strongest terms by our society perhaps even more universally than racism is (even though this universality makes it less of a cause for energetic activism -- I never hear anyone complain that “we live in a molestation culture” or anything like that). So, issues viewed as racial have far more memetic endurance than non-racial issues or even the exact same fundamental issues when not viewed from a racial angle.

Or, here is another way that I’ve considered looking at it: because police violence happens disproportionately to African-Americans, police violence could be considered to be “an African-American issue”, and since anti-racism activism is already quite a strong force in modern American culture, the issue of police brutality will naturally find an outlet to the public through the lens of African-American issues. Therefore, this is the only angle from which most of us will ever see it.

Of course the obvious thing that someone would surely point out here is that pretty much all of the examples of police brutality we’ve been seeing for years have white people victimizing black people (George Zimmerman did not present to me as white from the moment I first glanced at him, and by many definitions he is a PoC, but I guess he’s close enough to white that people were able to ignore this). Therefore it seems logical to assume that anti-black racism is the only lens to view these events through. Well, it would be logical except that we should all be able to think critically enough to realize that there are probably tons of videos out there of innocent white people being victimized by cops but those aren’t the ones that go viral. In fact, videos of black people being victimized by non-white cops probably also don’t get very far in the memosphere* -- it’s occurred to me that perhaps if the Asian policeman on the scene had been the one in the center of the frame pinning Floyd to the ground, this atrocity might never have become public knowledge!

(*Did I just make up that term? Google isn’t showing anything.)

And honestly, for this reason, I can’t help feeling particularly bad right now for loved ones of nonblack people who were victims of such crimes while being treated as if their cases didn’t exist.

This is not me trying to covertly imply support for “All Lives Matter” here. I’ve never felt the slightest bit of attraction to that counter-hashtag, which has always struck me as subtly obnoxious in implying that Black Lives Matter’s name is equivalent to saying “only black lives matter”, which of course BLM is not saying. Black lives do matter and in many ways still constantly get devalued and it is good that there’s an activist group out there whose main purpose is to stand up for them. But my discussion above does point to a specific issue -- probably the biggest of two or three issues -- I have with BLM. It would be one thing to say, “Police brutality can be considered a black issue since it affects black people disproportionately, so we should form a Black Lives Matter group and include it as one of the things we want to fight against.” Instead, BLM’s rhetoric strongly implies, “Police brutality is entirely a black issue and we’ll round off the entirety of it to racism and make opposition to it our main plank”. (Compare, from an secularist activist group, “Anti-gay bigotry often arises from fundamentalist religion and the justification for anti-gay-rights legislation threatens separation of church and state; therefore we should consider it an atheist/secularist issue and place gay rights issues among our concerns” vs. “Anti-gay bigotry and legislation is simply a manifestation of religion’s attempt to dominate non-religion so we should make opposition to it our main plank and not acknowledge or stand up for gay Christians.” Again, not a perfect analogy, but I hope it shows where I’m coming from.)

II.

I already wrote a post exactly four years ago describing and criticizing what I called “protest culture”. My point in linking to it here is not to revisit the discussion about Bernie Sanders or even the question of protesters’ deep-down motives but to endorse the following paragraph describing the kind of protest activism I felt (and still feel) could be helpful:

I definitely think there’s an important place in our culture for organized protest.  Sometimes we ordinary citizens need to show our dissatisfaction to the higher-ups in a way that they are forced to notice and not ignore.  But I strongly prefer protests that express dissent from a particular action, propose a concrete solution, and include many people who are able to make nuanced arguments in favor of this solution.  If there is no good consensus as to a serious solution, then I’ll settle for some particular action that is being protested against.  For instance, I would have proudly joined the marches against the war in Vietnam had I been around for it, and would have joined the marches against the war in Iraq had I been a little older at the time.  I would consider joining protests against, for instance, particular amendments I feel strongly about.  I did not, on the other hand, feel comfortable with the “99 percent” movement.  What was it expressing a sentiment against, exactly, apart from the very vague notion that a few people at the top screw things over for the rest of us?  (And by the way, I suspect that demonizing the entire top 1% was too heavy-handed; it’s probably only some in the top .01% who have been doing the main damage.)  There seemed to be little organization to this movement, and little common purpose except “let’s protest for the cause of being vaguely left-wing!”  The best argument I remember hearing in its favor was when a student explained to me the main strategy behind the movement: they would essentially fight guerilla-style by occupying large areas for a very long amount of time in a way that the top politicians couldn’t ignore, never, ever giving it up until things change in Washington.  But I was still pretty sure that at some point, the movement would have to die down, and was willing to bet that this would happen before anything changed in Washington.

I’ve never felt as fervently as I do now that too many law enforcement officers in the US are out of control and some kind of reform needs to be done (or at least strongly considered, in a serious conversation) to the system so that it can be effective in keeping them in check and outlawing certain forms of excessive force. There’s a lot I don’t understand about the demands and risks involved in law enforcement, but I really can’t imagine how there’s any possible excuse for what Officer Chauvin did, or for his colleagues who stood by and watched him do it. One reason I’m bringing up everything I did in the section above is that a massive protest movement based entirely on opposing racism seems to me like the exact wrong way to bring about the kind of reform we need, in part because it fails to recognize that the link from the bare facts of these events to possible racist motives is far less direct than the link to the overpowered nature of American law enforcement.

What is a campaign centered on “Be less racist!” possibly going to accomplish? Yelling at the police to be less racist isn’t going to change the behavior of individual cops who might be subconsciously racist but don’t realize it, many of whom are likely to react with defensiveness (because racism on an abstract level is sufficiently shamed in modern western culture that nobody likes to admit to themselves that they’re being racist). It’s even less likely to change the behavior of individual cops who are maliciously racist. It’s not going to change the policies set in place for law enforcement when, in this day and age, it would be highly illegal and unconstitutional to have explicitly racist policies in the first place. (It can be argued that some of these policies are a part of systemic racism, but then in my opinion the activist movement should focus on attacking those specific policies.)

In fact, I can’t think of any situation, however race-related, where I expect it helps to yell “Be less racist!” except for when (1) you are protesting against a particular law which discriminates against people of a certain (minority) race; or (2) you are denouncing a particular candidate or person in power who has explicitly endorsed racism in public or in private. Both of these scenarios are highly rare in 2020. Maybe there are other neighboring scenarios I’m not thinking of at the moment, but I’m pretty sure our current scenario isn’t one of them.

I imagine that if we set race aside for a moment and focus on police reform, by waiting for background information on the Floyd case to come out and piecing together what led to this injustice and pinpointing which factors led to it, a difference could be made. I’m not saying that this should all be done dispassionately, and in fact acting with passion and emotional force is crucial. And I’m not saying that in the wake of such an obvious murder everyone should just stay quiet until more facts come out. It makes sense to cry out in pain and anger as an immediate reaction, and I’m not going to criticize anyone for doing this, especially someone who feels closer to the tragedy (yes, including through shared racial background) than I do. But letting this get immediately drowned in a rampage against perceived racism and only that, against a system that has shown time and time again that it clearly doesn’t think itself racist at all and perhaps (in at least most of its components) has no deliberate intention of being, doesn’t seem likely to produce anything but further acrimony and polarization.

[TL;DR for these last two sections: it would seem like a more effective response to focus on police brutality and overpowered-ness as the main issue rather than making it all about race.]

III.

I forced myself to watch as much of the video of George Floyd’s final hours and minutes as I could. I didn’t actually succeed in finding the full video, and maybe that’s for the best, because what I did see chilled me to the bone and distressed me more than almost any real-life footage I’ve ever seen. I’m not as eloquent as some at putting my raw emotions in writing and don’t know the words to describe how twisted up it made me feel to “witness” an obvious murder of a man whose greatest “crime” was resisting getting pushed into a police car, and to watch him dying one of the most undignified deaths I can imagine ever being forced on anyone. I felt momentarily physically ill and wanted to cry.

Others in my orbit -- mostly white people; my social bubbles have always been disproportionately white and Asian and certainly nonblack -- have expressed a similar emotional reaction to mine except with the added factor of disgust at the obvious racism present. This was just simply not part of my immediate emotional reaction. On a cognitive level I am aware that there clearly has to be some degree of anti-black racism in law enforcement, even independent of classism and other factors, and that could be of some relevance in any individual case (although it would seem very tricky to assess how much). But this awareness doesn’t have time to kick in when I open a video or news story that’s already been presented to me as “another black man killed by racist cop” which reminds me that this is embedded in a particular media narrative and makes me feel instinctively on guard against letting my perceptions be colored by it.

Black people seeing these apparently all feel on the level of deep, fundamental knowledge that this happened to Floyd because he was black and that it’s a fate they have to constantly fear happening to themselves, or at least that’s what the white people around me are constantly claiming. I feel epistemically helpless when it comes to knowing what the “average” (rather than one of those on the forefront of racial activism) African-American’s take on this is, or how fearful the “average” African-American is of the police on a daily basis as compared to a white person’s, especially prior to the age when videos of police abuse started going viral.

But I’m certain that a significant part of the African-American community is right now in a deep pain that I can’t really imagine, because I don’t quite know how it feels to perceive one horrible tragedy as indicative of something that is done to attack a specific minority that I belong to.

I expect that some of them learn about an incident like this, and an incident like the one with Ahmoud Arbery, and feel on the level of social intuition (I think I’ve sometimes called this “social sense”), developed from a web of personal experiences, that these individual terrible choices clearly had a lot to do with the victims being black. I would be a hypocrite to fault someone for reaching a strong conviction based on this kind of social intuition, because I do it myself all the time -- in fact, I often express such conclusions on this blog. I feel less qualified to rely on this social intuition and my own experience when it comes to race issues, but I invoke it all the time on this blog when I talk about male-female dynamics in order to argue on controversial position on gender relations, for instance, because I do have lifelong ample experience with men and women interacting.

If many black people in America have a deep instinctual feeling for the racial aspect of many of these attacks, then I do acknowledge that a lot of that is probably coming from somewhere other than media narratives. It might come from everyday interactions with police, observing that they are stopped and treated hostilely by the police than their white friends seem to be, or who knows what else. And those voices with their explanations need to be at least listened to. I wish it were easier to hear them through all the tribalistic noise and confusion.

So trying to better understand all this is part of my struggle at the moment. This post might not age well -- I wouldn’t be surprised if I view some of my turns of phrase in this section of it with some embarrassment even sometime in the near future -- but I need to commit myself to trying.

Anyway, I guess all of this is to say that my lengthy arguments above aren’t meant to claim that the instances of police brutality we’ve been seeing aren’t related in some way to racism, but that reflexively framing them in terms of racism seems guaranteed to bring only more pain to an already painful situation.

[hyperionswrath--archived]

@onepartbrave

If there was a medal for unrelenting persistency, the guy bothering him would be almost tying with Seifer. Seriously, no matter how long Squall ignored him or relented and shot a withering glare, the patron did not give up. Bothersome at its baseline but otherwise an unimportant nuisance trying to waste his time. Keeping his gaze pointedly forward, he was only aware of someone’s closer proximity over the reasonably loud music due to years of consistent training. About to snap at the stranger for clearly crossing the invisible line drawn around him, the brunet froze when hushed words reached him over the noise, and of all things, it made his form shiver. He… he’s so close, I…

Stumped, any response Squall had been forming failed to vocalise and he swallowed uneasily. Ripe with tension at the other man’s tenacious gall to approach him and being surrounded by numerous happy-hands people anyway, he felt it ascend when his brain caught up. The blond, burly and intimidating to unfamiliar faces, successfully scared off the insistent lecher—by hooking an arm around Squall’s hips and yanking him cautiously closer. Suddenly, the music was muffled, and his head felt like it was providing the thumping backdrop. Like his heartbeat had risen to reside in his throat and it smothered out everything else. Mere seconds ticking by were equivalent to hours and… time resumed only when the (defensive?) grip left him and space was given.

Bizarrely, the tension leftover from the exchange was no longer riddled with anxiety and irritation—it was anticipating.

“…What the hell is wrong with me?” he grumbled, volume just above a whisper. Sighing haplessly, his head fell forward as he raised a hand to rub at his eyes with a palm. Tonight was getting weirder by the minute and he was tired of being out of the loop with his own body. “Yeah, sure,” he concurred louder in response to Seifer’s direction. Pinching briefly at the bridge of his nose, he rubbed once at the scar there out of habit before his hand dropped and head lifted. Spotting the drinks—quick service—he took one in each hand and started off, completely ignoring the way he could feel the guidance again.  

Wading passed people and furniture alike, Squall spotted the gathering they were clearly heading towards. Three more dressed like Seifer, clearly his comrades, and four unfamiliar faces. Well… three. A flashback to the picture message sent alerted the brunet to who the man was and, unbeknownst to him, the start of a frosty glare was forming and aimed solely at the poor soul he’d never met. Really, after tonight, he promised to never drink alcohol again as it evidently messed with his inhibitions far too much for his liking.

Shoulders set in a subconsciously confrontational way, Squall started to head for a vacant seat—a few were left but one open in an obvious manner next to his alleged target—but halted when Seifer encouraged him to. The cold glare melted away for earnest inquisitiveness (despite all his resilience to stop appearing the slightest bit vulnerable) and grey-blues locked intently on jade-greens. Huh… they look darker in this light. Nose crinkling at not liking that fact, preferring the colour that reminded him of life-giving Earth, he unintentionally scowled lightly. After was when he registered the words spoken.  

…I don’t need protection, asshole. I’m a Hyne-damned fighter too! Pretty sure that sentiment conveyed in the flat expression he shared with the man’s retreating back, Squall was rooted awkwardly to the spot for a moment, watching from the outside as Seifer joined his friends, appearing more at ease than he had been all day. That’s—not right. He was fine earlier, even when I…  

Decisively not following that thought track, he shook himself out of the immobilised state and headed for his highlighted seat. Narrow eyes studied his movements, apparently watching where he was choosing to sit, and dismay joined the keen gaze when he took his aforementioned perch next to the non-Glaive. Playing ignorant to the man’s dilemma, Squall set the blond’s beverage down on the nearest stable surface, certain it’d be safe in front of them all. Relaxing back as though he had no care in the world, he appeared all the part comfortable in the blond’s coat—obviously it belonged to Seifer since Squall wasn’t donning the uniform—and sneakily observed the mundane man from the corner of his eye.  

Curious was the feeling of puzzling protectiveness he was experiencing. Seifer was big, strong, took no one’s shit and sure as hell didn’t need permission to do what he pleased. Or who he pleased, if Squall guessed the case right. Something didn’t sit right with him about it, nor the eager expression lighting up the stranger’s face every time he thought Seifer might chance a glance his way. It was downright embarrassing if you asked him, pining so obviously. Surely desperation wasn’t something his former rival was keen on?

Once more, the thoughts of why does it matter entered his mind and put Squall ill at ease. Sitting back, he sunk into the cosy cushion of the chair—big enough for two but he’d plonked in the middle deliberately so Seifer would have to sit away from the guy—and crossed one leg lightly over the other, booted foot tapping faintly in time with the music. Finally thinking it safe to not lecher-watch, he examined the fine establishment in greater detail. While he would’ve never journeyed here without reason… he couldn’t deny the appeal it held. Scantily dressed people didn’t faze him that much, it was more their fearless attitudes of trying to get in his pants.  

Jokes on them, my belts stress me out at times. They have no chance.

Leaving his company for the night to his own devices for the time being, Seifer took a deliberate moment to greet his comrade Glaives, exchanging brief pleasantries over the music which, accomodating to the seats placed around the stage, seemed to not carry as loudly here as it did in the rest of the hall. He lingered with Kerr a moment longer, a couple of brief glances were shot from both men to the brunet mercenary, as Seifer explained in curt detail how they knew each other and that the other Glaive should think nothing much of the reserved attitude Squall tended to display. One of the major qualities of the man was that he was extraordinarily pleasant in that he didn't care much for people's attitude towards him, most certainly a reason why he was able to bear with the tall blond for such a long time.

Tredd and Luche had registered the unknown companion of their comrade with a brief and polite nod, much more interested in the girls they were trying to swoon than to care much if another guy tagged along - so long as he wouldn't interfere in their evenings plan of getting laid.

After a while, Kerr darted off to the bar to procure some bottles of hard alcohol for their table so they could refill their glasses at their leisure, bringing Seifer's attention back to Squall who had already found a spot to get comfortable, it seemed like. Steering his steps toward the man, his eyes then fell on the guy sitting trapped between Luche (who was already all over his date) and the brunet, seemingly buzzing with anticipation to greet him. Emerald gaze took in the appearance - not too shabby - of silverwhite hair pulled back into a lazy ponytail, eyes like dark chocolate and pouty lips. Not shabby at all. But then again, not as interesting as the vision his lifetime ice-prince was exhibiting, all comfortable in his uniform coat and shooting forbidding glances to the man next to him, probably full of resentment and judging how someone could actually want to talk to the tall blond on their own free will, looking forward to it none the less.

Seifer took a moment to register the deliberate way in which his former rival had placed himself, taking in more space than was neccessary, which in and on itself was rather unusual if he dared say so himself. Still, it didn't stop him from serving the silverhaired stranger his most charming smile, reaching over the table to shake his hand and leaning in enough so he could catch his name. "Hi, I'm Midhir!", the silvery voice spoke, earning him Seifer's name in return before the Glaive straightened up again to sink onto the only seat remaining next to Squall, shooting him a most amused sideglance. “Sure he’s not your type?”, he hummed teasingly.

In all honesty, he'd have expected to be the one shielding the man from his acquaintances, not the other way around, risking to be bothered with the intent of a conversation none the less. His eyes were drawn to the stage as the preparations seemed to be coming to a close, instruments in place and a decorative structure hanging above from which next to transparent, white drapes of silk framed the whole setting, occasional strings of crystals running along them. Lucky for Squall, tonight's act didn't seem to be one of the more vulgar sort but rather artsy.

His attention was caught when Kerr returned, placing the bottles on their table in such a way everyone could reach them comfortably, while Tredd held out a small, delicately embroidered silver box to everyone around. Inside lay an assortment of tiny squares that looked like paper, as well as some pills. Considering for but a moment, Seifer shook his head, lifting one hand for emphasis that he was out for tonight. Not that he didn't want some other kind of rush besides the alcohol, but his mind was set to keep an eye out on the brunet. Why ever he should care, he did not know.

"What, has he your balls grabbed besides your coat too?", Tredd teased with a snarky grin, shaking his head. "Careful I don't have your balls instead, Furia. Get off my back!", the blond retorted testily without a second thought, punching the man in the shoulder for good measure which earned him a snicker. What a dick. He had enough fun as it was and he damn well needn't justify himself. Muttering something under his breath, he then crossed his arms and leaned back in the plush cushions, knee accidentally brushing Squall's as he slumped there.

His moping didn't last long though when the lights around them dimmed and the music faded, signalling that the performance was about to begin. Reaching for the drink Squall had procured for him, he took a great swig of it, shooting the man another sideglance and in the process catching dark brown doe-eyes gazing at him with worship. It would have been cute if it didn't, indeed, come off so very desperate. Smirking at the thought, he turned back to the stage and watched the musicians quietly take up their places - a cello, a set of electric drums and a set of congas - followed by the graceful figure of a dark-skinned woman draped in a daring, yet tasteful white dress, revealing one toned leg, a flat belly and her slender arms. It didn't take a genius to see she was of Galahdian decent, which only promised for a most interesting show.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Beth and WOD!Billy - ❤♡❥ღ💕💘💝💓💌💟💙💚💜💛

This || Not Accepting

❤: who is more affectionate in public? in private? 

In public Billy becomes a distant shore. Too far to reach no matter how hard she swims, how much sea water she ends up swallowing, how far she stretches out her fingers to reach him. To hold his hand, to press her cheek against his arm, to take umbrage in the shelter of all that he is. He reminds her there are cameras everywhere. There are covert agents like himself, there’s research assistants, Extraordinary Citizens. That are all on the Front Lines ready to devour any mistake he makes. To bring the whole thing crashing down on their heads, and that as radiant as he finds his older sister, that she is not exactly shy about flying her Deviant flag, is she?

It crushes some of her spirit and Billy regrets having to do it, but it’s for the Greater Good. He always tells himself that but alone, in his own sanctum, those beliefs are starting to crumble. One part of him wonders if this is all a test of his truest loyalties to his convention, carefully constructed in the Ivory Tower by Control. Forcing him to choose between humanity and three very high value targets. If capture and indoctrination is the plan, or eradication if he doesn’t manage to bring them over. Another part of him, the one that is still fur and fang and not quite the eidolon of his Enlightened Genius shakes its head in shame. Billy should know better. He should remember that dying light in her eyes and swear to make it up to her, no matter the cost. Maybe this is malfunction. Maybe this is what madness feels like. ♡: who is the bigger romantic openly? secretly?

There’s a movie she’s made him watch, that she’s seen a dozen times, enough that she doesn’t miss the words, doesn’t need them to flash across the screen. She curls up against him and jokingly tells him the main protagonist is clearly an Ecstatic ~one of her so called Nine Traditions~ and that she thinks the paradigm contained in it is beautiful.

He enjoys it because it makes his apartment feel less lonely, less sterile. It leaves the ghost of her as an impression against his skin. The scent of popcorn and the coconut and sandalwood and cinnamon that always clings to her skin will now linger on his. She’s soft and curved and quiet, all the things that his world is not. And he has that weird feeling that she somehow bypasses his circuitry, his implants, even though that should be impossible, to dig a place inside of him that she can fit.

But even when she’s gone, a line from the film sticks with him. One he can’t shake, so he hides it in an internal file buried so deep that even he will have trouble finding it again.

"Have you never met a woman who inspires you to love? Until your every sense is filled with her? You inhale her. You taste her. You see your unborn children in her eyes and know that your heart has at last found a home. Your life begins with her, and without her it must surely end." 

❥: who is more likely to plan something big for valentine's day?

He’s going to punch the other two dead in the face when they get back. Because it can’t be anything less than a conspiracy between the three of them that he goes to sleep in his own bed, all algorithms in suspend mode, only to wake up to the sound of waves lapping against the wood and fibreglass of the hold, the sea choppy and cold and grey. Like the sky if he bothers to look out of a porthole.

The bunk is a little cramped for his liking, not exactly built for a man of his stature and construction. The benefit of hypertech enhanced limbs is that they don’t exactly ache for the narrowed confinement. The space beside him still holds the ghost of her warmth, her scent, and it isn’t hard to imagine the sheets wrapped around her lithe frame. Hair spilling over his arm like a dark flood. But it’s her voice that teases him awake.  “So since we no can do da whole public kine,” she murmurs, “I t’ought I’d surprise ya. Ren’ned one boat for couple days. An’ bonus... my friends who helpin’ us out... says dey know of a crew a pirates dat need t’ be... how ya say it? Sanitise?” He winces at the word, and how close it is to the reality of it. He raises a brow, loath to interrupt her when her voice is still raspy from sleep, and because everyone else is used to discounting her, cutting her off. “Cause dey fangy-fangy/bitey-bitey.” She makes comical fangs with her fingers curled in front of her mouth. He slides out of bed and into a slumped seating position and she comes over, sits beside him. She presses a mug of scalding hot tea into his hands. It’s dark. Slightly sweet. It doesn’t matter when she smiles. “Happy Volentimes day. An’ good mornin’.” He presses his nose into the crown of her hair. “Mornin’ Izzy.”

ღ: who is more likely to initiate hand-holding in public?

Standing on the upper deck, face in the wind, eyes closed, Billy can hear it. The distinct creak of timbre. The whip-snap of the canvas in a gale, his hands weathered and calloused as he climbs the shrouds to secure a ratline. Everything is heavy with sea spray and the acrid smell of spent powder. The rush of having overtaken a heavy vessel. The pounding of his heart after a successful boarding action. New men aboard. Supplies and wealth taken and secured below. He can see faces and hear names that were long since dead, maybe never existed at all.  There’s a word on the tip of his tongue but when he reaches for it, it vanishes. It tells him he doesn’t really want to know because Billy doesn’t really forget, does he? He doesn’t. And so the only person standing against him is himself.

He blames her with her talk of pirates and her gift of the open sea past the international dateline. Gives him fanciful day dreams, that’s all it is.  He stiffens when he feels skin on skin. Rudimentary procedure tells him it’s her before he even opens his eyes. Which he chooses not to. Instead he curls his fingers around hers; too small, too delicate. Afraid he’ll crush them if he isn’t careful. Afraid he’ll crush her. 

💕: who is more likely to make huge declarations of love in front of other people?

“I will NOT have you shaming the family, Elizabeth!” For a moment with his voice roused in anger, Andy sounds exactly like their father. And she stands there, taking the brunt of it, doe eyes full of a shame and grief that did not come close to being able to be described. She is reduced to something less than herself, something barely more than a child the way she twists her fingers into the waist of her skirt, head tilted toward the floor where maybe that gaze could burn a hole into the wood floors. Shoulders forward and down, all of her making itself as small as possible. Perhaps protectively, perhaps because it cannot hold up the heaviness of Andy’s anger. “....m’ sorry.”  Barely two words, slurred into one.

She hadn’t meant to do or say anything wrong. She hadn’t meant to make a scene at the party. Hadn’t meant to make Billy chase her into the room. Of course, there’s a lot of things she doesn’t mean and it makes it so hard to breathe sometimes.

She can’t say she really understands why he’s mad. Why he’d waited until everyone, including Billy had left, why Baz’s half-hearted interference from the kitchen where he’s cleaning up... “Leave’r ‘lone, Andy” ... goes unheard. “May I be ‘scused?” “Go to bed. We’ll deal with damage control in the morning.” Beth decides then and there, she hates Halloween.

💘: who developed a crush on the other first?

It’s called the Westermarck Effect. A psychological hypothesis that people who live in close domestic proximity during the first few years of their lives become desensitised to sexual attraction with one another. And when a brother and sister, for example, are brought up separately, never meeting until they reach adulthood or adolescence they might find one another highly sexually attractive. The science clearly bears out.

But he wants to hear it from Andy’s own mouth.  The source of his bitterness, his distance, the rage that has him lifting hands and laying them on his little brother. Panting, he looks up from where he’s crouched. Jaw hard. Back of his hand swiping at the lick of blood on his lip. He hitches himself to his feet and reaches out a hand, waits until Andy reaches back and helps pull the other man to his feet. An honest dust up that’s gotten most things out of the way so that they can actually talk. “So tell me, Andrew, is it that she’s makin’ eyes, or that it’s not at you?”

💝: who spends more time (possibly overthinking) what presents to get the other?

The adverts on the telly and radio and every bit of media give off suggestions. Every kiss begins with Kay. De Beers A Diamond is Forever. It’s all part of the carefully cultivated stratagems of the Syndicate. A means to control the economy based on the products it chooses to endorse, and which they decide to bury.  But the problem isn’t his fellow conventions, but rather the fact that Beth isn’t that kind of woman. She doesn’t want for material things, not in the way that can be neatly wrapped up in a box with a bow. She wants for the sea in her soul. She wants for a quiet acceptance. She wants for the soft kisses and hands pressed to hearts vowing forever at the end of the fairy tale. She wants an end to the War or at least an escape from it. She wants all of humanity to achieve this mystical Ascendance of hers, that reminds him of a song from the 70s or something What can you give a woman like that? You don’t exactly. You can’t. It means switching sides. It means becoming a traitor to your own. Not that she’s ever asked. Not that she has to, what with everything that is changing within him. She’s shown him things that he never contemplated before, things he’s never hoped to experience. For the first time, he’s starting to question the party line. And that’s dangerous. “Let me see the other one. The one with the pearls.”

💓: who initiates most physical contact?

She tucks her feet under his leg when they’re cold. Which is always. Her fingers find a home intertwined with his the moment he stops typing. Even if there’s a mile of couch, she tries to climb into his lap at every opportunity. She talks with her hands and smiles with her eyes and her lips at once. Small kisses on the back of his neck. Somehow she’s always brushing against him as she walks by. She’s always been the physical type. It’s a language as well as a form of affection and he thinks he’s starting to figure it out. Or at least he thinks he has, but then she changes the rules.

Suddenly she doesn’t quite meet his eyes. How she finds a way to not be in the same room even if they are seated right next to him. When she dances with him it feels like they’re on other planets.

For all that he wants to give chase, he doesn’t. Gives her space. Hopes that’s enough to bring her back around because he’s starting to miss the little things. Teeth has other things to say about it but you don’t always listen to your not so imaginary weasel.

💌: who is more likely to send cutesy texts to the other?

Sheryl from R and D eyes him when he laughs out loud. He waves a hand and recites the pithier parts of an Onion article he’d read weeks before. All while staring at the face she’s making, rubber glove on her head like a cockscomb. She’s always sending him little things. A picture from the ER. Something silly she saw on the way to or from work, depending on what shifts she’s taken. Corny little jokes he knows has taken her weeks to come up with. Things he memorises and deletes because he doesn’t want a single trace of her that can be caught by the higher ups. But that doesn’t mean that he wants her to stop. In a lot of ways it speaks volumes that she cares enough about him, that she thinks about him as much as he does her, that she sends them. His favourite so far is the Giraffe prodding a duck with one enormously long leg. He normally doesn’t send anything back, no channel completely secure, but he does make a point to mention it when he gets back to his place. Which reminds him, she’s been spending an awful lot of time there.

💟: who spends time reading their zodiac compatibility?

She sits sprawled on the floor. There’s books and charts, some ancient and some new, all around her. She has graph paper, pencils and pens, a compass and slide rule, all the trappings of higher mathematics. But she’s not solving complex equations or a new hypothesis for string theory. “It’s complete rubbish!” he laughs, stirring the garlic green beans around the wok with a touch of sesame oil. “The stars aren’t even in the same position as they were back then, some have burnt out, the gravitational axis of-” “Nu-uh!” she counters, just as amused, just as passionate. “Astrology one of da very firs’ sciences, William. In fact, ya very own Celestial Mastahs-” Void Engineers, Beth. They’re called the Void Engineers. “-spoke wide an’ advocated it in academic circle. Related it t’ astronomy, alchemy, me-meat- “Meteorology.” “Yeah, dat. An medicine. Da Greek, Chinese, Mayans, Egyptians, Macedonians. All’a da big civilisation. Even in da political circles of literature, li’dat Dante Alighieri an’ Chaucer, Shakespeare, Lope De Vega, Calderon de la Barca, who I don’ t’ink was related t’ Hannibal but mebbe. No was til da nineteen century when you guys edged forward wi’ da Sleepahs-” “Beth?” “Yeah?” “Could you come here a second?” She rises like a very strange Polynesian Venus from her sea of pseudoscience and pads her way over to him. He leans down and kisses her gently on the lips. She pulls back from him and shakes her head, flashing him her shark-smile. “See? See dat? Spoken li’ true Libra.”

💙: who is more protective?

He watches her from near the treeline, crouched down low, one set of knuckles in the deep loam offering himself balance. She rabbit runs and for a moment he is consumed more in her motion than watching the surroundings. Shapely legs and perfect little feet fleet, flashing their tawny hue in the sun. Braids bouncing down her back. Go, girl, go. She almost makes it. But on her blind side there’s a blur. Taller than her. Near twice as broad. Intends to take her down like a lion on the Savannah. Billy sees red. Literally. And he springs. Primium laced muscles and bone primed and pumping at optimal levels. Gives him a deceptive speed and the length of his stride eats up the earth at his feet. He clips the body at the waist, drives him to the ground. Makes him drop the weapons at hand that break harmlessly open. There’s a struggle. Of course there is. Half-powered punches that gain his victim no leverage, a rolling tussle where he keeps coming on top, shoulder crashing into chest until he turns and coughs. Gasping for air. Body changing to something harder than flesh, but slow. He gets in one more good punch.

“Billy.” He looks up. Andy’s standing there. Pinning her in his arms. Her feet dangle off the ground, her eyes wild. One of his hands wrapped around her throat. A short jerking twist and she’d-- ”Let him go.” He blinks. Looks down at Baz, sees him for the first time. Realises the weapons are water balloons. And Beth? She still has the football in hand, because she’d crossed the finish line. Their point, then. He still doesn’t understand all the rules to this combination flag {American} football and water balloons and trivia game. Billy hitches to his feet. Offers an apologetic hand to Baz who declines. Politely. When Baz crosses over to Andy’s side, Riley lets her go. Gives her a little shove toward Billy. There’s a fading hand-print around her neck, but she smiles and kneads her head into his chest. He puts an arm around her and glares at the other two who are checking each other over.

Riley will learn one of these days that he’ll keep his hands off her. And he’ll learn it a broken bone at a time, his or someone else’s.

💚: who tends to get sick more often? who is better at taking care of the other?

She stitches his skin. He feeds her soup. They sleep like the dead.  She tends to his scars the way he shepherds her dreams. They work.

💜: who said "i love you" first? or, if neither has said it yet, who is more likely to say it first?

He said once, the first time. She rejected it out of turn. She repeats it later. They never speak it again. But they do everything to make it manifest. Every touch and every look everything they do for one another.  But the words sit in their throats. Haunt their eyes. Loud. Shrieking. How the rest of the world doesn’t hear it, he’ll never know. She’s asleep now, and his fingers trail through her hair. She looks so innocent, so untouched by anything, even him as her chest rises and falls with quiet breathing.

How many times are they going to spiral around each other?  As many as it takes. Until they can howl down the heavens.

💛: who believes in soulmates?

Nails dig into the back of his neck as he holds her fast. One arm around her hips. One climbing the trellis of her ribs like ivy, fingers resting in the space between her shoulders as she arches back. His face pressed into the wide valley between her breasts. The harsh echo of his panting breaths, the sweeter song of the guttural moan he’s dragged out of her throat, her throat exposed, mouth parted in a rictus of pleasure-pain. She calls it the Lotus position, the way she’s seated in his lap, and he’s buried to the hilt. Legs wrapped like chains around him as the last twitches and jerks bleed him dry inside of her. She calls this tantric. Finishing together. Raising power. He calls it love and his is hers and hers alone. And there’s only one way that will ever end. “Death first, Izzy.” He writes the words across her sweat soaked skin. “Always.” She answers and swans her neck into his shoulder where her teeth draw blood.

[wheremytwinwatches]

[Where My Twin Watches]: Full Metal Alchemist Brotherhood Episode 19

Last time, Ross lived and was snuck out to Xing, Ed got yet another reason to hate Scar, Barry met himself, and Gluttony paid Riza a visit. Onwards!

Oh dear, all Roy can hear is gunshots from “Elizabeth”’s end. Go, Flame Alchemist! Save your bestie! Never mind, let’s just ignore the fights and go back to Sword Guy utterly disregarding the notion of Confidentiality. He says that Barry says the Colonel’s got a plan to smoke out the Goths from the Fifth Laboratory. This causes Al to head out, searching for Hughes’ murderer. Stop whining Ling, Al will tooootaly tell you when he gets back. Later, Winry! Episode 19 - “Death of the Undying” Uh oh, Gluttony’s got Riza by the neck, and she’s out of ammo. The Goth just chuckles at his multiple headshots, he’s about to eat Riza someone quick dog? Where’d the dog come from. Oh hey, Fuery’s here! Thanks for tossing Riza a new pistol, you’ve almost made up for ruining my Fuhrer Fury joke with this! Two people shooting at once is a bit more effective, but only just. Gluttony’s knocked to the window but his big frame doesn’t fit, and he’s healed up from the bullet holes in a few seconds as Riza and Fuery click their now-empty weapons. Ok, time for the backup of the backup to arrive!

Oh my Leto it is so satisfying to see that Goth go flying out the tower to the caption of [Gluttony screams]. Nice timing, Roy, good hustle! Riza… is not exactly appreciative of the rescue, yells at Roy for leaving his post and blowing his plausible deniability. Fuery just chuckles at them going at it, looking down at the charred body and wondering who the fat guy was. Ok, now get down there and finish the job, Gluttony isn’t finished off just- Whoop, Bio!Barry’s making a break for it, with the homicidal Soul Armor in pursuit. Roy and Riza bark out orders to the minion and mutt respectively. Then slooowly walk down the stairs as Riza thanks Roy for saving their life, Roy’s too focused on the mission to see her smile. Daw. Huh, once again Roy makes better time than I thought, Havoc’s barely run a few paces before he pulls up in a car and tells to loser to get in, they’re going Goth hunting. And then Al shows up! Buckle up buddy, time for a chase through the city. Well at least Barry’s having fun, chasing down the meatbag to do an impromptu funeral. Riza’s reloading and wondering if Blubber Man’s going to stay down, less sure than Roy after her own bullets had next to no effect. Al asks if he had an Uroboros tattoo, when she confirms seeing on his tongue he identifies him as a Homunculus. Hey, watch where you’re driving Roy! Said Colonel isn’t exactly happy to learn that the Goth probably survived the barbecue. Much later, looks like they’ve cornered BioBarry in the Third Laboratory. A direct tie to the military, then? Well, with that connection they can pull back. Uh, Barry? That is the opposite of pulling back. And Roy’s happy about this? Oh I get it, the crazy Soul Armor goes running in, and Roy’s Crew get to follow “in hot pursuit of the crazed murderer”. You other cops, go and secure the perimeter or something. Down into the Basement of Dramatic String Music they go, but then they face the bane of adventuring parties: a split corridor. Oh yeah, split the party, this can only go well. Roy and Havoc are going around, remarking at how dilapidated everything looks- Uh oh. Lust. Havoc, beware the Angry Girlfriend! On a more serious note, oh crap the party is split up in a basement presumably with multiple Goths. Might be time to stage a retreat. Ok ok, another laugh at how Havoc is a fool for honkers, but for real, back to seriousness. Roy asks about Hughes, and when Lust taunts him he goes for a kneeshot. It shows she’s a Homunculus, but it’ll take more than that to- Roy interrupts her monologue with the rest of his clip, it’s about as effective as we can expect but at least it shut her up for a few moments. But the claws come out, and Lust… stabs herself? Oh. Oh dear. That’s a Philosopher’s Stone. So if all the Goths are built around this miraculous tool of Transmutation then they’ll just keep coming back. On the plus side, now we have a clear weakness: destroy the Stone and they lose their regeneration. Quick Roy, shoot the Glowing Weak Spot! Nope, too slow. Now that Lust is finished talking to the Soon-To-Be-Dead-Men, she disarms them… and slices a water pipe, rendering Roy’s Ignition Gloves useless. Well, crap. Both men run screaming for the exit, tumble outside while Havoc asks what they’re gonna do. But Roy’s happy? Oh! He may have lost his signature ability, but he’s still a State Alchemist who can transmute any materials on hand. Say, a bunch of water into hydrogen gas? Thanks for cutting that pipe, lady! Here, have a lighter!

Al and Riza pick up on the Big Boom, but Riza just steels herself and keeps searching for their target. Good trust in your boss, here’s hoping you two don’t end up in the same situation. After the Jean Havoc/Lust narrator cards, Roy and Havoc are searching the now-torched room. A bit of snarking about the busted ex-girlfriend gift how bad cigarettes are, Roy says aw man why did you say that without a body. She’ll be just in the next room and or no she’s in this one under the rubble! Havoc’s been spiked! Oh crap oh crap, Roy’s still weaponless in a room with Lust, this isn’t good. Oh right, Havoc’s gun which good Leto is rather strong, Lust is down an arm. She’s still boasting about how Roy can’t put her down for good… while her Stone is exposed. Yoink! It’s rather effective, and Lust actually crumbles away. A bit anticlimactic, honestly. But now Roy’s got the MacGuffin! Now to heal Havoc, give it to the Elric Brothers, and the show’s over! I wonder what complication is going to come up now. Roy gets ready to cast Heal and GUH OH MY LETO NO NO NO Lust just grew back around the Stone, her half-formed body chided Roy for being so forward, and Spiky Fingers to the chest. And now HE’S here! [Lab Guard Captain]: “Uh-- Uh… Your Excellency!” [Fuhrer Wrath]: “What’s the current status?” This is not backup! This is the opposite of backup! Lust dumps Roy on the ground, oh-so-sad that she’s been forced to kill such a promising sacrificial candidate as she shreds his glove and leaves him to watch Havoc die before he himself bleeds out. Um. Wow. I can hope that with Lust pulling the classic “Leave before you see them die for sure” mistake that they’ll be ok? Please? Havoc? Come on, answer me buddy. While this awfulness is going on, Al and Riza arrive in an incredibly bright white room with a large Alchemy Symbol (the same on we saw in Xerxes?) on the wall, and Barry looking down at the lifeless remains of his old body, commenting on how a soul shoved in another form is so harmful. This of course shocks Al, makes him wonder if he’ll survive as a Soul Armor until they can reform their original bodies. Al… *Sigh* Riza, just put the pistol down, we’re perfectly aware at how effective that is against the Goths. Lust demands to know why Barry is helping out our guys, he basically says it’s for the heck of it and he wants to kill her anyway. The Goth just complains about how she’ll have to kill a second candidate now since Al tagged along, at which point Barry gets tired of waiting and charges and he’s dead now. Whelp. So long, Barry the Butcher. So now that that’s out of the way, Lust prepares to send Riza after her superior. Riza… does not take the news well. [Furious!Riza]: “You biiittch!!” She empties one pistol to mournful music, same with the second, and finishes with a revolver. All to achieve Lust standing back up and patronizingly asking if she’s done. Aw hell no, don’t you fucking dare call Riza weak. Al, pound her face in. Damnit Riza, take this chance and get out of here! Al’s the only one who can at least slow her down with his Transmutation ability and the fact that he’s friggin metal while you’re flesh and blood, get moving! But no, they keep doing the “save yourself, no you save yourself” thing heroes do while Lust stands there annoyed.

How old is Al again? Whatever it is, it’s way too goddamn young for him to be standing his ground against this murderer, screaming about how [Al]: “I’m sick of watching people die! And I can’t just sit back and take it anymore!” -to a montage of all those touched by death in this show, including that time someone got stabbed while inside him. Friggen Leto, this show. [wait, WHAT?!]: “Well spoken… I couldn’t agree more.” Al IMMEDIATELY earthbends up a shield to protect him and Riza as the room gets filled with ALL OF THE FIRE, it clears to see charred Lust looking oh-so-satisfyingly shocked as The Badass Roy grits out that he got her on her knees, after all. Then the camera pans to oh my Leto I did not expect to see The Badass Roy’s chiseled abs today but I am happy that I did, as he stands there in all his determined glory clutching his stab wounds with one hand and holding the not-so-broken lighter in the other. Or still broken, but The Badass Roy didn’t let that stop him as he just uses the flint to get a spark and a TC carved into his own hand. Cue EVEN MORE FIRE as Lust whines about how he should have bled out by now, but of course The Flame Alchemist seared the wound closed, admits that he aaaaalmost passed out from the pain before MORE FIRE. Now, about that claim that he couldn’t kill you? Let’s see how many FIREs it takes to get to the center of a Gothie-pop, huh?! Again! And again! AND AGAIN! AND AGAIN! BURN, YOU BITCH! No no fuck no you don’t get to suddenly be patched up and charging towards The Badass Roy no no no [The Bitch]: “You killed me.” YYYYYYYYEEEEEEEESSSSSSSS Lust is crumbling to ashes now as The Badass Roy’s attacks have seemed to finally have damaged her Stone. But she wouldn’t be a Goth if she didn’t go out with a disparaging monologue, pleased that she at least was killed by a man with such cold and focused eyes, looking forward to the day those eyes are wide with agony. [Lust]: “It’s coming... It’s coming…” The Philosopher's Stone falls, and crumbles away. Finally, Roy falls, the effort of his attack and his injuries overcoming him. Riza and Al brush off his thanks and prepare to get a medic aw HELL no I’d forgotten about Bradley, he’s just outside the room- but he just sheathed his sword and walked away. Bwuh? You’re letting them live? What’s your game, Wrath? Ok whatever, the Fuhrer is being mysterious, what else is new, just get Roy and Havoc some help right now! Oh yeah, Winry’s been left at the hotel all day. She’s telling herself over and over that Al’s alright. And here he is! A bit worse for wear, but nothing a little bit of TLT (Tender Loving Transmutation) won’t fix! And he can even do it himself, so no worries Winry! [Winry]: “Moron! Welcome back!” [Al]: “Uh, okay… thanks!” Aw, laugh it out you two. And maybe get some glue for Al’s arm. Wait, Barry’s still alive?! Oh, Lust missed his sigil with her attack, so he’s down to just that little piece of sheet metal. But he’ll be back- wait, BioBarry’s still alive?! How in Leto’s name did he survive all of the FIRE? Well whatever, we get a part-funny, part-bittersweet moment as dumb old BioBarry paws at Barry’s sigil, wiping it away and sending The Butcher off for good. Sayanora, you homicidal maniac. Thanks for your help in the end. Oh hey, Al! How you doing, Protagonist? The Mighty Armstrong and Breda are seeing him off at the train station, is he finally going back to Central to rejoin the Blonde Kids? Well, at least Al will have one heck of a story for him. Never mind, looks like a detour to the graveyard… where there’s someone there? In a brown coat with blond hair… no, it can’t be… It’s him. The man we’ve only seen in flashbacks and the intro. The man who’s forever covered up in pictures. It’s Papa Elric. It’s Hohenheim. … And THAT’S WHERE WE END THE EPISODE?! WHAT THE-

[dogbearinggifts]

I don't think Luther does anything for glory though. I think he does it because he's supposed too. I'm not even convinced WHATNEEDSTOBEDONE(TM) is even connotated towards morals or feelings in his head. He'd hate himself otherwise Diego similarly can't let go of war. (See everything he does ever) As of Allison, compared to most girls she's seen so much, hurt so much. If anyone deserves fame it's her right. And if she has to manipulate people well hasn't she saved them ten times over ?

I agree. Luther doesn’t appear to enjoy any of the “saving the world” business at any point in the series. Watch his face when he’s planning their next move, or looking for his old research from the Moon, or any number of things that go along with trying to prevent the apocalypse. He doesn’t look miserable, per se, but he’s definitely not having fun. It’s the face someone might wear at a job they’re not particularly fond of, but one that pays the bills. Reginald framed the Umbrella Academy as this magnificent thing from which his kids could derive all the glory they ever dreamed of, but Luther sees it more as something that has to be done. 

Lest I give the impression he just doesn’t emote all that much, I want to point out one instance where Luther is grinning to beat the band and having the time of his life: while doing that weird crab-dance-thing to “I Think We’re Alone Now.” He doesn’t like being the hero. He’d rather kick off his shoes and be his fun, goofy, pleasantly weird self. 

Diego was always raised to see himself as second best. He was Number Two, not Number One, and if he’d been a little bit better, a little bit more diligent, a little bit less himself, he could have been Number One. That’s what Reginald told him, anyway, and while Diego acts as if he doesn’t give a shit what his dad said, it’s clear Reginald’s childhood treatment of him wounded him deeply. And in some ways, I think he’s reluctant to let that wound heal. If he lets it heal, he’s afraid he’ll forget that what his dad did and said to him was wrong and he’ll accept reality as second best. So he’s still at war, because he’s afraid peace means surrender. 

I think Allison never really processed her childhood trauma. She grew up, and she was left with this awful wound that she didn’t know how to treat. So she distracted herself from the pain with things that made her happy. And since she had the power to get anything she wanted with just a few words—well, why shouldn’t she? She wanted to feel better. She needed to feel better. Reginald never taught her to respect other peoples’ boundaries or autonomy, so she didn’t bother. Like she tells Luther later, “I told myself it wasn’t wrong. I just had an advantage.” 

Another part of Allison’s response to trauma comes, I think, from the worldview Reginald instilled in her. He brought those kids up to see the world as a harsh place filled with people waiting to do evil. If anything, going to Hollywood would only reinforce that view. So Allison probably saw her power as something anybody would use, if given the chance. She probably thought anyone would do what she did, if they were in her shoes.

(Part 2/2) Poor Klaus turned to drugs after both "wartime" and actual wartime. Drugs and alcohol are sadly common with post war soldiers.I am like 90% sure his childhood kept him from being destroyed by vietnom Five is grown. He has to be grown, to be strong. Youth is weakness. He use to think that was a lie but after the apocalypse he would do anything to not be caught scared and unaware again.

War is hell, and Klaus’ childhood was hell. Reginald could have made it a little more bearable, had he approached Klaus’ powers with anything resembling compassion. Maybe he could have built a device that would allow him to spot where the ghosts were, and get Klaus out of there before the situation became too overwhelming. Or maybe he could have held family seance nights, where Klaus practices conjuring while everyone stands around protectively and hurls insults at ghosts who get too demanding. There’s a number of things he could have done, but because Reginald saw Klaus not as a child but as a tool, he decided to try and force him to overcome his fear. And, predictably, that attempt only made his fear worse. (Sadly, this is a technique too often utilized by real-life abusive parents. The results aren’t much better.) 

I see Five as the one in that house who left too young, grew up too fast, and—as you said—saw youth as weakness. He was stranded in a world harsher even than Reginald could have predicted, and he wasn’t prepared. He had to leave childhood behind quickly, or die. So he survived, carved out a life for himself, and left the unprepared, frightened version of himself in the past. The way Five sees it, he survived far worse than Reginald’s abuse. So I think that when he looks at his siblings, and all the ways they’re fucked up by their upbringing, he doesn’t have a lot of sympathy for them. I think many of his interactions with his siblings are fueled by impatience and more than a little condescension. 

(Part 3/I lied) Ben is an obvious one. He's gone, as gone as the men in the trenches, as gone as the British casualties of ww2, as gone as the lost generation itself. Vanya is the civilian. For whatever reason too unskilled, too weak, too useless too ever be of use. So she's told bow her head, be quiet, never complain, don't get in the way. I don't think she hates her siblings for treating her that way. I think deep inside she hates herself for someway deserving it.

Ben is dead, but he’s not gone. He’s stuck on the sidelines, watching his family struggle. It’s probably awful to watch them go through hell and not be able to do anything about it—but we see from his interactions with Klaus that being left behind has made him bitter. He no longer has any of the things his living siblings take for granted, and he hates watching his brothers and sisters squander everything he lost. Klaus is probably his biggest target because 1) he’s the only one in that family Ben can actually talk to, and 2) his entire life, up to the point he meets Dave, revolves around getting high. 

Vanya probably internalized the abuse when she was younger. I think it’s almost guaranteed she did. But in the present, she seems to have realized this. She knows she internalized the abuse, she knows internalization fucked her up, and so she’s rebelling against that earlier attitude by externalizing everything. In the scene where she walks in on Luther’s emergency meeting and reads them the riot act for leaving her out of it, a quick look at the circumstances shows that it was Vanya’s own choices that led to her being excluded from that meeting. She chose to leave the Academy, rather than stay the night. She chose to stay at Leonard’s, rather than at her apartment for which Allison had the number. She chose to make herself unreachable, yet when she sees her siblings have left her out of something yet again, she immediately blames them. And when Allison points out that she is not being fair, Vanya turns it back on Allison rather than ask how she’s being unfair or reassess her own behavior. 

That’s not to say those are the only two options. There is a whole sea of healthy options between “blame self for what other people do” and “blame others for what I do.” In my experience, healing from internalization isn’t found by blaming others for one’s own behavior, but in going through each painful memory and asking, “Okay, is this my fault? Did I do this, like my parents said I did, or was this someone else’s choice that I blamed myself for?” It’s a long process, and a painful one, but ultimately liberating. I hope Vanya will find a happy medium between the internalization of her past and the externalization of her present, but she’s not there yet. 

[analisegrey]

Februwhump Prompt:

“Who would the whumpee take a beating for?” (Read on AO3)

Caleb’s always been goal-oriented.

He likes having something to strive for, a box he can mark off when he’s accomplished something; that inclination is honed when he gets to Soltryce- each new spell he learns, every milestone of knowledge, he goes after with fevered abandon. His time in the country with Master Ikithon doesn’t exactly dampen the tendency. The desire to please combined with the need to hit the next goal, do the next thing, pressing ever forward- it’s a terrible and heady combination that Trent utilizes ruthlessly.

And still, after all that, after breaking and reforming, after traveling alone, after finally finding new companions, he’s still goal-oriented. He has one large, overwhelming goal, and it’s always in the back of his mind, waiting, but sometimes it gets overshadowed, pushed temporarily to the side by immediate need.

For instance-

The cell they’re in is cool and damp, moisture dripping down the walls in shining rivulets. Jester’s out cold when they’re dragged in, but Caleb’s awake, if only barely, and so catches pieces of conversation, taunts and threats. He’s known jailers like this before, had suffered extensively under them in the jail where he met Nott. He knows the type- overconfident, cruel, inclined to go after the weakest, softest target, because they don’t want a challenge so much as a reaction.

Caleb weighs his options as he waits for Jester to wake up. They’re both spent from the fight before they were captured, and he knows that especially without his components, they’re on their own until help arrives. He’s moved her so her head is pillowed on his lap, and he absently cards his fingers through her hair as he thinks. He knows this type of people, knows what they’re capable of, how they react, who they’ll likely go for once they’re ready to start. He knows, and he refuses to let that happen.

There’s a rustle of fabric and a shift of movement as Jester starts to wake up, groaning as her eyes slit open.

“What- what happened, where-”

Caleb gently squeezes her shoulder. “I am afraid things went rather poorly, Jester. We are in a cell.”

Her brow crinkles in confusion before her eyes go wide and she jolts up to sitting, Caleb barely leaning back in time to avoid getting knocked in the chin. She’s scrambling to her feet and heading for the door before Caleb can stop her, her fingers digging into the edges where the frame and the door meet, looking for purchase, for a catch, anything, as her tail lashes behind her.

“We need to get out, we need to get the door open, we have to leave- ”

Caleb gets up and moves to her side, catching carefully at her wrists and tugging. He knows he has no hope of moving her if she doesn’t want to allow it, and is relieved when she lets him.

“Jester, you must be calm.”

She turns to him wild-eyed and pale, her skin washed out to a sickly light blue. “Caleb-” Her voice wavers with panic, and his resolve only strengthens as he gets a more secure grip on her and pulls. She goes with him as he leads her back to the far wall and sits, bringing her with him; her skirts pool around her, and he puts an arm around her after only a moment’s hesitation. She’s shaking, her breathes quick and hitching, and he’s familiar enough with the sounds of panic and terror to recognize it. He gives her a squeeze.

“Jester, I know this is frightening. It’s not a great situation, but we must believe the others will come and get us out. We have done it before, and they will do it again.”

“I know, I know , it’s just, what will happen in the meantime? I can’t- I can’t do that again, Caleb, I can’t- ”

If his plan’s going to work, he needs her calm, needs her strong. He feels for her, he does, but he needs her to get herself under control.

“Jester.” He keeps his voice soft, calm, soothing, and takes her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. “I know this is a terrible situation, and while neither of us wants to be here, this is especially hard for you after everything you have been through. I can’t guarantee everything will be okay right now, but I believe- I have to believe- that the others are coming, and we just need to be strong until then.”

She sniffles, eyes red-tinged and wet as she looks up at him. He knows how strong she is, physically and emotionally, but right now she looks small, frightened, and he’s reminded how young and sheltered she is, and he feels the protective urge he normally feels for her surge. He will not let them hurt her, not if he has anything to say about it.

“I need you to listen to me, Jester, you can do that, ja ?”

She nods, though she doesn’t look very sure, and he smiles.

“The men who brought us here are going to come back.” She freezes under his hands, her breath starting to pick up again, and he squeezes, trying to ground her. “They are going to come back, but I have a plan. I will not let them harm you; but you must work with me. I can only do so much, so you must be strong. I need you to look fearsome.”

Her brows furrow again in confusion as she looks him over, her tail moving agitatedly behind her. “But how will you do that? They took all your stuff, Caleb, your components, your coat, your books- how are we going to fight back?”

He shakes his head. “My plan is not to fight, not with magic or fists. I plan to fight with this,” he says as he taps his temple with a finger. “I do not need to be stronger or have my components in order to out-think them. I am going to play a part, and I need you to as well for it to work. It will be scary, but I know you can do it. You are a very good actress, ja? They will not know what hit them.”

Her eyes narrow momentarily, and he worries she’s figured him out, but then her face relaxes and she gives him a tremulous smile, which he mirrors back to her.

“Okay, I think I can do that, Caleb.”

“I know you can, blueberry.”

She smile brightens at the nickname, as he’d hoped it would. Now for the hard part.

“I need you to promise me something though, Jester. This is very important.”

“What?”

“When they come back, I want you to try to get in front of me. I am also going to be acting a part, and it may be difficult to watch, but I need you not to interfere otherwise. Whatever you see me do, whatever you hear me say, just know that I’m acting, and it will be alright. Can you do that?”

Her lips press together, pensive and pinched, the dark blue of her lips paling before she nods, her expression growing hard and resolute. “Okay okay okay, yes, I can do this. We will get through this, and the others will come, and everything will be okay.”

He smiles at her, and he hopes it doesn’t look as much like a grimace as it feels.

They pass the time chatting about nonsense and when they hear a door clang open nearby they both tense. In the last few seconds before the cell door opens, he turns and whispers, “Don’t forget- you are fierce, blueberry, and I am just acting.”

The door swings open and Jester plays her part perfectly, straightening up and snarling an oath in Infernal, coming to her feet in front of him as he slowly gets to his behind her, feigning weakness.

One of the few benefits of being a self-confessed coward, of being afraid nearly all the time, is that when it matters, when it’s actually helpful , it’s no hardship to play the weakling. He barely has to try for the fear he normally keeps bottled up show readily on his face, for the near-constant dread to become manifest. When their jailers enter the room, Caleb presses himself back against the wall, shuddering as the cold and damp seep in through the thin fabric of his shirt. He hunches inward, makes himself look small, an easy target, and bless the two buffoons holding them captive, they buy it.

“Grab him. Let’s make ‘im squeal.”

Caleb’s eyes go wide in only partially-feigned horror, and shakes his head, pressing back further, though there’s nowhere to go.

“Nein , no, please- ”

Jester tries to stay in front of him but fierce as she is, she’s easily thrown aside. Their captors may be immensely stupid and easily manipulated, but they’re strong, grabbing him with ease and carrying him toward the door. He plays it up, yelling and pleading in a way that normally would fill him with shame, but he’s fueled by his need to keep them focused on him and their attention away from Jester. He gets a last glimpse of her as they pull him through the door and she looks utterly stricken; he hopes she’ll forgive him eventually.

He’s taken down the hall to a room that's bare except for a wooden chair in the middle of it. They throw him onto it, and one of them hauls back and punches him in the jaw, snapping his head to the side and setting his ears ringing. By the time his head clears, his arms have been wrenched behind him and his wrists tightly bound and anchored to the chair. He struggles and they laugh, each grabbing an ankle even as he tries to kick at them; they tie those to the chair as well until soon he’s completely helpless. He tries not to panic, reminds himself he wanted this, that this was his preferred outcome, but it’s difficult to remember when one of the men is standing in front of him grinning and the other is behind him with a large meaty hand clamped on his shoulder. The hand on his shoulder slides to his throat, gripping and pulling his head up and back and for a split second he feels a flash of real fear, thinks he's miscalculated terribly, but then the other man slams his fist into Caleb's stomach, and the fear is replaced with a calmer resignation. His body tries to fold over, but the ropes at his wrists and the hand at his throat keep him from moving, so all he can do is choke on a cry and shake. They work him over with the ease of long practice, moving in tandem and causing pain with little break between. He's quickly breathless, screams caught in his throat as blows rain down faster than he can process. At one point a blow knocks him sideways and the whole chair tilts precariously before it tips, taking him with it. He feels it as his left arm snaps at the forearm when his whole weight, chair and all, land on it; he's screamed himself hoarse but still finds voice enough to cry out. The men just laugh and continue, and throughout the beating the thought Caleb keeps firmly situated in his mind is, ‘At least it’s not Jester.’

The men start to slow down, tired and covered in sweat, and Caleb would breathe a sigh of relief if he could; his ribs scream at him when he draws breath, his broken arm a throbbing misery at his side. He hurts everywhere, bursts of pain so prevalent it’s difficult to tell where one begins and another ends. They untie his legs, then his arms, and his vision goes dim and watery as they pick him up again, heedless of his broken arm, and drag him back through the door and down the hallway to the cell.

He desperately wants to pass out, to get away from the pain if only for a little while, but he can’t yet. There’s still one more part of this to do before he can allow himself the respite of unconsciousness.

They slam the door to the cell open and toss him through it. He's unable to catch himself and lands awkwardly on his front, his broken arm hitting the ground with enough force that he thinks he does pass out, if only for a few seconds. The next moment he’s aware it’s to find gentle hands on his face, warm and careful as they feel around his cheeks and jaw.

“Oh, Caleb- ” That’s Jester, and she sounds anguished. He forces his eyes open to look up at her and she’s blurry, but he thinks that’s mostly do to his eyes being partially swollen shut than anything else. She looks like she’s been crying, her face crumpled in distress, and he reaches for one of her hands with his good one.

“Jester, it’s okay.” It’s hard to speak, his voice barely there, his throat burning with the effort.

Her face twists, grief and anger warring with each other for dominance in her expression. “Caleb, it is not okay.” Her hands flex minutely on his face and he winces at the pressure on the bruising he can feel painting his skin. “Do you even know what you look like? Look what they’ve done to you, Caleb, your arm, and your face, and, and-” She looks perilously close to tears, and while it guts him to see it, he holds tight to the fact that it’s him here on the floor beat to shit, and not her, that it’s him with the broken arm and ribs, not her. He remembers- because he always remembers, doesn’t he?- what she looked like when they found her and Fjord and Yasha at the Sour Nest. Dirty, bruised, tear-streaked and devastated, and there’s not a lot he’s proud of in his life, but this is one thing he can hold onto. He kept this from happening to her, from happening to her again. She may have experienced this kind of cruelty, but he’s had practice, and if there’s any benefit to the things that have happened in his life, it’s that it’s prepared him for this, has put him in a position to be able to spare Jester.

He manages to pull a smile out for her, squeezes one of her wrists in a shaking hand before letting his arm fall back to his side.

“It’s alright, Jester. It is- it’s better this way. You are stronger anyway, ja? If we need to fight to get out, it’s better that you be strong and healthy.” He’s trying to focus, to stay awake to keep her company, but it’s so hard. His words are slurring, and it’s probably not a great idea to fall asleep, but he doesn’t think he’s going to have a choice in a moment. “You were wonderful, blueberry. Du warst perfekt.”

His eyes slide closed, and he passes out to the feel of Jester’s hands warm on his face.

[xistaff]

Family Reunion

Tagging: Alex & Scott Summers Location: The Xavier Institute Time Frame: June 19, 2018 General Notes: Not long after Alex’s arrival, he and Scott meet face to face for the first time in years.

Ever since Alex had first stepped foot into the Xavier Institute he’d been waiting to wake up. That somehow all of this was just his mind tricking him and that at any moment he’d wake up in his old apartment, hiding from the world, wondering why his mind decided to act like his brother had managed to find him. But at the same time, no dream would ever have made all of it as awkward as it was. Sure, he had decided to try and find Scott, but Alex hadn’t anticipated that he would. Especially not after he lost his job, and dropped out of school, and just tried in general to avoid people at all costs since he didn’t even know what he was capable of. And now, Alex had no idea how to talk to him. Had no idea what he was even supposed to say that it was easier to avoid him. That was until in his search to try and find somewhere in the mansion that didn’t seem to be full of people that he accidentally walked into the one room with the one man that he was trying to avoid over everyone else. “Um….hey,” Alex started as soon as he realized that there was probably no getting out of it at this point. Unless Scott didn’t want to talk to him either.

Scott was finishing grading summer school quizzes when it came in. All of the professors had been emailed of an incoming student as well as information on a potential student the Professor had been keeping his eye on through Cerebro. Usually Scott didn't pay them any mind until he knew they were going to recruit or they were certainly being enrolled. In this case, he was through the portion of the email that focused on the new student and that was when his heart stopped. The last name ‘Summers’ immediately jumped out at him and his eyes immediately fixed on the first name. Alex is alive!? he thought to himself, his heart now racing. He read on with the given information but it wasn't a great deal to go off of, which didn't surprise Scott when he couldn't find his brothers over the years. Several thoughts were sprinting through his mind but all of them came to a halt when he looked from the monitor screen to the blond young man who hesitantly greeted him. It was more than just recognizing Alex from behind his ruby-tinted vision; he felt it and knew that that was his brother. Finding his voice, Scott spoke back, “....Alex… Hi.” Struggling to figure out what to say, he looked about as though the answer was somewhere in his classroom before saying, “C-come in. I… how are you?”

“You mean other than having super destructive powers, being cyber-stalked by some crazy mutant tracking supercomputer, and flying across the country? I'm great,” Alex sarcastically replied with a shrug, not really sure what else there was to say as he looked his brother over. It was strange, seeing how much had changed and how little. He was taller than Scott now, though not by much, and his brother looked older than Alex had remembered. But all in all he looked pretty much the same, which didn’t bring the kind of relief the younger man thought that it would. Instead it just made things stranger, especially since he didn’t even know how much Scott knew about him. “How are you?” he finally asked back after a long pause, not really sure what else he could say.

Initially, Scott stayed behind his desk but he eventually registered out of teacher mode and stood, coming around to lean against the front of his desk. Everything still felt surreal but hearing Alex’s sarcastic comment brought him back to just before the accident, if only for a fleeting moment. It almost made Scott smirk but his mind was still trying to accept that after all the years of searching and thinking the worst, Alex was alive and he was here. Instead, he nodded and replied, “Yeah from what I'm told, Cerebro is...something else. But you're in a good place for learning about your powers and how to harness them.” He folded his arms across his chest to give himself something to do. “I'm… good, considering the circumstances. This is all so...shocking. And I just found out a few minutes ago that you were here.”

”Yeah, I know. I got that whole speech when they tracked me down,” Alex shrugged, crossing his arms in front of himself as he leaned against the door, “Though I think I'd rather just figure out how to just turn them off so that my life can go back to normal, instead of controlling and doing the whole superhero thing that you've got going on,” he continued, before scrunching his face in confusion. “Really? I would have thought that they'd have told you I was here.”

Scott raised a brow at his brother. “You really think you’re life’s gonna be normal now, Alex? You don’t have to become an X-Men, but you’ll be setting yourself up for a disappointing future if you think you’re going to go back to whatever semblance of normalcy you once had after you learn about your abilities. Control or not, it isn’t easy for people like us to go unnoticed, especially for people who are actively intolerant of us.” He hadn’t necessarily meant to start on a preachy rant but even with the years apart and thinking both his brothers gone, Scott couldn’t help responding protectively, thinking about some of the adversaries he had faced, as well as the ones he hadn’t but knew were out there. His head lowered just slightly; although his eyes were shielded, the skin between his brows creased. “No, I... I just found out. Maybe the Professor was planning to talk to me before you and I would see each other--I don’t know…” His voice trailed off while he debated internally and then looked back up to Alex and decided he needed to ask, “What happened?” Scott was still trying to figure out why they ended up separated for so long. Why couldn’t he have found his brother when he was looking himself? Why hadn’t this reunion happened sooner?

Alex’s jaw tensed up at Scott’s words because the last thing that he wanted to hear was that his main reason for going to this school was “setting him up for disappointment.” It felt too much like too many of his foster parents, who decided what was best for him without even trying to get to know him. And the fact that his brother was doing the same thing rubbed him the wrong way. He tensed up, but his temper had already bubbled up to the point that he wasn’t even sure there was any point in trying to control it. “Fuck. That.” Alex exclaimed through gritted teeth, “I know that you can’t tell because you’re stuck wearing that stupid visor all the time, but I actually look normal. So as soon as I figure out what I do and how to stop doing it, it’s not like anyone’s going to even come looking for me when everyone here’s made themselves a target. Complete with a giant X to mark the spot!” He was yelling, but Alex didn’t really care about that, considering that most of the time he was already angry about almost everything. And he didn’t want to hear any of this from the brother he’d spent years hoping to find. He tried to calm down as he listened to Scott try to explain himself, but he had a hard time believing that Scott didn’t know. It had never seemed to him that schools were lacking that much in communication. “What after the crash? I was in the ocean for about a day, picked up by the coast guard, brought to California, and then bounced around 13 different foster houses. Thought for a year you’d actually try to find me, only to realize that you were never coming. Finished high school a semester early because one of my foster moms didn’t believe in summer vacation, and now I’m a college dropout who can’t keep a job because I’m a mutant freak. And that’s all you missed in my life.”

Taken aback by Alex’s outburst, Scott flinched but recovered, narrowing his eyes behind his visor. “It doesn’t blind me, Alex. I can see what you look like,” he interjected at his brother’s smarmy remark and considered adding one of his own about Alex getting a haircut, but he ultimately decided against it. Rather, his own tone hardened, “And you don’t get it. It doesn’t matter if you pass for an ordinary human, people are out there tracking us down, finding ways without having to rely on your appearance and use you or kill you. But if you’d rather figure that out the hard way someday, I can’t stop you.” That, of course, wouldn’t stop Scott from trying; he just got his brother back and wasn’t going to willingly put himself in harm’s way. Closing his fingers into fists, Scott went on to say, “Think what you want about the school, but you’re better off here than most places.” He listened on though as Alex shared what he had been through in their time apart but at the not-so-subtle accusation, Scott narrowed his eyes with his body going rigid. “Alex, I’m sorry about what you’ve gone through but I looked for you. For a long time, I looked for you and I couldn’t find you--I thought you were dead!” The last were was punctuated and raised, bouncing off of the walls a moment. “Believe me or don’t believe me, but that’s the truth.”

“”Well how was I supposed to know that, I don’t have lasers coming out of my eyes,” Alex shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he stared at the floor, “But you know, I’m really good at figuring things out the hard way. I kind of prefer it that way because at least then I know what to expect. And you know, it’s only a matter of time before I get kicked out of here anyway, that’s always how things go for me,” Alex scoffed, before looking up at his brother’s words. He wasn’t entirely sure that he believed him, especially when it his experience it went against absolutely everything that he had been led to believe over the years. “Yeah, well I wasn’t! So how did you not find me, it couldn’t have been that hard to look through foster records! Or hospital records! Or the time that I almost got arrested because I’m sure that’s documented somewhere. Or did you just look back in Hawaii and the crash site and call it good? Because I don’t fucking believe that you couldn’t find me because you could have if you really wanted to.”

“Because I’ve had this mutation since before the accident,” Scott pointed out, masking his disbelief that Alex hadn’t recalled. He knew their age gap was wide but just having learned that at least one of his brothers was still alive, Scott figured he would be learning about him, more than the other way around. The reverse hadn’t crossed Scott’s mind until Alex talked about how things always went for himself. He almost started to grimace but the outburst from his brother and the blatant doubt hit him like a slap to the face. “Alex, I looked! You have no idea how much or how hard--what it was like thinking you were dead this whole time!” he snarled. “I looked through all kinds of records in Hawai’i after I got out of the hospital. If the places I checked with couldn’t find anything on you, then they weren’t telling me anything because I wasn’t your legal parent or guardian. They didn’t care that our parents were gone or that I was your brother! I asked for the Professor’s help and he did what he could too. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough for you but I tried!” From behind his ruby visor, Scott was glaring; his fingers were curled into tight fists to hide the shaking his hands would have otherwise been doing. For all the passing years, he truly had no idea what more he could have done for them to have been reunited sooner. He had a few papers, somewhere, that would back up his words, but right now it didn’t seem to matter. And following a lengthy period of denial, there had been a time when Scott had concluded that Alex was gone, like the rest of their family. Rather than relishing in relief and some level of joy that that wasn’t the case, he was standing in growing hurt and anger over his brother’s words--his own anger. Clenching his teeth together, Scott dropped his chin just slightly and turned his head, using all of his energy and focus to keep himself composed despite wanting to yell more, to kick some classroom chairs around or release some optic beams on a few innocent trees on the grounds.

“You’re right, I have no idea how hard it was for you,” Alex snapped, feeling any resemblance of being able to control his temper completely slip away, “ Because while you were apparently looking for me and staying in this cushy mansion, I was living with a whole bunch of families who didn’t give a shit about me because they were getting a government check. I was getting passed around from house to house with only a trash bag to carry the few things that I could actually say were mine. And I forgot what Mom and Dad and Gabe even looked like because I had absolutely nothing to remember them by. So I just can’t pretend like all of that didn’t happen, and that I only got to have a normal life for three months before all of this superpower shit started. So why don’t you just go back to pretending that I’m dead, I’ll get myself kicked out once I figure out how to get my powers under control and you can just forget all about me. It’ll be easier for both of us,” he mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets and quickly walking out of the room, not really caring of Scott had anything else to say.

Scott listened to his brother but hadn’t looked his way until he suggested Scott go back to thinking Alex was dead. That made his head snap up. Never, since his mutation manifested, had he wished so badly that he was able to suspend his mutation so Alex could see him looking him in his eyes. He watched Alex go. There was more he could have said and more he wanted to say, but the room had become a powder keg with the two of them in it and while Scott was having a hard time biting his tongue, he knew nothing good would come out of him insisting they keep talking now. Some time Alex was out of the room, the elder Summers brother turned sharply and gave his desk a hard kick, letting an angry grunt go almost simultaneously. He had no idea how things would go between them being under the same roof again, with everything being so different over the years, but the one thing Scott knew was that he didn’t want to see Alex go, or get himself kicked out of the school. Somehow, they would figure this out. He just didn’t know when or by what means.

[whatifexo]

Corona - Part 1 (Kai)

(A hacker meets a spy...things have gotten interesting.)

Part 2

The average person can type between 38 to 40 words per minute. According to Google, that translates to about 200 characters per minute. Professionals can type twice as fast, ranging from 325 to 335 CPM. While that may be an impressive speed, you don’t necessarily consider yourself a ‘professional’ in comparison.

If anything, you’re more of a prodigy.

And this is neither a bluff nor an exaggeration.

While the pros are doubling the standard typing speed, you’ve got triple on the pros themselves. For the record, you’ve never actually counted out all the words you’ve typed out in a day (because that’s what newbies do), but Jongdae claims to have done so one rare day he wasn’t busy annoying the heck out of you through your earpiece.

You supposedly hold the world record by a landslide, but besides you and Jongdae, the rest of the world has no idea.

Not even Junmyeon is aware of your true potential.

And no one else can ever find out because naturally, they’re probably going to kill you. But the idea of showing off your skills and achievements has always been distasteful for you anyway, so you’d rather stick with hacking things for a living than becoming part of the president’s trophy display case.  

“Corona, we’ve spotted target Zero,” as always, Jongdae’s voice is unbearably loud through your earpiece. It’s unfortunate that you’re in too much of a rush to yell at him for bursting your eardrums. “He’s heading to the Southside of that seafood restaurant on 24th street. He has the package, but I’m gonna need you to take care of the cams to his nine o’ clock first.”

“Already done,” you smirk as Jongdae sighs. ”Honestly, Chen, when are you going to learn that you’re never going to beat me at the CCTV game?”

“I at least win over you in the martial arts department.”

“Debatable. The results of our last sparring practice prove otherwise.”

“You little-“

“Will you two shut up and let me do my job here?”

Your fingers freeze for only half a fraction of a second over your keyboard at the sound of the third voice before you continue delving into the tracking system on the monitor to your right. Junmyeon usually never intercepts your team’s private calls, but the fact that he went out of his way to risk revealing his voice only goes to show just how shaky this mission has gotten.

“Gramps!” you yell a little louder just to spite Jongdae. “Nice of you to join the party.”

“I have news from team B.” you power on your fifth computer screen as Junmyeon speaks, cracking your knuckles in preparation. “This guy is a slippery one. He’s Hesun’s new ace and he’s already evaded the three checkpoints we set up downtown. I have his name. His real one, that is: Zhang Yixing. Corona, can you pull up his profile?”

You let out a low whistle as you scroll through his info, easily overriding passwords and firewall upon firewall.  Gramps wasn’t joking at all. The guy is the real deal. He’s only been working for Hesun for a month and he’s already been sent on 64 deliveries. His kill rate remains unknown, which makes you nervous.

Not knowing a potential murderer is like throwing Jongdae into a lion’s den. Blindfolded.

Your gut and instincts have always been your closest allies, and the heavy feeling in your chest doesn’t help to comfort you.

“Wait,” the point on your tracker immediately stops blinking, signaling that Jongdae has remained frozen in position. “This might as well be a trap.”

“I’m listening.” Junmyeon says, and you can just picture him raising a tense brow in his office.

“No one in Hesun has carried out this many deliveries in one go, and it’s almost impossible for Yixing not to get caught, no matter how good he is. His injury counts are also surprisingly low for someone who’s documented to have gotten involved in so many street fights. I bet a million won that he’s not alone. He may even have a team with him.”

Jongdae curses, loudly, of course, as soon as you finish giving your little spiel.

“He’s walking into the front of the restaurant. Not discreet at all. It almost seems too easy.”

“Jong- Chen. Get out of the there. Now.”

“Careful, Gramps,” you warn him through the receiver. “You’re going to blow our cover.”

Your fingers begin doing their magic as you pull up a larger map of Seoul, scanning the whole area as quickly as you can before Junmyeon starts peeing his pants or something. He may be your leader, but he’s still a nervous wreck. Kind of like a father, you guess. He’s so protective over his guys that he may just one day keel over from a heart attack due to severe stress or anxiety.

There’s a reason why you call him Gramps.

“We’ve got trouble,” you discover bad news just a mere three miles away from Jongdae’s position. “Hesun sure has upgraded its big bad vans. They’ve got satellites on that thing trying to track Chen down. I can momentarily freeze their system and mask our location, but we have five minutes to pull out before the vans arrive. Maybe even less if Yixing notices that we know what they’re up to.”

“And the package?” Junmyeon sounds so nervous he’s probably biting his already brittle nails on the other side of the line.

“Negative.” you confirm. “I’m sensing another hacker on the other side trying to do exactly what we’re trying to do. This is for sure a trap.”

“A very poorly done one at that.” Jongdae quips. You’ve been working with this guy long enough to know he’s found something out from his excellent observing skills. “Forget this gig. I know where the real package is.”

~~~

Before you became a computer genius, hacker extraordinaire, before you became Corona, you were just a naïve delivery girl. Just another innocent civilian trying to make a living out of this cruel, consumer driven power hungry world.

You worked the night shifts most of the time because the pay was greater. Deliveries consisted of drives that ranged from quick, fifteen minute drop offs to elaborate locations that were thirty miles outside of the city.

You weren’t complaining. You didn’t ask questions about the packages you dropped off, wasn’t concerned about the early or late hours you were working, or the way the recipients never showed their faces when you knocked on their doors.

But then you saw it.

The dark figures surrounding the fence of a quaint little house in a quiet cul-de-sac. The glint of a blade. The light in the kitchen, clicking off in an instant.

You heard the scream. One petrified shriek cut off by a horrible squelching noise. Gurgling. Choking. The quick exit of a dozen footsteps.  

You were only 17 then.

Three years later, you’ve quit the job and have turned completely against Hesun. You met Junmyeon and Jongdae and formed a small, but formidable team.

Gramps, Chen, and Corona.

There are others as well, though you have no idea who they are. You don’t even know what their code names are. But you’re fine with that. You find that knowing less people is better because they’re easier to protect. The stakes are higher, but you can easily keep tabs on these two precious men in your life.

You’ve succeeded in doing this for the last three years.

Just as long as your little family remains exactly like this: small and manageable.

~~~

“Well I’ll be damned.”

Junmyeon circles his desk once, twice, and digs his fingers in his hair before releasing the longest sigh of the century.

In front of him sits the package Jongdae had stolen only hours ago from one of Hesun’s local post offices, the package your team has been searching all over Korea for. Months and months of painstakingly reviewing official government documents, staking out to catch sleazy deals made under the table, and sending Jongdae on incredibly risky missions.

All that work for one sheet of paper wrapped in an overly complicated parcel, carefully creased in the center with a jumble of numbers.

0400, 35.8562129.2247 –K

It didn’t take much time for Junmyeon to decode what all of this means.

“Have you confirmed the coordinates?” he asks you, and you spare him a glance from your laptop long enough to notice the dark, sunken circles under his eyes and the crinkles around his usually ironed collar.

“Those dumb bulbs probably thought we can’t understand military time, so they’ve spelled it all out for us. They’re going to meet Kai at around four in the morning in Gyeongju.”

“I’m not quite following this guy’s plans,” Jongdae swings his legs over Junmyeon’s pristine desk whilst ignoring the latter’s death glare. “He can’t possibly be working for Hesun. Four years in jail because of those rotten jerks and on the day he’s released, he’s going to work for the bad guys?”

Junmyeon loosens his tie before shoving Jongdae’s muddy shoes off the surface of his desk, coughing none too guiltily when your ‘most skilled fighter’ falls off his chair.

This is why Junmyeon absolutely detests holding meetings in his office. That is, unless Jongdae is absent. But it’s not really much of a meeting when Jongdae is gone, and your own home base is off limits so Junmyeon doesn’t really have a choice.

“I don’t believe Kai is that naive, Jongdae,” Junmyeon takes the now empty seat beside you to look over your shoulder where you’re busy with hacking into the CCTVs around Gyeongju. “It’s a reckless plan, but this is his way of getting revenge, and he is going to get killed no matter how good of a fighter he is.”

“What a shame,” you tsk, pulling up a fake ID (a very poorly done one at that) of the famed ex-inmate on your screen. “He seems awfully handsome too.”

Jongdae rolls his eyes from the floor and Junmyeon guffaws.

Kai. Twenty two years of age. Upheld the title of Ruler of the Cells, because prisoners have nothing better to do other than fight each other. His real name is unknown. Gone. Erased even from police records. Any solid personal information on him is unknown, no matter how hard you try to find it. At 18, he was framed with a bank robbery and the murder of a friendly banker.

He was sentenced to at least twelve years in prison, but he is somehow being released earlier. No doubt Hesun’s doing. The company who gave him the wounds is also feeding him the medicine.

And he’s going to accept it.

“Unfortunately, we’re going to save his handsome face.”

“Why unfortunately?” you frown at Junmyeon, but he’s already pulling a pale faced Jongdae to his feet and straightening his tie.

“Oh.”

You’d almost forgotten that Jongdae is the reason why Kai was ever framed.

~~~

Jongdae hasn’t used his actual name in public since the day of his supposed death. Legally, he’s registered as a citizen of Korea under Kim Chen; an actual star chef the world has forgotten about since the destruction of his image through a scandal with racy women’s magazines and a nasty divorce with his wife of ten years. Jongdae is only a cleaner version of Kim Chen who is living a mostly quiet undercover life.

‘Mostly,’ because Jongdae was also the supposed banker who was supposedly killed by Kai.

A world of ‘supposes’ has plagued Jongdae all his life. It all started with Hesun, of course. Suppose he follows their orders and succeeds in protecting his parents. Suppose he rises through the ranks so he may one day pull out from the company entirely. Suppose he plays along with the illegal delivery of slush funds between this politician and that corrupt CEO.

The tragic results are this: He plays his part, pretends to die, and lets Hesun run away with the money. He throws an innocent boy in jail. He loses the chance of ever living normally. His parents are dead despite the promise of protection upon his cooperation. He roams the streets for nearly a year before Junmyeon picks up his battered body and soul and trains him to become part of the team.  

Oh, and he’s going to meet Kai again.

Face to face.

Alone, with a mere hacker and an emotional wreck of a boss for backup.

This is the generous punishment that Jongdae has been given.

~~~

“I’m going to quit. I’m going to the Bahamas and take off on my yacht using Gramps’s life savings and I’ll be sipping on piña colada in solitude.”

“I do wonder if you’ll ever grow the balls to say that to his face.” you chuckle, activating Jongdae’s night vision on his specs with a click of a button.

“After tonight I don’t think I’ll get the chance to while I’m alive anyway.”  

An alert message pops up on your screen as Jongdae continues to contemplate his last few hours on Earth. A blue dot on your tracker has appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, from around the corner where Jongdae is circling Gyeongju’s park.

Uh oh.

“Any last words, Chen?”

“Where is he?”

“Behind you.”

“Mother of-“

You can only hope that Junmyeon still has that first aid kit lying around in his office.  

~~~

More than anything, Junmyeon is a man of words.

He managed to bluff through being Hesun’s ally, romanced the heck out of his wife, and persuaded his allies to join his side for revenge. For justice. Whatever that means nowadays.

It’s perfectly reasonable that he also be the one to convince Kai into joining your team.  You can’t say that you agree with this plan, you actually think that it’s one of the worst ones yet, but you trust Junmyeon and he’s taken care of you for all these years.

He knows what he’s doing.

Expect maybe he underestimated the simmering anger that Kai has held on to for all this time.

“Wow.” Jongdae deadpans as soon as you walk in the meeting location, an underground bar that’s packed with people for camouflaging purposes.

You’re dressed in black from head to toe, hood pulled up with  a—surprise, surprise---black mouth mask covering half your face. Very rarely do you ever come out of your home base, and whenever you do it’s usually just to go to Junmyeon’s office or the dumpling place down the street. Obviously, your wardrobe doesn’t need to be so extravagant.

Besides, it’s not like you’re heading out to a date or something. Who cares if you look like the grim reaper coming to collect Jongdae’s soul?

Speaking of whom, is currently clutching a cup of ice in his bleeding hand.

“I think you should take a good look at yourself first.” you stare down the blooming bruise on Jongdae’s jaw, and for the first time, you see him flinch painfully when you lightly brush your fingers over his swollen skin.

Usually, he would reply with a joke despite the injury, but his eyes aren’t on you anymore.  You follow his line of sight to where Junmyeon, still in his suit and tie, approaches you at the bar table with a dark silhouette trailing closely behind him.

Jongdae attempts to sleekly hide behind you.

Junmyeon is all smiles.

“Lady and gentleman, I’d like to introduce the newest member of our team.”

You’re the only one clapping.

“Impressive,” you gently pry off Jongdae’s iron hold on your hoodie as you crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the infamous Kai. “I figured you’d take at least a full day to convince the man.”

“I wasn’t the only one doing the negotiating.” Junmyeon winks, and you just barely manage to hold in a grimace.

“That’s real sleazy of you, old man, but I’m more interested in the new dynamics of our team.”

Your eyes have returned to Kai, his face barely visible with his hat pulled down. You can only catch glimpses of a strong jawline, hollow cheekbones, a cut lip. For a moment, you watch him turn his head ever so slightly to survey the place. You follow the visual path he takes around the crowded place.

The mixture of con-artists, ex convicts, high profile officials, and innocent office workers dancing on the floor. The lone barista, a short but built man whose face defies the science of aging. The empty and half-full drinks littering the bar table. The emergency exits at all four corners.  And finally, at your team.

The moment your eyes lock, your body is inclined to shudder under his piercing gaze.

“I don’t drink.” he says suddenly, and you shoot him a puzzled look.

Does this guy have an imaginary friend or something? He’s more mental than you thought.

Except his voice is serious and sharp as icicles. He still hasn’t torn his gaze off of you, even as you turn your body in your seat to encounter the young looking barista standing stiffly behind you. He has a glass of an unknown substance in his hand, stretched out in offering.

“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully, retracting his arm to drink some himself. “I hate to waste such good whisky on a good evening, but I’ll forgive your pretty face just this once.”

Clearly, Kai has no plans to humor him. There’s a second of uncomfortable silence in between the DJ switching songs and your team at a momentary loss for words. Junmyeon’s eyes nervously flicker from the barista to Kai. As the music resumes, the defeated barista slinks off dejectedly to the other side of the counter to polish some glasses.

“What a crowd pleaser.” Jongdae mutters, and Jongin automatically shoots him a hardened look.

Your body is yanked backward upon Jongdae’s frightened grip on the hem of your hoodie, and you silently plead for Junmyeon to do something before this mission completely crumbles at the hands of your newest member.

Gramps clears his throat in an attempt to save the situation, but half of his fake cough is drowned out by the blasted EDM thumping from the speakers. This is good news for you as it would be impossible now for outsiders to hear your conversation.

“Pardon our teammate, he has an unexpectedly soft heart.” Junmyeon makes a point not to look at Jongdae’s offended expression, but you can see his jaw flex in slight irritation. “Anyway, this is ________ ________. Our prodigy hacker. You may have heard of her as Corona.”  

“What, he gets to know my real name and I don’t get to know his?”

“I apologize. It was part of our deal, __________.”

“What deal?” you narrow your eyes at Junmyeon, your suspicion brimming.

Junmyeon never compromises fairly unless it is absolutely necessary. He’ll pretend to compromise, make it seem like an even deal, but the other party will later realize that all was in his favor after all. This is how he convinced you to ‘work’ for him, when you wanted nothing more to do with Hesun. He’d coaxed you to make use of your randomly expert computer skills. To make up for the mistake of delivering those illegal items you were unaware of. For taking part in worsening the corruption in your country.

It all sounded awfully patriotic and noble then, but it didn’t take long for you to discover that Junmyeon just needed someone to do half of the dirty work for him. Jongdae does the other, more dangerous and risky half.

And as much as you were cheated, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate Junmyeon. His intentions are reasonable, he genuinely cares for his people, he proves to be smarter and more cunning than his outwardly ‘nice guy’ appearance.

You suppose he had to toughen up in some ways after his tragic past.

Since then, he never let anyone take advantage of him ever again. This compromise he’s made is a huge step from his usual character.

“You all have a new mission,” he announces, rolling up his sleeves. This has been a habit of his whenever he’s getting excited or forming an elaborate plan in his head. “Successfully take down Hesun.”

“Ha ha, nice one old man, as if we haven’t been trying to do that for the past three years.”

Jongdae’s finally lets go of your hoodie before he can stretch the fabric beyond repair.

“You are missing the point, Dae,” Junmyeon huffs. There has been a change which leaves a wonderful advantage for us. We now have eyes inside the company.”

You get it.

You sneak a peek at Kai, who holds your gaze hostage as soon as he notices your shifted attention.

Although you’re slightly scared for your life, you’re beginning to see the interesting events that could possibly come.

~~~

It’s not like you all haven’t tried spying before. About a year ago, a newly recruited member on team B was sent to apply for a driver position at Hesun, but was quickly found out and nearly killed if it weren’t for Jongdae hauling his butt out of there within minutes.

You believe his name is Byun Baekhyun. He’s currently still a part of team B, but Junmyeon continues to keep a close tab on him and no longer sends him out on missions.

Spying has become out of the question with the inexperience of your organization. Another time, you volunteered to do it, but Junmyeon firmly refused and actually stopped speaking to you for a good month just for bringing up the idea.

Now that he’s on board with this kind of plan again, you’re almost hesitant to follow along. Almost. Having the ‘Ruler of the Cells’ on your side is somewhat reassuring despite his title sounding downright childish and straight out of a video game.

You’re going to have to trust Junmyeon’s judgment if your gut agrees with him.

“I don’t like this at all.”

Jongdae’s call comes as a yellow ping! on your screen, and since he’s using the emergency function, you don’t have to say hello for the call to go through.

“Get off my fake hotline, Chen. This is only supposed to be used for emergencies.”

“This is an emergency. A matter of my coworker possibly stabbing me in the back at any moment. Literally and figuratively.”

You sigh, setting your chopsticks down and moving your bowl of ramen over to protect your newest baby, a sleek digital keyboard leaving streaks of neon purples and pinks wherever your fingers land. This is the new tool you’re going to use to communicate with Kai.

It’s a big upgrade compared to the old and bruised up keyboard you use for Jongdae.

“Don’t tell me you’re just jealous because the new guy has all the good tech.”

“He does, though! Automatic shoe blades, radar and infrared specs with an updated gps and tracking software, state of the art earpiece, a loaded weapons belt, heck, the old man even bought him a new outfit altogether!”

You smirk, remembering the image of Kai from earlier walking in a back alley in formal dress on his way to a meeting with Hesun’s gangster bosses. Even through the blurry CCTV cams, you still caught the glint of a pin on the right side of his chest, the same one Junmyeon wears with all of his suits.

He didn’t necessarily buy anything new. His own closet makes a sufficient shopping mall.

“So you’re telling me you’d rather play the undercover spy,” you type one handedly on your keyboard whilst reaching for your chopsticks for another bite of noodle. “For the updated gear, that is.”

“What makes you think he’s actually loyal to us?” there’s a hissing noise from the other end of the line, followed by a groan and a thud. Not Jongdae’s voice. He’s once again chatting while out on a mission. “He got scouted by Hesun as a spy. They hire exactly three spies every five years. That goes to show that he’s more than capable of getting revenge himself and ousting our identities.”

“He has no reason to give any tips to his enemy. And besides, he knows he needs allies before he can even dream of getting back at the people who ruined his life. ”

You stop suddenly in the middle of tapping into a concealed meeting room Kai is currently in.

You’re defending him. For some crazy, unidentifiable reason, you’re rationalizing his actions. Normally, you would’ve ditched as soon as you heard about a new member joining. No one has touched your team for as long as you’ve been here. You hate intruders. You don’t like outside people, period.  

Yet you’re giving the new guy a chance.

Maybe Junmyeon isn’t the only one who’s changing.

No…..you’ve both just arrived at the same conclusion.

Your team needs Kai. Maybe even more than he needs your team.

”Corona?” Jongdae brings back movement in your fingers. His breathing has become labored and the distant yelling combined with gunshots tells you that he’s making his escape through the agreed exit route.

“I have to go,” Focus, ________. “There’s a not-so-secret meeting I have to tap into.”

~~~

On a normal night, or should you say early morning, you would be making a second bowl of ramen and reviewing a weekly schedule Junmyeon provides to help you with your hacking jobs. You would be updating your systems or surfing through open ports to download recently released video games for free. Maybe you’d be sprawled on your hammock in the living room, catching some shut eye before Jongdae’s next shift.

You wouldn’t usually be standing outside your heavily guarded door in your Mickey Mouse bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, staring incredulously at the man in front of you.

At 3:35 in the morning.

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

You rarely cuss, even when you’re under the greatest amounts of pressure, but this situation is calling for all swear words in existence at the sight of Kai at your doorstep. It’s more of a booby trapped mat he’s standing on in front of a garage door, but he’s standing on it nonetheless, perfectly unharmed.

IM. POS. SIB. BLE.

Kai, still dressed in his meeting clothes blinks back at you calmly. He holds up a manila folder and dangles it in front of your face, stamped with a logo you know all too well.

You could care less about its contents at the moment.

“How did you find this place?” you’re going for a demanding tone here, but the robe and fuzzy slippers probably aren’t helping. “How did you bypass my alarms? My security alerts? Are you out of your mind? Bonkers? A genius? I’ve made it impossible to track me down and yet-“

A quick memory flashes through your head, of numbly heading home from that night at the underground bar after Junmyeon first introduced Kai. You’d had a couple shots to drink. Your hazy senses didn’t bother to confirm the prickly sensation you felt on the back of your neck, the insistent barking of a neighbor’s dog, the flickering light of a lamp post around an alleyway corner.  

You let your guard down at a critical time.

“You followed me.”

“You sure talk a lot for a recluse.” you catch Kai’s lip quirking slightly, and you’re yet again left dumbfounded.

Is that amusement you’re seeing?

“Why?” his intent gaze makes you pull your robe tighter over you. “Why do you care so much about who I am and what I’m doing?”

“I like to know whether or not the people I’m working with are trustworthy.”

Trustworthy.

He’s already ruined that kind of impression the moment he met your eyes at the underground bar. He may look ordinary now with his clean business attire, his hair pushed back, buttons neatly lined up. But you know all too well what kind of scars and secret intentions he may be harboring beneath the surface.

Yet you’re still out here entertaining him.

“I don’t think Jongdae would like the sound of that.” you throw in a curveball, testing Kai’s buttons. Hopefully not pressing too hard.

It works for a split second.

Cold anger lines his face before he pushes it back and relaxes. The corner of the manila folder in his hand wrinkles under his grip.

“His concerns are none of my concern.”

Gulp.

You remind yourself never to have the two hooked up on the same phone line when you’re working. At least then they won’t be able to hear each other and Jongdae could be saved from being verbally slaughtered.

“What have you found about him?” as discreetly as you can, you lean on the garage door to conceal your finger stretching for the emergency button on the wall.

“He’s a world class idiot who doesn’t deserve another breath in this world, but he has good skills.”

To be fair, his response was better than you’d expected, but not all that reassuring either. After saying that last compliment, Kai looks as if he’d just swallowed a bitter pill.

“I’m not going to kill him,” his eyes shift downward. “So you can take your hand off that button.”

You only hesitate for .5 seconds before pulling away from the wall.

“Fair en- hey!”

That slight hesitation was all Kai needed to shoulder past you and make his way toward the actual front door of your secret home.

On the brink of panicking, you consider several options.

One: Actually press the emergency button. Two: Ring up Junmyeon. Three: Reach for the gun under your car, fire and never look back. Four: Kick him where it hurts and run.  

All plausible solutions. All requiring risk.

You choose none of them.

“Wait.” before you can think twice about it, you’ve grabbed hold of Kai’s wrist.

As he stops and turns to look at you, your heart slams against your ribcage in fear immediately. What did you just do? What have you done? Regret, regret, regret, regret. A million conflicting thoughts cross your head.

Then they all halt in an instant.

Kai, a somewhat rigid, unknown figure to you who can freeze water with his icy stares, winces in front of you.

You pull away as he struggles to hide the pain that creases his eyes.

“What happened?” you try to say more demandingly, but your voice comes out softer than you’d intended.

You were wrong.

This is not the look of someone who plans on harming you or your friends. Raiding your secret base and threatening you with your uncovered location was not Kai’s intention. Perhaps he’d also wanted to see the girl behind the computer screens, but he’s mainly come to deliver information about the ‘secret meeting’ he had with the enemy.

Nothing more, nothing less.

You deduce this all before Kai even responds.  

“There was a suspicious guard by the entrance, and I had to change his mind about me before I left.”

“You didn’t….” you trail off, licking your lips nervously.

“I’m not a killer.” he scowls, practically hissing the word ‘killer’ through gritted teeth.

Guiltily, you shake your head, reminding yourself that Kai wasn’t someone dangerous to begin with. He had just been an average Joe then, unaware of the tragic future that lay ahead of him. Set up, falsely accused, thrown in a tangle of revenge and betrayal. He’d been forced to toughen up during the long days he spent in prison.

If only he hadn’t crossed paths with that cursed company, if only he’d taken the day off from taxi driving, if only he didn’t make for a perfect alias, he would have saved himself from a ruined reputation.

He’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

He’s just like the rest of you on the team.

A wave of sympathy drowns out your suspicion and panic. You turn away to your heavily locked door before Kai can notice the emotion that’s flooded your face.

You know he doesn’t want your pity.

“Stay here,” you don’t fail to notice the way Kai is now gently stretching his wrist. “I’ll be back.”

~~~

Before you can change your mind, you quickly begin cleaning up the mess in your home. The task is a daunting one as you’ve never had a single visitor in years. It takes at least fifteen minutes for you to remove the junk food and other dusty clutter on your table and countertops. It takes another five minutes to collect your dirty clothes from the corner of the living room and chuck them in the laundry basket, and with no time to spare, you power off all your computer screens and tightly shut the door to your working space.

You allow yourself to catch your breath for a few seconds before letting Kai in.

Just as you’d predicted, he surveys the area with one sweep of his eyes as soon as he steps inside.

Your personal space is a small one. One floor, four cramped rooms that consists of the bathroom, kitchen, living room, and the bedroom which you’ve converted into your hacking zone.

With another person inside, it’s easy to feel slightly claustrophobic. Kai’s presence is especially intimidating with his polished shoes, suit and tie, and his dark hair that shows no signs of disarray.

You try not to think about the challenge of what you’re about to do.

“Please, sit.”

He raises a brow at the couch and the first aid kit on the coffee table, taking a seat with questioning eyes.

You cough awkwardly, making sure to leave space between the two of you when you sit beside him.

“We might as well fix that wrist of yours.” you shrug, and Kai seems genuinely surprised that you noticed as if he hadn’t been so obvious about his discomfort.

“May I?” you reach for Kai’s injured hand. He hesitantly places the manila folder on the table before holding out his arm.

“Thank you.” he says quietly.

You hadn’t noticed it in the dimly lit garage, but now that his skin is under the light, you‘re able to see his bruised knuckles. Blood is still oozing out of deep cuts. You guess that this fight was almost fairly matched.

You ignore the urge to ask about it.

“About the meeting,” you change subjects to keep yourself focused elsewhere, casting your eyes down as you roll up Kai sleeves and dig into the first aid kit for the saline wash. “I want to know what happened after the mic failure.”

Before Kai went into the meeting room, you’d asked that he placed a bugging device in his jacket pocket so you can listen in on the conversation. About half an hour in, the audio stopped working and you could hear nothing more.

“I don’t know if they caught on that I was recording, but the man I was talking to did have an earpiece in his left ear. He kept fiddling with it whenever we were about to discuss my role as a spy for them.”

“How convenient,” you scoff, carefully dipping a sterile cotton pad in the saline. “They probably anticipated that you were going to record for blackmailing. There must’ve been a detector in the room. Explains why I was getting such unnatural frequency levels.”

Setting Kai’s hand on your knee, you lightly dab the cotton pad over the cuts on his knuckles. Strangely enough, now that you’re talking, you no longer feel the awkwardness of having a stranger over and bandaging his wounds only by your second meeting.

Keeping this all professional may be the answer to your incredibly low interpersonal skills.

“There wasn’t much you missed, but they did ask me to do something strange.”

You look up briefly from curiosity.

“How strange are we talking here?”

With his free hand, Kai tugs at his tie and unbuttons the top of his collar, brows furrowed in concern.

“They want me to break into the Blue House.”

There’s a brief period of silence.

“They what?”

Kai’s hand jolts in surprise on your knee. You look down to see that you’ve heavily pressed on his wounds.

“Sorry,” you focus your attention back to first aid, discarding the pad and ripping open a packet of gauzes. “Hesun’s getting braver by the minute. They have guts to try something so risky. We might have to speed up with our own plans.”

Not to mention speeding up your lack of solid plans.

Junmyeon had forgotten to tell Kai about an essential trait of your team: a slow ability to make decisions. You swear you’ve witnessed Jongdae and Junmyeon engaging in a few rounds of rock, paper, scissors in between team meeting breaks. You’re pretty sure that’s also how they decided to let Kai in the team.

“They didn’t disclose the information to me, but I guess that this has something to do with bugging the president’s office. Or possibly retrieving classified documents.”

“Of course,” you huff under your breath, wiping away the excess saline with extra gauzes. “Hesun has a talent for making a James Bond movie over everything. When are you going?”

“Two weeks from today.”

“We’ll have an emergency meeting with Gramps and Jongdae as soon as we can, then.”

“Gramps?” Kai snickers.

“It’s an inside joke thing we have.” you dodge Kai’s curiosity for the sake of Junmyeon’s privacy and begin to wrap a bandage around his wrist. Already, there’s a dark red spot seeping through the gauze. You reposition his hand and lift it slowly so you can tighten the bandage, his skin warming your fingers.

For some reason you find it hard to look up.

“Be careful next time.” you say without thinking. “Try not to beat someone up again and nearly break your hand in the process while you’re at it.”

“Is my accuser worried about me?”

You register that he’s referring to you suspecting him for killing the suspicious guard. Embarrassment floods your cheeks, and on reflex you squeeze his wrist.

As soon as Kai yelps in pain, you bend over to blow at his hand.

“Oh geez, I’m so sor-“

It was a mistake to look.                                                                        

Simultaneously, you’ve both moved to blow out the pain, and suddenly you’re face to face with a pair of startled eyes. From this close, you can make out a faint scar that runs down the center of Kai’s chin, and another at the corner of his mouth.

His features are less sharp from up close, less calculating and serious. With his lips slightly protruded in mid blow, he no longer seems like the daunting boy you were so wary of.

A fragile silence rests between you and you’re not entirely sure if it’s worth breaking it.  

“WARNING. WARNING. CODE ORANGE.”

Ah, that should be your cue.

You spring apart faster than you’d expected, and Kai morphs back to duty mode as he whips his head around to look for the source of the noise.

There’s no point in hiding your precious children now.

“It’s my security software.” you race for your hacking room, throwing the door open to find all of your screens flashing with an alert you fear you’re seeing for the first time.

Kai is hot on your heels. He stands and watches from behind you as you begin typing an extensive code to access the CCTVs planted around your hideout.

“What does it mean?”

“Hopefully not what I think it is.”

You’re too focused to be concerned over Kai closely watching you. He may not even understand most of what you’re doing, so it’s relatively safe to show him your work. Besides, the bigger threat is the program that’s awakened since you’d first installed it.

You meant for it to function as a safety net.  A backup in the case of trouble. You were confident you would never need its use.

It takes several minutes of you searching through every angle of the cameras, prompting the program to look with you, before you spot it. A black van with soundless engines rolling through the streets. Nearly imperceptible in the darkness, still several blocks away, but headed towards a way too familiar route.

Code orange.

There’s only one meaning behind it but you hoped it was only a mistake.

“Prepare for shutdown,” you command the program, breathing in to calm your nerves. “There’s an intruder on the way.”

[micalefey]

The Magicians  (TV Spells)

Ars Deicidium 

This spell is known as the Art of Killing Gods and is written in a book that is stored in the Library's Poison Room. It allows the user of the spell to turn metal objects into God Killing Weapons. The magical power needed to work the spell is tremendous and no ordinary amount would suffice. The amount of magic Kady extracted from the death of the demigod John Gaines as barely enough to make one God-Killing bullet. And the death of Umber was utilized to extract the magic to create a God-Killing sword by Julia, which Quentin used to kill Ember and save all of Fillory.

Atsuko's Spectral Refraction 

This spell was mentioned by Julia Wicker in "The Girl Who Told Time" in an alternate timeloop sequence. The spell was referenced when when she connected it to the sequence of another spell. Dean Fogg stated that the Spectral Refraction was, in fact, a spell learned by second-year Brakebills students.

Une Chaleur Temporaire 

A spell used by Julia and Marina while locked in the meat locker of the safe house. This spell provides the two women the ability to withstand the cold temperatures long enough to escape. The spell, written in a mixture of Latin and French, requires the preparation of a concoction. Along with alchemical symbols, the ingredients include crushed rocks or sand, and animal fat. Once the mixture is burned, it must be applied to the skin. It is possible this is the show's version of Chkhartishvili's Enveloping Warmth.

Coptic Illusion Spell 

Emily Greenstreet used this spell on both herself and Quentin Coldwater in an attempt to manifest the appearance of Alice Quinn and Mayakovsky, respectively. Though she noted it a 'party trick', the illusion spell (which works only while the skin is wet) can be used to take the appearance of whomever the other person longs to see the most, or presumably, anyone they wish.

Contact The Other Side 

A spell Alice Quinn planned on using to find out what happened to her deceased brother, Charlie. The spell requires the active participation of four 'magical adepts', candles, bones, sand, Cardamon and must be cast within the time-frame of Midnight. Being a Niffin, Charlie did not answer the call, but rather the Beast, who utilized the situation to open a gateway between worlds.

Czechoslovakian Unlocking Charm 

A spell Marina taught to the Hedgewitches of her safe-house, and by extension, Julia. The spell, "Odemknout" forces any iron or mechanical lock open. It can be assumed the Czech spell to seal locks would be the opposite, "Zamknout".

Emotion Bottles 

A spell utilized by Quentin, Alice, Penny, Margo and Elliot to physically isolate their emotions from their bodies in order to practice battle magic. Requiring a spell spoken in Japanese and a small bottle that can be worn on the body, this enchantment will quite literally "bottle" ones emotions, rendering the magicians completely unfeeling, logical beings. The spell should not be succeeded for longer than three hours as it can take a toll on the body, and the emotions can be overwhelming when they return.

The Fish Hook 

A spell invention of Julia Wicker and Kady's mother, Hannah. The spell, which harnesses energy from a large floor-drawn sigil in the shape of an anchor, can be used to pull an object from one location to another through dimensions. The spell requires cooperative magic, needing at least two magicians to perform, and the chanting of an incantation. The duo used it to steal file cabinets concealing all of the magical knowledge of Marina Andrieski's Hedgewitch safehouse.

Koyosegi's Ward 

One of various magical wards which can shield a space and offer protection from outside forces. Upon "picking" the weaker ward Julia had placed around her safehouse, Hannah suggested this one; implying it was a stronger version and not as easily infiltrated.

Lasaro's Golem Spell 

A spell, only known originally by Lasaro, a jealous ex-boyfriend of Margo Hanson. Using a rare substance called 'living clay', a magician can create an exact, flesh-replica of a person, known as their 'Golem'. This process is complicated, and if done inefficiently, can cause the actual person whom the Golem resembles to become faint, weakened and unstable. If done correctly, a magician may be able to swap consciousness with their Golem while asleep, allowing them to reside in two locations at once, though only one body can be conscious at a time.

Musical spell 

A spell to influence spontaneous music, song and dance in all those nearby. Utilizing a tut resembling the waving of a conductors baton, it was used by Margo in "Lesser Evils", to make Eliot sing "One Day More" from Les Miserables in an attempt to inspire courage in the High King before he has his duel with the King of Loria.

Necromantic Resurrection 

A mysterious spell found in the Brakebills Library, this dark spell allows a magician the power to raise the dead. Though the effects are highly unstable and only last a few minutes, a spirit of the deceased may momentarily return to their corpse, as seen when Julia and Kady ressurected the lifeless body of Marina Andrieski. The spell requires a relatively fresh corpse, and the last known ingredient of the spell is to burn the book from which it came.

Poll spell 

Mentioned in "The Girl Who Told Time". Eliot uses it to find out, how popular he is in Fillory as High King.

Prayer to the Harvest Deity 

A supplication spell to a shy, earth goddess. While sitting inside a large, chalk-drawn sigil (the goddesses symbol) Julia recited the words, "I beseech and devote myself, I plead and promise myself to you, she of the grain, that you will raise me up above the chaff. Amen." The goddess answered, and Julia levitated into the air.

Probability Spell 

A powerful ritual that can send one of any number of individuals into an astral state of being. While under, the participants can decide how best to go about their course of action, and whatever decisions they make will effect the outcome of whatever end result they desire. Using a double sided coin, candles and some hallucinogenic herbs, the spell will take effect, and the illusionary situations will play out as if they were reality. This can appear to play out for weeks at a time, if necessary to answer the questions for which the spell was cast (though upon breaking, the magicians return to the exact moments the spell was cast originally).

The Rhinemann Ultra 

Presumably the most powerful battle magic spell known, the Rhinemann Ultra can only be successfully executed by a master magician. The first known usage of the spell was in December, 1944, when Rupert Chatwin used it during the Battle of the Bulge to win World War II, having petitioned the Fillorian Gods Ember and Umber for enough power to perform it. It was later taught by a Pixie professor named Bigby to Brakebills students until the class became too dangerous and was banned. Alice Quinn, having acquired the strength of a master magician from Ember, attempted to destroy the Beast with this spell. It is recommended that no one, save for the target, be within 20 feet of the blast radius when the spell is detonated.

Romanian Flying Enchantment 

A spell spoken in Romanian, presumably used to enchant object to fly. The parchment the spell was written upon was kept in the Physical Kids Dormitory for practice uses. "pierde legaturile de gravitatie si plutesc liber. Ca praful, chiar pietre avanta pe briza. Ca vapori, un rau curge inapoi la cer. Deci, prea acum va aceasta mutare obiect mare pentru a acoper."

Scarlotti's Web 

Spell used in "The World in the Walls" that traps the caster's intended target inside of a dark prison within their own mind that shapes itself to psychologically destroy the the target, with the intention of permanently incapacitating them. It is "high end designer cooperative magic", according to Marina Andreiski. It can only be broken by summoning the Matarese, an evil bug spirit of the Underworld. Along with a spell, placing a totem of the Matarese upon the victim will cause the bug spirit to awaken and inhabit the magicians body, shortening out the cerebral cortex and breaking the illusion. It is then up to the victim to release themselves from the spell. The spell: "Daemonium Matarese, ecce vocavi te in carcere liberare mens est. Imperio Scarlatti telem nobus."

Portal Spell 

Using a piece of chalk, Richard Corrigan drew the large outline of a door onto the surface of Julia's apartment wall and recited the words "Aperio nobus ostium ad annecto procul". With a glimmering flash of light, the wall became a door to the location of every member of Free Trader Beowulf, no matter their distance from each other globally.

Sumerian Shield Charm 

First-years at Brakebills School for Magical Pedagogy are required to learn this simple but powerful shield charm, which can be used to protect its caster from glass, debris and presumably projectile spells (as it was used in an attempt to protect Quentin, Margo and Elliot from the blast effects of the Rhinemann Ultra, an extremely powerful battle spell). This charm can be strengthened greatly through the use of cooperative casting.

Tesla Flexion 

The Tesla Flexion is a fold between realities, requiring an array of tesla coils, and a tented area for the realities to meet. It was successfully performed by Dean Fogg and Julia Wicker, connecting two different realities temporarily together so that Quentin could speak to an Alice Quinn from a different time-loop that survived the Beast's attack and became an expert on Shades. In the procedure, people from different timelines were prohibited from interacting physically, as the collision of matter from different realities occupying the same space can create a paradox, i.e. an explosion. The Tesla Flexion has only been successfully employed once before, as it was deemed too volatile when three people died in an attempt to shut it down. Due to the forces at play in the spell, maintaining a connection for longer than two minutes would result in the death of anyone in the vicinity.

Teukolsky's Locator Spell 

A spell to find the spirits of the deceased. The spell will locate an active spirit still tethered to the physical plane, directing a magician to the location where the spirit had originally died. It requires a lit match, which will flare up brightly when the correct location is approached.

Turkish Binding Spell 

The spell magicians use to seal a rogue Niffin into a Niffin box. Accompanied by a small, coffin-shaped wooden box etched with special sigils, a magician will recite the spell "Seni baglamak emrediyorum! Sana dönmeni emrediyorum!" and permanently seal the Niffin within.

Weizenheim's Third 

A "tiny little weather suspension spell" performed by Emily Greenstreet. It can be cast through a number of hand motions to enchant one's lips, enabling them to become a 'smoke artiste' and manipulating the movements and shapes the smoke takes.

Word as Bond 

This spell is used by Julia on the Beast, and later by Quentin on Niffin Alice, to magically seal the terms of a pact between the two. Accompanied by a sigil drawn onto a piece of paper, the intended parties then place the base of their thumbs onto the sigil, branding the spell onto themselves. It is unknown what would happen if one were to attempt to break the Word as Bond, or if it is even possible.

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Five-0 Redux: A warning from McGarrett’s past reminds us of what matters most

By Wendie Burbridge / Special to the Star-Advertiser May 6, 2017

For the most part, fans watch “Hawaii Five-0” for more than just the pretty scenery,  shoot-em-up action, and intense drama. Not that viewers don’t enjoy that part of the hit television show, it seems as if they want more than just a typical police procedural.

Earlier this week, I was talking to former principal and personnel director of Hawaii’s public schools, Wendell Staszkow, about “Hawaii Five-0.” Like most Hawaiians, Staszkow watched the original Jack Lord, James MacArthur, and Kam Fong version, which aired from 1968 to 1980. Today, as an “ex-pat” living in Las Vegas where he works as an admissions counselor for UNLV, he watches the reboot to get a weekly dose of his island home– and because his daughter writes this column. While we were talking on the phone last Sunday, he said the best thing in all my years of writing about the show.

“Sometimes I want to watch “Hawaii Five-0” just to see them chase the bad guys, lock ‘em up, and then go have a beer,” he said.

I had to laugh. I’ve had fans around the world tell me what they like and love about the show, but my dad wins the “best fan quote” award in seven seasons. Because while the plot my father presents is simple, easy, with no frills– these are usually the kind of episodes many of us enjoy the most. Sure, we like the car chases, and the gun fights, and the funny subplots with our secondary characters– but all in all, give us the good guys catching the bad guys, add a pau hana beer to the mix, and that is a great show.

So this week’s episode had me a little trepidatious. The episode, written by Rob Hanning and directed by Krishna Rao, was titled “He keʻu na ka ʻalae a Hina” which means “a croaking by Hina’s mudhen.” The title comes from a traditional ʻōlelo noʻeau, or Hawaiian proverb, that means “a warning of trouble, as the cry of a mudhen at night is a warning of distress.”  The cry of distress comes from Naser Salaam (Omid Abtahi), an inmate at Gitmo, who McGarrett (Alex O’Loughlin) once showed great kindness to after he was captured by McG’s SEAL team ten years earlier.

Salaam asks McGarrett to come to Guantanamo Bay, so he can tell him in person about an impending terrorist attack on Oʻahu. He tells McG that if there is anyone who McGarrett loves on Oʻahu, “to get them off the island, and get them off now.” When McGarrett brings the news to his team, they are beyond skeptical. Yet, McGarrett feels that Salaam is paying McG back for the way McG treated him when he was being interrogated for information.

I loved the flashback scenes between McG and Salaam. While they were painful to watch, as Salaam has obviously been beaten and tortured, it is McGarrett’s actions that make the scenes between them so important. McG treats him with dignity. He brings him a prayer rug, allowing him ten minutes to pray. He gives him a meal after he has not been fed for a week, even though he is reprimanded by the CIA Operative (Terrell Clayton), who is in charge of gaining intel from Salaam. He sits with Salaam, speaking to the prisoner like a man and not as his enemy. He brings Salaam water as it is obvious he has not had any in days. It’s implied that McGarrett has brought Salaam clean clothing that also covers him appropriately for his prayer time. All of this tells us that McGarrett has tried very hard to treat Salaam decently, with respect, and kindness.

O’Loughlin is always so good in these intimate scenes. He can tell you so much with his eyes and his face. When he removes his ski mask, so that Salaam will see his face, we know he means to gain the man’s trust. As McG talks to him and spends time with him– man to man– rather than enemy to enemy, we can see how his actions reveal his desire to show Salaam that not all men are cruel.

Likewise, Abtahi is equally as strong in each scene, using his eyes to tell more of his character’s story. His character doesn’t speak much, just watches McGarrett for clues on how he is expected to act. It was intriguing to watch the two men play off each other. Both O’Loughlin and Abtahi make these simple, stripped down, scenes work on a much deeper level.

It is this strong use of these quiet scenes, peppered between the bigger and bolder scenes of action, and the Five-0 team chasing the bad guys, that help to make the episode so strong. It is in these scenes, with no special effects or stunts, where we can see how well “Hawaii Five-0” tells a story.

For me, it’s what saves the story. The impending terrorist attack seems so unlikely. Yet when it is coupled with the flashback scenes, showing the development of Salaam’s admiration of McGarrett, that helped to give the terrorist plotline a much stronger frame of reference.

While the Five-0 team chase down Salaam’s tip– to search for intelligence using the code name or phrase “Cain Allah.” With Jerry’s (Jorge Garcia) outside-the-box thinking they realize that perhaps it was an attempt at pronouncing Hawaiian words. So the closest to the word “cain” would be the word “kane” (pronounced kah-nay) or Hawaiian god of the sky, and instead of “Allah” the phrase “ala” as in “the way of”– which means, as McGarrett translates, “the way of the sky.”  

Lou (Chi McBride) and Kono (Grace Park) search a travel agency, Ala O Kane, and find that it is actually a front for a “Hawala” which is a traditional way used in the Muslim world to transfer money. It was a way for families to send money home and is mostly based on trust and honor. Yet the team finds all of the paper records of transactions and quickly send the names to Chin (Daniel Dae Kim) who finds a link to a supposed suspect, Adnan Khalid (Nick Shakoour). Khalid is a naturalized American citizen living and teaching in Hawaiʻi, and as they search for him the show gets to turn on their high-powered action.

Five-0 storms Khalid’s house and find a planted video that announces Jihad and the reason for the terrorist attack. The video is set to be uploaded at 6:20 that evening, but they still do not know where Khalid could be. Lou and McG stake out a mosque in Mānoa and have Chin call his burner phone– as it rings, the two chase the owner of the phone, only to have him try and escape on a motorcycle before he is fatally t-boned by an oncoming car.

Once McG turns him over, they realize it was not Khalid they were chasing, but someone else. Seems as if Khalid is being framed to make it look like he is the one orchestrating the terrorist attack. As Lou and McG continue to search for a possible target, they find a photo on the dead bad guy’s burner phone and make a connection to an empty downtown office building.

They think it’s odd that an empty building is going to be attacked. But as they head toward the building, Lou sees that it is in the flight path of oncoming planes. Chin checks all 6:20 flights and realizes that a Marine, who was killed trying to arrest a high-ranking Al Qaeda leader, along with several members of his unit, are on a flight arriving shortly after 6:20. It is also scheduled to fly right over the empty office building.  

I think this is where I start to notice the extreme difference of the stunt work of the show versus what it was just a few episodes ago. Stunt coordinator Eric Norris is obviously a complete professional, but his stunts are far more violent and brutal than they have been in the past. While I don’t normally mention that, I sometimes think perhaps too much violence doesn’t work for this show. We want our team to live and not limp– or have so many black eyes. I’m not trying to be a baby– but really, does McG have to get beat up so bad every week? His shiner at the end was awful. Kudos to the make-up team because it looked so real, I hurt for the guy.

So the team realizes that the terrorist attack is that they are going to shoot down the plane filled with innocent civilians and marines– and race to the roof to stop it from happening. McG ends up crawling up the side of the office building, using little more than the fingerhold ledges, to make it onto the roof. I suppose good shoes and gloves helped. Kono and Lou have a standard shootout with two goons protecting the roof access door, so the real terrorist can shoot down the plane with an over the shoulder rocket launcher.

Once McG gets to the roof, the fight that ensues is not at all pretty. McG stabs a knife into the bad guy’s groin and takes a few good punches before he finally just picks up the rocket launcher. When he blows our unnamed bad guy to dust with a well-aimed rocket, we’re pretty excited/shocked/surprised. Good thing the building was empty because the rocket sure left a mark, as well as a small fiery crater.  

I suppose that means that my dad got his way this week. Five-0 did chase some very bad guys; they saved the innocent, the framed Khalid; they stopped the terrorists from killing the Marines who were bringing their hero friend home; they had a couple of high-speech car chases and cool gunfights; there was a motorcycle stunt; McGarrett risked his life crawling up the side of a building and engaged in some slick hand-to-hand combat–  before taking someone out with a rocket launcher.

And the team ended up having beers and shrimp fried rice at Kamekona’s, where we also tied up the humorous moment of the episode. Humor is always important for an episode and this week didn’t disappoint with Gerard Hirsch (the beloved Willie Garson) returning to again ask Kono to come to his rescue. This time, Adam (Ian Anthony Dale) helped Hirsch with a business plan to expand his crime scene cleaning business. Adam helps him rewrite the plan and shows it to Kamekona (Taylor Wily). Kamekona gives Hirsch the money to expand, thus becoming his partner in cleaning up crime.

So, Dad, you win. This week’s episode had all the parts you like– but it also had the kind of scenes that reveal so much about the character of Five-0. It is those moments that help to show the deep feeling of justice that McGarrett upholds no matter what he faces or what returns from his past.

SOURCE - http://www.staradvertiser.com/2017/05/06/features/five-0-redux/warning-mcgarretts-past-reminds-us-matters/

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Russian helicopters take part in military exercises

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Concerns About Autism Spectrum Condition

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