#uc!mike

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 9: Some Days He Feels Like Dying]

A/N: Below are your guesses...let's see how you did!!! 🥰😘

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Extraordinary Girl” by Green Day.

Word count: 8.3k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

Let’s go back to the beginning of the end of the world.

On the big-screen tv in the Liberty Center at Saratoga Springs, Wolf Blitzer is saying: “We are receiving confirmation of additional outbreaks of the so-called Florida Fever, the first cases of which here in the U.S. were reported in Miami a little over one week ago. Concern is now growing nationally, especially as the modes of transmission, symptoms, and treatment options remain unclear. Let’s go across the country to Natasha Chen for the latest information. Natasha?”

“Hi, Wolf. I’m here outside the UC San Diego Medical Center where early this morning, two individuals suspected to be suffering from the illness were admitted. I’ve been informed by hospital staff that both patients are currently in stable condition, but there is still so much confusion and conflicting information regarding this ‘Florida Fever,’ and of course that uncertainty is leading to fear, rumors, and honestly a bit of hysteria. Even how to refer to the sickness is controversial, with no official name having been decided upon by scientists. Cases in Australia are known as Ragepox, the U.K. has dubbed it the 21st Century Sweat after a mysterious disease from the 1500s, and Russia is calling it the Ukrainian Flu while Ukraine has opted for the Russian Red Rot, inspired by the skin lesions that some patients experience.”

“Can you tell us what we do know, Natasha? Are doctors classifying this illness as a virus, or as a bacterial infection more akin to tuberculosis or meningitis?”

“At this time, what I’m hearing is that doctors are fairly certain it’s a virus, as patients do not seem to respond to antibiotics when they’ve been explored as a potential treatment. But there’s truly very little information at this early stage, and I think we’re all being reminded of those first days of the Covid-19 pandemic, when no one really knew how to best to avoid contracting the virus or what the long-term effects would be both nationally and globally.”

“There are absolutely some similarities, Natasha, which I’m sure is contributing to the unease surrounding the situation. What precautions are doctors currently recommending?”

“Wolf, doctors are urging the public not to panic, and to exercise common sense measures like avoiding crowded spaces, sanitizing surfaces, and staying home if they’re feeling unwell. Suspected cases of the illness should be reported to primary physicians or local hospitals. Typical symptoms appear to include headaches, fever, gastrointestinal upset, skin discoloration and blistering, and unusual bleeding, as well as behavioral changes, particularly disorientation, aggression, and even violence in some patients…”

“That ain’t what it is,” Rio says. He jabs his index finger at the tv from where he sits on the couch beside you. “Snowflake wasn’t sick, he was dead. He was motherfucking dead, flatline, code blue, crossed the rainbow bridge, he was gone. He was dead and then he woke back up, and he wasn’t a person anymore. He was…something else.”

“Dumbass, people don’t come back from the dead,” Mike says from the ping pong table. People are milling around pretending to play pool, darts, chess, poker, Monopoly, Uno, Parcheesi, but really you’re all here for the same reason. You want to know what’s happening.

Rio turns to you. “Wasn’t Snowflake dead?”

“He definitely seemed dead,” you reply, knees tucked to your chest and still watching the tv. Wolf Blitzer’s voice is calm, but his pale blue eyes have a manic sort of light to them, too large and too rattled.

“Man, fuck Florida,” says Desmond, a utilitiesman born and raised Trenton, New Jersey. “Nothing but psychos and alligators. Saw them off of Georgia and just let them float away.”

“What was that?” Tyler replies combatively. He’s from a trailer park in Tallahassee.

“Ty, why do you care? You’d be fine. You’re already up here. You can stay.”

“They’re lying,” Rio mutters, meaning Wolf and Natasha on CNN. “When the corpsmen called the hospital, they said to be prepared to restrain Snowflake and that he might try to bite us. Why aren’t they warning people about that?!”

Kayleigh, a steelworker from Oklahoma City, looses a frenetic sort of laugh. “Because there’s no non-panic-inducing way to say: Hey, go buy some duct tape and bungee cords to tie up your loved ones, because they might try to fucking eat you.”

Rio doesn’t frown often, but he is now; he slips his phone out of the pocket of his camo pants and types out a WhatsApp message to Sophie. You only know her from photos and quick hellos via video chat, a sweet diminutive woman with white-blonde hair and blue eyes that seem to fill up half her face, as fragile as Rio is overwhelming. She likes baking and romance novels and elephants; whenever Rio finds elephant-themed souveners, he ships them home to Oregon for her, refrigerator magnets and wallets and scarves and snow globes. Sophie wears a lot of long flowing skirts and hand-knit sweaters, and offers strange suggestions when she and Rio discuss baby names: Sage, Fox, Laurel, Coral, Juniper, Karma, Rune, Otter. Otter?! Rio had exclaimed. Babe, if you name our kid Otter, even I’M gonna have to bully them.

“I’m telling Sophie to stay with my parents,” Rio says to you. “They’ve gotten super weird with all the off-the-grid stuff, but they have years’ worth of supplies and grow most of their own food now, and they’re thirty miles from the nearest town. And no one knows how to defend themselves like doomsday preppers.”

“Good idea,” you reply, watching the tv. Now Wolf Blitzer is talking about tornadoes in the Midwest, and you could almost believe the world is normal again.

A few days later all major social media platforms begin censoring content related to the so-called Florida Fever, and then the internet goes down completely, and then the power turns off and on and off again, and finally quits like a car driven to its last mile. The combat units are moved out of Saratoga Springs—never to be heard from again—and the construction projects paused indefinitely, and one of the master-at-arms that Rio is friends with (Rio has a lot of friends, surely you aren’t so remarkable) relays information that he shouldn’t: tales of planned missions, impossible plagues, overrun cities, innumerable deserters in every branch of the U.S. military.

“Hey,” Rio whispers, shaking you awake one night, moonlight streaming through the windows and the pops of distant gunfire you aren’t supposed to ask about. “If I leave, will you come with me?”

It’s a big commitment; it could be a lifetime. You fear he might just be trying not to hurt your feelings. “I don’t want to slow you down.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Rio says. “I’m not leaving without you. Are you going to Oregon by choice, or should I tie you up and throw you in the back of the Humvee?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a young one, maybe a teenager, little buds for horns and only weighing a few hundred pounds. This is good; if it was any heavier, Cregan and Rio wouldn’t be able to drag it back to the ranch. You’re still in Red Desert, Wyoming, and the bison are grazing just off I-80, an asphalt artery that cuts through an endless steppe of sand-colored rocks and tall grass. They gaze lazily in your direction with bulbous dark eyes, perpetually chewing, not terribly intelligent. The Colt pistols of the men who found you at the RV had been loaded with 9mm bullets, the same caliber your Berettas take; there weren’t many, but enough to fill both of your clips, something that feels like winning the lottery. You are lying on the rocky, dusty soil and lining up the shot. If you miss, the herd will scatter, and you’ll watch dinner vanish beneath a blue sky—pale like Aemond’s eye, a weak shallow blue—and rough white scars of cirrostratus clouds.

“Feels kind of wrong to kill a baby,” you murmur. Daeron, Luke, Baela, Helaena, and Ice are back at the house. Aemond, Rio, Cregan, Rhaena, and Aegon are here on the ground with you; Aegon insisted upon being brought along, and Rio agreed to carry him. Aegon had never seen American bison outside of the Oregon Trail computer game, those pixelated brown blobs migrating across the screen no more material than unicorns or faeries or basilisks.

“If the baby didn’t want to get killed, it shouldn’t be made of steak,” Aegon points out. He’s on a lot of Vicodin, the only narcotic Aemond could find back in Ogallala, Nebraska.

“No pressure, Chips,” Rio says, chewing on a long blade of little bluestem grass. “If you miss we’re just going to have to eat each other like the Donner Party.”

Aegon wrinkles his nose in confusion. “The what?”

“She won’t miss,” Aemond says, and Rio snickers to himself and gives you a quick wink that no one else notices.

“I don’t think one 9mm bullet will do it,” Cregan mutters. “Cows got thick skulls, I figure bison are the same way. You’ll have to hit it a few times, and before it can take off and disappear on us.”

Aemond casts him a patronizing glance. “And you’ve killed a lot of cows?”

“Oh yeah. Worked in a slaughterhouse for a while before I got hired by the power company. Hated it, went home and could still smell the blood and brains on myself no matter how many times I showered. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

Aemond looks like he regrets asking. Rhaena frowns worriedly at the bison. “Will they charge if someone shoots at them?”

Cregan shrugs. “Probably not.”

“Probably?!”

You squeeze the trigger five times in quick succession, hit the calf thrice, tiny puffs of scarlet mist that spring from its woolly head. It flops over as the rest of the herd jolts into a gallop, kicking up dust and fleeing across the steppe.

“Yes!” Rio booms as everyone applauds. “We’re in business! We’re having ribeyes tonight! Cregan, my good sir, I take mine medium rare.”

“You’re getting well done,” Aemond tells him. “Everyone is. Just in case the bison has parasites.”

Rio groans. “You’re ruining my life, man.” Then he and Cregan trot over to grab the baby bison, each of them taking one of its back hooves.

“So,” Aegon says dreamily. “Now that Rio is preoccupied, who would like to assist me in returning my disgusting, debilitated body to the ranch? Anyone? Anyone?”

Rhaena turns to you. “When we have more bullets, could you give me shooting lessons?”

“Sure,” you reply, a bit startled. “Really? You’re interested?”

“Well…” Rhaena hesitates. “Baela’s always been the brave one. At home, at school, when we were shopping, even when restaurants would mess up my order, Baela would do the talking and make sure I was alright…and I would literally hide behind her waiting for her to solve all my problems. And now…with the baby, with Jace…it’s been really different being the one to help her for a change, and I don’t think I’m very good at it yet. But Baela deserves to have people to lean on, just like I’ve always had her. And…when I stabbed that guy in the RV…I kind of liked it.” She titters nervously when she sees the shock on your face. “No, not like that! Not the killing part, or the gushing blood, that was all super gross. But the fact that I helped protect Baela and Luke? The fact that I wasn’t useless in that situation? That was a good feeling. Baela is clever, and she’s courageous and caring and funny, and she’s always been better than me at everything, and I never minded because she…she was like my own personal superhero, you know? But now I feel like I need to start learning how to do things myself so I can help her. Even if Baela is still better at everything, and probably always will be.”

Aegon grins toothily and pushes his neon green plastic sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “I know how you feel. It’s pretty impossible to look heroic next to Aemond.”

“Stop,” Aemond says, but he’s smiling, and a bloom of bashful pink blood appears in his cheeks.

“You already took over the driving,” you tell Rhaena encouragingly. “That was a big help.”

“Yeah,” Rhaena replies, a bit pensive. “Let’s hope I can keep that going.” Between the gas Aemond found in Ogallala and what was siphoned from the would-be attackers’ GMC Yukon, you got enough fuel in the Tahoe to take it halfway across Wyoming; but now the gauge is not just at but venturing below the E, and it can’t have more than five or ten miles left. That might not even get you to the next ranch, let alone a proper town. You need a working vehicle. There are nearly a thousand miles between here and Odessa, Oregon.

Aegon is pawing at Aemond like a cat. “Come on, hero. Help me up.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“This is why we’re friends,” Rio tells you as he shovels forkfuls of bison steak into his mouth, juice dribbling down his chin. Cregan gutted the bison and butchered it, then you helped him cook the steaks—not very uniform in size and shape, yet no one is complaining—on a pan heated in the woodstove. You fed the fire with books you found in the house, mostly religious in nature. “You convince me not to commit suicide when we’re stranded on a transmission tower, you share your Cheddar Whales, you’re good at shooting things…”

“How did you two become friends?” Baela asks. You are all arranged around the dining room table; there are just enough chairs for everyone. Ice lies beneath it mauling on bison bones that Cregan set aside for her. The room is illuminated by flashlights. Baela looks great: in good spirits, glowing, alert, wearing a loose cotton dress that Helaena found in an upstairs closet for her. Baela napped most of the day, something she rarely allows herself to indulge in, and the benefits are evident.

Rio says nonchalantly: “I talked to everybody and she barely talked at all. So of course I had to investigate and figure out what that was about. Turns out she’s kind of cool. You know the Wheel of Fortune game at arcades where there’s like a hundred little lights in a circle you have to press the button when the one that says Spin Zone lights up? She’s a freak, she can hit it almost every time. Can’t sink a basketball or sing karaoke to save her life, but you know, we all have flaws.”

Aegon looks up from his map, which he is scrutinizing as he eats his bison steak. “Do you realize that if we could just stop at gas stations like back when everything was normal, we’d be in Odessa or the Bay Area in fifteen hours? Literally less than one day. Fucking unreal. And yet here we are trapped in yee-haw country, freaky giant animals, no civilization but Jesus billboards everywhere, hell on earth.” He holds up a palm. “No offense, Cregan. You’re okay.”

Cregan smiles mildly. “None taken, Fried Foot. You know you’re a little well done yourself these days.”

“That’s ableist,” Aegon replies.

“We’ll find gas tomorrow,” Aemond says. He sounds confident because he has to; he’s not allowed to panic, to give up. He’s seated at the head of the table like a patriarch. His steak is the smallest and the most ragged. He wouldn’t accept any of the others.

You ask Baela: “Have you decided what to name the baby?”

“Kind of.” She rests both hands on her belly, a globe like a full moon. Helaena glances over at Baela, frowning and preoccupied. “If it’s a boy, I’m going to name it after Jace. We had already picked out Theodore…and Teddy for short, isn’t that cute? But now…I’d want him to have that connection to his father. The baby won’t have any pictures of him, or videos, or memories, or papers he wrote in school, or ties or rings or cufflinks, or…anything. But he could have Jace’s name.”

The rest of you nod, eyes downcast and feeling terribly sorry for her. “I really like that idea,” Luke says quietly.

Now Baela is thinking, her gaze traveling around the room as she chews on a cube of streak. “I’m not sure what I’d call a girl. Maybe something naturey like Violet, Rosemary, Ivy, Indigo, Fern…”

“You should name it Otter,” you say, and you and Rio erupt into raucous laughter. Aemond smiles as he watches you.

Baela is grinning uncertainly, trying not to be insensitive. Perhaps people named their kids stuff like Otter where you came from. “Um, sorry, what?!”

“That was one of the baby names on Sophie’s list,” Rio clarifies. “I vetoed it. Or at least…I think she agreed to cross it off…? Oh my God, imagine I finally get to Odessa only to find out my firstborn child has been named Otter.”

“You’d have to turn right back around,” you say. “Total abandonment would be the only honorable choice. We’d have to start over someplace else. I’ve heard Texas is nice.”

Aegon snorts. “You can’t live in Texas. They don’t even have legal weed there.”

Rhaena squints at him. “I don’t really think that’s a concern anymore, Aegon.”

Aegon smacks his forehead theatrically. “Oh no, I forgot about the apocalypse again!”

“So Cregan,” Baela says. “You were planning to vote for Trump.”

Everyone at the table groans. “No politics,” Aemond says.

“They’re all dead now, so it doesn’t matter,” Rhaena adds. “Biden, Kamala, that insane Kennedy brain worm dude, Trump…”

Aegon says: “If I was a zombie, I wouldn’t eat Trump.”

“I just found that interesting,” Baela continues, looking at Cregan like she’s expecting him to explain himself. Rhaena and Luke exchange a nervous glance. Daeron reaches under the table to pet Ice; you can hear her tail thumping cheerfully against the hardwood floor.

“I was a Trump voter, yeah,” Cregan replies between bites of steak. Aemond is studying him uneasily, but Cregan’s baritone voice is calm. “That doesn’t mean I approved of a lot of the things he did and said. I’m not a monster, I don’t believe in mocking people or all that January 6th stuff. But he was good for the economy. Back when Trump was president, groceries were more affordable, and houses were cheaper, and more companies were hiring. If I had tried to move out of my parents’ place in 2023 instead of 2019, there’s no way I could have done it. And I really needed to get out of there. A lot of people feel that they don’t have the luxury of voting for the nicest candidate, or the candidate they agree with on social issues. Something abstract like climate change isn’t even on the radar. They have to vote for their basic necessities.”

You and Rio understand what he means, you’ve both met plenty of people with the same perspective; everybody else seems shellshocked.

“But I don’t want y’all to think that I’m…” Cregan looks around the table, his eyes catching—interestingly—on Helaena, who observes him with a fully present attentiveness that you’ve learned is rare for her. “You know, like a sexist or a racist or that I hate foreigners or anything. Because I’ve never felt that way, and now I’m very happy to have found you guys, and I respect the hell out of you. And I want to be allowed to stay.”

“You can stay, Cregan,” Helaena reassures him.

“Yeah,” Rio says. “Especially since we’d probably starve without you.”

Cregan beams, clearly grateful, and there are chuckles and the tension breaks; and Baela is placidly skating her palm over the arc of her belly, and now that you’ve eaten all you can, Rio is spearing the remaining chunks of your steak with his fork and gobbling them down. He doesn’t ask before he does this; he knows you don’t mind. You’ve never understood why he’s given you so much over the past nearly five years. You are eternally offering him atonement.

Suddenly, Baela asks you: “What would you name a baby girl?”

You have to think about this before you answer. “Well, if you’re looking for something related to plants…I had a friend when I was growing up named Briar, and I always thought that was pretty.”

“Briar,” Baela echoes, intrigued.

“It means bramble, like a thorny shrub where blackberries grow. I remember her telling me that her mama wanted it to be a reminder that people go through rough patches and that life gets hard sometimes, but you have to keep going, and eventually you’ll find your way out.”

“Briar,” Baela repeats. “Yeah, that’s kind of neat. I’ll add it to the list!”

“And you’d have the same first initial,” Rhaena says. “Baela and Briar. Isn’t that adorable?”

Baela smiles. “And a few Rs thrown in there too. For Rhaena.”

Rio turns to Aegon. “Hey Honey Bun, if you had to name your kid after a plant, what would you name it?”

Aegon says without hesitation: “Marijuana.”

Now it’s an hour later, and Aemond is examining Aegon’s burned leg on the living room floor, Helaena holding a flashlight and you and Rio standing by for moral support. Underneath the bandages is a wasteland of red, weeping flesh…and yet there are spots where the skin seems to be hardening into white islands of scar tissue. Rhaena and Luke are keeping watch by the windows, Baela is passed out in one of the bedrooms, Cregan is showing Daeron how to put his wavy blonde hair up in a man bun.

Aemond points to a blackish patch on the top of Aegon’s foot, only a few inches from his ankle. “I have to debride this part here,” he says like an apology.

Aegon is afraid to ask. “What does debride mean?”

“It means I have to cut it out.”

“Cut it?!”

“It’s getting infected. I have to remove it or it will spread to the rest of the foot and you could get sepsis. I might even have to amputate the whole leg.”

“Okay, cut the dead stuff off,” Aegon swiftly agrees.

Aemond doesn’t have any more injectable morphine. He gives Aegon as much Vicodin as he dares and then begins working, carving away layers of dark disease with his scalpel and scrubbing the area with disinfectant. Aegon clutches your hand, squeezing so hard it feels like your bones might crunch, shrapnel-like splinters of marrow-stained organic glass beneath your skin. Rio has Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman—once owned by Ava—and takes one earbud while giving Aegon the other. They sing along to Sean Paul songs together, laughing as tears stream down Aegon’s sunburned cheeks:

“Well, woman, the way the time cold, I wanna be keepin’ you warm

I got the right temperature fi shelter you from the storm

Oh Lord, gal, I got the right tactics to turn you on

And girl, I wanna be the papa, you can be the mom…”

Now you’re curled up in bed, your arms crossed over your belly as you struggle to fall asleep. Aemond comes to bed late now; each night he waits until Baela is sleeping and then teaches Rhaena about childbirth and recovery: what to expect, what could go wrong. She is a good student, borrowing Helaena’s spider notebook to take notes and asking detailed questions. She wants to know everything she can so she can help when Baela goes into labor.

At last, the bedroom door opens. Out in the living room you can hear Rio asking: “Do you have Wagon Wheel? I love that song.”

Aegon scoffs. “No, of course I don’t have Wagon Wheel. Shut up and listen to your Enrique Iglesias.”

“You are so racist, man…”

Aemond sees that you’re in agony, rummages around in his medical kit, and gives you an oval-shaped white pill to wash down with the can of orange Sunkist on the nightstand; Helaena found a case of it in the pantry. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“I didn’t want to take any Vicodin from Aegon or Baela. They’ll need it more than me.”

“Your pain is as real as anyone else’s.” Aemond’s weight shifts the mattress as he crawls into bed beside you, his arm settling protectively around your waist, his hand covering yours where it rests on your lower belly. “If the Tahoe runs out of gas, will you be okay to walk tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry about me. I had three periods during basic training, I honestly thought I might die. After that I can power through just about anything.”

“I’ve noticed.” You feel the soft smile on Aemond’s lips as he kisses your temple. “Do you want quiet, or do you want to talk?”

“Talking would be a nice distraction.”

Aemond wastes no time. “Do you like kids?”

“Well, since birth control doesn’t exist anymore, I’d hope everybody does.”

Again, he is smiling; you can hear it in his voice. “Okay, but do you intend to have your own?”

“Yeah, I always envisioned myself having kids. I wanted a normal family and figured I’d have to make one myself, DIY it, you know? I don’t think the plan has changed. Gotta repopulate the earth somehow.”

“I wouldn’t try to sway your decision one way or the other. It’s a burden you should only have to endure if you actively choose it. But if you want to have children one day, I’d help you.”

You giggle in the dim orange glow of a single flashlight. “How self-sacrificial.”

“No,” Aemond says, laughing. “Not like, the making them. I mean, I’d help with that too, that aspect would be fun. But I was talking about the delivery, and recovery, and taking care of a newborn. I don’t know everything, but I know a lot. I could help you get through it. So that’s an option I want you to be aware of, if…you know.” Now he pauses. “If you trust me.”

“I trust you.”

“Sometimes I don’t know if you should,” Aemond murmurs; or at least that’s what you think he says as you lose consciousness, plummeting into sleep as if falling from a great height.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Tahoe runs out of gas just east of Tipton—not a city, not a town, just a collection of service roads linking sprawling ranches to I-80, the only continuous route across southern Wyoming—and Rhaena guides the SUV as it coasts to a halt on the shoulder of the highway. You hike about a mile to the nearest ranch house: Luke carrying the siphoning hose and empty gas can in case you can find fuel, Rio carrying Aegon on his back, Baela walking slowly and with great effort, Ice panting as she lopes across the dusty earth. You can’t spot any cattle or horses behind the endless strings of barbed wire fencing. Perhaps they are in a different pasture, or escaped or were stolen, or died of thirst without being tended to, or were consumed by a wandering hoard of zombies, never sleeping and always hungry. The house at the end of the dirt driveway is modest, old, and painted white. The front door is open; the screen door bangs in the wind.

“Rock Springs is the next real town,” Aegon says when Rio drops him to the ground, reading his map.

“And how far is that?” Rio asks.

Aegon deflates. “About fifty miles.”

“Great,” Rhaena says. “What’s the plan, to fly there?”

“Yeah, start flapping your wings, little bird. You’re light enough, you can make it.”

“No car in the driveway,” you tell Aemond. “Nobody home, maybe?”

He’s scrutinizing the house, his blue eye narrow. “Maybe.”

A thought occurs to Aegon. “Do you think ranchers have golf clubs?” he asks hopefully.

“No,” Aemond snaps. Rio is now on the front porch and pounding the butt of his unloaded Remington shotgun against the doorframe to see if anyone appears. Daeron is nocking one of his makeshift arrows as he trots around the perimeter with his compound bow.

Luke, peering through his binoculars, points to a large cylindrical aluminum structure about a hundred yards from the house, by a small red barn. “What’s that thing?”

“It’s a grain bin,” Cregan says. “Full of feed for cattle.” Ice whimpers at his feet, and he twirls his axe in his large, calloused hands. “Are we clearing the house or not? Something’s in there.”

“We are,” Aemond answers tonelessly. “Luke, Rhaena, stay out here with Aegon and watch for trouble. Daeron, you too.”

“Got it.”

“Baela—”

“Can I go inside?” she asks. “Please, Aemond. I’m so sick of sitting around feeling useless and exhausted. I want to help. I want to do something, I’m going insane.”

“Fine,” Aemond agrees. “It should be an easy one.”

It is easy, but it’s not pleasant. The house smells like dark, sickening decay. In the living room are the skeletal remains of two bodies, both children judging by the size; the maroon-stained bones are notched with indents from gnashing teeth. Cregan shadows Helaena as she searches through closets and drawers. She takes no clothing—it would have absorbed the stench of death—but fills her burlap messenger bag with matches, lighters, batteries, pills. She gives you a bottle of Advil before you can ask her for it.

“Thanks,” you say, a bit startled, as you tuck it away in your backpack.

It is not until Ice leads you to the final room, the bedroom at the rear of the house, that you hear the familiar, blood-chilling hissing and moaning of a zombie. It is in the closet, and emerges one limb at a time: one arm and then another, one leg long like a spider’s, streaked with a thick soup of rotting organs that spills from a gaping hole in her belly like the mouth of a mineshaft. Something has happened to its other leg; it is missing, and the corpse that was once a thirties-something woman—a soccer mom, perhaps, with a minivan and propensity to make meatloaf and fish sticks—drags itself across the fawn-colored carpet towards you, slow and pathetic. Ice growls and barks. Rio raises his Remington.

“Wait,” Baela says. Her hammer is in her right hand. “Can I do it?”

“Of course, be my guest,” Rio says; though you can tell he’s slightly disappointed. He loves clubbing things.

Baela approaches the yowling zombie—jaws snapping, claws swiping—and grimaces down at it, this one of millions of monsters that ended the world, that killed Jace and stole all the rest of her life from her too, all those normal things she was supposed to have, all those strings of fate that the plague cut through like a razor and sent floating aimlessly out into the void of the universe. Then with a scream, Baela swings her hammer and a catastrophic impact crater appears in the side of the zombie’s skull, and it crumples to the floor, its mindless brains spilling out onto the carpet.

“Nothing good?” Aegon asks when you reappear in the driveway, popping a Vicodin into his mouth.

“No,” Aemond replies grimly. “No gas, no bullets, no food, nothing to drink.”

“I knew it would be lean pickings once we got out here,” Cregan says, and Aemond looks like he could kill him.

“Well, fortunately, Luke might have some good news for us,” Aegon says with a grin.

Aemond perks up. “Really? What?”

“I saw a truck out there,” Luke says, using his binoculars to gesture to the grain bin. “It’s parked between the barn and the grain thing, I can just see the very front of it sticking out. And if there’s a truck, there might be gas.”

Aemond ruffles Luke’s fluffy dark hair. “Good job, kid.” And Luke lights up like how cities used to look at night, back when the power was on: Washington D.C., Key West, Corpus Christi, Chinhae. Rio stoops down so Aegon can hop on his back, and all of you trek together across the field.

“Nothing,” Cregan announces as he squeezes the little pump on the siphoning hose after opening the gas cap of the ancient Chevy Silverado and threading the hose inside. “Not a drop.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Aegon sighs from where he’s slumped on the ground. His eyes are glazed; he’s pretty stoned. He gazes pitifully up at you; you pat his shoulder sympathetically. You and Rio have already checked the barn, dilapidated but perfectly devoid of zombies. The roof has caved in; one of the two front doors are missing. “What now?!”

“We can go back to the interstate and walk until we find the next ranch,” you say, looking absentmindedly at the grain bin. It’s much larger up close, and rusty in spots. A ladder runs up one side to allow access to the roof. Ice isn’t whining or nudging anyone’s hands, but she’s sniffing the air as if she’s detected something interesting, unfamiliar.

“Yeah,” Luke replies miserably. “We can walk another five or ten miles and then maybe find a safe place to spend the night.”

Rhaena shades her eyes as she peers up at the sky. “It’s past noon already. Maybe we should just stay here.”

Rio barks out a sardonic laugh. “In a house with no supplies and that reeks of dead people?”

“Cregan, go kill us something to eat,” Aegon commands.

He chuckles in his deep, gruff voice. “It’s Miss Chips who is good at the killing, I’m just the authority on butchering at the moment.”

Aemond is watching Ice, his forehead furrowed. “What’s she doing?”

Cregan whistles. “Hey, princess, you okay?” Ice ignores him, still sniffing, her grey ears straight up in the air. Then it appears from behind the barn: a tiny brown creature, a baby bear.

“Aww, it’s so fuzzy!” Aegon squeals, stretching his arm out to pet it. Rio yanks him away; everyone else is backing up towards the grain bin. A second bear cub has now arrived, padding clumsily along, large cartoonish eyes and a little pink tongue poking out from its muzzle.

“Don’t touch them!” Aemond shouts to everyone. “Get away from them! If there are cubs, there’s probably—”

And around the barn comes the mother, a grizzly bear of 400 pounds. She bares her teeth and snarls, saliva dripping in long gluey strings. Ice is barking viciously; Aegon is shrieking and scrambling onto Rio’s back.

“Baela!” Aemond says because she’s closest to him, urging her towards the ladder of the grain bin. She gets the idea and begins climbing. Then Aemond reaches for you. “Come on, you next!”

“Rhaena, go,” you say instead, and she clambers up the ladder after Baela. Cregan is brandishing his axe; Rio has his Remington in his hands, Aegon still clinging to his back like a baby opossum to its mother. Now Helaena is climbing up the ladder, and Daeron nocks an arrow. You whip one of your M9s out of its holster, aim for the bear’s head, and pull the trigger.

Your bullet hits its skull, Daeron’s arrow pierces its chest; and the mother bear does not die but roars and rises up onto her back feet—taller than Rio, taller than Cregan—and then drops back down and charges towards you and the grain bin. Cregan blocks the way, swinging his axe. The bear reluctantly pauses, testing him with swipes of her claws that he evades. Rio is just a few steps behind Cregan, waving his Remington around hostilely. Aegon is screaming and holding on for dear life.

“Don’t shoot!” Cregan yells. “9mm isn’t big enough, you’ll just make her more angry!”

Aemond finally gets a grip on your wrist and drags you to the ladder. You obey and climb until your feet are several rungs off the ground, then you turn to see what’s going on below. Aemond, Luke, and Daeron are at the bottom of the ladder, their backs to you. Cregan is still wielding his axe.

“Fuck off, Mama Bear!” he bellows, standing as tall as possible and swinging his axe above his head. Rio follows Cregan’s lead and holds his Remington aloft. Ice is barking; the baby bears are fleeing in terror. Aegon is sobbing hysterically and saying he’s going to die. “You don’t want us and we don’t want you! Go on! Go get your babies! I’ll put this blade right between your eyes if you don’t change your stupid mind right quick!”

The bear pounds the earth with her front feet and growls, a beastly subterranean rumble, but she seems to be losing her nerve. The rungs of the ladder creak and groan; you see rust like blood-hued moss around the bolts.

“Get out of here!” Cregan shouts. “Go, you hairy old bitch! Go back to your babies!”

The bear glances back to see her cubs vanish behind the barn. Her mouth is open and panting, spittle gleaming on her pointed teeth; her black eyes are uncertain. As you hold onto the ladder with one hand, you have your M9 aimed at the bear’s left eye, just in case. Aemond is watching Cregan; on his scarred face a sharp severity, fascination and resentment and fear.

“Go on,” Cregan says firmly. “Leave us alone. You belong in the mountains, not down here. Go eat something that’s already dead, a nice easy dinner. You don’t want us. We’ll fight you.”

The grizzly bear shakes her head—flopping ears, shaggy fur filthy with dust and pieces of grass—and whirls, lumbering off to find her cubs. When she rounds the barn, Cregan waits a few long, tense, silent minutes and then turns to the grain bin.

“Alright y’all, we oughta hurry up and leave. I don’t think she’ll come back, but she might.”

From the top of the ladder, approximately forty feet off the ground, Baela begins to laugh. “Did that really just happen?! That was insane! Cregan, buddy, you can vote for whoever you want to. You and I are cool forever.”

He smiles up at her, wincing in the bright afternoon light. “I’m very glad to hear it, ma’am.”

Rio sets Aegon down on the ground and stretches his back; it must be hurting him. Aemond is taking your hand and helping you off the ladder, and you are reminded of the transmission tower where he found you in Catawissa, Pennsylvania, one of those middle-of-nowhere places like Tipton, Wyoming. As Helaena climbs down, you go to Rio and—with as much force as you can manage—knead the small of his back with the heel of your hand like you know helps him.

“You okay?”

He sighs loudly, relieved. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Oh, wow, that’s good. Harder…oh yeah…”

There is a snapping sound, metal squealing as it breaks, and by the time you turn to look she’s already falling: her cotton dress billowing around her, her arms wheeling helplessly. It happens too quickly for her to scream—for her to understand what is going on and what it means—but there is a stunned gasp and then she hits the ground, and you hear a muffled crunch of bone—skull?? spine??—and she is completely, unnaturally still as she lies on her back, no pain, no words, nothing.

“Baela!” Rhaena shrieks, and she rushes down the ladder and runs to her sister. You are all gathering around Baela, petrified to move her—to make it worse—but pleading for her to wake up, examining her with terrified eyes. Baela’s own eyes, dark and glassy and serene, are open only a sliver like obsidian crescent moons. Aemond is asking Helaena for a flashlight and then prying them wide, checking Baela’s pupils.

“There’s no reflex,” he says numbly.

“What does that mean?!” Rhaena cries. “Aemond? Aemond?!”

“She’s…she’s…” He’s in denial; he’s in shock. He’s feeling for a pulse on her carotid, he’s digging his fingernails into her forearm to try to get her to respond to pain.

“Aemond?” you say softly.

“She’s gone,” he tells you, like he doesn’t believe it, like he’s waiting to wake up.

“The baby,” Rhaena says. “Try to save the baby.” And then, when Aemond doesn’t immediately understand, she grabs his backpack and begins ripping it off so he can get the medical kit inside. “The baby, Aemond!”

Now he knows what he has to do. He pulls the scalpel out of his kit as Rhaena moves Baela’s sundress to expose her belly. She was wearing biker shorts beneath, lavender, cute, something you might have picked out in a store. In less than a minute they will be soaked with blood. Cregan leads Daeron away, and he’s telling him that they need to keep watch in case the grizzly bear returns, but you think it is an act of mercy more than anything else. Ice goes with them. Helaena, her face pale and grave, is shining the flashlight on Baela’s belly, just beneath her navel.

“Aegon?” Aemond says.

“What? What do you need?”

“I need people to help hold open the incision once I make it. I have to be able to see the amniotic sac so I can cut the membrane without harming the baby.”

“I get it, I’m here, I’ll help.”

Aemond presses the blade of the scalpel to Baela’s skin and draws a semicircle from the top of one hip to the other. There is blood, but it is slow-moving and thick and dark; it is the blood of a dead woman, not a living one. Immediately, Aegon hooks his fingers under layers of fat, skin, and muscle, and opens the wound as much as he can. You and Rio reach in too, and you do this without thinking, without allowing yourself to feel the horror of it until the work is done.

“I can’t see,” Aemond is murmuring. Rhaena gets another flashlight and helps Helaena illuminate the area. Luke is on his knees with both hands clamped over his mouth, his eyes glistening with dread and disbelief. Aemond is slicing, pausing to probe around with his fingers, cutting again. Then his arm plunges into Baela’s abdomen up to his elbow and, with some difficulty, pulls out the gore-covered baby by its feet, a girl, large and limp and silent.

Rhaena sobs, equal parts grief and joy, a smile appearing on her face. “Is she okay? Aemond? Is she…why isn’t she crying? Aemond?!”

Rio yanks off his shirt and uses it to wipe blood and gelatinous clumps away from the baby’s eyes, mouth, and nostrils. Then Aemond takes the shirt and wraps the baby in it, warming her, rubbing her lifeless little limbs. When she does not stir, Aemond lays her on the earth and begins CPR: compressions with two fingers on her tiny heart, two breaths down the airway she’s never used. There are no sounds except his efforts. There is no crying when the baby wakes, because she never does.

Enough, you are thinking, as if from very far away: an island in the Indian Ocean, the Appalachian mountains in eastern Kentucky. Enough, enough, enough.

Aemond stops trying to revive the baby. He picks her up and holds her against him, and no one says anything. There is only the barrenness of the Wyoming steppe, an anemic blue sky, tall dry grass that bows in the breeze, black vultures that are landing atop the barn and the grain bin.

Aegon jolts out of his paralysis and reaches for his brother with bloodied hands. “Aemond, hey, Aemond, listen to me, it wasn’t your fault. Okay? Are you listening? Aemond, man, you did everything you could. You gave them a chance. You didn’t give up.”

But Aemond doesn’t respond; he only kneels there beside Baela’s butchered body, her dead baby girl in his arms.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Alys?” he calls, seeing that she never came back to bed. He is lying on his stomach, tangled in red sheets damp with sweat. It’s hot, too hot, and there is no humming of the air conditioning. When Aemond picks up his iPhone from the nightstand, it’s still plugged in but only at 87% battery. The power must have gone out.

He gets up, rubs the damp skin by his temple—headache, dehydration—and lifts open the nearest window. It’s odd: there is shouting, distant and indistinct, like the sound of a carnival or a concert. There are car alarms too, and sirens, and horns blaring, all too far away for him to see. It must be because of the power outage, traffic signals thrown into chaos, neighbors relaying the latest information back and forth. That’s the only logical explanation.

“Alys?” Aemond says again, groggy but with increasing curiosity, concern, guilt.

She started to feel sick last night, a pulsing in her skull and chills and powerful nausea. The possibility of it being the so-called Florida Fever barely registered in his mind. Alys gets migraines, and tofu is a migraine trigger, and he took her to a Thai restaurant (maybe he should have known better) and the curry Alys ordered ended up having tofu in it, and by the time she paid the check (as Alys always did) she was swallowing an Imitrex from the box in her snakeskin purse. She said she was going to lie down in the guest bedroom for a while so she wouldn’t wake him if she spent the next few hours dashing to and from the bathroom, a likely outcome, and if he was honest with himself about it, Aemond would admit he was relieved.

He shuffles to the bedroom door—black boxers, bare feet, century-old hardwood floors—and opens it. Now he can hear thudding, like someone tenderizing meat with a mallet. “Alys? Baby, you feeling okay?” There is no answer, only that rhythmic hammering. He realizes that it is coming from the guest bedroom, a door at the end of a long hallway still fuzzy through his half-awake eyes.

It had never felt right, but it had felt good: good in the body when she touched him, good in the soul when she told him he did something right. But lately—especially here, in the vast creaking historic house she shares with her husband and her children, who are presently sailing in Cape Cod—Aemond cannot shake the feeling that this entanglement is a surrender rather than an aspiration, something he fell into and now rests at the bottom of like a swimming pool or the sea, the cold weight of it threatening to pour into his lungs and drown him.

“Alys?” Aemond says, now with profound and inexplicable dread. Outside an ambulance or police car zooms by, sirens blaring. The pounding on the door of the guest bedroom grows faster.

I want to go home, Aemond thinks suddenly. At home, in the Federal-style townhouse his parents rented for him (Criston picked it out, a safe and quiet neighborhood in Beacon Hill, and Viserys paid), Daeron is visiting from California and watching golf tournaments with Aegon on the living room couch, pretending to be interested when Aegon describes the different types of clubs. Helaena, pursuing an Entomology PhD, is researching the Mediterranean mantis, clicking around on her MacBook Pro from the garden in the backyard. Jace and Luke live there too, and so Baela and Rhaena have all but officially moved in, keeping their apartment in Seaport only to have somewhere to retreat to when the Targaryen chaos becomes too much…and so the baby can have its own room. Baela bought a crib, a changing table, a rocking chair, a dresser, and about a million unisex onesies, mostly space-themed. Baela is studying Aeronautics and Astronautics, after all. Maybe one day she’ll work for NASA and fly rockets to the moon.

The door is rattling on its hinges. Aemond’s hand closes around the knob. On the other side is something terrible, and he knows this. But he cannot just leave her. Aemond is not someone who abandons people; he is not someone who turns away from responsibilities.

He opens the door of the guest bedroom, and immediately she is staggering towards him, limp dripping hair and naked like she was interrupted mid-shower: blood bubbling from her gaping mouth and the whites of teeth peeking through the crimson, necrotic skin hanging in strips from her fingers, eyes misty like steam on a mirror.

“Alys, stop! Alys! What’s wrong with you?!”

She’s alive but she’s dead. She’s yowling and clawing at him, but her flesh is the rotting swampland of a corpse. He’s pushing her away; his palms sink into her, places he once noticed and then fantasized about and then at last—euphorically, ashamedly—touched, held, borrowed but never kept. She’s trying to bite him. She’s trying to kill him. None of this is possible, and yet it’s true.

Aemond flings her away, and the woman who was once Alys stumbles backwards and down the staircase, sick wet thumps all the way to the ground floor, bones splitting through dissolving grey skin, organs sloshing around until they spill out. He can hear her still hissing, flailing, trying to get up again.

Without thinking—slipping seamlessly into what he learned during his psych rotation is called automatic action—Aemond races down the steps and grabs her by the skull, cracks it against the antique hardwood floor she once extoled the value of as he fucked her on it: shipped east from Oregon and laid in 1912, the year the Titanic sank. When she lurches up to try to bite him, he slams her head against the floor again and again until she is still.

Then Aemond kneels there alone for a long time, sirens shrieking outside, far-off strangers screaming for help, putrid black blood clotting on his hands.

[peaxhygirl]

𝙰𝚁���𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙾 𝙰𝚁𝙴𝚃𝙰𝚂 𝚇 𝙵𝙴𝙼𝙰𝙻𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁

: ̗̀➛𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝙾𝙲

: ̗̀➛𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: On the final night of an AMMO investigation their bust is blown up by an unexpected party.

: ̗̀➛𝙰𝙽: Hey y'all! This is my first time writing in a while, so it hope it doesn't suck lmao. Let me know if you guys are interested in this series cause I got lots more to come!

AMMO's newest addition to the team was Armando Aretas. That's right, the same Armando Aretas that had been a convicted drug dealer, cop killer, and fugitive.

It took some serious string pulling but Rita and Judy managed to get Armando amnesty due to his help with bringing down Lockwood and McGrath. It took a while, but they managed to get it done. In exchange, he needed to work with Miami PD.

Armando was a dangerous man, that was true enough, but he was also an asset. Better to have him on your team than to be against him. Plus, it helped everyone keep an eye on him. He hadn't quite earned the trust of those in his new life.

There was a part of him that didn't care. He'd lived this long without the approval or validation of others, so what was different? Then there was a part of him that wanted to put that behind him. His previous life was a tiresome one.

AMMO had been steaking out a night club for about a week. They'd finally gathered enough proof for them to carry out their raid. Tonight was the night, they just needed to get the green light from their UC.

"Yo, Mike. You think we could stop at that hot dog shack on the corner after this?" Marcus attempted to whisper but the small space in the truck provided no privacy. "Hell no, Marcus. Teresa just said your cholesterol was sky high and you gained about three pounds this month."

"Uh.., now, see. Did you have to put my business out there like that, Mike?" Armando shook his head. His father and surrogate uncle were admittedly the best part of his new life, even if they were annoying. "Will you two shut up?" He muttered.

Kelly and Dorn's smirks of amusement always seemed to be present whenever they were with the three men. "Hey hey hey. What's happening?"

Armando's eyes locked on the commotion breaking out on the scene. The place was getting swarmed. Their UC hadn't sent the signal so it sure as shit wasn't them. A woman appeared on screen gun drawn and shouting for everybody to get down. "Who the fuck is that?"

After the raid ended, AMMO exited their van. Armando charging over to the woman who was speaking to who he could only assume she was debriefing to. This woman was clearly police, but she wasn't with them, so as far as he was concerned-- She was out of line. The area was lit up with flashing red and blue lights, cops littered throughout the parking lot, but he was zeroed in on her.

"What the fuck was that and who the fuck are you?" His accent thick in anger at this woman who'd just blew up his mission. His first big chance at showing the team he was really with them.

"Excuse me? You better back the fuck up that's who the fuck I am. Who the fuck are you?" She was feisty that's for sure, responding to him in the same way he'd come at her. In all honesty, it'd taken her a moment to register he was speaking to her because, what?? His hostility towards her was at an all time high for someone who she'd never laid eyes on before.

"Your little raid fucked up our cocaine bust." His nostrils flared in anger as he stepped to the woman a few inches shorter than him. "Or maybe your cocaine bust got in the middle of my prostitution bust." She shot back. "Again, who the hell are you?" The low rasp of his voice was venomous. "I don't answer to you, I don't even know who you are. Let's start with that before charging over here like you hot shit or something."

Armando opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by Marcus. "Hey! Ok, everyone. Let's just calm down." Marcus laughed nervously, stepping between the two of them. "Miss, I'm so sorry for Armando. You know, it's that Latin fire in 'em. Hard to turn off. Um, I'm Marcus and We're AMMO. You are?"

"Raven." Her tone softened but her eyes still blazed with anger in the direction of the young male, who was admittedly cute but clearly had her fucked up. "Vice."

[bullet-prooflove]

Headcannons for being in a poly!relationship with Joe Velasco, Mike Duarte & Terry Bruno

Tagging: @rosaliedepp You did this! It got too long for reblogs so I thought I would do everyone a favour and pop it behing a readmore.

Following on from this HC

I can literally imagine Mike sighing and watering these poor plants because Terry forget to all the time because of shifts. He would complain to the plants but then prune them when they are a bit wild. Terry is the one that repots them though when they get a little big.

Sleeping Arrangements:

Night time I imagine it's you and Joe in the middle, Mike on one side of you, face to face and Joe draped over your back. Terry always snuggles in with Joe because he's good at soothing him when he has nightmares or sleep paralysis.

Workplace:

So in work I think it's kinda an open secret. Everyone acts professional, they're cops they have to but there's always small gestures. I think Mike and you work in different divisions so you're not all in one place at one time unless a case crosses over. I think with Terry and Joe it's more noticeable, Terry will always reach out to Joe during a hard case, like a shoulder squeeze, or drops by his desk for a chat, even a quick hug in the locker room. Likewise Joe will make sure Terry eats as I think he gets hyper focus sometimes. If anyone is feels they haven't seen one of the others, they will drop by their desk to check in and make sure their ok and looking after themselves.

If there is an argument at home Terry is very good at being professional and will be cool and a little aloof. Joe will probably ignore Terry if the issue is with him unless he absolutely has to respond. Terry is very good at defusing situations so if Joe does get snappy he will give him space until he is ready.

I think Joe and Terry told Liv together, like we're in this relationship with Mike and reader. It doesn't effect or work but you have to know for HR.

With people making comments in a professional environment Mike would go for the throat. He would verbally eviscerate them, he is very protective of the three of the three of you and hates his business being blasted. Joe is more likely to get into a scuffle. Terry is more likely to ignore it. The only time he can’t ignore it is when you’re branded a slut for it. Then he’s getting in someone’s face. The one time Mike was called to deal with one of you in custody, he was very surprised to find Terry in the holding cell with an ice pack on his face because someone couldn’t keep their mouth shut. Mike had a word with the fella afterwards.

PDA:

I think PDA is very dependant on person so Mike’s not massive on PDA in general as he’s a very private person. He’s all about light touches, lingering in your proximity, buying drinks and giving you that smile. I think Mike genuinely relaxes when he’s round the three of you, even if you’re out. He laughs more, touches more. Terry’s sort of flipflops with PDA, he’s very intuitive so if he feels someone needs it he’ll willingly give it. If not, he’s happy to sit in his chair and laugh with the rest of you. Joe, I feel is hands on and it progresses the more he drinks. I think he uses touch as reassurance, (do you still want me, I’m here kind of thing) He’s hand on whoever’s at the bar’s lower back, kiss on the head as he drifts past one of you to go the bathroom, even playing pool he’s like let me show you how to line it up better. Terry and you enjoy that, Mike doesn’t need his pool game stepping up, he was hustling to make ends meet back in the day.

When it comes to anyone putting themselves in danger it plays out like this:

Mike will go through every possible eventuality with whichever one of you it is. He will try to deter at first but if they’re resolute, you bet his baby is gonna be as prepared as possible. He’s one running through UC identities with you, peppering with questions trying to catch you out. He’s also the one that makes sure the person has a weapon they can use on them at all times, he’s given every single one of you a push dagger just in case. When they are away on op he’s grumpy, short tempered and abrasive, constantly checking in with the superiors for updates.

Terry is the one that checks in on the emotional well being. He learns as much as he can about the op, the people who are watching your back and expresses how important the person is and what may happen of they get harmed. He usually uses Mike as the threat. When their away on op he busies himself as much as possible and tries his best to take care of the others as Mike will drink too much and Joe will spend a little too much time at the gym beating the shit out of people.

Joe will give whoever it is tips because he’s had the most UC experience up to date. He’ll have burner stowed away at a mutual location close to the target area in case shit does hit the fan. You have a code word that the others don’t know about in case things get a little dark. He will also be super clingy on the lead up. He suffers a lot when of the others goes away. He doesn’t sleep well, constantly asking Mike for updates. The other two in the relationship will take care of him, make sure he eats and pay him special attention.

This was fun feel free to send more!

Love our Polybois? Don’t miss any of their stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved on our archive

As flu season nears, so do new COVID-19 variants.

A newly discovered COVID strain known as XEC continues to spread rapidly across multiple countries, including the United States and California.

First appearing in late June in Berlin, the XEC COVID-19 strain has spread across Europe, North America, and Asia, totaling around 550 samples, according to Australia-based data integration specialist Mike Honey.

The variant has been recorded in 27 countries, including China, Ukraine, Norway, and Poland.

COVID in California XEC is spreading rapidly worldwide, but there have been only 23 cases in the United States, including three in California.

“We are still in early days, so it could be a dominant strain, or it could fizzle out and die. It’s very difficult to predict. It does have some advantages in the lab over currently circulating strains, predominantly the KP strains," Chief Dr. Dean Blumberg of Pediatric Infectious Diseases at UC Davis Health told ABC Sacramento.

Omicron variant KP.3.1.1, also known as deFLuQE, made up over half (52.7%) of COVID-19 cases between Sept. 1 and Sept. 14. However, XEC and a variant known as MV.1 seem poised to become the next dominant strains, scientists say.

"At this juncture, the XEC variant appears to be the most likely one to get legs next," Scripps Research Translational Institute Director Eric Topol wrote on X.

California has seen a slowdown in COVID-19 infections and deaths since late August, the California Department of Public Health reported.

"While COVID-19 levels had increased over the summer to levels comparable to last summer, they are now decreasing as seen in both decreasing SARS-CoV-2 test positivity and detections in wastewater," officials told KCRA 3 Sacramento in a statement.

COVID XEC symptoms The CDC has not confirmed whether the XEC variant has any unique symptoms. USA TODAY has contacted CDC officials for comment.

The agency continues to outline the primary COVID-19 symptoms, which can appear between two to 14 days after exposure to the virus and can range from mild to severe.

These are some of the symptoms of COVID-19:

Fever or chills Cough Shortness of breath or difficulty breathing Fatigue Muscle or body aches Headache Loss of taste or smell Sore throat Congestion or runny nose Nausea or vomiting Diarrhea

The CDC said you should seek medical attention if you have the following symptoms:

Trouble breathing Persistent pain or pressure in the chest New confusion Inability to wake or stay awake Pale, gray or blue-colored skin, lips, or nail beds

What is variant MV. 1? First documented in Maharashtra, India, in late June, COVID-19 variant MV.1 has been recorded in nine countries, including the United States, Honey reported.

It's spread across four continents in countries including Portugal, Scotland, Ireland and the Netherlands. In the United States, it's mainly been seen in the northeast, according to Honey.

How can we protect ourselves from XEC and other variants? The CDC recommends that everyone ages 6 months and older, with some exceptions, receive an updated 2024-25 COVID-19 vaccine to protect against the virus, regardless of whether you have previously been vaccinated or infected.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Lost Cause prologue, Part V

I'm coming to Minneapolis! Oct 15: Presenting The Internet Con at Moon Palace Books. Oct 16: Keynoting the 26th ACM Conference On Computer-Supported Cooperative Work and Social Computing.

In my upcoming solarpunk novel The Lost Cause (Nov 14), we get an epic struggle between the people doing the repair and care work needed to save our planet and species, and the reactionary wreckers who want to kill the Green New Deal and watch the world burn:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865847/red-team-blues

Amazon refuses to carry my audiobooks, which means that I make my own indie editions and pre-sell them on Kickstarter, along with ebooks and hardcovers. I narrated this one! It came out great! You can back it here:

http://lost-cause.org

This week, I've been serializing the prologue to give you a taste of what you can expect from the book, which Bill McKibben calls "politically perceptive, scientifically sound, and extraordinarily hopeful."

Here's part one:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/06/green-new-deal-fic/#the-first-generation-in-a-century-not-to-fear-the-future

And part two:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/07/met-cute-ugly/#part-ii

And part three:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/09/working-the-refs/#lost-cause-prologue

And part four:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/10/weaponized-interdependence/#super-soaker-full-of-hydrochloric-acid

And now, part five:

Look, I had weeks to go until graduation. I had a life to live. I had stuff to do.

Gramps and his friends would stew and shout. Idiots on the internet would make dank memes out of Mike Kennedy and deepfake him into a million videos, turn him into a main character whose image would be around long after he left the world.

I just had to keep my head down, collect my diploma, and get the hell out of Burbank. I’d already been provisionally accepted for a Blue Helmets AmeriCorps spot down in San Juan Capistrano, helping to rebuild the city’s lower half a mile inland, up in the hills. I was going to do a year of that and then go to college: I had applications in to UCLA, Portland State (they had a really good refugee tech undergrad program), and the University of Waterloo, where my mom did her undergrad in environmental science. They’d let me declare my major in my second year, so I could take a wide variety of courses before settling on something, and if anything, Canada’s free college was even more generous than the UC system or Portland’s, with a subsidy for dorms and meals.

To tell the truth, I’d be glad to go. My senior year hadn’t been anything like I’d anticipated. Gramps’s health had gotten a lot worse the previous summer and his shitty sexist and racist remarks chased away any home help worker Burbank sent over within a week or two, so I’d been trying to keep my grades up while picking up after Gramps, getting him to take his meds, washing his sheets and cleaning his toilet—­not to mention making sure he made his doctor’s appointments and even bringing him into the office a couple of times a month for the kind of exams you couldn’t do by telemedicine.

I wasn’t sure what Gramps would do without me to take care of him, but at that point, I was running out of fucks to give. Let his asshole Maga Club buddies look after him, or maybe Gramps could figure out how not to offend everyone that came over to wipe his ass and do his laundry. He was—­as he was fond of pointing out to me—­a grown-­ass adult, and this was his house, and he was in charge. So let him be in charge.

I put myself to bed stewing about all of this, thinking of San Juan Capistrano. Some of my older friends had graduated the previous years and had gone down there and I’d followed their relocation of the old mission on their feeds. It looked like hot, sweaty, rewarding work, the kind of thing where you could really measure your progress.

For the second night in a row, I was woken up at 2 a.m. This time, it wasn’t my screen, it was Gramps, who’d stumped into my room with his cane, flipped my lights to full on, and started shaking me and calling out, “Get up, kid, get up!”

“I’m up,” I said, getting up on my elbows and squinting at him.

He was shaking, and he reeked—­of both booze and BO, and I felt a flash of guilt for not getting him in the bath that day.

“God dammit,” he said, and staggered a bit. I leapt out of bed, pulling the sheets off with me, and steadied him at the elbow.

“Calm down, okay? What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right. No one is all right. Fuck all right and fuck you.” I’d had Gramps tested for early dementia the previous year, by showing his doctor videos of moments like these. The doc had run a battery of tests before pronouncing, “Your grandfather isn’t senile, he’s just ornery.” Which was undeniable, and also pissed me the hell off. “Ornery” was a polite word for “asshole.” What the doc was telling me was that Gramps didn’t have to be cruel. He was cruel by choice.

I untangled myself from the sheets and piled them on the bed.

“What is it?”

“It’s Mike Kennedy, that asshole. Someone shot him.”

“What?”

He shoved his giant screen into my hands. I tapped the video window. It was from the POV of a car cam, that weird fish-­eye view of a self-­driving car, split-­screen with the passenger in the front seat, and it was Mike Kennedy, looking even worse than Gramps, bloodshot and trembling, with that under-­chin camera angle that makes everyone look like they’re half dead.

I tried to watch both halves. There was Kennedy, whispering something to him. There was the cul-­de-­sac he was parked in, false-­lit with IR from the cameras. The timestamp was 1:17. Less than an hour before.

Then the external image flickered for a second and resolved itself into a man, who phased in and out. He was wearing a ghillie suit like the one Kennedy had worn on the roof, covered in telltale CV dazzle stripes, designed to exploit defects in the computer vision system. You had to wear a different specific pattern for every algorithm, but if you got the right matchup, the computer would simply not see you. The man was flickering into existence when his posture crumpled up the ghillie suit and made the pattern stop working, then out again when he straightened up.

He straightened and disappeared and Mike Kennedy’s eyes widened as he noticed the man for the first time—­computer dazzle worked on computers, not humans—­and he started to say something and then a round hole appeared in his forehead, his head snapping back against the headrest, then careening forward. The flickering phantom appeared again as the man in the ghillie suit turned and disappeared.

I dropped the tablet to my bed.

“Jesus Christ, Gramps, I didn’t need to see that snuff movie—­”

He tried to smack me then. I was ready for it. I was faster. I stepped out of his reach. I was shaking too.

“You don’t get to hit me anymore old man. Never again, you hear me?”

He was purpling now, and a decade’s worth of fleeing and defusing his rages rose in me, made me want to apologize. After all, I rationalized, he’d just seen a friend murdered.

But I’d seen that friend murdered too, videobombed with a snuff flick at 2 a.m. without warning or consent. It was a traumatizing, selfish, asshole move. I’d be watching that movie on the backs of my eyelids for years to come. And the friend who’d died? He’d been ready to kill me. Gramps had no right. He was a grown-­ass adult. He had no right.

“Listen to me, you little shit, you think you can live under my roof, take my charity, and talk to me like that? Now? With all the shit that I’m going through? No sir. No. Get out, you little bastard, get out now. Get out before I kick your goddamned teeth in.” He was vibrating with rage now, literally, actually shaking so hard his wispy hair swished back and forth across his forehead.

I didn’t say another word. I picked up some jeans and a jacket, put a pair of socks in a jacket pocket, and jammed my feet into a pair of sneakers without bothering to unlace them. I shouldered past him—­still vibrating, stinking even worse—­and banged out the back door and stomped through the nighttime streets.

My feet automatically took me up to Verdugo, and then across the empty road. I turned toward school—­as I did every morning—­and autopiloted in that direction. By the time I reached the Verdugo Aquatic Facility I had calmed down enough to realize that there was no reason to go to school at two thirty in the morning, so I stopped and headed for the playground in the park behind the pool. I sat down on a bench and kicked my shoes off and shook out the playground sand, pulled out my socks and put them on, then put my shoes back on properly. I was still furious, but now I could think straight and my hands weren’t shaking. Gramps and I hadn’t had a blowup like that in years, mostly—­ okay, entirely—­because I’d backed down every time we’d been headed in that direction. I wasn’t in any mood to back down. Not ever, to be fully honest.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/11/equal-opportunity-class-war/#part-v

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

[elekinetic]

What are your hcs about the Stranger Things characters’ futures? Like concerning their careers, where they wind up living, pets, colleges, or anything else that you want to talk about!

ohhhh i’m torn. i want them to all end up in the same place. i don’t think this is the canon answer but this is what makes me happy:

the party ends up in california for college. they all go to uc santa cruz, cause they didn’t get a chance to do the whole college application thing while saving the world and owens pulled some strings. el and max are roommates. dustin mike and lucas get put in a triple, but if mike starts staying at a certain party member’s single most of the time…..that’s none of their business. max starts as a neuroscience major until she fucking hates it. she’s at the arcade one night and watches someone repair a broken machine and is like, oh shit. that’s kinda cool. she switches to computer science, then to computer engineering bc CS is for nerds. (dustin does CS.) lucas came in as a political science major, but he realized he was way more interested in helping max with her neuroscience homework. he ends up doing a double major in political science and human health sciences. mike majors in communication cause it’s a compromise between getting a business degree like his parents insist and studying something he’s actually interested in (this is the problem. mike has no clue what he wants to study). will is a visual arts major obv. el switches her major about seventeen different times (zoology, religion, international relations, mechanical engineering). she ends up graduating w mike in communication bc its the easiest to apply her various credits to. el and dustin get really into improv. el also does theatre, and mike ends up getting dragged into the tech scene. lucas plays club basketball and gets involved in student govt. he sets up a lot of food and blood drives. the party goes to a board game club, but will goes EVERY week and makes a bunch of great friends. max learns guitar and starts playing at open mics (el is the only one who knows. and lucas, a little later). they all join the college radio station. first its dustin helping a mutual friend fix radio tech, then its will filling in for a mutual friend’s missing cohost, then it’s will and lucas starting an advice show, and el and max starting a show where max makes the tapes and el just talks about whatever she wants, and mike fucking around in the background of all his friends’ shows and shouting out unsolicited comments. when they all move off campus, mike and will, dustin and lucas, and el and max get their own apartments respectively. lumax starts talking abt moving in together and el is like “i love you both but i am not trying to third wheel in my own home.” thus, henderhop house is born. these two were BORN to be roommates. they become such good friends and are so respectful of each others space and are so so communicative! and they both love to cook. henderhop lives together for like, six years post college. listen, they have two cats together. they don’t want to traumatize them with a divorce. mike and will get a dog when they’re older (late 20s, early 30s). they used to catsit for their neighbor, but mike is crazy allergic. it always sounds like he’s going through puberty again. the party ends up in southern california. el becomes an archaeologist and travels a lot. dustin lives in pasadena and works for JPL. max does some work with him, does some contacts for a few different companies. she eventually becomes a professor and spends her off time doing research. lucas becomes a pediatrician. later in life he serves on city council, then turns to non-profit work. will get a job as an illustration intern at a comic house straight out of college and works his way up from there. mike bounces around office jobs, does some time at a publishing house, and goes back to school for a creative writing MFA. he sells some original stuff but he ends up mostly writing comics for IPs with will. they make a name for themselves in the Star Wars EA and actually get invited to a couple comic-con panels. dustin flips his shit.

[rabbitcruiser]

Louis M. Martini Winery, St. Helena (No. 6)

1977

Upon graduation from the wine program at the University of California, Davis, Mike Martini takes over as winemaker.

1994

The Louis P. Martini endowment for Viticulture and Enological Research is established at UC Davis.

2002

The Gallo winemaking family, close friends of the Martini family for three generations, purchases the winery and vineyards.

2003

Cellar No. 254, an artisan winery, is completed at the Louis M. Martini Winery site in St. Helena to focus on small-lot productions.

2008

Louis P. Martini is inducted into the Vintner’s Hall of Fame as a “Pioneer,” recognized for his significant contributions to the California wine industry.

2013

Michael Eddy, who spent a decade under the tutelage of Mike Martini, is named winemaker. He is the first non-Martini family member in history to hold the title.

2017

2013 Lot No. 1 Cabernet Sauvignon awarded a perfect 100-point score by Robert Parker’s The Wine Advocate.

2019

A significant restoration of the original winery is completed, introducing an array of world-class tasting and culinary experiences.

Source

[catdotjpeg]

California State University placed Sonoma State campus President Mike Lee on leave Wednesday after he agreed to protesters’ demands to involve them in university decision-making and pursue divestment from Israel. Lee sent a campus-wide memo Tuesday indicating that he had made several concessions to occupants of a pro-Palestinian encampment on campus. The memo was sent “without the appropriate approvals,” CSU Chancellor Mildred García said in a statement, adding that she and the 23-campus CSU system’s board are “actively reviewing the matter.” “For now, because of this insubordination and the consequences it has brought upon the system, President Lee has been placed on administrative leave,” García said. The punishment marks perhaps the harshest disciplinary action against a campus chancellor or president in California over the handling of protests of the war in Gaza. It also underscores an unwillingness to divest from Israeli weapons manufacturers — as pro-Palestinian protesters across the country have increasingly demanded the last few months — among leaders of the CSU system and its sister University of California system.

California universities including UC Riverside, UC Berkeley and Sacramento State have agreed to study divestment like some East Coast universities, but none have gone as far as Lee. Lee told the campus that he would initiate an academic boycott of Israel, in which links to study abroad programs in the country would be removed from university pamphlets, among other measures. He also agreed to work with a local chapter of the activist group Students for Justice in Palestine to form an advisory council on some decisions. Lee further pledged to review the school’s contracts and a campus-specific investment fund called the Sonoma State Foundation for ties to Israel “to determine a course of action leading to divestment strategies that include seeking ethical alternatives.”

“In my attempt to find agreement with one group of students, I marginalized other members of our student population and community,” Lee wrote in a follow-up message to members of the campus Wednesday. “I realize the harm that this has caused, and I take full ownership of it. I deeply regret the unintended consequences of my actions.” Lee did not immediately return a request for comment. His decision to engage with protesters had quickly drawn backlash in the 24 hours since he announced the deal with demonstrators, which included them dismantling their encampment. California Legislative Jewish Caucus Co-Chair Scott Wiener, a Democrat, condemned Lee’s concessions to the “Boycott, Divest and Sanction” movement in scathing terms. “Yesterday the President of Sonoma State University aligned the campus with BDS, a movement whose goal is the destruction of Israel, home to 7M Jews,” Wiener wrote on X Wednesday. “Several other UC & CSU campuses are doing this more subtly. Sonoma State simply said the quiet part out loud. The mask is off.”

Wiener and fellow Caucus Co-Chair Assemblymember Jesse Gabriel later issued a statement praising the decision to place Lee on leave, saying he had been “unfit to lead one of our great state institutions.”

-- From "California university president put on leave for ‘insubordination’ after meeting Gaza protesters’ demands" by Blake Jones for Politico, 15 May 2024

[mangoisms]

like the part of the song where it falls ━ miyuki kazuya

━ part three: also i wanted to be able to love. and we all know how that one goes, don’t we? read part one / part two

━ wc: 6k

━ warnings: none

━ masterpost

“It stinks in here.”

That’s the first thing Miyuki says when he steps into the studio the next day. 

Jerry, at the computer, laughs quietly. 

You grin. “Yeah. Sorry. That would be Dennis.”

“Right. Saw the release today. They’re not shutting you down.”

“Well, it was put much more nicely there. They’re not shutting us down now but they are giving us the rest of the year to perform well. If we don’t —” you make a cutting motion with your hand across your neck “— we’re out.” 

“Fixed our pay, though,” Jerry mutters, sending you a sidelong glance. 

Righttt. Dennis had unapologetically let it slip you’d been covering part of his check. You think it was revenge for him getting in trouble for not sending a representative down for the company to the press conference but really, it just makes them sound like assholes. 

Jerry was a little upset about it but you’d pressed that if push came to shove, you had your sister and Hector to fall back on. He had no one other than his grandma and while DJing at parties brings in a little extra side cash, it wouldn’t have been enough had you not stepped in. 

But that’s over now. They’re paying him his old rate again. 

Of course, you two might end up turned out onto the street come the new year but you’d cross that bridge when you got to it. 

Miyuki doesn’t say anything to that, though his eyes sweep over to you curiously. You just shake your head minutely. You’ll tell him downstairs. 

You and Jerry had come in early to set up. He hadn’t changed much but you two needed to do a few tests, run through some things, wake up that old muscle memory of how things used to be. 

Things are the same again now, except for the purple bruise on your temple, the professional baseball player standing in your studio, and the hubbub about your return tonight. 

“You want anything from downstairs, Mouser?”

Jerry shakes his head. “Had Jersey Mike’s earlier. I’m still good. When’re you gonna be back?”

“Won’t be long. We’re doing BestBuy tomorrow. Probably just an hour or something. That okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Where is the Lysol, though? He is right. Freakin’ stinks of weed in here.”

You snicker. “It’s in the closet.”

“Right, thanks. Have fun.”

You go over to Miyuki, who is taking in the room. Overall a small recording studio, you have the control room, where Jerry operates the sound board, then the live room — the actual studio — wherein you broadcast from. Both areas are separate from each other.  A glass window mounted above the sound board looks into it, showing the desk with the various computer screens, your mic and headphones, and a chair. On the walls inside the control room you have a few puzzles you and Jerry have done together framed, along with newspaper clippings of Night Owl’s sparse mentions in the media. 

More have appeared, though, from far more well-known newspapers, like the Washington Post, the New York Times. The new ones read things like:

WHO AND WHAT IS NIGHT OWL, KCSD’S NIGHTTIME RADIO SEGMENT? 

SOCAL’S MOST UNDERRATED RADIO SEGMENT, NIGHT OWL, ON 101.1 FM

UNKNOWN TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC BUT BELOVED BY UC STUDENTS AND GRAVEYARD SHIFT WORKERS, NIGHT OWL, A RADIO SEGMENT

HOW THE PADRES’ WINNING HOME-RUN OF THE WORLD SERIES THRUSTED A LITTLE-KNOWN SHOW INTO STARDOM

“Little-known show? That’s kinda cruel. And that’s coming from me.”

Jerry snickers. 

You grin. “Yeah, well, sympathetic press gets us more listeners, so they can keep going.”

“That is true…” 

The two of you slip out of the studio. 

He glances at you and smirks. “Nice shirt.”

You grin, tugging at the black shirt with just the Wonder Woman logo on the breast. “Thank you. Wonder Woman is excellent. I have a poster of her and the Wonderfam in my room.”

“Of course you do.”

He pushes the down button for the elevator. 

“I’ve been thinking I want to get some more snails if I get a bigger tank, like two of them, and you know what I’m gonna name them?”

“Let me guess — Wonder Woman and Superman?”

“Aw, look at you. All knowledgeable about comics now.”

“Well, you did talk my ear off about it for two hours straight.”

The elevator doors slide open. 

You smile. “I did, didn’t I?”

Your studio is on the tenth floor of KCSD’s building, which is located in Hillcrest, a neighborhood west of your apartment in Normal Heights. Right across the I-805. 

Outside, the sun is beginning its descent. The time change is in a couple days, so it’ll be setting even earlier after that. You take the time to enjoy the last long days of sunlight. It’s warm today, perfectly comfortable, especially with the sun still out and a light breeze. You’re in your Wonder Woman t-shirt, dark jean shorts, your regular Doc Martens that are scuffed and worn, and a pair of black over-the-knee socks, finished with a black cherry lip lacquer. 

“So, what was he talking about? Did they lower your pay?”

“Not mine. His. A few months ago. But,” you sigh, tilting your face to the sky, closing your eyes as you come to the crosswalk. You still need a second to adjust to the brightness. “Jerry lives on his own with his grandmother. It’s just them two. She has diabetes, though, and needs medication for it. We get insurance but it doesn’t cover the entirety of the prescription. The two of them wouldn’t have been able to live on that paycheck, so I told payroll to fill it from mine.”

Miyuki is quiet for a second. You open your eyes, a little more adjusted to the light. 

“Nice of you,” he says at last.

“It’s just me and Batman and Robin. It made the most sense.”

“Hm.”

The light turns. You two cross the street to the 7-Eleven, where Rico’s Tacos, a food truck, sits adjacent of. 

You and Jerry are loyal customers to them, so when you step up the window, you are instantly recognized. 

“Tee! What’s up? We heard about what happened! Free tacos for life, yeah? Or, well, maybe just a few months.” 

You grin up at Jaime Moreno as he leans out the window, handsome face split into a grin. 

“Cheap ass,” his sister, Juana ‘Janie’ Moreno, hisses, shoulder checking him out of the window to grin down at you. “Mi cielito, you can have as many free tacos as you want!”

“She’s not gonna go on a date with you,” Jaime mutters. 

“Yeah, well, she’s not gonna go on a date with you either, stupid ass.”

You laugh. Miyuki snorts quietly. 

Janie’s eyes dart to him, eyebrow raising. “Who’s this?” 

Jaime looks at him, too, blinking. 

You can’t help but laugh. “This is Miyuki. He’s the guy who concussed me.”

“Ohhh,” they say in unison. 

“Sorry, man,” Jaime says, eyes twinkling. “We don’t watch much baseball.”

“Oh, don’t feel bad,” you say. “I didn’t know who he was until I woke up in the hospital.”

“Okay,” Miyuki says. “Why don’t we order?”

“Right.”

You place your orders, he pays, and in no time, you’re sitting on the curb next to each other, soda bottles between you, feasting on your still-hot tacos. 

“Okay,” he says around a mouthful of a spicy chicken taco. “This is good.”

“Right? And look, no allergic reactions!” You grin, gesturing to yourself. 

He snickers. 

You two sit in a relatively peaceful silence. Cars drive up and down the street, some pulling into 7-Eleven for gas and snacks, while others line up at Rico’s for dinner. A few pigeons land near you, cooing, no doubt eyeing your food. 

Gold rays paint over you, picking out the red highlights in Miyuki’s dark hair, light brown skin glowing. 

Your stomach swoops like you missed a step and you look away. 

On the sidewalk, a teenage girl walks a small dog. A little girl skips ahead of them, running through the pigeons, letting out a delighted laugh as they flutter away. 

You smile, watching her go. 

Across the street, a woman hurries down the sidewalk, arms laden with grocery bags. One of them breaks, groceries spilling out. You pause, already starting to set your plate down to run across the street and help her, but someone else swoops in, kindly helping to pick up the vegetables and fruits that tumbled onto the concrete. 

You sigh wistfully. “I love humanity.”

“Not exactly representative of humanity collectively, is it? Logically speaking.”

“These are just outliers, you think?”

He nods like it should be obvious. “There are lots of words to describe humanity but I’m not sure good is one of them.”

“No?” you ask lightly. 

He shrugs. “Look at what we do. Pollute the earth, start wars over nothing, create mass weapons of destruction. Doesn’t sound very good to me.”

“You think humanity is inherently selfish and bad?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see anything that says it’s inherently good.”

You smile. “How miserable you must be to resent your own kind.”

“I don’t resent humanity. I just don’t think we’re good. That’s all.”

“So, what do you believe in?”

“Myself.”

“Miserable and lonely, then. Sounds like an excuse.”

“An excuse?” 

“You’re letting them win,” you say patiently. “Being a cynic, thinking humanity is a plague on this earth, that’s the easy way out. It excuses you, doesn’t it? Despair and cynicism are easy. It absolves you of responsibility. Removes yourself from the equation, from the possibility of helping because, why help if there is no hope?”

You pause and take a breath. You aren’t hungry anymore. Something bubbles inside your chest but you force yourself to be calm. To be patient. 

“Miyuki… You aren’t smart or philosophical for saying humanity is doomed. Not at all. You have to believe humanity is good.”

“Why?”

“Humanity named kindness so it must know kindness. We just saw a stranger help another stranger. They didn’t have to. But they did. If you look for greed, selfishness, or corruption, you will find it. Try looking for kindness for once, for the goodness of humanity.”

“You —”

“Are naive? The way that I am, it is strategic. Necessary. Because what else do we have? It’s too easy to go that route. And it’s what they want. The government wants us hopeless, wants us to think there is no way to solve the problems we have created. Wants us to think we are inherently greedy, selfish, and evil because it absolves them of responsibility. And when we believe it, it absolves us of responsibility, too. But it’s a double-whammy, because not only that, but we’re also getting fucked over by the government all the while. No one wins. Nothing gets better.”

You set your food ahead, gazing intently at him. In the setting rays of the sun, his eyes are honey brown. 

“Even if you can’t bring yourself to believe that, at least appreciate that you are here, existing with everyone else. How extraordinary it is that we even exist. You know how young the universe is? It’s just barely coming into adolescence. For this brief moment in time, life can exist. But for most of the universe’s life, it will be cold, dark, and empty. Stars will die out. Even the black holes will die in some quadrillion years.”

“Just sounds like an existential crisis if you ask me.”

“We’re here, Miyuki. Existing in that haven in time. We should enjoy our time here.”

“I enjoy my life.”

You take a leap. 

“I’m saying other than baseball.”

He falters. You can tell you’ve got him out, because his next words are sharp again. 

“Awfully presumptuous, aren’t you?”

You knew that. And yet, something inside you urged you to say it anyway. To presume. 

“I’m happy to be proved wrong.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. The sky is painted shades of pink and orange as the sun sets. 

“What do you want me to say?”

“What do you do for fun?”

“Baseball.”

“Other than baseball. I like photography, doing puzzles in my free time, watching Say Yes to the Dress, reading poetry, and making playlists. Not just for the show but for me, too. I like watching Batman and Robin move around in their tank. I like — love — the ocean and the beach. I like swimming, too, but the ocean is usually too cold for that, and the pool at my apartment complex isn’t taken care of enough and while I love swimming — love that feeling after several hours of it, when you’re in bed and you feel like you’re rocking on a boat — my fear of getting a UTI is stronger.”

His lips twitch. 

You nudge his shoulder with yours. “There has to be something. Like my puzzles. I do them in my free time but also if the show is particularly slow. Jerry likes to do sudoku and he likes Star Wars, but not the recent movies that come out. He says those all suck. Rogue One is apparently the only good movie to come out. I’ve seen it. It’s actually very… touching.”

He sets his plate down with a sigh and picks up the soda bottle, which is sweating in the warm weather. Air hisses out as he untwists the cap. He takes a drink. You try not to stare at the long line of his neck, Adam’s apple bobbing. Focus. You need to focus and stop ogling him. 

Easier said than done. 

“What are you going to do during the offseason?” you ask, trying for a difference approach. 

“The usual. Workout. Review game footage. Plan for next season. The only thing different now is I’m still house hunting and no, real estate doesn’t much interest me outside of that.”

You purse your lips, thinking. 

He sets the bottle down and looks at you. 

“You should show me.”

“Show you what?”

“How to…” he gestures aimlessly. “Enjoy life. Outside of baseball, I mean.”

You give him a sad smile. “It’s not exactly something that can be taught, Miyuki.”

“Maybe not. But it’s worth a shot. Prove it to me and I’ll believe you.”

“I’m not going to do it because of that. I don’t care about being right or wrong. You can think what you’d like. But… if you really want to, maybe I can help you get into the swing of it.”

“Do your worst.”

“No,” you say, smiling. “I’m going to do my best.”

The look in his eyes is hard to quantify but the set of his mouth is soft. 

“I look forward to it.”

[Night Owl Transcript — 20:07 — 11/4/2022]

Tee: It’s great to be back here, guys. Really, really great. I’m in desperate need of some good old human connection. Lucky, too, that our switchboard is literally lighting up. Wow. [Laughing] What a reception. Trending on Twitter, too. That’s fun. Don’t worry, guys, we’ll get to callers in a sec, for now, our first song of the night… I thought about it for a long time. Interestingly enough, there is only one song I know of in my catalog with the word concussion in it. And it’s a great song! But not the tone I’d like to set for tonight. So…

[Coldplay’s “A Head Full of Dreams” starts in the background]

Tee: What’s tonight's theme? Frankly, it’s me being grateful to be alive. To be here right now, in this moment of time. I hope you guys can feel that, too. 

[“A Head Full of Dreams” plays] Leave your broken windows open And in the light streams And you get a head A head full of dreams

[Night Owl Transcript — 21:47 — 11/4/2022]

Caller 52: Hello? Tee: Hi! Thanks for calling in. What’s your name? Caller 52: My name is Emi.  Tee: Hi, Emi! I’m Tee. Where are you calling from? Caller 52: From Japan, actually.  Tee: No way, are you serious? Caller 52: Yes. It’s only the afternoon here, so it’s easy to listen in. Many of my friends are since everything happened with Miyuki-san. I just wanted to say we are glad you’re okay. We’ve been listening for the last week but we’ll keep listening. So, you have some supporters across the pacific, too.  Tee: Hey, Emi, I really appreciate that. Thank you. And since it’s only the afternoon there, I hope you have a good day, too. I’ve seen a lot on Twitter saying people not just from San Diego or the SoCal area are listening in and so many callers are saying that, too. Guys — that is so sick. 

[Tai Verdes’ “A-O-K” starts in the background]

Tee: I feel like I’ve been saying it all night but — you guys are freakin’ awesome. I’m glad we’re all here tonight. 

[“A-O-K” plays] Livin’ in this big blue world With my head up in outer space  I know I'll be A-O, A-O-K I know I'll be A-O, A-O-K  When I see trouble come my way  I’ll be makin' lemonade

[Night Owl Transcript — 22:54 — 11/5/2022]

Caller 106: I just think it’s crazy that was your first baseball game, ever! Tee: [Laughs] Yeah, I know, just my luck, right?  Caller 106: Is it true he paid for your hospital bills? Tee: Every cent. From my week-long stay for the concussion and for the allergic reaction, too.  Caller 106: God, that is awesome. It’s really nice to have you back, Tee. Mouser did good but it’s just not the same. You’ve gotten me through three years of college.  Tee: Hey, that was all you. I just kept you company. Any requests? Caller 106: I’m about to drive home from work. I could use something to keep me awake. Something I can sing along to, you know? Tee: Oh, I got you. Roll down the windows and enjoy — and drive safely, please. 

[AWOLNATION’s “Pacific Coast Highway in the Movies” plays] I’m lonely, I’m confused, and I’m glad that you’re here Give me shiny things to stop my tears Pacific coast highway in the movies You promised me sunshine, why’s it gloomy? We’ll wait ‘til the night to catch the moonbeams Pacific coast highway in the movies

(03:07) you ever been to the zoo? (12:30) Jesus is that how long night owl runs? Until 3 am???? (12:30) yes :DDD good morning (12:31) It’s noon (12:31) And are you asking in general? (12:32) :( i’m talking about here! (12:32) Haha I know I just wanted to mess with you (12:32) No I’ve never been (12:33) we must fix fhat immediately (12:33) *that. are you busy today??? after bestbuy?? (12:33) Today?? No (12:34) yay! that’s what we’re doing today (12:34) welcome to day 1 of operation enjoy your life (in the offseason)

Things continue like that for the most part. 

Night Owl runs from eight to three, so you often sleep in until noon. Not the most sustainable sleeping schedule and the first few days are rough, since you’ve been on a ‘normal’ one without having the show, but once you get into the swing of it, it gets better. 

Your days are often free, too, so if Miyuki doesn’t have a photoshoot or an interview or any other kind of public engagement, you’re dragging him around the city. 

It’s mostly to just get him outside. 

He doesn’t need to pick up, like, knitting or something but… he should go out and do things anyway. They don’t have to be extraordinary, either. Even going out and sitting in a cafe and reading is good. 

He’s a bit of a solitary creature, you find. He doesn’t have friends here — “I have the team,” he says, but when you ask whether they hang out, he admits it’s never quite voluntary on his part. More of an obligation. Outside of that, there is nothing else. But the thing is, humans need social contact. Social support. It is quite literally hardwired into your DNA. 

And being solitary or a homebody doesn’t have to change. You get wanting to stay home. But it’s just… there’s a balance to these things, right?

Mostly… you just want him to enjoy himself. 

Bit by bit, it’s starting to work. 

You find yourself at Barnes & Noble with your sister at one point and find a book on Shohei Ohtani that seems interesting. You ask him about it and he says he hasn’t read it. 

You buy two copies and drag him to Balboa Park to read on the grass on a particularly warm November day. 

He humors you, and most of all, you certainly entertain him by asking, “What the hell an ERA and an OPS are,” and all kinds of questions about the baseball jargon you stumble upon in your reading. 

Oftentimes, you bring your new camera, a very expensive model you’d picked out at BestBuy a couple weeks ago after several hours of contemplation. 

Photography is just a hobby for you, nothing serious, which is why you still haven’t accepted the Padres’ offer to join their team. 

The show is going well. More than well. Most nights, you have a long line of callers and even more interaction on Twitter. Once people discover you, they tend to stick around, liking what they find. It helps you have people from all around the world listening. Your listeners in Japan and other parts of the world get the advantage of it being afternoon when your show airs, so it’s feasible to reach a wide audience there. Especially after all the attention you got. 

The blessings of modern technology also allow for each segment to be recorded and stored away on streaming apps, so if people aren’t staying up, they can listen the next day, after the fact. That is a popular option. 

The time continues to pass. Miyuki’s birthday comes up — turning a whole twenty-nine. You’re a few years younger than him at twenty-six. 

November ends and December begins. The city is festive, houses decorated in their various religious symbols for the upcoming holidays. But of course, the lowest the temperatures will go is the fifties and that’s at night. In the day, it floats around the mid-sixties. Cool but not uncomfortable. For some, it ruins the experience of the winter holidays, but you quite like being able to still wear shorts or leggings during the month, so you don’t complain. 

All the while, you and Miyuki hang out. You visit museums, art galleries, exhibits, botanical gardens. Sometimes you go to your apartment and complete your more difficult puzzles since he likes the challenge or you try to teach him photography. Sometimes you go to his apartment and he answers your questions on baseball or you cook together or you play shogi together (more like he teaches you how to play). He’d tried it out after your talk, said he was always forced to play it with one of his old teammates from high school but he hadn’t touched it since he graduated. Mostly, you think he enjoys beating you at it but you don’t mind.

That’s the point, isn’t it? 

You’re still searching for new things to explore, though. 

“Has there ever been anything you wanted to do as a kid that you never did? I always wanted to go to Magic Mountain but my sister is a scaredy cat.”

“Why didn’t your parents just go with you?”

“Didn’t see any use in even going to Six Flags if she wasn’t going to go and they certainly weren’t going to come with me on rides.”

He glances at you, curious. 

The two of you find yourselves sitting in the stands of a Little League game. You’d stepped out of a cafe for a late lunch when he spotted the fields and dragged you over to it, which was a nice surprise. Most often, if your days are not pre-planned, you just go where your whims take you. But now it’s his whims leading you to this field. Probably expecting a high school team or something. No, this is Little League. And you mean Little League. 

Most of the kiddos running around look to be four to six years old. Their batting helmets are too big for their heads. Volunteers stand around, watching like hawks. 

You watch with a small smile as a little boy hits the ball off the tee, then, instead of running down first base line, runs forward to chase it. 

A volunteer swoops in as the other boys of the team close in to grab the ball in clumsy formation; the volunteer lifts the little boy back over to the first base line and urges him on. He finally runs for first base. 

Miyuki looks amused, too. You wouldn’t have thought he’d enjoyed watching but these little kids are fun to watch. No one gets upset when they chase the ball after hitting it instead of running to the bases. Or if they make more clumsy mistakes. They’re just kids, after all. Babies, really. But they’re having fun and so, everyone else is, too. 

Even Miyuki, who watches with a soft look in his eyes. 

Or he was. Now he is looking at you, curiosity clear in those amber brown eyes. 

“What?”

“I know I’m being a hypocrite by saying this but you don’t talk much about your parents. Did they visit you when you were in the hospital?”

“You can ask questions about my life, Miyuki. We’re friends. Friends do that.”

“Right.”

“And no, they didn’t.” You shrug. “But that’s fine. My sister and I don’t talk to them. They had very specific visions about what we should do with our lives. Go to an Ivy League, become a doctor, an engineer, a programmer. Neither of us wanted that. My sister wanted to be a flight attendant and I wanted to be a radio host. Not very impressive or glamorous jobs in their eyes and certainly not jobs that would earn us six figures so we could give them money. So. We don’t talk. Well, really, they disowned us. But you know.”

“That…”

You shoot him a grin. “It’s okay. They weren’t that great growing up. They took care of us but it was always just a transactional thing and if we didn’t do something they liked, they always said something like After all we have done for you blah blah blah. As if housing us and clothing us and feeding us makes them good parents.”

You yawn, stretching your arms above your head. “Anyway, we’ve got Hector’s family now. They’re loads better.”

“Endlessly optimistic.”

“I can’t change anything,” you chuckle. “That’s in the past. I’ve grieved it, believe me. But in the end, there’s just nothing left for me. So.”

He nods and turns his eyes back to the field. 

Another little boy hits the ball from the tee. He doesn’t try chasing it but he heads straight for second base instead of first. 

“My mom died when I was a kid.”

You jolt, head whipping towards him. He doesn’t look at you, instead out at the field, where chaos unfolds, punctuated by parents’ cheers and urges and the kids’ yells and laughter. It balances the weight of his words but you still feel them pierce deep in the soft tissue of your heart. 

“After she died, my dad wasn’t all there. For most of my childhood and teenage years, he was never there. Had to cook, clean, balance the checkbook, pay the bills. He came around in my final year of high school but it still wasn’t…”

“Can’t make up for all that you had to do,” you murmur. 

“But it’s like you said. I can’t change any of it. He tries now, which I guess is what matters the most in the end.”

“Still,” you say softly. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that from such a young age.”

“I had baseball,” he says, looking at you. “If I didn’t have my parents, I had baseball. But I guess that’s the point of this.”

You tilt your head, silently urging him to go on. 

He lifts a shoulder. “I won’t have baseball forever.”

“I don’t know,” you say, smiling. “If there is anyone who can keep going forever, I think it’s you.”

“Yeah. Then they’d ban me from the parks.”

You laugh and turn back around, shifting on the metal bench. Your shoulder brushes his. 

“I don’t remember much from my childhood other than wanting to play baseball and be the best,” he says, finally addressing your previous question. 

“Didn’t even want to go to an amusement park or something?”

He gives you a suspicious looks. “What’s with you and amusement parks?”

“They’re fun!”

“Didn’t realize you were such an adrenaline junkie, tomcat. Maybe you did get hit with that ball on purpose.”

You laugh. “I am not and I did not! They’re just fun! This is coming from someone who has clearly never experienced the pleasure of a rollarcoaster.”

“There are many words to describe rollarcoasters and a pleasure is not one of them. Besides, you’re still recovering from your concussion. I don’t think it’s a great idea to go on a contraption that shoots you from zero to seventy in a few seconds.”

“I’ll ask Hector when I see him tomorrow for my appointment.”

He chuckles. ”You do that. But you know what I have been thinking?” 

“Tell me.”

“We’ve been to the zoo, we’ve been all around the city but… why haven’t we gone to the aquarium yet?”

“Oh, my god, you’re right.”

“Doing anything tomorrow?”

“I have my appointment. We’ll go to the aquarium next week Tuesday. Be less busy.”

“Hey, maybe I’m doing something.”

“Are you?” you ask knowingly. 

He looks away. “No… but it’s the principle!”

“You’re right. Are you free next week Tuesday to go to the aquarium?”

“Hmm. Yes.”

You nudge his shoulder, smiling. He nudges back, then stays there, your shoulders and arms pressed together, skin against skin. Your heart does something funny at the feeling. 

You stay like that until the game is over.   

Your six-week follow up appointment is tomorrow in the afternoon. 

Another round of CT and X-ray scans reveal good — great — news. Your brain contusions are completely healed, which finally makes Hector relax. Your skull fracture is entirely healed, too. It wasn’t a very big fracture — if it was, you’d be in a whole lot more trouble, like, brain surgery kind of trouble — so it’s smallness in size lends a hand to your healing. The bruise on your temple is gone, too. 

You do have one question, though. 

“Soooo, when do you think I’m safe to ride a rollarcoaster?”

“Six months from now,” Hector says flatly.  

“What?!”

“One-hundred-and-nineteen. That was the exit velocity on that ball. Concussions don’t just heal like that. They take a long time.”

You pout. You’d figured that. You didn’t think you had to wait six months, though…

“How about two months?”

“Why do you even want to get on one?”

“For fun.”

Hector looks at you for a second, lips pursed. Then he sighs. “Three months. Wait at least three months from the day it happened, so October twenty-fifth to January twenty-fifth. Then after that, you can go. But you must exercise caution. Listen to your body. If you start to feel sick or if your head hurts, stop immediately. Okay? These things are different in everybody but you still have to be careful.”

“I will be. Promise.”

[Night Owl Transcript — 20:34 — 12/9/2022]

Tee: It’s Friday night, folks, which means it’s I-play-music-and-you-imagine-your-lives-as-movies night. Have fun and be safe out there. 

[M83’s “Midnight City” plays] Lookin’ at the milky skyline The city is my church It wraps me in its blinding twilight

[Off-air recording starts] Mouser: You and Miyuki sure are spending a lot of time together, huh.  Tee: Yeees? Why? Mouser: Just an observation. Tee: Is it really? Mouser: [Laughs] It is! You guys seem like you’re having a lot of fun together. Just surprised, I guess.  Tee: Why? Mouser: He just doesn’t seem like the kind of guy you’d be friends with.  Tee: I guess not. But he’s not all bad. I just think he’s… Mouser: Got a couple chips on those broad, broad shoulders? Tee, Mouser: [Laughter] Tee: Pretty much. Mouser: I guess I’m not surprised. Guy has bad luck when it comes to concussing people. Tee: [Chuckling] What? Mouser: No way. You don’t know? Tee: Know what? Mouser: Ohhhhh. Oh, shit. Wait. It was this thing… hold on. I’m going in. 

Jerry opens the door to the studio, rolling in the chair from the control room. You sit up, sliding off the headphones, pulling your legs from the desk, frowning a little. Midnight City plays quietly from the headphones that you set on the desk. 

“I thought you knew,” Jerry says, looking a tad nervous as he rolls up next to you, tapping quickly on his phone. 

“I’d never heard anything about it.”

“Well, basically, like, three or four years ago, during his second season here in the US and with the Atlanta Braves, a few weeks into the season, one of his foul balls hit a little girl in the stands.”

“What?”

He passes you his phone. It’s a recent article, talking about not just your concussion, but the other one, too. About a six-year-old girl who, in a home game in Atlanta between the Braves and the Washington Nationals, was hit by a foul ball in the first inning. 

“She suffered permanent brain damage,” he says, frowning a little bit. “Like she started having seizures after and stuff. Speech issues, mobility issues. I looked more into it after I first heard about it, just ‘cause I was curious about him, since he was visiting you and stuff. He did the same for her. Paid her hospital bills. Is still paying for stuff regarding her healthcare and making sure she has a good quality of life, I think. They say she’s doing good now.”

“That’s good at least,” you mumble, still scrolling the article. 

“But… after it happened, he slumped bad. Like really bad. Like the worst slump of his career apparently. This guy’s, like, a heavy hitter, right? Up there with Judge and Trout, I’ve heard. Defensively speaking, he was still okay. Not as good as usual but… on the offense, he was even worse. This was after his debut here in the US. One of the Braves’ best seasons to date. But that season…” 

Jerry shakes his head. 

“I mean, I get it. I probably wouldn’t walk away unscathed but… I don’t know.”

“It’s different in Japan,” you say quietly, handing his phone back. “They’re vigilant about keeping people safe. Here… nothing happens until it’s too late. Has it happened since?”

“No. Your incident was his second one.”

“They’re not the same, though. Behind the foul line… yeah, it should be netted. But out there in the outfield — that was on me.”

“He probably still feels bad, Tee. I mean… yours was bad. You got lucky. Really lucky.”

True. Headaches have increased in frequency and sometimes you’re still sensitive to the sun. But outside of that… you’ll be okay eventually. 

You knew there might be some underlying guilt, but never enough for you to reconsider where you stand. 

Is he humoring you because of that? Or because you are friends? 

You hope it’s because you’re friends. If it’s that first one… you don’t know. What can you do? 

You try to think of it from his perspective. If your places were reversed, you’d probably feel a little bit of guilt. But he’s more than made up for it — when he didn’t even have to. He had your forgiveness before you even woke up the day after. He always had it. 

“He got better, though, right?”

“Well, he accepted a trade deal with the Padres after that season. Three years here. It ended this season.”

“What?”

“How do you not know that? You guys hang out constantly!”

“The finer points of the Major League Baseball trade do not dominate our conversations!”

He throws his head back and laughs. You grin, too, shaking your head as you glance back to the computer to make sure the next song is correct. It’ll start straightaway. 

“Well, don’t worry about it. Your boyfriend —“

“He isn’t my boyfriend! Mouser!”

 Jerry ignores you, smiling knowingly. “Your boyfriend accepted a five-year extension. $120 million.”

“You know, on that thought…”

Janelle Monáe’s Make Me Feel starts playing. 

You two share a mischievous grin. 

You keep on askin’ me the same questions And second-guessin’ all my intentions Should know by the way I use my compression That you’ve got the answers to my confessions

It’s like I’m powerful with a little bit of tender An emotional sexual bender Mess me up, yeah, but no one does it better There’s nothin’ better

That’s just the way you make me feel That’s just the way you make me feel So good, so good, so real

Look, it’s all in good fun, alright?

He isn’t your boyfriend. No way. Your relationship is better now, after those boundaries were tested and are steadily improving as he opens up to you about his life but…

It’s just not possible. 

Even if he will be here for the next five years… and maybe more…

No. No. Not happening. It can’t.

It’s not like you’re swearing off the possibility completely but that just seems… out of this world. 

Out of the realms of your world.

Yes, he’s horribly handsome and actually kind of funny in that snarky way of his, while also having rare bouts of sensitivity and sometimes your breath catches when you see his face in the sun and your heart does a funny little thing when he looks at you but it’s… 

It’s nothing. 

It was evening, and no longer summer. Three small fish, I don’t know what they were, huddled in the highest ripples as it came swimming in again, effortless, the whole body one gesture, one black sleeve that could fit easily around the bodies of three small fish.

Also I wanted to be able to love. And we all know how that one goes, don’t we?

[schoolhater]

From a historical standpoint, the corporate militarization of UC San Diego is not a new development but rather a founding intention. In a talk at UCSD in 2015, political theorist Mike Davis characterized San Diego’s military industrial complex as an iron triangle with three points: 1) military bases; 2) defense contractors; and 3) UC San Diego. The founding of UCSD by General Dynamics and Roger Revelle, as Davis states, was meant to make up for San Diego’s deficit in naval and aerospace research during the Cold War. The rest of the university’s non-military research was to be merely spin-off. This implies that war industry leaders would direct engineering research as well as political science or neurobiology.

[purpleipodnano]

Cali Rap 2023

1. 03 Greedo - Rich On Grape Street

2. 22nd Jim ft. Larry June - Say Luv

3. Acito - Monkey In The Middle

4. 310babii ft. Mustard, Blueface, Tyga, OhGeesy & BlueBucksClan - Soak City (Remix)

5. Nef the Pharaoh ft. LaRussell - Furley Goat

6. 1100 Himself - Baby D

7. Emahalani - Next Caller

8. Mac God Dbo - Mac Blast Flow

9. EBK Jaaybo - Apocalypse

10. ChampCash ft. LASKYYWALKER & Tayo Fetti - Cutting Up

11. Baby Stone Gorillas - Block Benders

12. Drakeo the Ruler & Ralfy the Plug - In Loving Memory

13. AFN Peso - Blessings

14. Mac J ft. Philthy Rich - Engine Ina Trunk

15. Verde Babii - Slo-Be Flow

16. ALLBLACK ft. Waka Flocka Flame - Vince Lombardi

17. Lil Kayla - Hold On

18. Capolow - Can You Hear Me Now?

19. 1TakeJay ft. Lil Vada, DonnySolo & 1TakeQuan - Thick Hoes

20. Shady Blu ft. Zoe Osama - Hoedown

21. ZayBang - So Long

22. OTM - Good Try Brad

23. EBK Young Joc - Fire On Me

24. Lil Ricefield ft. Nef the Pharaoh & Scando the Darklord - Missy Elliott

25. MBNel - Fliccin Up

26. RJMrLA - Buckle Up

27. Rob Vicious - Sliden

28. LaRussell - UFO Outside Momo's

29. Kamaiyah - Steppin'

30. Azjah ft. BlueBucksClan - Right In

31. Big Sad 1900 - Therapy 3

32. ShyBelligerent - Son Of A Bitch

33. CHUCKSTAAA & GotDamnItDupri - Dirty Bag Snatchaz

34. Famous Uno - Uuuhh!

35. Rucci - Point Me 2 Tha Bitches

36. CaliRant ft. LeeLeeBabii - Look Back At Me

37. P-Lo - Regular

38. Kool John - Intervention

39. E-40 ft. Clyde Carson & Larry June - GPS

40. Blxst ft. Remble - child of GOD

41. Wallie the Sensei - Viral

42. Fenix Flexin - Apologies

43. Pallaví aka Fijiana ft. Stunnaman02 - Touch Me

44. DaBoii - Turn Myself In

45. Mike Sherm - Ghostwriter

46. Stunna Girl ft. Mozzy - Wake Dis Shit Up

47. Tyga & YG - Perk 10

48. AzChike & Uce Lee - Drunk Horny Text

49. Haiti Babii - Yo Baby Mama Ugly

50. Young Drummer Boy & King Lil G - Bangin

YouTube Playlist

[dudeshusband]

Starstrukk, all the things she said, everytime we touch! —CCFM

i feel like house is the only thing that's had what i would describe as a "fandom" so i'll go for that s/i

STARSTRUKK :: Name a fact about your s/i! [Or, alternatively, the sender can ask any question about your s/i if desired!]

house mike went to uc davis for undergrad and post grad.

ALL THE THINGS SHE SAID :: If your character was a part of the original media they’re an insert for, how would the fandom treat them? How would they treat the ship?

okay. so i have a few ideas:

people who like chase would think my s/i isn't pretty enough for him and is considerably too awkward.

people who hate chase would think my s/i deserves better

people who are correct would see the obvious similarities between mike and chase and dissect them (and how they compare to house)

more than likely though: no one would care (on tumblr at least) about mike/chase and would water the show down to hilson as they always do.

EVERYTIME WE TOUCH :: How would your s/i describe your f/o? How would your f/o describe your s/i?

mike thinks chase is incredibly smart and observant (even if canon characters act like he's not) and a fairly good person. he can very sweet and kind of funny when he wants to be. they do think he can be incredibly annoying, jealous, and underhanded though.

chase thinks mike is a great doctor and a great partner. he thinks they're very awkward but genuine and very nice. he thinks they're weird but as mike often reminds him, he's very weird too.

amv song asks

[whatisonthemoon]

Young Oon Kim, Lofland, Stark, and the Institute for Personality Assessment and Research

Both parts excerpted from Mike and Virginia McClaughry’s research:

▲ Pictured: Front row Eileen Lemmers, Patty Pumphrey, Pauline Verheyen, unknown, Doris Orme, Young Oon Kim Back row: unknown, George Norton, Galen Pumphrey, Calvin Carey, unknown

The CIA group Institute for Personality Assessment and Research, was at UC Berkeley. Erving Goffman was a Sociology professor at the University of California in Berkeley. Goffman had previously received CIA funding under MK Ultra.    71

John Lofland was invited to Berkeley to work as a Teaching Assistant to Erving Goffman, starting in the Fall semester of 1960. Rodney Stark was one of their Sociology students.

CIA funding was provided to research conversion in a deviant religious group. The project was under the Institute for Personality Assessment and Research. John Lofland and Rodney Stark were assigned to be the researchers. Goffman received CIA funding and he acted as handler for Lofland and Stark.

On 21 November 1960 Young Oon Kim finally stepped foot into San Francisco Haight-Ashbury district. She was now ready to begin her real assignment – the making of the Unification Church.   59 Young Oon Kim was not gaining very many converts by preaching Moon’s religious beliefs.

In the Fall of 1961 John Lofland and Ronald Stark hook up with Young Oon Kim. The Divine Principle is a book containing Moon’s religious teachings. Lofland helped Kim re-write the Divine Principle to make it more acceptable.

Lofland also taught Kim to use interpersonal relationships to recruit people. That meant that converts should bring in their family and friends. That worked. Membership in the Unification Church then began increasing dramatically.

. . . .

John Lofland was invited to Berkeley to work on his Ph.D as a Teaching Assistant to Erving Goffman.

CIA funding was provided to research conversion in a deviant religious group. The project was under the Institute for Personality Assessment and Research. John Lofland and Rodney Stark were assigned to be the researchers.

Lofland and Stark would soon take Young Oon Kim under their wing.

Interview with Stark –

Stark: I enrolled at Berkeley in the fall of 1960.

Stark gets “given a research appointment at the end of the first semester“. That is December 1960. Stark says he “went to the Survey Research Center” that was directly under the purview of the CIA Institute for Personality Assessment and Research.

As his Curriculum Vitae verifies. Specifically, it says that he was working as a “researcher for a research associate” under Charles Glock and its recently formed Survey Research Center.

John Lofland and Rodney Stark deliberately sought out a “deviant religious group” to study because that was their assignment, that’s what the grant money stipulated.

Lofland and Stark would have been reporting/discussing in to both Charles Glock and Erving Goffman throughout the whole period that they were there with the Moonies.

This shows that Erving Goffman was receiving CIA funding –

In 1995, Raymond Prince published an illustration consisting of photo reproductions of pages of the Human Ecology Fund Annual Report of July 1961.

Under “other studies, grants” and sub-heading “Other publications, monographs” we see several names that are most definitely actual full-out witting MK-Ultra operatives, such as James A Hamilton. Under ‘publications, monographs’: we see Erving Goffman show up again, clearly illustrating that he is a repeat grantee of the CIA’s largesse. (Price Anthropology Today June 2007)

In March 1962 Lofland and Stark officially moved in with the Moonies.

We said that friendship ties were in the first instance much more important than theology. That people learned the theology, but they learned it only after having already learned to trust it because their friends did.

Progress Through Theology “An interview with Rodney Stark, author of For the Glory of God: How Monotheism Led to Reformations, Science, Witch-hunts, and the End of Slavery” David Neff/ July 1, 2003

As Lofland and I settled back to watch people convert to this group, the first thing we discovered was that all of the current members were united by close ties of friendship predating this …with Miss Kim. …became friends with Miss Kim after she became a [?] with one of them. By the time Lofland and I arrived to study them, the group had never succeeded in attracting a stranger. All had been tied to group members through friendships.

We also found it instructive that during most of her first year in America Miss Kim had tried to spread her message directly by talks to various groups and by sending out many press releases. Later, in San Francisco, the group also tried to attract followers through radio spots and by renting a hall in which to hold public lectures. But these methods yielded nothing. As time passed Lofland and I were able to observe people actually become Moonies. The first several converts were old friends or relatives of members who came from Oregon for a visit. Subsequent members were people who …close friendships with one or more members of the groups.

We soon realized that of all the people the Moonies…in their efforts to…the only ones who joined were those with interpersonal attachments.

…In short, conversion is not about working or embracing an ideology, it is about bringing one’s religious behavior into alignment with that of one’s friends and family members. …Of persons who did join, many were newcomers to San Francisco whose attachments were all …far away. As they formed strong friendships with group members these were not counterbalanced because distant friends and and families had no knowledge of the conversion in progress.

The Craft of Religious Studies pp 175-196 On Theory-Driven Methods RODNEY STARK

Kim tried to attract followers through press releases and advertising, but this produced no results. Instead, what made for new converts was personal relationships. If a person had a friend or family member who was a Moonie, the prospects for conversion increased dramatically.

“Conversion is not about seeking or embracing an ideology; it is about bringing one’s religious behavior into alignment with that of one’s family and friends,” Stark says.

Stark explains, “Conversion to new, deviant religious groups occurs when, other things being equal, people have or develop stronger attachments to members of the group than they have to non-members.”

Late 20th Century Conversions: How the Moonies Did It by Julie Garner, editorial Martyrs, Myths and the Mighty, Columns magazine, U of W Alumni December 1998 issue.

John Lofland helped Young Oon Kim rewrite the Divine Principle because people found it unconvincing –

“While the second edition was far better than the first, by October, 1962, Miss Kim had begun making revisions and typing out the manuscript for the third edition. In part, this new effort came at the urging of Gordon Ross, a new member and former Woodrow Wilson scholar in linguistics at the University of California at Berkeley. He pointed out deficiencies in the text that had hindered his study and which if not amended would in his view lead scholars to dismiss it.

This time, Miss Kim was anxious to produce an authoritative version. She finished typing the manuscript on December 1, 1962, and proofreading began two days later with Gordon Ross and John Lofland, a doctoral student in Sociology at the University of California who was studying the group. They finished on December 5th. A second proofreading began on the 9th and finished on the 11th.” (Mickler, Chapter 2)

John Lofland wrote his thesis. It shows his research into the Moonies was CIA funded. It says –

This investigation was supported in part by a Public Health Service fellowship to the senior author from the National Institute of Mental Health (MPM-16, 661; 5F1 MH-16, 661-02).

John Lofland, as the senior author, was paid to do this from the CIA’s main funding conduit at this time.

[bullet-prooflove]

He was doing lines & crossing over mine

Okay but this screams UC … hmm… lets go Mike & detective reader👀👀🙏🏻🙏🏻🩵

The first time Mike tells you how he feels he's high. He's done a bump, just as a tester for the buy he's orchestrating. He'd had no choice, there was a gun on the table. Doing a line proves trust. It isn't the first time he's done it but he hopes it's the last because he's forgotten how this shit makes him feel.

When he steps out of the house and into the street you're waiting. You sit in the driver's seat of the car, eyebrows raised as he hauls himself into the passenger seat.

You notice the change of demeanor immediately. His fingertips rapping on his knee as he constantly shifts in his seat. The Duarte you know is still. A port in the centre of a storm. You turn in your seat to face him, studying the profile of his face before he tilts his head to look at you. His eyes meet yours and he smiles as he leans in close, his fingertips brushing over the curve of your cheek.

"Fuck, you're beautiful." He say, his lips lingering perilously close. "I keep telling myself to ignore the way you make me feel but it's there all the fucking time."

"Captain..." You say quietly.

He shushes you.

"Not tonight." He tells you, his thumb caressing the line of your jaw. "I don't wanna be your Captain, I wanna be the man who makes you come."

Fuck, he makes it hard on you. The image he creates of him tangled up in your sheets, his mouth teasing, tasting.

Your fingers thread through his hair and his breath hitches just a little as you tug his head back.

"Not tonight." You tell him, your lips ghosting across his cheek, your breath in his ear. "If you want me you gotta be sober."

He whines a little and you pull a little harder on his hair.

"I promise you Mike. I'm worth the wait."

[moodiboards]

Hi girl! I was thinking Mike Durate and UC?

Coming right up darling 🥰

[hoodrichmagurotuna-blog]

RAP 2022

DaBoii - Bananas

Pink Siifu - Voicemails Uptown

Veeze - Let It Fly

Wiki - All I Need (feat. Earl Sweatshirt)

Lerado- Inyohead

Babyface Ray - 6 Mile Show

2Rare & PGS - "SRI LANKA"

iayze - 556 [Green Tip]

D4M $loan - Drive Who Crazy

Campanella - RAGA feat. 鎮座DOPENESS (Prod by Ramza)

GuttaBoy Khida "Lucky Charms"

DaBoii - The Deal Ft. Drakeo the Ruler

Lerado & Prblm- Candy Paint

BoofPaxkMooky - Slow Jam Fantasy

Pink Siifu - BRAVO'! ft Turich Benjy, Jaybee Lamahj, Swaggy Q, Peso Gordon, VonBeezy

Shawny Binladen - Get Money Shit

1600J - No disrespect / Outerspace geek

Los - Kill 4 Clout

Duke Deuce - CRUNKSTARZ

Papo2oo4 - Show you

5Star Ft. Lay Bankz - Cmonnn (Hit It One Time)ft. Lay Bankz

Duke Deuce Ft. Glorilla - JUST SAY THAT

D Sturdy - Remember Me

Bfb Da Packman - Stained Couch

Duwap Kaine - Revolve Around Me

Young Slo-Be - Track Stars

Hawo Beats - Ghetto Boy Jake feat. Jin Dogg

PAPO2oo4: PENNY #1

Los - Overboard

Veeze - Ians The Devil

OTM - Adios

OTM - PIPPY N' SHANAYNAY

MHG Dell - WERK

Big YAYA - #GRINCHANISTA

Loe shimmy - Not the same

Peezy - 2 Million Up

WB Nutty - Whole Hood

Peezy - Long Live Crums

Hotboii - Blinded By Death

Chief So by Chief Keef

Ralfy The Plug - Prolific

OTM - Holy Ghost

EBK Trey B - Comfy

WB Nutty - Rush

Pi'erre Bourne - Good Movie

MyCrazyRo - "Who Dangerous "

P-Lo - Good Feat. Larry June

Stop6Jaay - Big Jaay Special

Haiti Babii Ft. Keak Da Sneak - YEE

Kash Keek - "War Outside" Ft. EBK Young Joc

Whop Bezzy x Mouse On Tha Track - DONT STOP

Los and Nutty - Los Type Beat

Big Sad 1900 - So What (Remix)

Benny The Butcher - Thowy's Revenge (Prod. by Alchemist)

Big GLTAOW - BENTLEY

BandGang Lonnie Bands - Detroit Hu$$le

Young Slo-Be - Track Stars

MIKE - What Do I Do?

KT Foreign x Verde Babii - Stompin

Veeze - Close Friends

Shawny Binladen - No HESI

Verde Babii - Jagged Edge

Young Slo-Be - Don't Kome 2 My Funeral

BandGang Lonnie Bands - Bitter Sweet

Duke Deuce - ANNA

Big Sad 1900 & Uce Lee - Get this message

10KDUNKIN - STANDIN ON SHIT

Brock, 2Rare & Bril — Beat It (feat. JMoney)