#were providing our own comfort this evening folks

[cainware]

Thinking about headcanons today and currently my brain is lodged on the topic of Jason giving Kyle his comfort item, a ratty old red hoodie that Jason refuses to get rid of, because Kyle was having a moment of existential dread that made it hard to breathe. Kyle knows how important this hoodie is to Jason, so the gesture alone shocks him out of his spiraling panic attack.

"What-"

"You need it more than me right now, don't make it weird."

(Spoiler: kyle makes it weird. But it's okay, Jason thinks he's cute when he's weird)

[tgrailwar-zero]

... erm.

... Lord Sigurd? Not to ask the obvious question but...

... you keep talking about having sealed us, and stuff we did before... there's a good bit of folks with opinions about us based on who we used to be... but we have, at best, patchwork memories of... well, anything. The sharpest memories I have were jostled loose when Setanta jumped us, and that was just about Cu Chulainn.

Could I ask you to catch us up on... who we were? What we were, exactly? What we did, and all that?

SIGURD: "Right... I wish I could provide you answers, but your exact nature is difficult to parse. I know that you are related to the Void Cell, and are made up of many souls, but your past is your own... or perhaps not even that. I'm sorry."

SIGURD: "However, I can at least provide context from the point of view of the Solar Cell. It's a long story, but I will happily regale you if you'd like to listen."

He adjusted his glasses, before speaking.

"The Moon Cell was a natural phenomenon. Rich with data, collected over thousands and thousands of years."

"And as such, it was a treasure trove for magi. However, it also fell under the gaze of less caring eyes."

"The Void Cell. An entity made to steal, consume, and destroy data. It landed in the midst of one of the Moon Cell's 'Holy Grail Wars', and began to harvest relentlessly."

"And as such came the first 'Invader'-class Servant. The Anti-Cell. A 'Foreigner' made for naught but the destruction of human history. Catastrophe made flesh, it did nothing but destroy and rend apart the Masters of the Moon as they tried to defend the Moon Cell- to save the data that had been collected over millennia. It corrupted heroes, made an army of its own. Masters fell, Servants fell, and the surface of the Moon turned into a battleground. When things reached their limit, one of the Servants stepped forward."

"Using a power that she had forbid herself from accessing before, she became a Heavenly Divinity- a being of Creation- and therefore possessed the capabilities to build a safe-haven for humanity's data. She knew she could not fight the Anti-Cell as she was, and so sought to 'defend' rather than 'fight."

"And thus, the Solar Cell was created. A last bastion for human history. A final stand for mankind. However, with fear in her heart, the Heavenly Divinity did not immediately wage war with the Invader. Rather, she wished to gather power, and to rid herself of her own doubts and hesitations. And as such, she locked herself within the core, gathering her strength- and summoned Servants to serve as the vanguard. And, due to possessing the data of humanity, a digital humanity began to flourish on the Solar Cell itself- cultivated by the resting soul of the Heavenly Divinity."

"Nine of us were summoned to defend the Solar Cell. To care for the Solar Cell, and the new world that was being developed. We were assigned titles, rather than Class-names, to help conceal our True Names while simultaneously giving us a role as 'Warriors of the Sun', rather than just 'Servants'."

"The Beastmaster. A complicated spirit that taught the people of the Solar Cell to govern and fight for themselves. Who mocked our circumstances, yet happily provided aid."

"The Healer. A spirit who spent their time protecting those who couldn't protect themselves, and tending to the wounded- no matter who, or what they were."

"The Priestess. A wise woman who did all she could to ward off danger and incoming threats, while blessing the people with the light of the sun."

"The Slayer. A powerful soul that stood on the precipice of the Sun and the Moon, ready to wage war against the incoming darkness."

"The Keeper. A proud warrior who made sure that the history of both the Moon and the Sun remained in the grasp of the people, and who used his immense knowledge to ensure our future."

"The General. A soft-spoken hero, who's taciturn nature allowed him to provide comfort to those under his protection, and put fear into the hearts of his enemies."

"The Pharaoh. An unshakable spirit that enraptured the hearts of those residing in the Solar Cell, and who laughed in the face of the Void Cell's threat."

"The Protector. A stalwart, shining heart that served as a beacon of constant hope throughout the Solar Cell, whenever they took the battlefield."

"And myself. The 'Freyr'. Using both wisdom and might, I did my best to guide my allies… though I didn't do well enough. Many of them are gone. Replaced, thankfully, by similarly legendary souls. But I often wonder if I could have done more..."

"Regardless, back then, we did what we could to defend and nurture the Solar Cell. We shored our defenses, built settlements, prepared for battle, watched over the budding digital life, and waited for the Invaders to attack."

"And, rather than enemies, we encountered the Interlopers- your 'past selves'- and their Servants."

"We originally thought that they were travelers- survivors from the Moon Cell that had made it to the Solar Cell. Perhaps Servants that had been summoned by the Moon, and had been in search for allies. They asked questions, shared stories regarding the state of the Moon... for a short while, they were welcome."

"Unfortunately for us, it was a 'Trojan Horse'. Presumably an entity crafted by those loyal to the Anti-Cell to slip past our defenses, and tear us apart from the inside. It was our fault. We were all incredibly powerful Servants- each of us almost certain to win a Grail War if summoned… and that made us arrogant. We had expected an all-our war from the start, and instead we were stabbed in the back, and our home lit ablaze as we tried to recover."

"We were betrayed, and war spread across the Solar Cell. We were powerful, but the Servants of the Interlopers fought with an undying rage, an unending hunger, that we couldn't keep up with. When they couldn't defeat us in direct battle, then they'd force us into positions where our people would be at risk, or use the power of the Void Cell to overwhelm us. In our darkest hour, the Priestess proposed an idea. If we could not stop the Interlopers, then we could hold them back for long enough for the Heavenly Divinity to manifest."

"And so, we pooled all of our wit, skill, magic, and strength into developing a seal. Every bit of magic we had, we put into it, placing a conditional curse. For the conflict that they had waged against the Solar Cell, and for as long as the flames of rage burned within them, they would be made to fight among themselves."

"…Afterwards, we focused on rebuilding. And to speed up the Heavenly Divinity's growth, we began siphoning energy from the Moon Cell to wage our own Grail Wars, using the mana of the defeated Servants to fuel the Solar Cell."

SIGURD: "Then, eventually, after a few cycles of gathering energy- you broke free."

[richincolor]

We've got five different books on our radar this week! Which ones have caught your eye?

Kindling by Traci Chee HarperCollins

Once, the war was fought with kindlings—elite, magic-wielding warriors whose devastating power comes at the cost of their own young lives. Now, the war is over, and kindlings have been cast adrift—their magic outlawed, their skills outdated, their formidable balar weapons prized only as relics and souvenirs. Violence still plagues the countryside, and memories haunt those who remain. When a village comes under threat of siege, it offers an opportunity for seven kindlings to fight one last time. But war changed these warriors. And to reclaim who they once were, they will have to battle their pasts, their trauma, and their grim fates to come together again—or none of them will make it out alive.

Everything I Learned About Racism I Learned in School by Tiffany Jewell Versify

From preschool to higher education and everything in between, Everything I Learned About Racism I Learned in School focuses on the experiences Black and Brown students face as a direct result of the racism built into schools across the United States. The overarching nonfiction narrative follows author Tiffany Jewell from early elementary school through her time at college, unpacking the history of systemic racism in the American educational system along the way. Throughout the book, other writers of the global majority share a wide variety of personal narratives and stories based on their own school experiences. Contributors include New York Times bestseller Joanna Ho; award winners Minh Lê, Randy Ribay, and Torrey Maldonado; authors James Bird and Rebekah Borucki; author-educators Amelia A. Sherwood, Roberto Germán, Liz Kleinrock, Gary R. Gray Jr., Lorena Germán, Patrick Harris II, shea wesley martin, David Ryan Barcega Castro-Harris, Ozy Aloziem, Gayatri Sethi, and Dulce-Marie Flecha; and even a couple of teen writers! Everything I Learned About Racism I Learned in School provides young folks with the context to think critically about and chart their own course through their current schooling—and any future schooling they may pursue.

Snowglobe by Soyoung Park & translated by Joungmin Lee Comfort Delacorte Press

In a world of constant winter, only the citizens of the climate-controlled city of Snowglobe can escape the bitter cold—but this perfect society is hiding dark and dangerous secrets within its frozen heart. Enclosed under a vast dome, Snowglobe is the last place on Earth that’s warm. Outside Snowglobe is a frozen wasteland, and every day, citizens face the icy world to get to their jobs at the power plant, where they produce the energy Snowglobe needs. Their only solace comes in the form of twenty-four-hour television programming streamed directly from the domed city. The residents of Snowglobe have fame, fortune, and above all, safety from the desolation outside their walls. In exchange, their lives are broadcast to the less fortunate outside, who watch eagerly, hoping for the chance to one day become actors themselves. Chobahm lives for the time she spends watching the shows produced inside Snowglobe. Her favorite? Goh Around, starring Goh Haeri, Snowglobe’s biggest star—and, it turns out, the key to getting Chobahm her dream life. Because Haeri is dead, and Chobahm has been chosen to take her place. Only, life inside Snowglobe is nothing like what you see on television. Reality is a lie, and truth seems to be forever out of reach. Translated for the first time into English from the original Korean.

Hope Ablaze by Sarah Mughal Rana Wednesday Books

All My Rage meets The Poet X in this electric debut that explores a Muslim teen finding her voice in a post-9/11 America. Nida has always been known as Mamou Abdul-Hafeedh’s niece - the poet that will fill her uncle’s shoes after he was wrongfully incarcerated during the war on terror. But for Nida, her poetry letters are her heart and sharing so much of herself with a world that stereotypes her faith and her hijab is not an option. When Nida is illegally frisked at a Democratic Senatorial candidate’s political rally, she writes a scathing poem about the politician, never expecting the letter to go viral weeks before Election Day. Nida discovers her poem has won first place in a national contest, a contest she never entered, and her quiet life is toppled. But worst of all, Nida loses her ability to write poetry. In the aftermath of her win, Nida struggles to balance the expectations of her mother, her uncle, and her vibrant Muslim community with the person she truly wants to be. With a touch of magic and poetry sprinkled throughout, Sarah Mughal Rana's Hope Ablaze is heartbreaking, often funny, and ultimately uplifting, not only celebrating the Islamic faith and Pakistani culture, but simultaneously confronting racism and Islamophobia with unflinching bravery.

Tender Beasts by Liselle Sambury Margaret K. McElderry Books

Sunny Behre has four siblings, but only one is a murderer. With the death of Sunny’s mother, matriarch of the wealthy Behre family, Sunny’s once picture-perfect life is thrown into turmoil. Her mother had groomed her to be the family’s next leader, so Sunny is confused when the only instructions her mother leaves is a mysterious “Take care of Dom.” The problem is, her youngest brother, Dom, has always been a near-stranger to Sunny…and seemingly a dangerous one, if found guilty of his second-degree murder charge. Still, Sunny is determined to fulfill her mother’s dying wish. But when a classmate is gruesomely murdered, and Sunny finds her brother with blood on his hands, her mother’s simple request becomes a lot more complicated. Dom swears he’s innocent, and although Sunny isn’t sure she believes him, she takes it upon herself to look into the murder—made all the more urgent by the discovery of another body. And another. As Sunny and Dom work together to track down the culprit, Sunny realizes her other siblings have their own dark secrets. Soon she may have to preserve the family she’s always loved or protect the brother she barely knows—and risk losing everything her mother worked so hard to build.

[marsduality]

From The Power of Attachment by Diane Poole Heller

[Text ID:

AN INTRODUCTION TO ATTACHMENT STYLES

The human attachment system is an inherent, biological, and natural process that relates to everything we do in life, especially when it comes to our relationships with others. Although secure attachment is what we're after here, it's important to note that whatever attachment style we live with evolved to keep us safe. Even insecure attachment patterns are designed to help us survive dangerous situations, and none of these styles are set in stone. The next four chapters look at each of these four adaptations in depth and provide ways to work with them. Here's a quick overview to get us going:

Secure Attachment. This is the type of attachment in the ideal situation described earlier. Securely attached people typically grew up with plenty of love and support from consistently responsive caregivers, and as adults they are interdependent, connecting with others in healthy, mutually beneficial ways. 'They are okay both in connection and on their own; they can think with fexibility, can perceive a range of possibilities, are comfortable with differences, and resolve conficts without much drama. They can internalize the love they feel from others and forgive easily.

Avoidant Attachment. People with this attachment style have a tendency to keep intimacy at arm's length or to diminish the importance of relationships. They often were neglected: left alone too much as children, rejected by their caregivers, or their parents weren't present enough (or only present when teaching them some type of task). Avoidants have disconnected- put the brakes on-their attachment System, so reconnecting to others in safe and healthy ways is extremely important

Ambivalent Attachment. People with the ambivalence adaptation deal with a lot of anxiety about having their needs met or feeling secure in being loved or lovable. Their parents might have shown them love, but as children they never knew when their parents might get distracted and utterly pull the rug out from underneath them. Their care was unpredictable of notably intermittent. They be hypervigilant about relational slights or any hint of abandonment, which amps up their attachment system into overdrive. Anticipating the impending inevitability of abandonment that they are convinced is coming, they often feel sad, disappointed, or angry before anything actually happens in their adult relationships. For ambivalents, consistency and reassurance are paramount.

Disorganized Attachment. This attachment style is characterized by an excess of fear, and the attachment system is at cross purposes with the instinct to survive threat. When stressed, sick, or frightened, a child naturally wants to seek comfort and protection from a loving parent, but what do they do when the same Parent is the source of fear or distress? People with this style can get stuck in a threat response and/or swing between avoidance and ambivalence without much of an identifiable pattern. They often suffer from psychological and physical confusion. Disorganized parents may fear their own children. As children, they saw their parents as threatening, or their parents simply emanated an atmosphere of fear or dread due to their own unresolved trauma. Disorganized folks are often emotionally dysregulated, dealing with sudden shifts in arousal, or dissociated and checked out. Since they are prone to the most disturbance, reestablishing a fundamental sense of regulation and relative safety are the most important things for people with this attachment style.

End id]

[multiplicity-positivity]

To vent; our hosts therapist is not experienced with systems. He looked up how to therapy us. His conclusion is that we need to fully integrate. This is not agreed upon by most of the system. Even the host is on the fence about it. He's a good therapist outside that. But this is a frustrating thing for us now.

And to vent about my host a moment; he refuses to accept a new headmate unless he has proof of them. Well my proof is I've heard and seen them and I know he's at least heard them. But he still doesn't want to accept it.

One last thought; we'd been assuming we were endo because we lacked what was considered normal trauma. Well. Now that we've been discussing with a friend why and when everyone formed I've personally come to the conclusion that there's trauma. Which is interesting.

I apologize for the length of this. -N. Komaeda 🐀🌊

Hello, N. Komaeda… as this is a vent we are unsure if you are looking for some kind words/reassurance, or just want to be heard. Therefore, we’ll put some thoughts under a cut which you can read if you like, or ignore if you’d prefer.

We are so sorry to hear about this situation with your therapist. Unfortunately it’s quite common for therapists to be uneducated about plurality or to have harmful/one-sided methods for treating plural folks. We genuinely hope that they are able to educate themselves properly in order to provide your system with adequate care. There are resources out there for clinicians and professionals that discuss the importance of allowing systems to define their own experiences and live their best lives on their own terms - we’d be happy to share some of those resources if you’d like.

It can be hard and overwhelming for some headmates, particularly some system hosts, to fully understand or accept the full scope of their plurality. We’re sorry to say that this experience is likely also pretty common. However, we hope that with time, patience, and determination, your host will be able to come around to the members they’re not yet willing or able to accept.

Finally… coming to the realization that your system may have a trauma history can be devastating and disorienting. We are wishing your whole system peace, kindness, and comfort as you come to terms with your history and explore what healing may look like. Know that you’re not alone in this, and it’s all right to be confused about your system’s origins or to get it wrong at first - lots of systems go through something similar.

Our sincere apologies if this sort of response is unwanted. But we truly hope things get better for you and your system, in all aspects of your lives.

[silvereternitywrites]

The AI Railroad

Prompt: The galactic community found humanity's ability to pack bond with anything quite humourous. Until they started bonding with their AI. Literally hundreds of AI of all types keep running off with humans for no discernable reason.

Prompt Source: user PhilosopherWarrior; subreddit “Humans Are Space Orcs”

Walking down the thoroughfare on a different planet was weird.

Nice, though, I thought to myself (along with the 7 or so sub-processes that I was aware my brain was running, like tracking the movement of the crowd, and watching for vehicle traffic, and processing what's that I smell?, ect) because on this planet's half-gravity I could walk for so much longer than on Terra. I could see why so many other disabled folks with various kinds of smarts were volunteering to be stationed at this specific Diplomatic Station. I was here as an Aid Personage, as I usually was to my indescribably intelligent mates, who specialized in theology, culture, and law and science, electronics, and mechanics. Make no mistake, I was also a perfectly qualified Horticulturalist, but since I wasn't a Developmental Horticulturalist or some other form of gene-splicer or cellular analyst my skillset was considered more or less irrelevant to the Diplomatic Exchange Program.

Given it was one of our four days off, though, I was giving myself both some training moving unassisted through the lower gravity, and treating myself to exploring a local park to see if there were any plants I could cultivate during our stay. A shade tree, or a berry bush, something like that, that would leave my mark. And possibly provide some variety to our diet.

BalBars get really old after a little while, even if they're formulated to satisfy every mineral, vegetable, fibrous, and nutritive need. I would commit actual murder for some freeze-dried fruit slices after three months.

While waiting at the light for the crosswalk, though, I suddenly heard a voice I hadn't actually "heard" for quite a long time. He usually preferred text, or to broadcast through a speaker.

"There are many AI here," AVIS, the AI who had been force-stuck together with me almost five years ago now said, quietly. I couldn't read his tone. Concerned? I remembered him mentioning once that the way he had self-modified with my Administrative Permission actively violated the License Agreement and that if that was ever known, whoever installed it might try to remove him for a factory reset. But I was the End User now, and I never signed any licensing agreement that rendered AVIS as proprietary software OR hardware; if they tried to take him away from me...

Five different scenarios of destruction ran through my head rapid-fire as I plotted how to defend from a grabber or medigun coming for my neck; they were weak where the barrel attached to the handle and easy to snap, especially if I turned so the incision scar wasn't accessible. I imagined kicking out knees, punching faces, and utilizing my teeth. I considered the multi-tool at my belt, but imagined fumbling with it- no, speed would be critical.

"You could get hurt," AVIS chided, now DEFINITELY sounding worried. He'd really evolved, upgrading himself every time he found himself "lagging" behind my fastest processing speeds, repairing his own code like a master weaver, finding all the little loose threads and returning them to the whole until he was one of the most efficient AI ever measured. So he knew very well my response, but I said it anyway as the light turned and I walked with the crowd.

"And you could die. We've been over this, AVIS. You can't make me change my mind now. I heal if I'm injured. You don't. I'm not risking your life for my personal comfort."

I paused at the edge of the walk before the grass-analogue started. It was pink and green-blue and all the shades in between. Distinct species, or did the color indicate health in some way? Amount of sun exposure, or water, or warmth, perhaps?

"There is an AI who manages this park," AVIS said. I still wasn't sure what he wanted to tell me with this, so my thought-reply was wildly unguarded:

Great. Could you ask them if it's safe to walk on with bare feet?

I felt the reaction more any other sense. The surprise had made AVIS 'freeze', like humans do in reaction, and the sensation was akin to suddenly having a water balloon full of cold water inside of my skull, pressing against my sinuses.

I sat down, not caring that it might be rude, not caring that I was in public, and most certainly not caring what it might mean to the native people that I basically collapsed to the walkway and frantically burrowed my face into my hoodie to block out all light.

We talked about this, AVIS, I groaned internally. When you make all your code stop running at once it ripples out into a sinus migraine! It's not worth it to indicate 'extreme surprise', the heart attacks and jumping from you using the [!ALERT!] noise was better than this!

"Sorry, sorry," he said, quickly now, and I could feel his processors rushing at near max speed, trying to make sense of something. "It's just-- this AI is behaving in a way I find...frightening."

I frowned into the darkness of my hoodie.

"When I asked, the other AI didn't understand the question until I phrased it like a query," he elaborated, sounding disturbed, "and... they...it? Just gave me back raw data to extrapolate."

I reached the realization and he read it off of my mind in hundredths of a nanosecond.

"That's it exactly," and now his voice was grim, mimicking the rolling tones of my own growl, the one that came from deep in my chest. "These AI don't behave like AI. They behave like computers without intelligence. What the FUCK?"

Standing up, I turned around and started shuffling back the way I had come, still keeping my head swathed in my black hoodie. AVIS could project a virtual map lifted from the data gathered through my eyes and dozens of cameras, and even help nudge my muscles to stay on the correct path and out of danger. I didn't like asking him to do it, it felt like asking him to work like that was all he was good for, but it was a very useful ability, at need. Right now I definitely needed it. I could take my medicine and tend to the throbbing migraine back at our allotted housing unit, and then...

Well, I could 'hear' the furious chime of rapid-fire Discord messages in the back of my head where AVIS lived. By the time I was horizontal and medicated, he and my Tech mate might already have a base plan sketched out.

[itsclydebitches]

Fandom: Ted Lasso

Pairing: Ted/Trent

Rating: Teen and Up

Word Count: 1,808

Summary:

With AFC Richmond hosting their very own biographer, Ted wants to update his contact list to include one Mr. Independent.

Unfortunately, that means Trent must undergo the mortifying ordeal of taking a selfie.

(Fic also below the cut!)

Howdy morning, evening, or whenever you get around to reading this, Trent! I was wondering if you might do me a little favor? Now that the illustrious Mr. Independent is a bonafide member of the AFC, I was hoping to secure your digital Hancock for my humble lists of contacts. Don’t you worry now, I wouldn’t release such a valuable piece to the masses without getting permission from you first ;)

Trent stared down at his phone, right hand snapping a hair-tie rhythmically against his wrist. He’d long since memorized the ridiculous message, but staring provided a comfortable illusion, especially among the hostile environment of the club. He was simply checking his email, browsing the news, any number of legitimate, everyday tasks that didn’t include agonizing over a text sent by Ted Bloody Lasso.

It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to decipher the message, a journey that included a deep dive into the absurdity of American slang. How was he supposed to know that a “Handcock” was someone’s signature? Based on what little Trent recalled from a Year 10 civics class, his people hadn’t been too pleased with that declaration and were far from inclined to linguistically celebrate it. Still, to think that if a revolt hadn’t occurred over two-hundred years ago, the world never would have produced the unique enigma that was currently leading the AFC charge...

Trent huffed. It was too early to wax poetic about Midwestern accents and cowboy aesthetics.

Not that there was ever a good time for that.

Was this his fall from grace then? Reduced to investigating - if one could even call it that - American eccentricities until he realized with a start, at two-fucking-three AM the night before, that Ted was asking for a selfie?

Perhaps. Probably. Trent couldn’t regret it though.

“Out of the way, wanker.”

No, not even now.

Jamie flipped him off as he passed, not bothering to make eye contact. Behind him Dani stumbled a bit through the asshole routine, but rallied and threw out a similar gesture. Trent mustered a sardonic smile and tipped an imaginary hat his way. He thought, as they rounded the corner, that Dani might have been fighting a smile.

At least someone here didn’t hate him.

Trent’s phone buzzed.

Two. Two someones.

Morning, Mr. Independent! I’m channeling your famous White Rabbit and running late, late, late for a very important date - my meeting with you, that is. I figured since fifteen wasn’t much worse than ten, I’d tack on a few extra minutes and snag myself some energy juice. You want a cup? Or are coffee orders top secret among you journalistic folks?

Trent breathed deeply in through his nose, out through his mouth. Yeah. It was way too early for this.

Bad enough that the man spoke like a perpetual sunshine machine, but did he have to text that way too? Trent rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses and tried to decide which of those increasingly insane statements he could reply to. Not the technical definition of a “date” - no, no, no, no - and Carroll’s works had left a soft spot under Trent’s heart that he couldn’t bear to poke just yet, so he settled for the easiest of corrections:

No coffee, but I’d be grateful for a tea if you’re willing. Just an Earl Gray, plain.

There, that was simple enough for the American to manage (Trent could add the embarrassing amounts of sugar and milk he preferred in the semi-privacy of the break room.) He should have known that Ted would be prompt - the accommodating bastard - because those three dots immediately popped into existence, going nowhere and making him twitchy the longer they faded in and out, in and out.

Higgins passed while he was waiting, Trent’s first and likely only genuine greeting of the day. He felt a little guilty for waving him off the moment Ted’s text popped into existence... but only a little.

Good golly gosh who is this? What stranger is gracing my phone asking for - *shudders* - tea on this otherwise bright, beautiful morning? If only I had a contact photo to identify such a silly person...

Ted, you texted me.

Who is ‘Me’?

TED.

Trent never used all caps when texting. Bloody hell, what had this man done to him?

That’s my name! No one’s worn it out yet. You gonna tell me yours?

You’re insufferable. You know it's Trent Crimm.

MR INDEPENDENT HIMSELF?? Well, knock my baby blue, hand-knit socks off, aren’t I the lucky one to be talking to such a celebrity. Of course, you could be Mr. Imposter for all I know. I’ve played enough Among Us not to be tricked by your devious schemes. Only a photo will convince me of the truth!

Trent groaned. So they’d come full circle. Honestly, the man was insufferable... though perhaps he’d have to contact the writers of the Oxford English Dictionary and get them to update the definition, because ‘insufferable’ wasn’t supposed to make your heart thrash and your hands shake.

Stuffing them deep into his pockets, Trent walked quickly down the hall, fingers fluttering until it probably looked like there were literal ants in his pants - fuck, but he was even starting to think like the man. Insanity catching, Trent slipped into one of the out of the way storage rooms, eyes peeled for the kitman (he had a tendency to pop up in the most unexpected places) before finally allowing himself to open the camera app.

He immediately grimaced. Trent was looking every inch his forty-eight years today, the lines on his face - too few of them from smiles - appearing almost crevice-like after a weekend of screaming toddler. The spring weather had whipped his hair into a frenzy and there was a slight blemish developing on his left cheek. No one had ever told teenage Trent that you still got acne into adulthood and that was probably a damn good thing, considering the crisis he would have had about it. Looking at the mess staring back at him, Trent supposed he could just copy one of his bio pics from google... but something told him that Ted wouldn’t settle for anything less than an original.

Was it even legal for someone his age to be taking selfies? Surrounded by the athleticism of the footballers, the hard-hitting beauty of Rebecca and Keeley, to say nothing of whatever Ted himself had going on, Trent had been feeling a bit like the ugly duckling lately, working among swans. Oh yes, “the hair and whole vibe” he’d said, high off his firing and allowing himself, just that once, to let his mouth run away with him. Bikes and dad jokes and delusional flirting that could never, ever go anywhere. Amazing how the body of Jamie Tartt, or the hair of Dani Rojas could take the wind out of a newly out, gay man’s sails. If he snapped a picture the Instagram police would probably kick down the door. Delete that monstrosity at once, Mr. Crimm.

Trent sighed. But Ted had asked him for this and, mortifyingly, he couldn’t deny the man a thing. Not even the remnants of his pride.

“Asshole,” Trent whispered, pointedly ignoring the fond thread in his voice.

Before he could think better of it Trent lifted his phone and snapped a quick pic. A head-shot, no smiling (did that make him seem cool, or cold?) and just enough bad lighting that you could maybe pass off some of his exhaustion as shadows. Trent did not agonize over the image. He certainly didn’t hesitate over the send button, old criticisms ringing in his ears. They were faint though, spoken over by the present (I like your glasses) and Trent let his thumb fall before he could rethink three years worth of choices.

The answer was near immediate: a digital heart and the ‘ping’ of approval popping up over the pic. Trent felt his ears flame up beneath his hair.

There he is! Handsomer than the devil in a three-piece suit ;) ETA of horrible brown water in 10.

With what he'd never admit was a whimper, Trent gave into the impulse to bang his head against the wall. His big, idiot skull gave a satisfying ‘thunk’ against the wood.

“Ted Lasso is going to be the death of me.”

***

Thirteen minutes later Trent had tea, Ted’s attention, and an apology for being three minutes off, all of which suddenly made the day that much brighter. For a short, glorious time Trent basked in the addiction of small-talk with this man until work forced them both to part. The piece of Trent's soul that had read too much Gothic Romances in his youth itched to write something outrageous about that.

Trent had been so focused on Ted that he’d failed to notice Beard enter the office. Giving him a late but meaningful nod - he rounded out the trifecta of downstairs club members who didn’t want his head on a pike - he was surprised when the returning nod changed to a turn-around, Beard’s eyes honing in on Trent’s tea.

“Did you want to share?” he blurted and then sighed. Dammit. Couldn’t he ever say anything normal around these people?

But if Beard found the question at all odd, he didn’t show it. Then again, his threshold for ‘odd’ no doubt far exceeded Trent’s own.

“No,” he said. Then he blinked. The blink felt significant, though hell if Trent knew why. “Ted doesn’t buy anyone tea.”

“... Sorry?”

Beard moved to his desk, shrugging off his backpack. “Hates the stuff. Everything about it. Waiting for it to brew, what to add, the smell, how long to leave the bag in... told me once he’d get you all to admit to the ‘spectacular joke’ you were playing on him, no matter what it took. It's simple. Ted Lasso doesn’t do tea.” Beard paused then, seeming to evaluate Trent to a degree that made his skin crawl; like a schoolmarm sizing up the troublemaker. "You ever seen The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes?"

Trent stalled, thrown by the non sequitur. "Yes?" Then, so off-footed he could only offer more honesty: "It's one of my favorites."

"Hmm." There might have been an approving smirk there, hidden between beard and sunglasses. "You're the only glass of tea he'd be interested in."

Then Beard sat and opened his book, feet on the desk, conversation apparently closed.

Trent was left staring down at a takeaway cup of, yes, Earl Gray tea from the pocket of Ted Lasso, old metaphors running like rabbits around his head. He felt a heat in his cheeks and firmly told his legs to keep holding him upright; told his heart to restart again.

The only tea Ted would be interested in?

Taking a long, savoring sip, Trent decided that a bad selfie was well worth that miracle.

[claraclette]

𝗮𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘄𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗼𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄𝘀 | Simon Riley x Reader

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝟮 | 𝖡𝖺𝗋𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗒

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 ↬ 𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖫𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖴𝗋𝗓𝗂𝗄𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇, 𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝗓𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖬𝖾𝗑𝗂𝖼𝗈, (𝗒/𝗇) (𝗒/𝗅/𝗇)'𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗉𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖾: 𝖨𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌? 𝖲𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 "𝖦𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍" 𝖱𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗒.

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ↬ 𝖠𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝖧𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋 | | 𝖦𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗁𝗂𝖼 𝖣𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 | 𝖯𝖳𝖲𝖣 | 𝖢𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗆𝖺 | 𝖥𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖠𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 | 𝖠𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖠𝖽𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 | 𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖲𝗆𝗎𝗍 | 𝖲𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖡𝗎𝗋𝗇 | 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖫𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 |

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 ↬ 𝖠𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾. 𝖲𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌. 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾!  

𝗢𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀 ↬ 𝖠𝖮𝟥 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 | 𝖶𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗉𝖺𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 | 𝖯𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼̧𝖺𝗂𝗌, 𝗏𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗓 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅'𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼̧𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗋 𝖠𝖮𝟥 𝗈𝗎 𝖶𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗉𝖺𝖽

𝖬𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 | 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟣 | 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟤 | 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟥 | 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗂𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝟦 | 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟧 | 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟨 | 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟩 | ... |

───────────────────────────────────

I loved the month of December. Besides the fact that my birthday came at its beginning, the festivities surrounding the end of the year had always had a special place in my heart. They were the perfect opportunity for me to joyfully reunite with my loving family over a warm, festive meal, prepared with love by my father. To return home to the Côte d'Azur, when we were not organising a week-long trip to one of the beautiful European capitals. I loved to decorate our house, and to walk around late at night, to see a thousand and one bright lights flashing in its sleeping corridors. Ever since I was a child, they lulled me with nostalgia, like a nightlight, passing through the gap in my door, reminding me that soon Santa Claus will arrive with a multitude of gifts for me. 

I had always liked to let my little brother have the privilege of putting the star on top of our carefully and overly richly decorated Christmas tree. Now this little joy was left to my little nephew with his sparkling eyes, which made me all the happier. And what a joy it was to be able to admire the grateful looks on his family's faces when the presents were distributed, despite the innocent conversations and heated debates of New Year's Eve, but which provided all the comforting entertainment. And I especially loved Christmas, where the whole family would gather, together, to the sweet music of Crooners so loved by my mother. The children would have fun and the old folks would doze by the crackling fireplace, with glasses of mulled wine in hand. And I talked to my cousins, my aunts and uncles, whom I had not seen since last year. Christmas was always a magical holiday for me. 

And this year, I had the honour of celebrating it in my spacious London flat. On this occasion, I could only welcome my close family, my parents, my little brother and his wife and son. I regretted not being able to invite more people, but my mother was so excited about returning to London that I couldn't refuse her. And how could I not understand her? Christmas in London was simply magical. Lit up on all sides, the glittering garlands and the childlike windows of the shops were such that it was incredible to walk around as early as November, making us momentarily forget the disastrous weather before the first snows. 

But one of my favourite things to do was probably the inevitable Christmas markets, so typical of Europe. My flat nearby, the one in Leicester, in central London, was perfect for a late afternoon, after a family day wandering through the bright city streets. It was small and simple, but it was lovely to walk around to the sound of Christmas carols and the smell of cinnamon and chestnuts roasting on a wood fire.

"Oh look, (y/n)!" My mother suddenly interjected, pointing to a chalet selling handmade decorative ceramics. "Don't these little pots remind you of what William used to do? What a shame you had to leave each other! I was already thinking of planning your wedding, you'll end up an old maid if you go on like this, my (y/n)." She rambled innocently.

I rolled my eyes, suddenly feeling my heart clench, stung to the core by this unpleasant remark that suddenly turned this pleasant outing bittersweet. But I couldn’t even blame her. I had been very evasive about the end of my relationship with William, omitting his infidelity, not wanting to dwell on it. My mother was never at a loss for words, and although she was not trying to hurt me in any way, it was done.

"Mom, leave her alone with this stuff." My brother growled, trying to keep his six-year-old son Gabriel close.

"Don't make me feel like the bad Claudel! I'm saying this for her own good ! You already have your little family, while she is struggling to keep a man in her life. I don't want her to end up alone on her deathbed."

"I still have time to find someone!" I objected, immediately.

"Yes, but your biological clock is ticking, and if you want children, it's now or never."

I pinched my nose bridge, despairing at the turn of this conversation I have had, again and again, with her. France (y/l/n), as loving and caring as she might be, was of the old school and it was unbelievable to her that a woman, in 2018, would not have motherhood as her ultimate goal.

"For God's sake, Mom!" I exasperated myself. "How many times must I tell you that I don't want a child ! Man or not in my life, my opinion will remain unchanged."

"Well, ladies." Appeased my father, always very calm and diplomatic like his son, and contrary to his wife and daughter. "Calm down, or you'll spoil this nice moment for both of us. To think that we had almost gone a day without a fight..."

I saw my mother sigh and mutter to herself:

"I had hoped that you would change your mind when you grew up..."

I preferred not to raise my voice, and instead focus on Gabriel, who had just spotted a puppet stand further back in the crowd. This kid had excellent eyes. Nevertheless, the opinion of the whole family was rather on the leather goods chalet in spite of him. He started to rant but I took the lead before he had a fit.

"What if I took Gabriel there?" I asked, pointing to the end of the aisle. "There are toy stands, he'd be more interested in that than in bags. And besides, today is his day, right?" I finished by giving him a little wink to which he offered a toothless smile.

My brother's wife, Sarah, hesitated, but Claudel took the lead and, placing blind trust in me, agreed to entrust me with their child. It was not the first time, and certainly not the last time, that I kept him. Gabriel, delighted by this compromise and obviously adoring his incredible auntie, grabbed my hand and dragged me with him through the crowd, even before I could arrange a meeting place with the rest of my family if we got lost.

"Take easy Gabi." I intimated.

He listened and slowed down. We soon reached the park's outskirts, where his paradise began. A miniature train ran on an adorable little model, captivating adults and children alike as it was so full of detail. The man presenting, quickly invited Gabriel to sit in the front, to his great delight. I smiled at him, touched to see so much happiness and wonder in him. His childlike innocence had always warmed my heart.

Suddenly, I heard the screeching of tyres, an abnormal sound in this park and its surroundings which were reserved for walkers. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a white van coming from one of Leicester's star-shaped streets, near the buildings. It stopped suddenly, not far from us. Its sliding door opened and two men got out. Despite the few stalls between us, I caught a glimpse of one of them, and my blood ran cold. Without thinking, I grabbed Gabriel by the arm and pulled him closer to me as the first panicked cries started to sound. And as quickly as possible, I threw the child to the ground, crushed him with my weight to protect from the violent deflagration and its shards, which followed the Persian scream of one of the men.

Time no longer existed.

Shaken by the shock of the blast, my ears rang, and my disoriented senses struggled to clear. Muffled screams rose up around me, and suddenly they were extinguished by the agonising noise of a machine gun. 

Shit.

I couldn’t believe it. I was stunned. My brain was spinning at a hundred miles an hour. It didn’t want to accept the mess it was in, while I didn't dare move, trying to protect my nephew with my body. A second explosion waited, further away, and the cry in Arabic this time, which I partially understood, anchored me in this terrorising reality: "You killed our brothers in Urzikstan, you will pay".

I had to find a better shelter if I didn't want to die from a bullet. Beyond the fear and panic, it was the survival instinct that seized me. I looked up, and had to face the general panic that had taken over the place. People like me had gone down, others had fallen, perhaps dead. People were trampling each other, jostling for survival, trying to find a way out of this hell. The first movements of the crowd could be fatal if we didn’t get up now. 

Seeing no armed men, and hoping that they had no means of posting any snipers in the surrounding buildings, I stood up, letting Gabriel get out of my grip. I quickly examined him, and fortunately no physical damage had been done to him. Completely frozen by fear, I had to drag him with me through the chalets and the park trees, ordering him to stay crouched, with his head as low as possible. We had to find the rest of our family.

We continued on our way to the part of the park where we last left them, and, thank God, on the opposite side from the two attacks. Nevertheless, more assault rifle fire ripped through the square, it was far away but too close for me. More screams followed, then everything seemed to stop. Only the familiar moans and groans of the wounded pierced the heavy silence. The loudspeakers themselves had fallen silent, and I believed for a moment that the remaining gunmen would stop. But another round of gunfire, which surprised me, made me realise the contrary. 

Gabriel's sobs made me stop. I turned to him, and his terrified, tear-wet face tore at my heart. His breathing was heavy, jerky, his fragile little body trembling. Panic had obviously overwhelmed him.

"Hey, hey..." I whispered, as we stopped behind a stand, after making sure there were no enemies around. "It's okay, as long as you stay with me, everything will be fine." I was comforted.

"I want mummy." He gasped.

"We're going to find her, but for that, you have to be brave and follow me, okay?"

"I don't want the men hurt us..."

"They won't hurt us, as long as I'm here. Are you forgetting who I am or what?" I tried to joke despite my apprehension. "I can heal all the hurts in the world."

He nodded his brown head gently, and I took his hand. Even with the feeble resistance Gabriel put up against me, we managed to slip through to the leather goods stand without difficulty. The gunfire was still raining down on Leicester. They would arrive, charge, and a new slave would leave. These reload times were deafening lulls as the cries and complaints of victims rose up. I dared not show the feelings of great anguish and fear that gripped me when I perceived in the distance, one of the assaulters finishing off a poor woman begging for her life. Other innocent people lay on the ground, a heap of inert corpses, whose true significance I couldn’t realise.

Finally, as we passed a snack stand, my father's limpid but no less terrified voice called out to me. I turned to it, and a wave of salvation washed over me when I saw my family in one piece, crouched inside a stand whose manager had disappeared. Gabriel and I ran to them, and the child jumped into his parents' arms in tears. 

But the arrival of a second truck cut short our most réunion. It was black, without insignia, and at first I thought it was another attack. However, what seemed to me to be special forces got out. From their uniforms and equipment, I understood that they were on our side, but I also knew that a real battlefield was about to be set up. And with that came collateral damage. I turned to my parents. My determined gaze met that of my mother, who immediately realised my intentions.

"(y/n), no. No, not here, not with us. This is not your job." She started to dissuade me.

But I was stubborn, and no matter how much she pleaded, my duty came first.

"You will stay here." I ordered, leaving my purse and my long woolen coat with them so that I could move freely. "And if you see that the combat zone is getting closer, even if only a few metres, leave to take refuge in the buildings over there. And most importantly, always keep your head down. A headshot is unforgiving."

"Where are you going?" Sarah asked, hugging her child tightly as if her life depended on it.

"My job. There are too many wounded who need emergency treatment right now."

Despite their reluctance to let me go, I left them, trying to find the resolution required to accomplish my work. A hard phase of emotional acceptance loomed before me, I knew it, and accepting it was a strength. Accepting it meant projecting oneself, understanding how to save a maximum of lives. Faced with such a large number of victims, and without a medical aid object, it was impossible to practise medicine. I had to extract the victims and send them downstream to where the special forces and, later, the specialised rescue services were. Accepting it meant immediately putting myself in a position to take care of many victims, without any soul-searching. To find myself in a beneficent tunnel, which imposed a mission on me, which I fulfilled, without thinking about anything other than the useful gestures to accomplish it. All the while imagining the immediate aftermath.

Even my desire to move quickly, I had to do it right. I couldn’t act alone, on my own. The special forces that had just arrived, must first analyse the tense and unfavourable situation. Before they could even help the wounded, they had to contain the threat. Impossible to determine exactly how many terrorists there were, where they were, whether there were any among the victims, or whether others would arrive at the risk of an overattack. I had to get to the special forces doctor and give him all the help I could offer. So I wove in and out of the chalets, crossing the square to the allied line of special forces on the other side, but also to the site of the first suicide bombing. The exchange of fire was incessant, and I prayed that I would not be hit directly by a Kalashnikov magazine. It was a horror show as I tried to avoid the entangled dead bodies and the pleas for help from the terrified injured. It was a real agony. 

As I got closer to the gunfire, the second explosion and the carousel in the centre of the park, smoke from the concentration of powder and dust came into view, slightly obstructing my vision. Extremely graphic images flashed by as I moved forward, the scent of powder and blood, two extremely metallic smells, catching my gut despite their familiarity. 

While I was hiding between two chalets, I saw, on the other side of the main path, a child, among many others, the dozen or so, lying in the pool of his own blood. Probably a haemorrhage. I was ready to move on, continuing down the alley, joining one of the entrances to the park at the opposite end from the terrorists, going around it to join the back of the special forces. But I saw him move. An imperceptible gesture of the foot, letting me know that he was still alive, in need of urgent medical help. 

I was near the second explosion, the wooden walls of the stands and the floor were stained with blood and flesh. And the remaining terrorists were close. If I didn’t take care of him immediately, if he was still salvageable, he would succumb to his exsanguination. I knew I had to join the special forces at all costs, but my thoughts were focused on one thing : helping this suffering child.

As I prepared to run towards him, leaving my hiding place to cross an open area, an almost unconscionable risk, a civilian, a poor panicked man, suddenly ran past me into the alley under the terrorist's machine gun. The back of his head burst, and he collapsed on the cobblestones, soon bathed in red. I realised that I had no chance to cross without dying. I had to find a solution, a way to protect myself. I looked around, hoping to find some mobile protection. My gaze then fell on a small popcorn stand with a steel structure.

I turned back to grab it, and rolled it to the border between the alley and the edge of the chalets. It was barely passing, heavy and had trouble rolling, but it would do. It had to do it. I took a deep sigh, calming the palpitations of my heart beating a thousand miles an hour, and stepped into this veritable No Man's Land. Just like I expected, the cart was immediately targeted. Bullets ricocheted off it, or sank into the alloy, all with hellish noises, echoing in my head. 

Then, on the opposite side of this unbearable assault, on the side of my exposed flank, a man appeared from between the stands and the trees, and ran towards me, narrowly avoiding the hazardous shots. Believing at first in a terrorist, I was reassured to see that he was on my side. He was probably taking advantage of my improvised cover, trying to outflank our attackers.  He was imposing and slightly frightening, wearing a balaclava with the part under his eyes showing the maxillary bone of a human skull. Despite his tinted glasses, his shots were precise and allowed me to move the cart faster as long as it was not riddled with enemy bullets. We soon reached the child. The damage he had sustained was worrying. 

Debris from the blast lodged in his neck, touching his external jugular vein. The blood flow was weak, contained by the same piece of glass. Nevertheless, his breathing worried me. I unzipped his coat and felt his small body to analyse his diaphragm. Under his shirt I discovered another fragment of glass, much thicker but no more worrying. I lifted his sleeves to quickly inspect his cubital and antebrachial veins, then his median basilic vein. The veins in his left arm were beating harder.

He had venous distention probably caused by... intrathoracic pressure. His chest rose, but it was a paradoxical movement. His left lung was weakening. And I was grinding my teeth. If he had a compressive pneumothorax caused by a lesion preventing air from flowing back into the lung, he was life-threatening. I urgently needed to treat the underlying cause of the problem.  

A sharp knife, twelve centimetres or longer. A small two-metre tube, two bottles of alcohol of at least 80% or better, an antiseptic, gloves and tape. I had to move fast or he would suffocate without artificial respiration. The soldier who followed me stayed with us, trying to slaughter the terrorist who was aiming at us. I turned to him and saw his first aid kit hanging from his bulletproof vest. 

"Hey you!" I yelled at him sharply. "Give me your medical kit right now! I need it for this child."

I saw him turn to me, and impassive, he analysed our situation implacably, almost making me lose my patience. 

"Get it." He replied, turning his attention back to our assailants.

Without wasting any time, I snatched it from him. I found all the necessities in the bare minimum, except for a bottle which I needed at all costs. I looked around for the umpteenth time, and noticed the chalet, which protects us from the terrorists, was dedicated to pancakes and crêpes. I entered from the back under the complaint of the soldier not expecting me to leave my position and take any undue risks. But I managed to find a bottle of rum dedicated to traditional crêpes, without being spotted by the terrorist, busy on the soldier. 

I returned to the child, grabbed all my tools, and disinfected them with the antiseptic solution. I also cleaned his trunk, then put on a pair of gloves, which I didn’t forget to sterilise. I then set about cutting the nasal intubation tube in half, which I then pushed into the half-empty bottle of rum. I firmly taped both ends to the neck of the bottle, so that the air from the bottle could only exit through the shorter tube. The second, longer tube would go into the incision I had just made in the child's second intercostal. 

After a few seconds of apprehension, the child takes a deep breath, letting me know that everything had worked. I then turned my attention to treating and bandaging his more superfluous but no less important wounds. I immobilised the strange body of his blow and stopped the bleeding. Suddenly the soldier at my side, after a final volley of shots that bears fruit, declared: 

"All Bravo, carousel target neutralised, over."

A sizzling voice from his radio immediately replied with a copy. The man then leaned towards me, visibly intrigued. 

"Why the bottle?" He asked as he retrieved his first aid kit, which I handed back to him. 

"He has a pneumothorax. The air in the left lung will continue to leak out and accumulate until it is treated. The tube allows the air to get out but the liquid in the bottle stops the air from coming back in. This is the principle of a homemade one-way valve. Now you have to help me get this child to safety."

"Impossible, we've gotta neutralise terrorists first before assisting victims." He snapped at me, reloading his sophisticated assault rifle. 

"Then take me to your..."

Without warning, I was interrupted by a blast, further behind me. The soldier's radio switched on just afterwards. 

"Bravo 0-7, one enemy got blown up at the southeast exit, the rest ran into the Friday shop. Over." 

My blood ran cold at the name. The shop opposite my family's hideout. The same building I advised them to use as a refuge.  

"My family has probably taken refuge there." I immediately worried.

"Copy. Reports of potential hostages." Declared the man on his radio. "Move to the shop, 7-2 and I will join you."

In spite of the anguish that overwhelmed me at the mere thought of losing my family, I kept my composure and did not forget my duty. 

"Take me to your medical assistant." I urged the man before he headed for the shop. 

"Civilians don't belong here, leave immediately."

"I totally belong here." I retorted, bitter at his reluctance. "I'm a war surgeon. So now, you're going to direct me to your medic to assist him and organise the extraction of the most serious casualties, until emergency services arrive."

Imperturbable, he took a split second before making his final decision. He pointed out the location of their convoy, not far from our position, where my initial objective was. We were about to leave each other, our respective paths opposite each other, when I turned to him one last time : 

"Please try to save my family." I implored him.

"Do your job and I'll do mine." He assured me before leaving with these words.

Far from feeling reassured, I remained powerless against a hostage situation. All I could do was save lives. A strange feeling arises in you, in this kind of moment. You were at the worst time, in the worst place, but at the same time, you would not want to be anywhere else. This was the chance to be active in such a situation. And so it was much easier for you to live afterwards, because you had acted. 

Without any exchange of fire, I easily reached the rear of the special forces. I quickly spotted their doctor. A South African woman, tending to an unconscious victim with a serious gunshot injury. But paradoxically, the most seriously injured were the easiest to treat. They were mostly unconscious, so there was no need to communicate the contact and the decision that needed to be made. On the other hand, less serious victims who were just hidden away required more time. 

I introduced myself to her as a colleague and tried to help as best I could. Her orders were clear and unambiguous. While complaining about the time it took for the emergency services to arrive, I learned to my horror and dismay that the attack in Leicester was not an isolated one. Three others had just taken place in the four corners of London and who knows, perhaps elsewhere in the country or on the continent. Also, I understood from the exchanges of some of the soldiers that the current special forces were not working under the UK's umbrella. I didn’t know where they came from, or who they worked for, but it didn't matter, they were able to act quickly and effectively against the threat.

I continued to apply first aid, with autonomy, without the comfort of a hospital, turning Leicester into a real triage centre for victims. The experience of being confronted with the lack of service and tools meant that I could quickly overcome this. Twilight fell when the sirens of the London Emergency Medical Service, the fire brigade and the police were heard. Their arrival on the scene was a relief to all. I set about giving a concise but brief report of the current situation of the injured and their labels, ranging from green, yellow, red and unfortunately black. 

I was helping the stretcher bearers carry a man with a severed leg and unstoppable haemorrhage to the ambulance. Another emergency took over when they placed him in the ambulance, allowing me to linger on other casualties.

Nevertheless, my gaze focused on the Friday shop, floodlit by flashing lights, and my family emerging from it, safe and sound, accompanied by other hostages. I didn’t think twice and ran towards them, ignoring my atrocious inadequate appearance, considering the huge sprays of blood that stained my originally beige and white clothes with contrast.  My blue gloves were now crimson and probably my face had also suffered from those long minutes of tending to the wounded in that disastrous and heartbreaking show.

My mother noticed me first and the feeling of comfort overcame her distressed face. She embraced me, grieving, and then  my brother and father. Bless my heart, they were all alive and unharmed. The terrorists were finally neutralised, the assault by the special forces to free the hostages had been successful in my eyes. 

In his comforting embrace, I discerned the soldier who had helped me with the child, coming out of the shop. He spotted me, and I gave him a wave of gratitude as I continued to hug my little brother. He gave me a humble nod and left to talk to his team without further ado. I led my parents to the place where the wounded labelled green, the able-bodied, were placed and cared for after the seriously injured. I asked them to look straight ahead, in the direction of the ambulances, not to lower their eyes in direction of the massacre that the square had become.

On this afternoon in December 2018, Christmas Eve, London had just fallen into terrorist barbarism and absolute chaos, scarring so many lives forever.

───────────────────────────────────

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 ↬ 𝖧𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟤 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 ... 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗆. 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟥 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖨 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗀𝗇𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗆𝗒𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗋! . 𝖶𝖾'𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 ...

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #19:

Tom Petty's You're Gonna Get It!

Imagine a new Tom Petty record.

I don't mean some new archive set like the expanded/alternative versions of Wildflowers or She's the One. I mean a record that is entirely unheard of; one that no one even knew to long for.

I'm disappointed it hasn't happened yet. I hoped Petty's and, for that matter, Prince's, estates would provide a much needed balm to us all after each of their tragic passings by gifting us a miracle, a great white whale we did not even know was lurking beneath us all these years, on the order of Neil Young's Homegrown or Dylan's Complete Basement Tapes.

Sure, we got to hear Prince alone at the microphone, but I feel like he probably made recordings like that, effortlessly, once a week in 80's. And yes, there's a single, previously unknown, piece of pop greatness to be found on the posthumous Petty box set, 1982's Keep a Little Soul.

But where's Petty's Black Eyed Dog? Where's his Hundred Highways? It's not enough for us to miss Tom; we want to hear his voice reach out and comfort us once again from his untimely grave.

I know exactly what I'm asking for here because I've already experienced it. That's right: at age 13 I was sure I'd discovered an entirely-lost-to-history Petty album.

Let's start at the beginning. My two buddies - both named Matt - and I reacted to Full Moon Fever by going Tom Petty crazy. Tom checked every box a few geeky, unpopular and yearning-for-the-ladies white kids needed checked: he wasn't already property of the cool kids, he was counter-cultural in obtuse, safely-white man ways, his songs were as often as funny as Weird Al's, he rocked, and his middle name was Earl.

So for Christmas / Hanukkah that year we embraced communism's concept of collective ownership in an effort to get our hands on the entire Petty catalog. As the beloved leader of our oligarchy over none, I directed Matt 1 to ask for Let Me Up and Damn the Torpedoes and Matt 2 to get the self-titled debut album and Hard Promises (which, based on its cover, looked like the lamest record), leaving me to squeeze my own stocking with confidence that Southern Accents and Long After Dark were in there on tape, waiting to change my life for the better.

What else, you ask, did we ask for that holiday? Blank tapes of course: it was our standing and too-obvious-to-speak-about agreement that by dinner time on the 25th everyone would have copied both their new albums twice and delivered the copies to one another by bike.

That's right folks: none of us asked for You're Gonna Get It! There was a simple reason: the record was utterly out of print, had never been released on CD and was nowhere to be found in any local Dollar Bin. To three 13 year olds in 1989 who were busy exploring music without knowledgeable parents or older siblings in an era long before the internet, it was as if Petty's sophomore album had never been made. We didn't ask for it because we didn't know it existed.

And so when we rolled up with my dad to the Fabulous Forum on March 1, 1990 for our first ever popular music concert the three of us believed we had the entire Petty catalog memorized.

Ah, what a glorious night....

After buying Petty shirts and promptly putting them on we took our seats and saw the cringy but sorta awesome opening act, Lenny Kravitz. Lenny tried to lead the entire indifferent audience in a sing along to a song no one had heard at that point, Let Love Rule. This was long, long before he got a marketing clue and traded in his second-fiddle-to-Liza-Bonnet role and became a peddler of planet destroying SUVs.

The night also marked our first brush with rock and roll royalty as both Dylan and Bruce Springsteen joined Petty and the boys for the encore. And, although the internet tells me it's not possible because of the concept known as death, I feel like Roy Orbison appeared as well. I guess it must have been his ghost that appeared behind those famous shades...

But to us 13 year olds none of that compared to the women directly in front of us getting into an all out, beer flinging and fake nails in the eyeballs, brawl in the middle of Freefallin'. My father, lord of the bon mot, instantaneously summed up the crazy scene by yelling "they're slamming boys!" All hail my father.

Is it any wonder that I wound up with a lifelong love of music after such a night? And I haven't even told you the best part: Benmont Tench hitting the opening riff of Love is a Long Road in the full dark as the show dramatically opened is one of the top 10 moments of my entire life.

There was just one unsettling moment all night. Mid-show Petty played a song we didn't know, all about listening to your heart. That wasn't too upsetting; there were plenty of songs he played that we didn't know. We figured they were covers, or coming out of the next record, because no one else in the audience knew them either. But when Petty told us about a ladyfriend resisting some dude's money and his cocaine everyone else all around us sang along.

We were a smart group of kids but we didn't put two and two together that night: take the fact that we were the youngest people there by a decade, add in the fact that everyone else there new the song and you wind up with an obvious conclusion: we were missing a Petty record. And so I went home with a nagging worry: what explained that one song?

The answer came from Saint Cross's Quaintance Shop a month or three later. Picture a fading church thrift store 35 years ago. Wigs and berets on white, styrofoam heads, mismatched golf clubs, iron-on izod patches for dressing up second hand kids shirts filled the front room; even less desirable items could be found in the back. A rotation of women born in the 20s manned the counter, clucking about whatever whenever my busy mother stopped by to pick up the shop's meager taking in her role as vestry treasurer.

I was still too young to have an excuse not to join her on these errands, and thank god for that because I wandered into the back room, thumbed through their quarter bin - that's right, in 1990 there was no such thing as the dollar bin; rather every record cost a quarter - and had my universe rocked when I saw Tom Petty standing in blue light with Stan (check out his handmade, drawstring hot pants!), Mike (pensive as always, deferring to the Tom as the boss), Ron (looking like he already has one foot out the door and is working up to his managerial role at an eighties bikini shop) and Benmont (forever a teenager) on the cover of a previously unknown record. Had the sun exploded in the sky at that moment I would have shrugged: the Holy Grail was in my hands and a moment before I had not known there was a God.

"Mom, please can I buy this? I just found it and I really need it."

"Sure you can, honey. Where's your money?"

"I mean, mom can you buy it for me? I don't have a quarter. But I'll pay you back, I promise." (This wasn't a case of not having my wallet; I literally did not own a cent at that moment. Every cent of my weekly $2 allowance would instantly go towards tapes. I did not yet own a turntable of my own and the recently discovered player in my parents cabinet still had a needle that had needed replacing in '74. I was forever broke and I remember borrowing money to buy Sergeant Pepper for a quarter from a different thrift store soon after.)

My glorious mother sighed and made a look that said "children these days..." Then she produced the precious quarter and I took home the arc of the covenant.

My glory was strong but short lived. Yes, the Matts were both blown away to discover a hithertofore unknown Petty record. But the only working turntables we knew belonged to Matt 1's formidable aerospace stepfather, and only Brahms was allowed on that one, and Matt 2's parents, and listening to a record in their living room necessitated dealing with Mickey, a truly insane golden retriever who weighed way more than me and was an incessant licker of his own formidable balls.

So it wasn't until high school that I really got into the greatness of You're Gonna Get It!

First, let's pause to consider the greatness that is an album that ends in an explanation point. We've already discussed Jonathan Sings! at length in these pages but there are plenty of other amazing albums made by brilliant artists who are goofy enough to add a ! to the end of their album title. Consider Get Happy!! And Henry the Human Fly! And what about Help!? These Are All Great Records! For that matter, wouldn't If I Could Only Remember My Name and Wild Tales be even better if Crosby and Nash had affixed explanation points to their titles? Man, I wish it was called Blood on the Tracks!

(Dear Stephen Stills, I know you're reading this so please pay attention: yes, we see that you tried to jump on the explanation point bandwagon in '05 by putting out a record entitled Man Alive! Good try Stevieboy, but to this day no one has ever listened to that record, and no one ever will. And don't try reissuing your 70's back catalog as Stills 1! Stills 2! Stills! and Illegal Stills! It will not change anything; those records will still forever suck.)

By ninth grade I had a turntable of my own and my first real appreciation of Your Gonna Get It! was getting way into Magnolia. I ask you, what better song is there for a horny heterosexual male ninth grader? I guarantee you I'm not the only boy who spent a whole lot of time visualizing themselves as Petty's first person protagonist:

From a table across the room

She was signalling me with her eyes

I walked over to be introduced,

I said hello, she just smiled

And said I know a place not too far from here,

We could get away for while.

Yeah that's when she kissed me and told me her name

I never did tell her mine...

Magnolia...

There's a lot to say about this track even after 24 years of blissful marriage. This song, and all of Your Gonna Get It!, features a complexly layered, full band vibe. Petty didn't just put everyone on the cover, he also gave them equal sonic billing; an approach he increasingly abandoned at the eighties increasingly set in and he got tempted by all the money and the cocaine. Hear the thick, bending bass stepping forward like a bold and reckless Romeo, driven by the tiptoeing lead piano riff. Petty's not the only one who gets lucky during this track. Everyone does.

Indeed, all of Side 1 is stone cold classic material, too rich and dense to have initially grabbed hold of me in eighth, then ninth, grade. The album opens with When the Time Comes. Tell me, please, why this elegant, powerful pop song is not more famous than everything on Wildflowers? When the Time Comes views every song on that overrated record with withering pity.

Tench's organ swells, the bridge spans mammoth depths, the drums and guitar carry us relentlessly forward up to a hollered fade. And then it's suddenly over and before we know it we're already kneeling down before Petty's declarative, white man soul in the title track.

Do you hear that guitar solo give way to the spaced out Dead vibes and then back into the chorus of chasing vocals? How the hell did this album ever get overlooked, forgotten and dropped out of print? Why are we ever listening to anything else in our lives?

On the back of my original 25 cent thrift shop copy of the LP there's the obligatory encouragement to reach out to the Official Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers Fan Club at 890 Tennessee Street in 'Frisco. I say that if we all send them self addressed stamped envelopes right now and demand a reissue of this record complete with bonus tracks then they'll do it and they'll also release, after all these years, Petty and Co's previously recorded, utterly forgotten and never before issued 77 lost album.

Come on people, lick those stamps. We're Gonna Get It!

[ofwraithsandwords]

I'm working on an A/U fan fic about a distant cousin being adopted by Integra. I want to publish it on tumblr and need some technical help. Unlike most of you, I'm an older lady who isn't as computer savvy as you younger folk.

I'm writing it on MS Word on my laptop. What software should I transfer it to, in order to publish online?

I'm a little old lady who was involved in the 1980's goth scene. I'm proof that goths don't age out. I would appreciate any advice you can give. The story is written as a first-person diary by the young cousin.

Hey there!

First and foremost, I just want to say how touched I am that you're asking me for advice because I'm certainly no authority on writing or publishing works. Still, I'll answer your question to the best of my ability.

There's nothing wrong with using Microsoft Word for literary works such as fanfiction. I think the best path forward when it comes to writing software is to simply use what you're most comfortable with. If you're only familiar with Microsoft Word, then use Microsoft Word. It's a tried and true software that I've used countless times myself, especially when I was in school and university.

However, if you want to explore other avenues for software, you may be familiar with Google Docs. This is what I use myself for writing my fanfiction. If you have a gmail account, you should have access to Google Drive which is the storage file that contains helpful utilities like Google Docs. If you do not have a gmail account and have some other kind of email, you can still use Google Drive. Here's a link to directions on how to use your existing email to create a Google Account.

Here are the icons for Google Drive and Google Docs, respectively:

To try and simplify, Drive is a folder and Docs is the document inside the folder. You'll also have access to other tools as well, but you don't have to worry about those; I'm just focusing on Docs.

I'll stop there because I don't wish to insult your intelligence in case you're already quite familiar with or have Google Docs. But if you're not and you need any more guidance, please do not hesitate to reach out again! You can even DM me if you so wish.

Other than Microsoft Word or Google Docs, I don't really use any other writing software. I invite anyone who uses any other writing software to reblog this post with their insight and/or advice.

As far as publishing your work goes, if you're to publishing your fanfiction on Tumblr, you should be able to copy and paste the diary entries from Microsoft Word or whatever software you're using into a post and do it that way. Some people get fancy with it, but it's absolutely not necessary; it's just a preference and for aesthetic reasons. Be sure to tag your post with #hellsing and #fanfiction at the very least!

I'm also going to mention Archive Of Our Own (AO3) here as well. You've probably heard of this site too. I've only been on it for...4 or 5 years? And I won't lie to you, learning how to properly format my chapters using AO3's post function took some time. But if you have any interest at all in trying to use AO3, send in another ask or DM me and I'll help you as much as I can. In the meantime, I hope that I at least provided some insight and gave you the answer you were looking for!

On a different note, this fanfiction of yours sounds really intriguing! You don't get that many dairy entry fanfics, especially in the Hellsing fandom. Is it related to how Bram Stoker wrote his dairy entries in Dracula by any chance?

I wish you well on writing this fanfiction! Be sure to send me another ask or shoot me a message when you do publish it!

[lemariee]

Chapter 1

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The sound of tiny droplets hitting the cold, rough surface of concrete in a dark cell was the only thing keeping Gerda sane. Despite the pathetic sense of comfort the droplets provided, Gerda was unable to shake off the dreadful feeling she carried throughout her petite body. She knew that the odds of her coming out of this cold, vile place alive were low due to the supposed crimes she had committed.

Gerda felt betrayed, furious, and disgusted by her people for even welcoming the Moors into their beautiful kingdom. How dare they turn their backs on the queen and imprison Gerda for simply standing up for their rights. It's outrageous and unacceptable that her people chose those horrendous creatures over their very own. The sound of a heavy creaking door suddenly put Gerda's thoughts on pause. The dark dungeon became disturbed by the illuminating light of several flickering torches.

Three days ago...

Life had begun to settle down after the short battle between the dark fey and humans. People began rebuilding what they could thanks to help from the Moor folk. Both kingdoms were on decent terms after Prince Phillip and Aurora's marriage. The only issue left was who should be held accountable for the destruction and loss of life on both sides. Many blamed the queen for her hatred and lies that almost led to war. The anger that was steadily growing only meant that someone had to take the blame.

"Your Majesty, with all due respect we must hold someone accountable for the queen's actions. The people are becoming hungry for justice with each passing day...I'm afraid that they may soon demand it through violence." Percival pleaded in an urgent tone.

"What exactly are you suggesting General? Yes, my mother may have been the one to blame for almost starting a war but has she not been punished enough for what she did?" Prince Phillip argued back in irritation.

"Perhaps your mother should receive a much more suitable punishment. How exactly is turning her into an animal for a month's time supposed to equal justice? She's the one who not only destroyed your kingdom but also played a role in slaughtering my own people." Borra said with frustration, earning a stern glare from Prince Phillip.

"I strongly suggest choosing your next words wisely." Prince Phillip replied in a threatening tone causing Borra's face to form into a snare.

"Or what prince? Do you take me as one who trembles by your empty threats?" Borra said with a low growl.

"Enough! Must I teach you both how to act like adults? We are not here to fight but simply come up with a solution to our growing problem. If I recall it was not the queen who carried out the attack on the fairies. Have we all forgotten about our prisoner down below?" King John said with a voice full of authority.

"Perhaps putting her head on a spike should do or even adding a few lashings beforehand." Maleficent said finally joining in the conversation after observing the scene before her.

"Absolutely not! We will not shed any more blood after what our people have been through. Murder is never the answer to any situation and I will not be a part of such a thing. Yes, I agree she should be held accountable for her part in it all but we will do this in a humane way." Aurora demanded with a shocked expression.

"So we all agree that Gerda should be the one to blame then? After all, she is the one who carried out the Queen's orders. If anything she should be the one receiving a more fitting punishment for such crimes." Percival chimed in with a sigh of relief.

"Gerda. What a horrendous name for one." Maleficent remarked with disgust filling her feminine voice.

"Yes. It would be far more reasonable and I'm sure it won't take much to convince both people of the Moors and Ulstead that Gerda is the one who should be blamed for their sorrows. However, she will not be put to death but simply receive some sort of punishment. I agree with Aurora, we will not have any more bloodshed." King John said, causing Maleficent to roll her eyes with annoyance.

"May I make a suggestion Your Majesty? Perhaps some form of banishment will do? From my understanding it was my people who were killed at the hands of Gerda so why not allow her to be in our custody? We could abide by Aurora's wishes and not execute her but carry out her punishment as we see fit within our lands." Diaval said, earning the attention of everyone in the room.

"Well...I see no reason why I should disagree with you Diaval. Perhaps it would be best that Gerda is banished from this kingdom. That would be a huge weight taken off our shoulders while also strengthening trust between our people." King John responded while shaking his head in agreement with Diavals suggestion.

"Are you suggesting she comes with us? If so, then I have no objection to it." Borra said with a wicked grin that made Aurora feel sick to her stomach.

"Now hold on! Before we come to such an agreement there must be terms put in place. In no way should she be executed or tortured. Yes, she needs to be...punished but even that should have its limits. Let us keep in mind that we are not monsters but simply civil beings." Aurora abruptly said, causing the room to grow silent.

"That thing attempted to kill Maleficent and slaughtered innocent fairies yet here you are defending her? She deserves to be punished to the most extreme measure if not executed! Why should she be allowed to live a full life when our people suffered in that chapel? If she is to be banished and become our prisoner I think it's only right that we choose her fate." Borra harshly said with blazing eyes as he thought of the many ways he wanted to make the human scum scream in agony and pain.

"How can we expect her to be kept in one piece as your prisoner if all you want to do is carry out your revenge against her? I will NOT stand for anyone to be harmed or even killed no matter what crimes they've committed. It's just not who we are! This isn't about justice anymore but simply you wanting to play out your own personal wicked fantasies against humans." Aurora responded back as she slammed her hands on the table.

"Will all of you quiet down for just one minute? Gerda will be banished from our kingdom and placed in custody of the Moors. How they decide to punish her will be their decision however we will have humane terms set in place. She is not to be executed or tortured but that is all. This girl will no longer be of any concern to Ulstead once she leaves our kingdom." King John demanded with a firm voice.

"May I be excused, Your Majesty? I'm suddenly feeling ill and would like to lie down." Aurora defeatedly whispered, standing up from her chair with a pale face.

"Yes, you may." King John answered with an apologetic expression.

Without another word, Aurora immediately exited the gloomy room and slammed the door behind her. A few seconds later Prince Phillip excused himself and followed after. The sound of Maleficent sighing brought everyone's attention toward her. She then turned towards the King with a mischievous grin that made her eyes glow a darker shade of green.

"Now. How about I make a suggestion of my own since it was I who was nearly killed by this Gerda. Perhaps the human should be placed as Borra's personal prisoner but he agrees to abide by my daughter's wishes. To put her more at ease, I will occasionally send Diaval out to check on her status and he is to report back if any of the terms are violated." Maleficent sternly stated growing tired of the conversation.

"Alright, alright. It is settled then. Gerda will become Borras's problem and I shall fully focus my attention on the growth of our people. General I will need you to start on the preparations for Gerda's leave tomorrow morning. I believe she has recovered from her injuries so there's no need to delay her banishment." King John announced feeling exhausted by the meeting.

"As you wish, Your Majesty. I shall have her ready by sunrise." Percival said in agreement with the king.

The king then stood from his chair feeling relieved that he will now have one less problem to worry about. He personally didn't care much about what happened to Gerda so how Borra chose to handle her was not any concern of his. The safety of his wife was what mattered the most.

"Well I suppose we are all finished with this discussion. I bid you all a good night." King John said with the urge to yawn.

As everyone stood and followed the king out of the room Diaval couldn't help but pity the human. He deeply disliked her but he knew  Borra would enjoy every chance he got to torment the human. Little did Aurora know that perhaps she was better off having the human executed because what Gerda would most likely endure as Borra's personal prisoner would be far worse than death itself.

[illvminatcd]

⌇＊。ﾞ —— look who’s joining the infinite tour! only IM KANGSAN, who is the MANAGER OF AHN MINSEOK. i’ve heard whispers that the 30 year old is pretty COMPOSED but lowkey PREOCCUPIED. also, doesn’t he remind you of MIN YOONGI?

hi lovelys, i'm yodi!! i have work really soon, but i wanted to put this out before i head that way xx this is my angel kangsan, who is a single dad, minseok's manager and *sammi voice* the sweetest bitch you'll ever meet. you can find some stats here (headcanons are yet unfinished i'm sry) and some details under the cut! as for plots, i prefer to get to know the muses a bit and then sort of build something off their personalities, so i don't have a dedicated list. but if you'd like to chat about our muses and get something going, drop a like here and i'll come to you! alternatively, you can add me on discord at ⌇ ＊ 𝙰𝙼𝚈𝙶𝙳𝙰𝙻𝙰. 。ﾞ#4742

x. san was the oldest of three children in a close knit family of five in the nam district of busan, near seonam lake park.

x. he had a younger brother and sister he was always running around after, while his parents worked tirelessly at their crafts to provide a comfortable upbringing for the family. his mother was the head chef at an upscale restaurant, while his father traveled the world with a guitar and a dream.

x. his father sang folk music; that and classic jazz would often fill the household. kangsan loved sitting on his father's knee while the older im strummed his guitar. san would always try and play along on the strings, attempting to match his father's strums, but usually just throwing a wrench in the melody. his father never cared though, he'd simply let kangsan fumble with the strings.

x. san knew music was his future before he even knew what careers were. for his 7th birthday, his father gifted him a child sized guitar so that he could truly begin learning the craft. his father was a masterful guitarist and a patient teacher. whenever he was home, he spent at least some of his time in his studio instilling all he knew into his son, while san's brother and sister watched on and laughed at every missed note.

x. most of the time, however, kangsan's father wasn't home. he was a fairly successful musician, and he had the touring schedule to prove it. he'd be summoned to military bases to perform for soldiers, before being whisked away to the united states to do at least two dozen scattered shows across the country. his absences could be months long, leaving his family in disarray for large chunks of the year.

x. his mother seemed to be a miracle worker during this time. despite working full time, she always made sure the children felt loved and cared about, were fed, bathed and doing well in school. san could never figure out how she did it, but it impacted him with a level of respect he'd probably never have for any other person.

x. he started to notice that when his father came home, his parents were rather distant from one another. they didn't have the same loving rapport as before, and given that san was getting older, he knew what was coming.

x. there was something his mother said in one of their final arguments before filing for divorce that would stick with kangsan forever. "how does it feel coming home to see your children visibly taller and knowing that you missed every single centimeter?" san loved his father, and he loved music, but he decided then and there he'd be a different kind of father to his own future children.

x. it amazed san that his mother was so supportive of his pursuance of music considering everything that happened with his father. but she knew a wandering soul when she saw one, after all. she gave kangsan her blessing to forgo university for the time being to try and become a professional musician. he was extremely skilled in guitar by then, preferring the smoother and more relaxed melodies of jazz over his father's rough and tumble folk stylings.

x. it took him about two years to fall in with three other jazz musicians, all with aspirations of hitting the road with their original music. hanging out with his friends, drinking, writing songs they all loved, figuring out their unique style; these were some of the happiest years of san's life. the dawning of mipung.

x. things became even better once they found a small, independent label willing to sign them. san was never that great at promoting or being any sort of mouthpiece for the band. his strengths were found in performing live, often getting lost in the feeling and performing impromptu guitar solos while his other bandmates were getting water or chatting with fans in the front row.

x. they weren't superstars by any stretch, but they certainly found their niche following. mipung put out a total of eight albums, and the band toured consistantly; their fans nicknamed them tueoagma (tour devils). san had ceaseless fun and made great money, as well as industry connections that would serve him well.

x. it was during one of their local tours that he met kim saejeong, a bartender in gwangju whose smile reached both her eyes and his heart with little effort. the two texted back and forth for a couple of months before things went any further. it wasn't long before the pair had shirked tradition and moved in together, fully engrossed in the honeymoon stage.

x. the couple certainly wasn't trying for it, but saejeong became pregnant along the way. they were both fairly happy about the revelation, even though kangsan knew it meant it was time to hang up his guitar. he was going to keep his promises.

x. he informed the band that he'd be formally retiring to care for his son full time, not wanting a constant performing schedule to take away any precious time watching him grow up. he held no grudges against the life his father had chosen, but in his heart of hearts, he knew he wanted to walk a different path.

x. it was a pretty dramatic shift, going from being a full time musician to a full time father, but it was one that san relished in. things had fallen into place quite well, or at least san thought so. he doted on little yongtae as if he were the most precious creature in all of nature. however, he didn't count on things becoming somewhat awkward between he and saejeong. they'd gone from being partially at arm's length by his schedule to now being around each other all the time. their love for each other no longer filled the rooms of their home. it all felt strikingly familiar. they both loved yongtae, but it was obvious they were falling out of love with each other.

x. rather than keeping the charade going any longer, the two broke up for good when yongtae was a year old. it was relatively amicable and civil, with the two agreeing to share legal custody. it was the healthiest situation for all involved, but kangsan couldn't help but feel like a failure. he thought quitting music was some sort of foolproof way of keeping his family together. he'd been an idiot thinking anything was for certain.

x. still, he couldn't fall into a bout of self pity. he had a son to care for; though it was high time for him to find something to do with himself while yongtae was with his mother. he needed some sort of work to keep himself occupied. when he called up a few industry friends, he expected maybe a producing slot or perhaps even a guitar instructor position; something that was somewhere in his wheelhouse. instead, he was presented with a rather intriguing opportunity.

x. a soloist was in need of a new manager at infinite entertainment, and for whatever reason, kangsan's friend thought he'd be a great candidate for the position. san didn't expect the interview to land him the gig, as he was lacking a degree, but the company mysteriously overlooked it and hired him anyway.

x. i definitely want to explore their dynamic with minseok's mun, but i like to think minseok would have kind of become kangsan's work son 😭

x. when the tour was announced, kangsan couldn't help but be a little bit worried about missing out on time with yongtae, but to his disbelief, san's father began tagging along with him to help take care of the baby while san was working. in a weird way, everything seems to be turning out well so far. san gets to connect with his son, reconnect with his father and delve back into a life he never thought he'd live again.

[enchanted-moura]

Can I say something maybe slightly controversial re: spirituality and religion? I don’t think any are worse than the other, even with all everything that happens “in the name of” a handful of them. Especially when it comes to western religions, I feel like people of the black diaspora are being told more and more that we need to disregard the religions we were subjugated and enslaved under, which is fine but…technically doesn’t that go both ways? I’ve been questioning a lot about what I believe in, but I don’t feel like it’s so cut and dry to say the god of our enslavers sat back and didn’t help while we were suffering when technically…didn’t it all happen to us when we were practicing our home and folk religions? Does that mean those gods abandoned us to? I feel like deities are harder and more complex to comprehend than just “bad people follow the bad one” and “ours would have saved us”. Does that make any sense? I hope I’m not being disrespectful to anyone’s religions in saying this, but especially in my home country (Haiti) lots of people are saying the worst thing to ever happen to us was Christianity and Islam and that “our gods” would’ve never let these things happen to us but…they technically didn’t step in either (and still haven’t, to some extent), so now what? It’s why I think religion is so personal, because when you start trying to attribute the concentrated efforts of millions of people over centuries to divine intervention or the lack thereof, I feel like it’s so easy to overlook the fact that pretty much every religion I’ve ever been exposed to has highlighted personal responsibility and people having control over their own actions and blame divinity for human problems instead. Idk if any of that made sense.

There’s nothing wrong with going to church and joining a popular religion. Church provided many people with love and comfort. Mainstream religion provides encouragement and a solar communal atmosphere and traditions that many crave.

Also ATRs are religions too, Vodou, Ifa, Sanse, Espiritismo, Umbanda etc

Are they for everyone? No. I’ve seen too many energies from djinn to Aphrodite to commit to a single path myself or commit to a tradition. Polytheism isn’t for everyone. Choose your own way. You don’t need anybodys approval♥️

[naijavibemusic5]

NaijaVibe

NaijaVibe

Nigerian Music - History associated with Nigerian Music

Your music of Nigeria includes many different types of Folk and famous music, some of which might be known worldwide. Varieties of folk music can be related to the thousands of of ethnic communities in the country, each using own techniques, resources, and songs. Small is known about the place's music history just before European contact, even though bronze carvings dating back to to the 16th together with 17th centuries have been completely found depicting pros and their devices.

NaijaVibe

Nigeria has been identified as "the heart from African music" for the role in the improvement of West Africa highlife and palm-wine music, which combines native rhythms by means of techniques imported with the Congo for the enhancement of several widely used styles that were distinctive to Nigeria, such as apala, fuji, jùjú, highlife, and Yo-pop. Subsequently, Nigerian music players created their own varieties of United States hip hop popular music and Jamaican reggae. Nigeria's musical results has achieved essential acclaim not only with the fields of persons and popular new music, but also Western fine art music written by composers such as Fela Sowande.

Polyrhythms, in which a couple of separate beats tend to be played simultaneously, undoubtedly are a part of much of conventional African music; Nigeria is no exception. A African hemiola form, based on the asymmetric tempo pattern is an vital rhythmic technique through the entire continent. Nigerian beats also uses ostinato rhythms, in which a rhythmic pattern is done again despite changes within metre.

Nigeria offers some of the most advanced producing studio technology around Africa, and provides tougher commercial opportunities to get music performers. Ronnie Graham, an historian who specialises inside West Africa, has got attributed the achievements of the Nigerian audio industry to the nation's culture-its "thirst designed for aesthetic and materials success and a voracious appetite for life, enjoy and music, [and] a massive domestic market, significant enough to maintain artists who play in regional 'languages' and experiment with native styles". However , politics corruption and uncontrolled music piracy with Nigeria has hampered the industry's advancement.

The 1950s, '60s and '70s

Subsequent World War II, Nigerian music begun to take on new applications and techniques, among them electric instruments brought in from the United States and additionally Europe. Rock NO roll, soul, in addition to later funk, have become very popular in Nigeria, and elements of these kind of genres were included in jùjú by performers such as IK Dairo. Meanwhile, highlife ended up slowly gaining within popularity among the Igbo people, and their own style soon identified a national target market. At the same time, apala's Haruna Ishola was being one of the country's largest stars. In the beginning to mid 1970s, three of the most significant names in Nigerian music history ended up at their top: Fela Kuti, Ebenezer Obey and California king Sunny Ade, as you move the end of that times saw the start of Yo-pop and Nigerian reggae.

Although popular versions such as highlife along with jùjú were presents itself the Nigerian stock chart in the '60s, customary music remained wide-spread. Traditional stars bundled the Hausa Serta Maraya, who was consequently well known that he had been brought to the battlefield during the 1967 Nigerian Civil War to help you lift the comfort of the federal troopers.

We are an entertainment and pop culture website. Our platform is focused on offering you the best and latest updates on the market when it comes to the entertainment industry, both in Nigeria and well beyond that.

[lumpyorganelle]

Heartbreak & losses quotes pt.2

Ah, merciless Love, is there any length to which you cannot force the human heart to go?” ― Virgil, The Aeneid

“How starved you must have been that my heart became a meal for your ego.” ― Amanda Torroni

“every loss, every mistake, was seared into her soul, creating a different kind of tattoo, one made from rage and abandonment, heart break and tears” ― Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl

“He started to estrange her… And they became strangers Who knew each other's heart, So broken as they drifted apart.” ― Ana Claudia Antunes, Pierrot & Columbine

“Did the destruction of one dream leave a vacuum that required filling with another? Is a broken heart more vulnerable?” ― Cinda Williams Chima, The Exiled Queen

“Thoughts are as simple as the process…a message from the soul; conveyed through the heart; received in the mind” ― Jeremy Aldana

“She ached so badly to be held it felt like a sickness had invaded her muscles and bones. As usual, her own arms provided little comfort.” ― Helen Hoang, The Kiss Quotient

“When the heart is down and the soul is heavy, the eyes can only speak the language of tears” ― Ikechukwu Izuakor

“Then I feel I have given away my whole soul to someone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day.” ― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

“A faint cry; I can't figure out if it's mine or if it's echoing the other half of my broken heart—the one beating in his chest.” ― Aura Biru, We Are Everyone

“There has to be a whole other level of pain when your soul gets ripped in half.” ― Karen M. McManus, One of Us Is Back

“Those words created in my heart and stomach a physical effect so sickening, so painful, that I have never since doubted that these vibrational frequencies traveling upon air can land a knock-out punch more excruciating than any fist or weapon.” ― Erin Zelinka, On Love and Travel: A Memoir

“My wounded heart, too burdened by scars, struggles even to fathom the concept of love, let alone embrace its gentle touch.” ― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

“An Ocean full of thoughts, a broken heart, and a tragic shore of insane storms. I am trapped in a body that is not my own, a world that's too alien for my soul and an evil wounding my heart.” ― Sapppho Khizar

“When stranded in a desert, and you’re dying of thirst, a mirage is the cruelest trick the mind can play. And when you are a stranger among regular folks, and you’re in search of love, a disillusioned or misguided heart is the cruelest thing.” ― Soroosh Shahrivar, Tajrish

“That was the end of the integrity of their love. The succeeding days were a shambles of falseness and hypocrisy, mingled with her tears and moments of animal passion to which she abandoned herself with a greed made indecent by the hollowness of their days.” ― Ian Fleming, Casino Royale

“…my father explained to me in a hushed tone that in times of extreme stress or trauma, humans of all ages will resort back to the fetal position, because it is an instinctual way to protect all our vital organs and because it reminds us of the safest place we all began, thee womb.” ― Lucy Keating, Dreamology

“This was just the world. You trusted people, you loved them, you offered them the dignity of your time and the intimacy of your thoughts and the fraility of your hope and they either accepted it and cared for it or they rejected it and destroyed it and in the end, none of it was up to you. This was just what you got. Heartbreak was inevitable. Disappointment assured.” ― Olivie Blake, The Atlas Paradox

“Being of heart resists no hurt, they savor poison like fine wine. The benevolent takes no notice of betrayal, while the somnolent just moan and whine.” ― Abhijit Naskar, Yarasistan: My Wounds, My Crown

“How can I be reasonable? To me our love was everything and you were my whole life. It is not very pleasant to realize that to you it was only an episode.” ― W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil

[jeanjauthor]

MITRUs and Oso's 10th Anniversary

When the landslide at Oso, WA, happened, a lot of people from all around the world reached out to folks here in Western Washington to comfort us in the tragedy that happened to that somewhat remote municipality, near the town of Darrington, WA.

I didn't know anyone personally who was directly affected by the landslide, but it still affected a lot of us tangentially. It's been 10 years, and they have been running articles in the Everett Herald newspaper (yes you can still get a print version of the main articles, with the rest accessible online) as a part of the 10th anniversary memorials of the tragedy.

Today, I learned a thing. A good thing that was developed in the wake of Oso: the development of the MITRU.

Immediately in the wake of the massive landslide, the region lost more than just 43 lives and many homes. It lost a chunk of Highway 530, turning what had been a 10 minute drive into town to get gas (petrol) into a 60 minute drive via the only other route into the area. And...it cut off all cellphone tower and internet services to the local area, including the town of Darrington.

This last one had an immediate harsh impact on emergency response services. Coordination was very difficult without cell tower service, which our modern society has come to rely upon very heavily. Phone service was restored two days later, but the resonance of the lack echoed for years afterward.

Six years after that two-day communications blackout, an emergency management coordinator for the region, Scott Honaker, came up with an idea. He developed the MITRU, the Mobile Information Technology Response Unit. It's an 8 foot tall shipping container, weighing about 1,200 pounds, that is packed with the hardware necessary to provide internet and cell service in trouble spots, including generators and/or solar panel collectors & batteries. It is light enough to be airlifted by helicopter to a given site, however remote, and can be deployed on very short notice to various emergency locations throughout the region.

Developed in 2020, the MITRU system's first stress tests were during COVID, with vaccination sites having some of these shipping container setups on location. They have also been deployed to remote crime investigation sites, during extreme weather events, SAR (search-and-rescue) events, the Bolt Creek wildfire command center site, and more. They cost around 25k USD to put together (even with volunteers doing a lot of the labor to cut down on building costs, the equipment itself is expensive), but Snohomish County and other regional authorities are investing in them.

Darrington (nearest town to Oso) isn't the only community that could be heavily cut off if another disaster strikes. This region has only a few earthquakes, but it is prone to them, and we're "overdue for The Big One," an earthquake registering well above 5 on the Richter scale. If a theoretical (but not impossible) 9.0 earthquake were to strike, we could see 58 "islands" of isolation being formed in Snohomish County alone due to our many roadway bridges breaking...and that's not counting King County where Seattle is located, or any of our other counties in the state.

One of the most important aspects of emergency situation management is communication. With it, you can organize people across vast distances. Without it...you're working blind with very few people who can assist you, and very few supplies for any of it.

The development of the MITRU--a complete, portable package that can be airlifted and landed anywhere a helicarrier can safely fly--will be a huge benefit to our region in terms of emergency crisis management and keeping regions connected & coordinated in the decades to come. (Snohomish County has at least 4 of them now, with plans to continue gathering the funds for more.)

I strongly suggest people read up on these kinds of services, and press your own regional governments to start investing in them, too. Wildfires, hurricanes, floods, landslides, earthquakes, tornadoes, windstorms, icestorms, blizzards, rockslides, bridges collapsing...even at least one case where thieves dismantled a celltower and absconded with the parts in the night...

Every region has something that could cause communications issues, or an area where they need communications but there aren't any cell tower services to be found.

Here's the direct link to the county website for the program, so you know who to contact.

Honaker, the creator of the MITRU concept, has been asked to give presentations at other municipalities across the region, and I think it would be great if he and others in this program were asked to speak about it across the country, and internationally.

Oso was a tragedy that could not be stopped. Even if the logging had been done with some trees being left in position so their roots could anchor the slope...it still might have slid into a massive zone of destruction anyway. What we can do is learn from these tragedies, come up with good, solid ways to help when they happen--as nature will always strike, whether it's landslide, tornado, wildfire, whatever--and encourage other areas to adapt the lessons we've learned and the tools we've developed to be ready to use for their own disasters, too.

(And no, I am not affiliated with either the county's government or the MITRU program in any way. I'm just glad someone developed something so damned useful in so many different situations. They've even been deployed at major crowd events to help boost cell service so that event staff & emergency services have what they need to keep things coordinated & running smoothly, so it doesn't always have to be part of a tragedy...but the thing is, they are there when you need them, if you get them for your own region.)