#//THE AMOUNT OF VERSIONS I MADE FOR HIGHWAY landed up on this one

[inbetween-beast-and-man]

//for @rainofchains

[dallasareaopinion]

Death of intellectualism

Now that is a catchy phrase for a title. I internet searched that phrase on a well known search engine and received the usual amount of millions of hits in lightning speed. When I starting typing the phrase in the search box, by the time I got to death by intel death by intellectualism appeared as a choice, however there was no actual reference to death by intellectualism, well at least on the first page.

What was provided were titles, articles and other options like:

the death of the intellectual

what is the hatred of intellectuals

anti-intellectualism. (which by the way was a Wikipedia reference) which seems to be an interesting use of a resource for this topic)

intellectualism another topic with Wikipedia as a source-both seem so contradictory

and a series of questions on the topic such as 

what is the intellectual movement to what is a synonym for anti-intellectual to what are pseudo intellectuals to what makes a person an intellectual

And the last question I mentioned is somewhat where I was headed when I thought of that catchy title. I never got there.

Many of us who are not overly well read have that fear of and abhorrence of people who write that quote from historical writings or historically known intellectuals that references another historical writing from another historical intellectual that basically make you want to scream get to the point. And people who write to the overly well read audience seem to think that is the only people that matter. 

I use to read George Will regularly yet only understanding half of his vocabulary. Every now and then I would pull out a dictionary and realize he could have made this easier. Does it make him an intellectual because he has a large vocabulary? 

I do need to say that I did not read all the options or much of any of them from my internet search, I was more enthralled by the choices that came up. My main premise for why I decided to write was that the average American is not impressed with intellectualism. All this effort by a few intellectuals is lost on so many and not just Americans, but people all around the world and offers them no solutions to their world problems. 

As stated before in this blog I feel a big problem is intellectuals on the left are way too pretentious. Their version of my way or the highway is just as bad as the right wing extremists trying to shove their anti intellectualism down our throats. And yet we somehow muddle through trying to rationalize which madness is actually the correct answer. Of course neither is and both are and not because it depends on your viewpoint, but that some ideas no matter where it comes from works.

After writing the first sentence in the paragraph above, I am laughing at myself. I have multiple times said the left is pretentious, and on the search page, one of the questions was are intellectuals arrogant. I didn’t read that section, but I thought, duh. A bit of a non intellectualism answer there for you.

And non intellectualism didn’t exist so there I coined something worthless. 

This could be a much more fun topic to explore, yet alas it is late and like all good Americans I have to prioritize my job and so I must hit the hay, go off to slumber land, so I can get up and perform my tasks that allow me to spout off on a world I know nothing about which is okay, because they know nothing of my world.

And I did touch on a few of the items on the search page so if you have some time, it looks to be an interesting rabbit hole to dive into head or feet first, but it never answers the original question of death of intellectualism.

Cheers

[redorich]

Oh, Iove the reverse!Hermit Au! (That's what I've been calling it in my head anyways, don't mind me) I love the concept of them reclaiming L'hole and just slowly turning it into something beautiful. I wonder, in this Au are the hermits stuck on the dream smp (yes, please, that would be so cool!! Them trying to find a way back to their own world could be a whole story in and off itself) or do they just randomly pop into the world because they can? And if it's multiple hermits (If it's all the hermits) then how long until the crater can't hold them anymore, until they spill out like a more benevolent version of the blood vines? How long until they follow their namesake instinct and split off? Just, the idea of Dream smp members travelling really far out to find a mansion or something the like and suddenly they come across these monumental builts that are now just there. Imagine the eariness of that, of finding something like 'just' Grians Mansion or Scars Village (not to speak of something the size of Cubs Pyramid or Keralis City!!) and having it be completely empty. (Except of course for the singular shadow in the corner of one eye. But that was gone so quickly, was that even real?)

Imagine the hermits doing their hermit thing, were they built huge farms and cart giant amounts of resources to and fro, and have impressive shops but now it's all underground, hidden somewhere! (And also they've replaced shulker boxes with mules, because I love mules, and the idea of mule highways is hilarious). Imagine someone stumbling in on that! No, like, please, imagine that. And... And possibly write your imagination down perhaps? Maybe? If you would like? That would be extremly pog.

(Bonus points if someone drops into like, a nuzzling day with multiple hermits shopping and haggling over prices)

-Fidget

The Hermits are, for the moment, stuck in this unfamiliar server due to an event called The Split, wherein the Hermits attempted to jump to a new world, but ended up stranded in the Dream SMP when everything went wrong. Why things went wrong, they don’t know yet. Their admin, Xisuma, was critically weakened by his efforts during The Split; he managed to keep everyone alive, so he doesn’t regret it, even if that means that he’s bedridden and magically weak.

The Hermits are unused to living together in such a small area: they are called Hermits for a reason, after all. From the very start, they spread out, digging into the walls just to get some space. The Hermit compound is massive. They’ve already started to spill out of the canyon, venturing above ground and hiding in the shadows as they collect resources. If they had the resources, they’d have all split up ages ago, but this server is dangerous and Xisuma is in a precarious state, so they put up with the crowding for the moment, until each and every one of them is equipped.

Even after the Hermits have acquired gear and supplies, it’s not enough. They still need to survey the land, create secretive Nether pathways, figure out what’s wrong with the End and how they can fix/exploit it, divvy up the resources, and choose who’s going to live with whom. After all, the Hermits have seen firsthand Dream’s death at their own traps. The people native to the Dream SMP are violent by nature. None of the Hermits are going to live alone in this world.

They have started construction outside of the canyon, though, so that when they’re ready to make their move they won’t be caught unawares. All of their builds are thousands of blocks away from civilization, and the only way to find them is through a single Nether portal which can be found in the second mark of the Upside Down. Grian, False, and Tango have set about recreating the Upside Down because while building it is a lot more difficult without elytra, having a base in the Nether will prove beneficial in the long run in a way that it wasn’t in Hermitcraft.

As far as the Hermits are aware, no one has come across their half-built, Brobdingnagian structures. They’re hollow and shadowy and that’s just the way the Hermits like it.

In the meantime, they’ll settle for their well-loved canyon and the anthill-like tunnels and chambers carved into its walls. The biggest chamber by far is a massive cavern which Scar has made to look like roots are holding all the dirt above their heads. (Meanwhile, Wels runs about placing torches while Scar builds, because Xisuma can’t overtax himself respawning Scar fifty times in a row just because the man’s builds always turn into unintentional mob farms.) This chamber becomes the shopping district, and it has an architectural vibe of a speakeasy or a black market-- a literal underground market. 

All their individual small bases are connected through tunnels-- and yes, instead of shulker boxes they have Bdubs breed them mules and turn the tunnels into a mule highway.

As a rule, they all carry splash potions of invisibility in their hotbars. Most of the Hermits don’t enjoy being perceived as scary, dangerous entities, but the mystery and fear surrounding their reputation keeps them safe. It’s entirely possible that someone’s strip mine will intersect their underground society, and they want people to be inclined to forget what they’ve seen and decide to mine in another direction, for their own safety.

[winterscaptain]

directors commentary on absence plzzz

what an excellent choice!! 

commentary in bold italics

So the BH arc was chopped to shit while I was working on it, because I couldn’t decide what Mom got REALLY mad about. Because Derek really had the corner on being mad at Aaron over Emily and I wanted to push it into the personal a little more. 

Plus, I sometimes think the “let’s get mad at Aaron and JJ for Emily” is a touch overplayed and definitely would have been that way in this story. 

You let yourself into his apartment, slamming the door behind you. He’s been waiting for you, leaning against the windowsill across from the door. 

“How dare you.”

He sighs and presses a hand to his forehead. “You have to understand that I -”

“Bullshit, Aaron. I don’t have to understand a goddamn thing. What are you thinking? We need you.” 

His head tips up, and he looks through you. The haunted look in his eyes almost makes you falter - it so acutely reminds you of the days following Haley’s death - but you keep your resolve. You know what that is? Growth! Mom is REFUSING to cave to his inner demons bullshit. He doesn’t say anything, just lets you yell at him until it’s out of your system. You could never actually hate him and he knows that, which makes some of it easier, but not all of it. 

This was also the fight that was originally written for Mean It, but I spliced different beats in based on what the story called for. This one fit much better here, and increases the stakes because he’s about to leave. 

The tears start and pick up speed as you continue, nearly at a shout. “You’ve known for seven months that you were going to leave for Pakistan. I read the brief. Seven. Fucking. Months, Aaron. You didn’t tell us when the task force assignment came through. Emily died, and you’re still leaving?” He flinches. And they’re so worked up they don’t even notice the magnitude or depth of the flinch like they usually would. “You’re leaving me and Jack. You’re leaving our team. I never thought you could do something like that to us. Maybe them, but not me. Never to me. I mean, after everything we’ve -” You cut yourself off and raise the back of your hand to your mouth, unable to finish the unbearably painful thought.

I had a ridiculous amount of fun writing this fight. I LOVE writing fights. 

And “wet anger” as @ssaic-jareau​ put it, is so much more interesting and damning than dry anger for situations like this, especially in opposition to Aaron.  

He’s not sure which part is the most painful - the fact that you list yourself with Jack instead of with the team, the fact that you say ‘our team,’ or the tone that drips with hurt. The sob that rips through your chest breaks his heart. Remember in enough when he was thinking about the horror of causing them pain? Yeah me too. He leans heavily against the arm of his couch, knocked down by the weight of your tears. 

No - the hardest part is knowing he deserves it, that you aren’t saying anything that isn’t unfair or untrue. 

Mom’s anger and hurt feeds right into his insecurities. This is quite literally his worst fear come to life, and as confident as he is in the strength of their relationship, he is terrified that he wont come back from this one. 

“I can’t even look at you right now.” 

He can only watch you as you walk back out, leaving the door open behind you. 

There’s something so satisfying about leaving the door open after a fight. Like the drama of a slammed door is one thing, but I’ve always preferred creating a situation in which the other person has to get up and close the door behind you. 

From experience, it’s incredibly satisfying. 

About twenty minutes later, he receives a text.

9:34pm I’ll be there tomorrow at 12:30 to take you to base. Be ready when I get there. 

He crawls into bed about a half an hour later, and receives another text.

10:05pm Goodnight. 

The period at the end of that text is like the death knell for Aaron. 

Fuck. 

OOOOOOOH Aaron you done fucked up, kiddo. Good thing you’re self aware and have literal MONTHS without Mom to figure it out :)

(God he’s an idiot)

+++

The ride to base ride is mostly silent, and you know something’s wrong. It’s nothing you can articulate or even really put your finger on, but it’s something bigger than just his imminent absence.

As much as they know about each other, their emotional tuning forks can’t get past what they won’t share with the other. In this instance, Mom has not the first clue about what he’s hiding from her. How could she know?

He’s boarding a C-130 supply transport to Pakistan, and it will no doubt be a long and deeply uncomfortable flight. His go bag, packed with desert fatigues and a couple of creature comforts, looks smaller than usual at his feet. 

“How long?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Taskforce operations are need-to-know.” There’s so much he can’t tell you, and it eats at him. Because it’s you, and he’s been an ass, he concedes a little. And also he can only keep so many secrets from them. “Probably a couple of months.”

“We’ll be okay, Aaron.” A little laugh leaves him, and it pulls a smile from you. “What?”

“Remember when you chased me down last night to tell me the team couldn’t do this without me?” 

This is a dialogue motif for sure - it shows up all over the place in this series. 

Remember all those other times you chased him down to yell at him about something? Yeah, those too. 

You roll your eyes. “It’s still true, but we’ll manage. We always do.” There’s a moment of silence, and you continue. “And you’re going where you’re needed - that helps.” 

It’s true. Your anger had cooled (just a little) overnight, and you decided you didn’t want him to leave while you were still upset with each other. 

You already miss him. 

Yes, that’s a motif and the reference in fear itself, with Haley. 

“Don’t think I’m not still mad at you.”

He looks out the window, and you can hear the wheels turning in his head. Jack is on his mind, and so are you. There’s nothing more nauseating than the thought of leaving you while you’re still hurting from Emily’s loss. “I know.” 

Why are you going through with this, Hotchner?

Oh, right. You’re a coward. 

“I just don’t want our last conversation before you leave to be a fight.” You sniff, but don’t look at him as you continue driving down the highway. 

I think this is their version of not “going to bed angry” as the saying goes. There was this fear I tried to convey that if they fought before he left and something happened to him, your last words to each other would be angry ones.

I am perhaps the most undeserving man on the planet. 

You’re also an idiot, Aaron. 

He says, “Thank you. I don’t want that either,” but he hopes you can hear what else he can’t say. 

He has the same fear - of something happening to them (because he’s never worried about himself) while he’s gone, coming home to another funeral. 

I love you. I’m sorry. 

+++

“Alright, you’ve got everything you need?” You stand next to him on the tarmac, shading your eyes from the sun. 

Aaron hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. “Think so. You gonna be alright?”

This was the first scene I saw. I so clearly envisioned the blinding sunlight in the middle of the afternoon during a Virginia spring with the two of them standing out there in a kind of isolated no-mans-land out on the tarmac. 

You nod and reach for him. He embraces you, tucking his head into your shoulder. “You be safe, Aaron Hotchner. If you die out there I’ll kill you myself.” 

He chuckles, and you hope the sound is enough to keep your heart from breaking too much over the next couple of months. Your eyes close as he presses a kiss to your cheek. This image made my heart hurt. “I’ll check in when I can.”

Shoving against his chest, you turn him around and push him toward the plane. “Get outta here.” And that, kids, is what we call emotional redirection and a repressive coping strategy!

He takes one last look over his shoulder when he reaches the ramp and offers you a wave. You return it. 

+++

You manage to get to the highway before the tears start. The only person you want to talk to is Emily. She’d know exactly what to say, and she’d make sure your days off were full of fun and good company. You pull off on the side of the road, your head falling into your hands, sobs wracking through you.

When you’re able to keep driving, your chest hurts beyond belief. 

Without her, these months seem to stretch before you forever. 

+++

“Ready or not, here I come!” You call across the apartment, sneaking through the familiar rooms with practiced ease. 

This was another one of those very clear scenes that just popped into my head. 

Aaron’s been away for close to a month, and you’ve settled into a routine. Cases, of course, keep you busy. Derek’s rather good at playing Unit Chief - decisive and collaborative - but you miss Aaron’s steady, even hand. 

Really, you miss everything about him. You try not to think about him too much. 

You fail, often. 

Avoiding thoughts of Aaron gets even harder as you creep into the master bedroom. The smell of him hasn’t left. Smell is such a strong link to memory and I just had to include that as something in this chapter of their lives. Like it’s so weird going into someone’s room, no matter how many times you’ve been there, and there’s no evidence that they’ve been there since the last time you saw them. Past the doorway, the air is spicy, masculine, and warm. You squint at the bed. One of the pillows moves, just a little, and you pounce, pulling the covers back and grabbing the wiggling pillow. 

Jack screeches and throws himself at you. You catch him and fall back on the bed, laughing. “I found you!”

Jess is off running errands for the afternoon, taking some well-earned time off. You’ll more than likely spend the night over here tonight to give her more of her weekend. It’s never any trouble to stay with Jack. You adore each other. 

I am so soft for Mom and Jack y’all.

Usually, Jack leaps right to his feet for another round, but he stays put after his fit of mirth passes, sprawling across your chest. 

“What are you thinking about over there?”

He sighs, and brings his little hands under his chin, propping his head up so he can look at you. He’s six, now - still very much a boy - but the pensive look on his face starkly reminds you of his father. Oh, don’t worry. He’ll keep doing that well into adulthood but the resemblance will only get scarier. “When’s dad going to be home?”

You push some hair off his forehead. “I’m not sure, my love. I’m hoping it’s only a couple more weeks, but it could be a little longer than that.” 

He sighs, and it breaks your heart a little. You turn on your side, and he curls into you, resting his head on your arm and tucking under your chin. Don’t worry. He’ll keep doing that, too. “Are you and my dad best friends?”

You laugh a little. “Yeah, I think so. Your dad and I have known each other for a long time.” His little hands play with the collar of your shirt. There’s more to his question. Jack’s just like his dad and takes a bit of ferreting out. Luckily, you’ve had plenty of practice. “What are you curious about, little bug?”

“Do you miss Dad?”

I always want to show that Jack feels safe with them, and can ask them harder questions without fear of judgment. 

A track of Aaron’s laugh, his smile, the way his arms feel around you flies through your head. “Yeah, I miss him a lot.” 

“I’m happy you’re here so we can miss him together.” You can almost hear Aaron’s voice in Jack’s. It sounds just like something he would say, and probably has said, talking to his son about Haley.

I love the things that kids kind of implicitly understand.

“Me too, buddy.” You kiss the top of his head. “Me too.” 

Jess returns about an hour later, groceries in-hand, to find you and Jack curled together in Aaron’s bed, snoozing the afternoon away. She snaps a picture with her phone, saving it in an album she keeps for Aaron. After she puts the groceries away, she escapes, leaving a note. 

I LOVE THESE little tableaus. And y'all know how much I like pictures. 

Did you notice that this picture comes up in mistletoe??

You’re on your own tonight and tomorrow. Have a good time with breakfast - he’s been picky lately. 

XO, Jess

+++

Back to back cases - five of them, to be exact, pull you through the next two months by the ear. Formal leadership wears on Derek more and more by the day, and you find yourself making just as many decisions as he does. That’s a fun parallel to season five!! You’re immensely proud of him, but the whole thing is exhausting. Most days feel held together by duct tape, with you and Rossi acting as the adhesive. 

Thus, your evening with Jess is both well-earned and much needed. 

“Wanna crash here tonight?” She sets a mug of tea down on the coffee table in front of you and sits heavily back on the couch. “It’s pretty late.”

You check your watch and find it is indeed late. Before you can answer, your phone rings, and you answer it with an apologetic glance toward Jess. “Hey, Morgan. What’s up?”

“We have sat call notification from Hotch. Can you come in?” He sounds exhausted. 

In real life, you don’t just get to carry sat phones around willy nilly. Satellite time is EXPENSIVE and the US Govt is FRUGAL in the extreme (when it comes to minor DoJ teams and stuff - don’t get me started on being a global police force because that’s a RABBIT HOLE)

“Yeah, I can be there in twenty. Is everything okay?”

He sighs. “Yeah, looks like a routine check-in.” 

Jess sighs, knowing the drill. She goes to the kitchen and pours your tea into a travel mug. 

Have I mentioned yet today that I LOVE Jess Brooks??

“Are you calling anyone else in?”

“Nope. Just you. See you when you get here.” He hangs up. 

You stare at your phone as Jess sits next to you again. “We have a call from Aaron coming in, and I have to head to the office.” She hands you your travel mug, and you take it gratefully. 

“You’re welcome back here - I can set up Aaron’s room for you. We’re a lot closer to the office than your place, and I don’t want you to drive if you’re too tired.” She sets a hand on your knee, and you reach over to embrace her. 

“Thanks, Jess.”

+++

When you arrive, Derek’s already on the phone. “… So, no leads?… Right.” He looks up and catches your eye. “Here, Hotch.”

You take the phone. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He sounds relieved. “Are you doing okay? How’s Jack?”

I love this moment, and I could so clearly picture some of the tension leaving his shoulders on the other end of the phone. 

His questions make you smile. “We’re good. He’s good. I just left the apartment - Jess and I were having some grown-up movie time.”

You’re warmed by his laugh. “Good. Glad to hear it. I was just telling Derek that the leads out here have gone cold, but we’re still working.”

“Ah. Any chance you’ll be home soon?” You avoid Derek’s searching gaze. 

Derek always knows something, doesn’t he?

“It doesn’t look that way, no. We’re picking up on some chatter out there, but nothing firm. We’ll have to keep out for a couple more weeks at least.”

Your heart drops, but you hide it as best you can. “Alright. Anything you need from us back here?”

“Just keep doing good work.” You know he can’t say much more than that, with more than a couple of NSA guys in between you on the line, not to mention the archival recording of the call. Both of those things actually happen, too. You can’t just say shit about shit over a sat phone. Even then, you know he means looking for Doyle. “That’s all I need from you.” 

“We can do that.” You give him a quick rundown of some recent cases, all surface-level. You’re mostly stalling, using up incredibly expensive satellite time just to hear his voice. 

You hear him sigh. “Alright, I gotta get back. Tell Jack and Jess I love them.” 

There’s also something unspoken here!! But we all knew that. 

“Of course.” You hand the phone back to Derek and wait while they finish up. Your eyes wander over the volumes of law books in Aaron’s bookshelf, the pictures of Jack and Haley and Jess behind his desk. Wandering over to his chair, you sit down and rest your head on your arms. 

Your eyes wander to a photo taken a year and a half ago at Haley’s service. You’re not sure who took it, but you’re crouched on the ground talking to Jack, while Aaron stands behind him with a hand on his head. Jack’s little hands are in yours, and he’s smiling a little. 

I am just a sucker for pictures. I know I’ve said this before, but they are such a wonderful vehicle for implicit characterization. I think, in some ways, he keeps this picture because in a kind of abstract, mournful way, it’s a photo of all four of them.

Of all the photos to keep on his desk…

Derek hangs up the sat phone and puts it back in the lockbox. He crosses the office and leans against the desk beside you, placing a hand on your shoulder. 

PHYSICAL CONTACT

+++

When you get back to the apartment (indeed much closer than your home), Jess is asleep in the guest room, and Jack’s still out like a light. 

Aaron’s bed feels far too big and far too cold without him. 

+++

The next time a sat call comes in, you can’t go into the office. Jack has the flu and is absolutely miserable. You can’t, in good conscience, leave Jess to her own devices. Between the vomit and the sleeplessness and the tears, four sets of hands are absolutely necessary. 

I think this is really one of those moments where they step into the parent role for Jack. I didn’t feel the need to explicitly note it in here, but that’s the way I approached this scene. 

“Derek, I can’t leave. Jack is literally puking his guts out as we speak, and I don’t have any new intel for Hotch.” 

Morgan huffs into the phone. “Come on. You know you’re the only one he actually wants to talk to and the only one who has any actual updates about Jack.” 

“You just have to tell him that I’m with Jack tonight because he’s got the flu. Isn’t that enough of an update?” You don’t really mean to snap at him, but the lack of sleep has made you a little punchy. 

“Fine. If he -”

“Yeah, I know. If he gets upset, just blame me. He can deal with me when he’s not in Pakistan. As long as there are twelve time zones between us, I’ll take my chances.”

“Fair enough.” 

Even though he’s Acting Unit Chief, they’re still best friends and you can tell lmao.

He hangs up, and you return to the hall bathroom, where Jack’s cheek is pressed against the toilet seat, his forehead damp and face pale. Jess is taking her turn to sleep - you’ll switch off in an hour. 

“Hey, bubba.”

He mumbles something that sounds like, “Hi.”

“Can I get you some crackers?” 

Jack shakes his head and lifts himself up, holding his arms out. The risk of illness far from your mind, you gather him up and lean against the cabinets, rubbing his back.

“Can you try to close your eyes for me?”

“I don’t feel good.” There are a few tears in his voice, and it breaks your heart a little. You’ve so been there. 

“I know, baby. I know. Just close your eyes for a minute, okay?”

He does, and his breathing evens out eventually. He’s still feverish, but you’re happy he’s sweating, at least. It could break by morning at this rate. 

The makeshift towel-bed on the bathroom floor looks more than inviting. You gingerly shuffle over and lay down, keeping Jack flat against your chest. 

This was such a hallmark of my childhood - the sleeping on towels if you had a stomach bug. I remember being so exhausted that the towels were suddenly the best thing in the whole wide world. Like....mattress who??

It’s the best sleep you’ve had in weeks. 

+++

The hardest days are the ones where you end up by yourself. Derek’s picked up kickboxing with Penelope, JJ has her family, and Rossi retreats to the cabin by the lake with an alarming degree of regularity. 

Thank God he’s not as cranky as Gideon. 

That would be too spooky. 

Any excuse to get a lil jab at Gideon in, it’s one I’m going to capitalize on.

Everyone is out of the office, scattered to their respective distractions. You sit on the floor of Aaron’s office, leaning against his desk. Your laptop sits open in front of you, playing a movie you’re only half paying attention to. 

I like this image of them just...going to the office to hang out, even on a day off. I used to do that in the theatre when I was in college. I had no reason whatsoever for being there, but it wasn’t my house so it was a nice change. 

It was only this afternoon you realized his office smelled more like Morgan’s Tiger Balm than Aaron, and it broke your heart a little. Your only solace was his apartment - the evidence of his existence was inescapable there. With Emily gone for good, you often needed the reminder. 

His office phone rings. You pause the movie, stand, and answer it. 

“Agent Hotchner’s office.” 

NSA is on the other side, dry and professional. “We have an incoming call from Agent Hotchner. Is Agent Morgan available?” 

You tell him he’s not, but that you’re the next in line to receive task force updates. In an equally dry and professional tone, you relay your credentials and your unique intel code. 

“Thank you. Please stand by.” Click. 

You roll your eyes. 

God, they’re boring. 

Sitting down at Aaron’s desk, you wait for the armed guard to arrive with the phone. As per protocol, you’ll sign for the call and remove it from the lockbox yourself. You’ll return it for pickup when the call is completed. 

The guard shows up and you step through the motions, finally getting the phone to your ear. 

“Hey.” 

“Oh, it’s you.” He sounds surprised, but not displeased. 

You laugh a little. “Yeah, it’s me. Morgan’s unavailable at the moment.” 

“I see. Is Jack feeling any better?”

Another thing I wanted to lean into in this part was the anguish Aaron must feel being so far away from Jack for so long. 

“Yeah. He’s been alright for about a week now. It was a pretty nasty bug, but he’s a trooper. Any new chatter down your way?” You trace the wood grain of his desk with your finger, only a little absent-minded. 

“There’s a little bit of activity on the border. We’re monitoring the situation. Is everything going okay over there?”

“Yeah, for the most part. We’ve been feeling the heat a little since Seaver transferred to Andy’s unit, but we’re managing alright. Dave’s called JJ back in to lend a hand, and she’s doing really well.” 

That was such a tiny detail in the show, but i realized how rough it must have been to be down like three people by the end of it. 

He hums. “That was a smart idea.” 

“I’ll tell him you said so.” 

“Oh, please don’t. It’ll go straight to his head.” 

You smile. “Fair point. Any updates on the timetable?”

When are you coming home? Please make it soon. 

“Not at the moment. I think we’re getting closer. Few more weeks.” There’s something behind his voice you can’t quite grasp, but you let it go. Again, not a singular clue means that the emotional tuning fork is broken. 

“Alright. Keep us posted.” 

“Will do. You know the drill.” 

“I sure do. I’ll relay the information to the team, tell your son you love him, and talk to you in a couple of weeks.” 

You can almost hear his smile. “Exactly. Talk soon.”

“Be safe, Aaron.” 

+++

You’re all gathered at the roundtable when Aaron walks in, looking all the worse for wear and - 

Is that a beard?

Did I make myself myself laugh with that first observation? Yes. Was it my first thought even before I could process the delight that we wouldn’t have any episodes without him the first time I saw 7x01? Yes. 

Wait. He’s back. 

You just spoke to him on Monday, with news of a “few more weeks.”

Fucking bastard knew he was coming home, didn’t he?

All of your joy in seeing him evaporates, and you narrow your eyes at him. This was that moment where I had that AHA! thing. I realized that THIS was the thing they were going to get upset about. And it’s not just the anger from right now, the anger from before comes rushing back too. Basically - he’s safe, so they can get really mad and the fear goes away. Just like the last time you were in this room together, there’s an apology in his gaze. 

“Welcome back.” Derek doesn’t sound surprised, and your head whips toward him. He doesn’t look at you. 

Unbelievable. 

“Thanks. Everyone, have a seat.” You follow Aaron’s instructions, and sit, crossing your arms. It’s childish, sure, but the balance of personal and professional life has flown out the window. Okay serious question. Was it ever in the room with y’all? 

The next part here comes straight out of the show but it was SO fun to reframe.

Collecting the dialogue and who says what is often the most tedious part of the process for the episode-linked fics, but once that’s done I have a lot of fun putting it together and linking things into the rest of the universe - pointing things out and the like. 

I always feel like y’all know so much about how I watch the show and my perspective on it with the episode fics. It’s kind of an interesting picture to me, like y’all are looking at it the way I see it. I dunno. That was a random thought. 

This feels like a personal slight, rather than a professional one. You try to push it away, but it lingers in your sternum like a lit flare. It’s uncomfortable, and you hate it. 

I’ve always found it’s really unpleasant to be mad at someone you really love. I always hate it because I don’t usually want to be mad. I wanted to lean into that feeling here. 

“Why?” Derek sounds a little concerned, and you can’t blame him. “What’s going on? Is everything alright?”

“Seven months ago I made a decision that affected this team.” You notice, brow furrowed, that JJ stands beside Hotch like an ally. They both have odd looks on their faces. “As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle.”

No. 

Reader doesn’t know what they don’t know, but they know something in their gut. I don’t think it would be too off-base to attribute it to their connection to Aaron. 

“The doctors were able to stabilize her. She was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration.” 

No. 

“Her identity was strictly need-to-know. She stayed there until she was well enough to travel. She was reassigned to Paris, where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to for her security.” 

No. 

There’s silence, and you can’t tear your eyes from Aaron.  

“She’s alive?”

“We buried her.” 

Penelope and Spencer’s comments rush past you and you feel much like you did in the waiting room on that horrible, horrible night seven months ago. 

“As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.” 

His eyes finally meet yours, and you find your vision blurred. You blink away your tears. 

It was a necessary lie. 

You go into this business expecting to be lied to. 

Not by Aaron. 

That’s not the issue and you know it. He left. 

He left us. 

THIS is exactly the conflict and why Reader can’t fully trust him. It’s very normal to have these kinds of covert operations in agencies, though they seem jarring in the context of a team that’s so close. 

It’s a weird reminder that this is still the FBI, and even though they’re family, they are colleagues and agents first. That’s an uncomfortable realization and part of me thinks that’s why Derek got so mad. 

He was so ready for the BAU to be different, to be his family. We know that Derek has HUGE issues with trust, so evidence that his family isn’t as “safe” as he thought would be have been so difficult to process. 

“Any issues?” Derek’s disbelief is marred by hurt, but you can’t reassure him through your own shock. “Yeah, I got issues.”

He’s cut off by Penelope’s glance toward the doorway. 

The team, save for JJ and Hotch, rush toward her. You’re stuck to your seat until she approaches you. At her touch, you come back to life, throwing yourself into her arms. “Emily.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.” Her grip on you is tight, but your arms, looped around her shoulders, don’t feel like they’re attached to your body. 

Y’all ever felt that buzzing feeling when there’s so much happening and everything feels like radio static? Yeah. 

She lets you go and continues to speak. Derek’s frozen, and you can’t imagine for a minute what’s going on in his head. Emily wraps around him. He’s stock still, his eyes misty. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when he brings his hand to her shoulder, his cheek falling onto the side of her head. 

It’s back to business faster than you can blink, and now you’re sure you’re not the only one ready to kill Aaron where he stands. Derek is livid. 

They stare at each other while Spencer starts asking questions. Eventually, they focus back. Aaron crosses to you, contributing where necessary. He just wants to be close because he missed them :’) Nice try, buddy. You’re in deep shit. You don’t acknowledge him. It’s horrible. You hate being so angry with him, but there’s nothing to be done. 

You can’t be upset at him about Emily. There’s too much to understand, and yet the initial shock of it is like a never-ending bucket of cold water poured over your body. 

Selfishly, you realize you’re upset with him because he didn’t tell you he was coming home. It’s so small when there are other, much bigger, issues to address. 

I also loved the opportunity to lean into such a small issue??? It was a challenge to make it big enough to be a believable blowout in mean it, but it got easier once I realized that their anger wasn’t really about Pakistan. It’s more of an activating excuse that brings all of their feelings up to the surface and it’s overwhelming!

Emily’s lie is professional. Just part of the job. This one feels personal.

You’re a child. Let it go. 

He knew and he left. 

He knew and he left. 

He knew and he left. 

He didn’t tell you he was coming home.

Whew. That was fun. Stay tuned!

[flowerfan2]

One Night in Milwaukee - Ch. 5

I’m considering changing the title to “One Night in Milwaukee (and a week in Florida)...”  Enjoy and please reblog!

David x Patrick, 15k so far, A03

Chapter 5

David takes his time showering and doing his hair.  He had thought that his run would center him, but all it took was one quick conversation with Patrick to knock him off balance.  

He wishes he could put his own clothes back on, but since everything he brought with him is either in the wash or soaked in sweat, it’s not an option.  Tying a towel around his waist, he goes into the bedroom and looks through Patrick’s suitcase.  He allows himself a satisfying eye roll at the contents – the expected button-downs in shades of blue and green, jeans that probably won’t even fit David, and a few plain t-shirts and pairs of khaki shorts.  David sighs and selects briefs, shorts, and an olive green t-shirt, a nondescript fashion choice that would make his mother weep.  At least he’ll only have to wear them for an hour or so until his own clothes come out of the dryer.

He finds Patrick in the kitchen, hovering next to the island.

“I made eggs,” Patrick says, sliding a plate towards him.

“Thanks.”  The eggs are just like David likes them, with a sprinkle of salt and pepper, and a piece of toast on the side.  David recognizes the wheat bread he bought yesterday on his trip to the grocery store, somewhat bland but decent enough given the heaping of butter Patrick has spread on it.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, until the stress of it is too much for David to take.

“These are good.”

“It’s just scrambled, we didn’t have any cheese-”

“I can go to the store again, I didn’t know what you’d want-”

“You don’t have to do that,” Patrick says.  “You didn’t have to go in the first place.”

“So I shouldn’t have?”

“No, no, it was great that you did…” Patrick catches David’s gaze, and they both sigh.  “Why is this so awkward?” Patrick asks, taking their now empty plates and putting them in the sink.

“I don’t know, maybe because it’s been a long time, and things are different, and we both want everything to work out?  But there’s no guarantee.” David stands up and waves his hands at the neat little kitchen and the safe tan sofa with its blue and white pillows and the “Home Sweet Home” sign on the wall with an outline of the state of Florida.  He’s not sure he’s ever felt so out of place.  “And this is not somewhere I ever expected to be, and I really don’t know what to do with it.”

Patrick nods, that sadness coming over his face again, and it makes David want to strangle someone.  Not Patrick, never Patrick.  But whoever was responsible for taking his good, decent button and making him sad.

<i>It was you, you asshole,</i> his unhelpful brain tells him, and isn’t that just the worst.

“Want to see the pool?” Patrick asks, and although David can see it perfectly well from here, he figures it can’t hurt.  At least the screens will keep the alligators away.

They go outside, and the warmth of the sunshine surprises David. It’s gotten hotter even in the past hour since he was outside.  It may be late November, but this part of the world hasn’t gotten the message.  He wanders over to the pool and dips his toes in, then sits down by the steps in the shallow end and puts his feet in the water.

Patrick comes over and lowers himself to the concrete, David reaching out automatically to give him something to brace himself against.  When Patrick starts to put his feet in David stops him with a hand to his ankle, carefully rolling up one leg of his jeans and then the other.  David’s knuckles brush against the wiry hairs on Patrick’s leg as he neatly cuffs each pant leg.  He wants to roll Patrick’s shirt sleeves up, too, reveal more of his lovely forearms, but it seems a step too far.

“Thanks.”

“Wet jeans are an abomination,” David comments.

“Kind of like you wearing my khaki shorts?”  Patrick’s mouth quirks up in an attempt at a smile, and David’s heart lifts.

“Nice.  Just a few minutes again you said I looked good.”

The hint of a smile disappears, as David’s words fail to land the way he meant.  “I’m sorry, David, am I supposed to apologize for that?  I don’t understand why it upset you.  You do look good.  Clearly you’ve been working out – aren’t you allowed to be pleased with the outcome?”

David squeezes his eyes closed and leans his head back.  “Yes?  But…” He’s not sure how to explain it.  “It’s not about vanity, or, appearance.  I know that probably sounds fake, coming from me,” he opens his eyes and looks at Patrick, who is gazing back as patient and open as ever, “but it’s true.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, clearly waiting for David to fill in the blanks.  David had hoped a discussion about this particular part of his recent history could have been put off, possibly indefinitely, but it’s feeling like one of those moments when he’ll regret it if he brushes it off again.  And maybe opening up will get Patrick to do the same.

“I was pretty depressed, after we broke up,” David says, running the tips of his fingers through the water, watching the ripples spread across the surface of the pool.  “Couldn’t get out of bed, lost interest in everything… you know how it goes.”  He’s not sure Patrick does, but he can’t help but try to make light of it, as awful as it was.  It’s hard to really focus on those months, the drag of gray haze that wouldn’t clear.  “Eventually I started seeing a therapist.”

“You mentioned that,” Patrick says, and David relaxes a fraction, because he had forgotten.  Maybe this won’t be that hard, then.  It hasn’t chased Patrick away yet.  

“Right.  Well, he recommended a bunch of stuff to try, including exercising regularly, and I resisted at first-”

“Obviously,” Patrick says.

David glares up at Patrick, who’s got his best trolling face on, deliciously familiar, and suddenly spilling his guts doesn’t seem so embarrassing anymore.  “Anyway, once I started, it wasn’t so bad.  Despite what I once told you about running… it worked for me.”  That and laying off the alcohol.

“That’s great, David.”

“Well, Alexis says I just replaced one obsession with another.”

“Is that so bad, when it’s a healthy one?”

“You didn’t have to put up with me when I couldn’t go out for a run because of crappy weather, or inconveniently scheduled vendor meetings.”

There’s a hitch in the rhythm of their banter, and Patrick takes David’s hand in his.  “I wish I did.  I wish I was there.”

David feels his chest tighten, and he gives Patrick’s hand a squeeze.  “Me too.”

They sit there with their feet in the water, like little kids in a backyard wading pool.  There’s no breeze to speak of, but it’s not completely quiet.  The sound of the highway a few streets away provides a bit of background noise, and a weird bird keeps making a strangled chirpy sound from a hedge on the side of the house.  

David’s past encounters with Florida involved multi-million-dollar yachts, tanned supermodels, and free-flowing booze and drugs, not this strange version of suburbia.  He imagines this house sitting empty for most of the year, waiting for its owners to come and visit.  How many of the cookie cutter three-bedrooms in this neighborhood are empty right now?  How many swimming pools are noticed only by the staff who come by weekly to clean them and make sure nothing has crawled into the filters and died?

“This water’s probably terrible for your skin,” David says, and Patrick looks at him in mild confusion.  “Because of all the chemicals.”  

Patrick shrugs.  “I guess.”

“There are chemicals in here, right?”

“I don’t know, which would upset you more – the amount of chlorine dumped in here or the water being left in its natural state?”

David pulls his feet out of the water and stretches his legs to the side, the concrete warm on his heels.   “I’m honestly not sure.  But maybe we shouldn’t take any chances.”

Patrick stands up, leaning hard on David’s shoulder as he goes.  “Wait here.  I’ll be right back.”

David stays put, although now that he’s thinking about what might be in the pool water he wouldn’t mind rinsing off and applying some lotion.  Or some hand sanitizer.

Patrick comes back out of the house with an armload of cushions and drops them onto the lounge chairs by the other end of the pool.  “Come help me set these up.”

It only takes a moment to unfold the brightly patterned cushions and tie them into place (ah, there’s the Hawaiian floral, David thinks to himself).  While David is arranging the loungers to his liking, facing the sun, Patrick comes back with two bottles of water.  David twists off the top and rinses his feet while Patrick squawks at him.

“What?  Was that not what this was for?”  He tries not to smile.

“David.  That water was to drink.  There’s an outdoor shower over there.”  Patrick points to the side of the house, then seems to regret his decision.  “But don’t walk out there without shoes, okay?”

“What, will the baby alligators nip at my toes?”

Patrick grins at him.  “No, but the fire ants will.”

“What the hell kind of place is this?”

“It’s just nature, David.  As long as you wear shoes in the grass, you’ll be fine.”

“I feel like the state of Florida must have had some really good marketing professionals along the way.  Alexis should get a job with them.  They’ve managed to convince people that this pest-ridden swampland is worth something.”

“Arguably that is kind of what happened.  You know Disney World was built on reclaimed swampland, right?”

“I did not know that.”

“Anyway, this neighborhood isn’t all there is.  Give me another day to rest up, then I’ll show you around.”

Another day to rest isn’t really going to cut it, David thinks, watching Patrick wince as he eases himself down in the chair.  He wonders again what Patrick had in mind when he made his escape to the sunshine state, which brings them right back to the conversation Patrick keeps avoiding.

“Patrick, how long, exactly, are you planning on staying here?”  David asks, hoping that the direct approach might actually get him an answer.

Patrick stares up at the sky.  “I don’t know.”

Patrick’s hair looks like polished copper in the sunlight, but David tries not to let it distract him.  “How much time can you take off from work?” David presses.  “Or are you working remotely doing… whatever you are doing now?”

Patrick takes a long gulp from his water bottle, then stares at his feet.  “I’m unemployed.  I lost my job about a month ago,” he says bitterly.

“Oh.”  David is surprised, to say the least, especially by Patrick’s tone.  He’s always seemed like he would be the ideal employee, eager to please and determinedly hardworking.  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah.  Well, after you piss off a major customer, it’s hard to convince your employer to retain you.”

“It can’t have been that bad.  I don’t think I can imagine you pissing off a customer.”

“It was, and I did.”

“What on earth did you do?”

“Do you really want to know?”

David sits up and squints at Patrick, no longer enjoying the sun on his face. He doesn’t even have sunglasses with him, a major miscalculation. “Yes, of course.”

Patrick leans back and closes his eyes.  “I was working as an account manager at a software company.  It was boring as hell.  Sales, mostly, skating by with just enough technical knowledge about the product to capture the customer’s interest, and then serving as the liaison between the customer and the tech guys who actually knew what they were doing.  But I kept screwing things up, and when the customers would want to know why the contract didn’t have the terms they wanted, or why I was taking so long to get back to them, I just didn’t have the patience to deal with it.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

Patrick opens his eyes and looks at David, and he looks almost as bewildered as David is.  “No, it doesn’t, does it?”

David has the feeling there’s more to this story, but Patrick doesn’t elaborate, and all David really wants to do is give him a hug.

“You know, I have a feeling you don’t have an ounce of sunscreen on.  You’re going to be bright red if we stay out here any longer.”  David stands up and holds out a hand to Patrick, then slides his arm around his back to pull him up.  When they’re both upright, he loops his arms around Patrick’s neck and pulls him close.

Patrick presses his face against David’s neck.  “I’m a mess, David,” he says, his breath hot on David’s skin.  “I don’t know what happened to me.”

“I think we’ve both been a little lost,” David says, holding Patrick tight.  “But I know what will fix it.”

“Yeah?”  There’s an almost pathetically hopeful note in Patrick’s voice.

“Absolutely.”

“What?”

“Running.  Miles of it.  Every day.  It’s a miracle drug.”  David is struggling to keep up his serious tone, and not quite succeeding.

Patrick chokes out a laugh, pressing a hand against his ribs.  “I don’t think I’m quite up for running yet.”

“Well fine, then, you’ll just have to watch me do it.  It’s almost as good.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Patrick says, and kisses David soundly.  David hesitates for a second and then enthusiastically participates, and they are both breathing heavily by the time they pull apart.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what brought that on?” David asks as they go inside, the shade welcome after the bright sunshine.  He keeps a hand on Patrick as they go, not so much to make sure he doesn’t fall over but because he doesn’t want to lose this connection, now that he’s found it again.

Patrick takes hold of David’s waist, his eyes on David’s brighter than they’ve looked in days.  “You.  I thought I was dreaming, sometimes, remembering how much I liked you – loved you, too, but just fucking liked you.  But I wasn’t.”

“I’m the best,” David says, half-joking, but there’s a familiar happiness bursting inside his chest.

“You are, David.  You really are.”

[commonalex]

future ready

future ready by common alex

Listen/download: future ready by common alex

It was around three months after I've been fired. I didn't dare to talk about it much, but it wouldn't that much of a mystery for someone to figure out why the short chick with the plaited hair isn't on the cash register giving wrong change to the old ladies anymore. To be perfectly honest, I was pretty devastated that I managed to fail even at working at the supermarket, where all you needed to get a grip was knowing how to count, wearing an "Olga" tag like a war medal, and acting like everything's okay at all times. Maybe that's why I ended up sneaking into it like a thief that day, out of stubbornness. It was the last sense of routine I had while everything was going under outside the window.

I could barely get out the bed before four in the afternoon. And when I did, all I had planned was dragging my body before the tv to catch some telemarketing and dumb commercials until the sun was out again and I successfully forgot who I am and what I'm going through. Because what other choices did I have really? For the last two years I was jumping from one dead end job to the next, either until I get fired or until I quit. I was leaving on benefits and a sad amount of savings, and I was starting to accept the fact that this would be my life from now on. Like, what else did I really have to rely on? Studies? Big deal, the world wouldn't end with just one english teacher less. Friends? Don't get me started. Family? All I was left with was a mother with a mission to make me feel horrible every time we spoke on the phone because I wasn't bothering to go see her. But even if I did, what would I have to say to her? I was mentally collapsing. So I said "leave it for now" and kept the thought pushed back for later. That's the reason why on that particular day I didn't pick up whenever my mom was ringing this cherry ericsson I had at the time. It wasn't like I really needed to answer, I already knew everything by heart.

"Have you seen how this girl you used to hang out at school does lately, Olga?".

No, mom, I haven't. It's been like ten years since I finished school.

"She's studying this thing you used to like, she got settled, she even has her own house".

Well done for her I guess, and?

"And you?".

I don't know what the hell I'm doing with my life anymore, mom.

"But don't you ever think about your future?".

My long awaited future, huh? What a glorious future that was. It was so good, half of the people I used to know didn't make it halfway through.

Outside things were a bit more casual that the deep existential turmoil that was described by the news at the time, yet I was indeed shocked by that eerie amount of silence that was stretching through the cold winds that was piercing my purple coat. I could hear a tv screaming from two blocks away and the screeching roars of the phone lines echoing around the city, but there was barely any human voice left. I was only catching some mumbles and grunts here and there as I was jumping out of fear every time I had to turn around a corner. So it was just like everyday Athens, only with a little more of snow and fear of getting mugged. My social atrophy made me feel like I was being chased as the surrounding landscape was rapidly being stripped from anything that was reminiscing of a typical day. Like, that was the first time I ever saw people looting kiosks and butcher shops. I only managed to see like three to five people with their backs hunched, covering their faces while carrying those huge gray tv screens with the vhs player still attached or fifteen bags of chips, with their eyes moving around uncontrollably. All I had in my mind seeing these scenes was the word "brutalization". Maybe because all this time I wasn't fully aware of what was going on, or maybe because the news told the truth for once.

I snuck from the side door where the staff entrance was, because all the glass on the front of the supermarket was smashed to pieces and I didn't like the thought of my hands sliced open. It was a mess on the inside and the aisles stood empty like sad metal canyons. People must have broke in trying to get all the toiler paper and canned foods left in the previous weeks. From the expired milk bottles at the back to the unstoppable static noise of the refrigerators in front of me, there were all those special little touches to make me feel like I was working in this hole of a job again. And no, I did not bother searching for supplies. Instead, I walked around like I was out shopping with my mom, opening the boxes of the diabetes flavored cereal that no one bother to take, just to steal their toys. I also found a bunch of unopened boxes of the supermarket's very own faux chocolate milk (yes, the one with the dark industrial waste left on the bottom) that was probably expired as well. But, I was a lady, right? So I took some of them to the cash register, because Olga ain't no petty thief. I got around my place of work and scanned the bottles to find out that they cost something less than three hundred and seventy-five million. "Luckily, I don't have to calculate any change now", I thought. Never before have I ever experienced such relief while being there. I was sitting in the same place I was rotting for hours before the world turned to shit, and I was patiently waiting for a huge line of old ladies to pop out of nowhere just to ruin my vibe with their pension money bills. I almost started to miss all of those stuff. This must meant that things have really turned to shit.

The new millennium have begun just like any other year, against the disappointment and secret eagerness of some people. All that screaming about the revelation, the second coming of Satan, the aliens, and the revolution of the machines faded miserably as the days went by and absolute destruction was not to be seen. Yet, at least. Because the first planes that crashed mid-flight in South Africa and Indonesia didn't appear before the end of January, but all were like "okay, technical problems". And when missiles were accidentally landing on Iraqi cities, people were like "well, what to do, technical problems yet again". Only when the bank deposits got erased people started to cry and run like headless chickens. Young people now would call me cynical, but you had to be there to see it. It was crystal clear that people had all of their hopes and dreams for tomorrow stored into a single digit of a computer. A kind of tomorrow which was now failing to promise anything anymore in front of millions of simultaneous personal bankruptcies. Then the reactors in Italy exploded due to a system failure and tomorrow officially died. This tomorrow that we were told would bring everything to us, from cancer treatments to all of Britney's music stored in a tiny mini-disc. From flying cars to underground metros. From huge tv screens for each living room to the giant digital information highway better know as the INTERNET. Nowadays all of these sound so silly, but the pain in the faces of people from the betrayal of their dream did not seem to go away. Until mid-February, everyone lost their minds. Those who saw all of this coming ran away in fear of the new Chernobyl to leave the rest of us behind to die. Shops, services, offices, all ceased to have any actual reason to exist in from of the impending disaster. All you could see around anymore were padlocks, deflated bodies on the street from people that couldn't take it anymore, and some shadows of people left to wander like animals while pretending to be alive. Maybe that's why the tv was constantly playing commercials and other irrelevant bullshit during all of this, it was the last useful thing they could show to the people that were preparing for the grand finale.

But that grand finale wasn't so tangible for me. Everyone had this type of end predetermined, but this panic of theirs seemed more like a slightly less shallow version of the preexisting self-preservation to me. I wasn't convinced by those who screamed that the world was over simply because it already happened to their world. Like, just as Rome wasn't built in one day, their illusions weren't shattered overnight. I mean, at that time the supermarket was filled with those obnoxious promotional banners featuring the new slogan that was everywhere lately, before things change for the worse. They had the "FUTURE READY" catchphrase in large white letters that spread noisy and ridiculous lacking any particular meaning as everything was collapsing. What future exactly was that slogan referring to? The future in general, as a concept of time and space? They wouldn't have thought that out that much. Was it the future of humanity from now on? I wouldn't be so concerned for this with all those rich fucks that had already kissed as goodbye from their shelters, we were far from being extinct and in maybe less that ten years we could wake up with someone like Will Smith ruling the world. No, the catchphrase probably meant that future with the flying cars and the internet. The future only fools would believe it would come (and yes, people actually believe that). That future we lost just as fast as we were promised for it.

So in short, we were crabs in a bucket, pulling each other down in excruciating depths. This wasn't living nor surviving; we more or less kept on functioning like bio-robots with depression. But for me, things weren't looking so grim. "Look at me", I would say, "I reached twenty-nine and haven't done crap to be proud of, I drink expired chocolate milk and I'm secretly glad the world is ending because every day was borderline unbearable for me anyway, so how good would the future be for someone like me?". Nowadays the denial of any form of reality in this reasoning stands out, but at that moment I was reaching redemption. I was now reassured by the thought of the end, acting like a barrier that could block this endless loop that was running relentlessly against me. "So finally", I said to myself, "let's calm down once and for all". I was spinning around in the cashier's chair like a silly kid and was finishing up the bottles of milk like there's no tomorrow, while convincing myself that once everything goes to hell, my torment is over.

My phone’s vibrating through my coat cut me off the carefree twirling around my craziness. "Mom" was flashing on the screen again, but by that point I couldn't be bothered for explanations. Still, the dialogue kept running automatically like a script inside my head.

"I just can't get you. Do you keep on acting unbothered by the world? Even now? Who are you trying to convince anymore, Olga? Me? Because I know you have roughened up out of fear".

Well, truth is I was actually fearing you would start with that kind of shit again.

"You are getting more and more difficult to talk to. You are basically denying something we both clearly see at this point".

We seem to say the same exact thing, ain't that something? I guess I was kinda doomed from the start to be and look just like you.

"You really do me dirty with all these conclusions you're drawing out of anger".

Okay, so what? Did you get upset?

"Why are you angry at me, Olga? Can I hear you say it, just for once?"

I don't have the time for this thing again, mother, I need to enjoy my remaining days over here.

"How much do you think this will last for you? When will you stop stalling and start looking after you and your future again, Olga?"

What future do I have, really, are you kidding me?

-Are you talking to yourself, ma'am?

I almost slipped out of the chair. I had never experienced such horror before. I was barely held off the bench to help me  get up again slowly with my heart sinking to my stomach, only to see a little girl with plaited pigtails looking at me half-frightened. She wasn't over nine years old, judging by the face and the childish dress she wore under this puffy purple coat.

-Why are you here? Where are your parents?

-Over here, come and take a look! But mom told me not to talk to strangers!

That of course made zero sense to me. Just like it made zero sense for a child to be left alone in a destroyed supermarket with the sun setting outside. I asked for the girl's name, nothing. I asked again, she hid her puzzled frown behind her pigtails trying to playfully imitate my posture with her hands on my waist.

-I'm Olga, I work here. And you?

She started to say something and suddenly changed her mind, running like hell to the back. I was confused thinking how would I look like to someone who saw me chasing a little girl in there, but then I reminded myself that probably nobody would be left to live to the end of this month, so I wouldn't be considered crazy for too long. I began running under the flickering ceiling lights and with each step I had to swallow my vomit. This little girl felt sorry for me in the end and stopped to wait for me at the end of the far right aisle, leaving one sleeve of her huge coat to stick out on purpose. I approached with an awkward smile and glanced at the strange grace she had on her face, with those weird baby hair that can't be caught for nothing in plaits pointing upwards. Despite my awkwardness, the girl stood unworried and expressionless as if I put her on timeout. I asked her name again. She slips away from a second time and runs like the wind, squealing something at lime while zigzagging the aisles.

-You should probably pick it up!

My phone was stabbing my pocket. It was "Mom" yet again, but I really wasn't in the mood for "Mama". I had to pick up my lungs from the floor at the top of my priorities, because this little devil wasn't running but galloping like a damn horse. I finally caught up with her in the aisle with the products of the day and tightly grabbed her by the shoulders. The little devil screamed and was banging her feet in pain. My hands had been too coarse for people after all this time.

-Hey, ma'am, did you get angry? I was just playing with you.

-I'm don't have time to play right now, please go to your mom.

-But I told you, My mom's right here.

"Where is "here"?

With just one finger sticking out of the sleeve, she pointed to the right middle shelf at the end of the aisle. She put her finger before her mouth to stop me from talking and I followed her on tiptoes. When we approached the end of the aisle and my eyes got used to the darkness I saw a woman laid inside the empty shelf. She was in her sixties and wearing an old black nightgown with holes on it. From her short hair down to her nails, there were ice flakes stuck everywhere as if she was just found buried in the snow. Her face with her eyes closed was carrying such an expression of pain and torment. I was so weirded out that something made me want to follow those ice streams that filled her skin's scratches with my fingers, however her body felt so stiff I jumped back. She looked more like a porcelain doll than an actual person.

-Ma'am Olga? Are you alright?

I threw up all the chocolate milk I drank. My body got the chills and my teeth were trembling so much that my breath was coming out in sharp puffs in front of the flickering lights of the refrigerators. I must have look like shit, because I scared the little girl for good and made her get five steps back from me while I was going crazy and trying to clear my eyes from the shock.

-Why is she here?

-Nobody wanted her. Nobody called to take her.

I didn't pay much attention. I pulled out my cherry ericsson to call for help, but the chaotic hum of the phone lines echoed in the aisle before I even put the phone to my ear.

-Who put her here?

She was just staring at me. I asked again and again. She let her lower lip half open. I grabbed her by the shoulders like before and she pulled out a choked scream due to my clumsiness. She started crying and feeling loose in my hands. It was then that I felt like something broke inside me and I crawled away from her because she would pass out in any second just by looking at the state that I was. I sat on the floor watching her wipe her tears from a distance, all while fixing her plaits and stressfully straightening the dress inside her coat. Every now and then she would throw these incoherent excerpts from conversations that seemed weirdly familiar, waiting for me to remember the answers I had given to each of the discussions. I felt sick, like my insides would explode at any moment. My mind was working overtime and I started seeing red. I understood, but I did not want to accept it.

"But how?" I was saying again and again. I can't just live through this stuff. I was thinking that maybe that's it, we are officially past this tomorrow. Maybe that was the end of the world and the time I had at my disposal. Only instead of cloud islands or pits with flames I was stuck inside this supermarket with a little girl and a dead woman. Was this fitting? Not really. It might be considered symbolic, but still not at all subtle. That's why I was stuffed with anger and distress. I couldn't digest what to feel after all that I saw. And what was the meaning of all of this? To make me feel remorse? To help me maybe? But how? So many questions hanging above my head I began to feel like I was melting from the uncertainty. Luckily, the little girl found some courage to pick me up from the floor.

-You still don't recognize her, do you?

-I recognized her just fine the first time.

-Are you sure, ma'am Olga?

-I don't know, what do you say?

-You tell me.

-We have to get out of here, kiddo. We can't get through it like this. Even now, with everything else going to hell with us.

-Do you really want me to come with you?

-I don't know. Maybe I want to, maybe I should.

The phone started screaming again. It was dimming "Mama" with small flakes of ice filling its broken tiny screen. The girl bent down and put this in my palm with no emotion on her face. I answered it. I waited for an eternity so thin you could fit it inside a moment like this. "Hello? Mom?". Eventually the same confusing static noise creaked from the other side of the call, and I stuck there waiting through the buzzing to find her smoker's coughing that she used to do before starting to complain about how I constantly forget about her. Waiting just to tell her that I was here, I was fine, and the world might not end there. Maybe, somewhere, somehow, there's even some future we can fit in it.

-So are we ready now, ma'am Olga?

-Ready for what?

She pointed at the banner hanging from the ceiling.

-Future ready.

I didn't catch my mother's voice at the other end of the line, of course. I hung up and weakly threw the phone on the shelf where the woman was laying, just to hear its dying snout. This felt way more fitting.

-Nah, not really. But it probably does not matter right now.

-But. I'm scared.

-I'm scared too, being in here and all.

-So when will we be back? When everything was normal again?

-"Normal" may no longer exist. We'll just have to see. For now, get up.

-You know better, ma'am.

-Ma'am my ass.

The little girl glanced just once at the self with the phone on and continue to walk with me, with her palm lost and warmed up somewhere inside my own palm. An analog clock on the wall pointed somewhere after nine o clock and the sky was bruised from the clouds that were pouring snow on everything around us. I put my hand with hers in the pocket of the miserable purple coat and lifted our hoods to escape the cold on the way home. I don't really remember how long we walked with our backs hunched over somewhere between the white and the gray. I only recall that we took the long way home, like a punishment of some sorts.

Thinking that I would never hear again the saltiness in my mom's voice was my most bitter torment. I never thought of such a possibility. I always had in the back of my mind that she would find a way to defy any rule of the universe, just so she could care for me. That's science fiction, after all. It seems I was holding on to my illusions for so long, so waking up hurts like hell even today. And if my mom died, I believe she must've left with that pain and concern during her last moments. "Look at me now", I catch myself saying here and there "I avoided her only until I had to mourn her". Until then, the only thing I had on my mind was working on what I should say when I would get asked about her, only to answer that we "fell off" with no emotion. What exactly happened to fall off with her would be like unnecessary little details. Still, to this day, that's exactly what I tell people when it's being brought up. I can't talk about it without sinking in remorse. I can't get the right words to come out anymore, not even by force.

Of course I tried to find her. Especially with the years that were to come upon me, I needed this to have my mind calibrated just to not go crazy over the batshit hysteria that was building up inside of me. Deep down, though, I knew I didn't have the courage to look at past trauma anymore, and I was secretly hoping I would never fine here. Maybe because the end of the world not coming anymore, at least as I thought it would, and now I have to live with it forever. Maybe because the worst that could have happened to me in the end was the postponement of the apocalypse. And this falls heavily on my shoulders to this day. Every day I have to justify why it was worth it to stay behind, either as punishment or by luck, trying to convince myself that there is something left to do with the leftovers of my future.

[kazbrkker]

Chapter 10: The Price of War

Chapter summary: The events of Highway of Death told from Alex's perspective. Alexis' real name is finally uncovered, and one of her captors' identity is also revealed. (3327 words)

Warnings: Hadir's betrayal, character death, flashbacks of almost death.

   "Come on, stay with me!" an unfamiliar voice bounced around her head.

Was Alexis dreaming again?

Alexis was definitely dreaming again. Which was how she knew this was reality. Because she knew when she balanced over the thin line between life and death, she would dream. Sometimes she dreamt of hungover mornings and coffee runs with Maddox and the crew, inhumane circuit laps with Mactavish and Price, or the countless times Alex talked her ears off with the desire for another tattoo.

The pain that ached all over her body, accompanied by the abnormal brush of coldness told her it was time. Time to meet your maker.

She heard this joke once, and this sure as hell was the punchline.

"...keep squeezing... hand–"

Hadir? Was... was she really dreaming? This couldn't be real.

Worse were the dreams conjured by fear. The ones that took her right back to St.Petersburg to stare down the shimmering flames. The feeling of raw flesh after endless interrogations. And the reminder of wearing her blood like a second skin. It was she never left that tiny jail cell.

Alexis remembered the crackling of the flames. It was all that filled her ears. Her captors were missing. She was in the middle of nowhere.

The fire blazed a slow path straight for her like she was the final goal to reach. It tore down wooden crates, engulfed the flimsy curtains and went straight for her. Like the fire had a mind of its own and knew it wanted her.

This was it, the end of her legacy. Her stories were etched in flesh, and her book would be the grey stone in Arlington.

The salty tears streaming down her bruised eyes should have hurt, but didn't. The roaring fire snuffed out most of the oxygen and thinned the air. Her head was growing heavier by the seconds, eventually resting it against the grimy walls.

There are worse ways to go, she tried convincing herself.

When she started to drift away, she summoned enough energy to raise a fingertip over the wall—finding her name carved into the stones. Her real name.

Maybe, hopefully, somebody would remember her.

Her dreams manifested into her sleep over time. When she dreamt of St.Petersburg, she'd wake up with her mouth gaped wipe, like she paused mid-scream. Her fingers would tremble and she'd force herself to give in to her shaking legs and remain seated. She'd whisper to herself that it was only a dream. It'll stop.

Until it didn't.

Today, with her back on the ground, eyes rolled back, Alexis dreamt again.

The worst wasn't knowing she was going to die—that was the price of war. She had long made peace with the Grim Reaper. It was knowing she finally had something to live for.

Maybe this time her dream wouldn't stop.

━━━━━━

FIVE HOURS EARLIER:

29 October 2019, 0730 "Alex" CIA with Urzik militia Darus, Urzikstan

Alex hopped off the truck, inwardly expressing gratitude that after hours, they'd finally arrived at their destination. Though the aura of a village filled with rubble and dust in its silence put him off.

Ribbons of the early sun had already splashed across cerulean blue canvas. Behind him, Alexis blew a low whistle. He turned around to discover her standing in the middle of the elevated road—looking heavenward.

"What a view. Exactly the one I pictured–" Alexis marvelled.

Alia stopped her, "You picture your death?"

"Of course. You'd be surprised how disappointing death can be."

Alex kept a blank face despite feeling his heart drop. Apparently his cold shoulder treatment was starting to draw attention—evident when Farah arched an inquisitive brow beside him.

He returned with a shrug, still nursing his anger. He was pissed to be kept in the dark about Alexis' mysterious call. Her standoffish behaviour was from an all too familiar playbook that Alexis always operated out of—the masterful art of dodging.

It was exactly what happened after St.Petersburg. Which was why Alex had to intervene before it took a turn for the worse.

"You're out of it. Anything I should know?"

"What should you know?"

Answer a question with a question.

"If you want to lie to my face, go ahead. But I won't stand here and pretend to believe you."

"For CIA, you have no idea how to deal with women." Farah nudged him up the flight of stairs.

Only then did Alex realised he was spacing out. Although that couldn't stop him from thinking about how the early sun practically bathed Alexis with a halo. "Or... I know exactly what I'm doing," he smirked, climbing two steps at a time.

Farah smacked his arm, "Ah, don't play the game, play the man. I believe that's what you Americans call it." In combat, Farah was all expressionless and cold, but when the commander was out of the field, sometimes she allowed a certain amount of lightness to grace her smiles. They bumped fists with a knowing grin.

"Zip it," behind them, Alexis knocked Alia's head loudly, "Don't even think about dying."

"They'll have their hands full with her up there," Farah mused.

He heard Alia's terrible attempt at whispering—asking Alexis what he pictured for his deathbed. The cunning young lady certainly deserved an ovation. In more ways than one, Alia really was the splitting image of a young Alexis. Another loud whisper came from the young girl. "What do you mean he's not angry! You must be blind."

Alex recalled that one particular vacation in Bali that birthed this conversation. Just the two of them laying on the beach, free of woes and war. Three years felt like a lifetime ago.

"Throw me out of a helicopter, shoot me out a canon. I want my corpse to rain from the sky."

"Go out with a bang?" Alexis sipped on her frozen margarita, laying on a beach chair unbothered by the world. "That is very you."

Surely that sounded like an exaggeration. But if Alex had it his way, he would. Unfortunately, there was already a plot in Arlington reserved for him.

"Something like a sky burial," Alexis answered for him. Flashes of her chocolate hair loose on her shoulders and sunburnt cheeks left his mind. Alex felt her eyes burn into his back. "He's... weird."

"I heard that."

Several wobbly ledges later, they reached the vantage point that overlooked the highway, Hadir passed them two custom made sniper rifles. A larger than usual smile appeared on Alexis as she geeked at the custom rifle. It was almost comical—her jumping around while donning a ridiculous head gauze. While Hadir's impressive rifle put her in a good mood, Alex suspected it was Hadir, Farah and Alia responsible for this lighter shell of Alex.

He missed this version of her—not haunted by demons of her past. Trust it to be Urzikstan to draw out this side of her again. He'd do anything to make this Alexis stay.

"I'd watch that recoil, Lexi."

Alexis flashed a smile, pushing past him, "And I'd worry about your shots, babe. Trajectory is a bastard in this wind."

He set into a prone position right beside her, getting into tune with the new rifle. Then, Alexis cleared her throat loudly, winking into her sniper scope.

"Say, this cold shoulder treatment is getting a little old..."

A second later, she fired a clean shot into a watermelon 600 yards away. Hadir rejoiced in his native language, "Your fruit killing skills are remarkable, Alexis!"

"Don't I know it," Alexis winked. He sensed her scheming face before she even wore it, "Alex, since we're out here swatting flies, what do you say to a friendly competition?"

That interested him, "What's the catch?"

"No catch," she shrugged. "One minute. Whoever shoots the most is the winner. And the loser..." There was a glint in her eyes, "Has to do anything the winner says."

His eyes landed briefly on her grinning lips before he agreed.

The playing field was set: plastic bottles, some rotten fruits and crates. His index finger rested snuggly on the trigger, head lowered to dial into the scope.

"Okay! One minute starts..." Farah paused, "Now!"

Pulling the trigger was an unconscious effort by now, a steady exhale later and in between heartbeats, he fired. Right off the bat, he shot through one plastic bottle nested across the highway. Beside him, Alexis missed her shot, mumbling about how the recoil was too strong.

"Is the prize not enticing enough?" he mused, aiming for his second trophy.

"Only if you lose," her airy laughter made it hard to suppress another smile.

Within fifty seconds, it was a tie. It came down to the final plastic bottle. It was difficult to line a shot with the sun glaring right at him. Still, Alex kept his shoulders levelled and spoke with confidence, "Any last words?"

"You first."

Exhale.

Shoot.

Heart hammering in his chest, they watched collectively as the single bullet tore through the plastic bottle, leaving a gaping hole in its wake.

"And that's how it's done!"

Alex tilted back to reach Hadir's high-fives. "My brother, your biggest fan," Farah smiled.

For someone who lost a bet, she didn't play the role. With a charming smile, Alexis' fingers snaked the curve of his wrist. Alex pretended she didn't just jolt him awake with a simple touch, "So. What am I supposed to do?"

"I know just the thing," a brash grin slipped back onto Alex's face, thinking how he had more luck than skills. Or maybe it was an added motivator.

━━━━━━

Everything went wrong quick and fast.

When Price radioed with news, they expected the Wolf to scramble their way. What they didn't expect was Barkov's company.

Alexis split from the group, taking main overwatch at the next building beside them. Her injuries worried him. But their promise to inexplicably trust each other in the field triumphed his concerns. An enemy sniper across the highway was picking Farah's army off one by one. And Alexis... "Dropped his ass!"

That's my girl.

Winking into his own scope, he burst the tires off a suicide truck with a single shot. The one upside about this shit show was that Barkov's army helped clean up the Wolf's men for them.

He dodged back into cover just in time when a bullet whizzed past him. Shit, they found him. Farah panicked, "We need help! Where is Captain Price?"

"Won't make it in time! We need a Hail Mary for these fuckers!" Alexis shouted over the crossfire.

He spared a quick glance to check on her. In the blinding sunlight, her hair turned into a colour that reminded him of bitter tea. Several stray pieces of hair stuck against her sweaty neck. Alexis was still holding her weight, but it was obvious she was growing weary.

But no amount of energy could change the fact that they'd be boxed in by the enemies soon. And Farah and Hadir had too much honour in their cause to retreat. Alexis was right, they needed an ultimatum.

"I've got more firepower in the truck! Alexis, cover us! And Alex, follow me!" Hadir nudged him. Alex left the rifle at his nest and dropped down the ladder to follow Hadir.

"Hadir! Please tell me you have a big enough stone!" Alexis yelled past the gunfires.

"The biggest, sister! They won't know what hit them!" He followed Hadir in and out of different houses.

Without warning, a spray of bullets burst through the battlefield. Alex didn't think much of it until Farah yelled Alexis' name in a state of manic. His first instinct was to charge back in their direction, but Hadir kept a death grip on his forearm, reminding him they only had a small window to make this work.

This better fucking work, Alex thought. Dying on the Highway of Death would be too prophetic.

"My truck is full of explosives, very powerful explosives, it's time to use them! Open the tailgate, quickly! I'll cover us! Open it, Alex!"

The truck held canisters of– "Russian gas?" The entire time Alexis and he spent looking for leads of the stolen gas...

Hadir stole them?

"Yes! And now we send it back to them!"

It was too late. The tremors of an explosion, the screamings. They were lucky not to be swept in the explosion radius, but from the green gas that now terrorised the air, that was the least of Alex's worries. Soldiers irregardless friend or foe, doubled over to cough their lungs out. Blood sprayed ruthlessly in the air before they collapsed.

"You said we needed a big enough stone. This is it, Alexis!"

"No... No no no! Not like this–" Her sentence cut off.

Alex was on autopilot at this point, blindly following Hadir back into a house. Only Farah yelled through the comms, but it was radio silence from Alexis.

Please be okay. Although the raw coughs outside the bunker made him feel foolish for harbouring hope.

The gas worked quick, already blurring his vision. His head spun wildly and his throat scratched. The deadweight of his combat vest alone was enough to make him flop like a raggedy doll. His weakness fed his panic. Alex held onto the bunker's walls with every bit of strength still inside him.

Alexis, he recited over and over again. Alexandra Ward.

Bring her home.

Find her. Find her. Find her.

If Alex hoped the incantation could hold power for him, he was greatly mistaken. One step forward, he crumpled down the floor like an abandoned puppet.

"Hadir–" Alex's vision floated in and out, unable to see Hadir. He briefly registered a new weight over his face. A gas mask. Alex slurred through his words, "Alexis... Find..."

He fought against losing consciousness, not knowing when Farah ended up in the bunker, but only knew she was alone. "Alexis!" he weakly tried their comms again.

Fuck, stay the fuck awake. Not like this.

He channelled all the remaining energy he had, however little. He didn't stop, not even when his breathing slowed, his vision now appearing in phases, or his urge to vomit his guts out. Frantic, he reached for anything he could get his hands on–

His fingers flexed, not even able to feel the texture of leather of his gloves. All he could do was that, and blink to keep himself awake. Hadir was mumbling incoherently about something, not wearing even an ounce of regret from the mere silvers of sight Alex peeked through.

Hadir ran out the door like a coward. Some part of him prayed for the shred of Hadir's humanity to find Alexis.

Alex swore he saw the sun outside melt away, turning his world blue in twilight. His last thoughts were about a certain Bali sky.

━━━━━━

The buzzing of a helicopter shocked him awake. Alex shot up immediately, realising they were still in the bunker. It was deadly quiet, too quiet. Then he realised it was just his blocked hearing.

His world still swirled on its own axis when Price and Kyle came running in. Staring blankly when Price shouted something he didn't understand.

Alexis. The fog in his brain cleared. He kneeled his way over to the unconscious women who laid beside him. Using all his might, he propped her into his lap, fear-stricken when blood stained his hands.

Where did that come from? He hurriedly wiped the molten blood off her head, finding the opened stitches to be the root source.

"Holy shit, captain," Kyle deadpanned, a face full of dread, "This is bad."

Price wasted no time before scooping Alexis up and away to the helicopter.

Alex was thankful for Price who supported the weight he most definitely couldn't: the weight of Alexis dying in his arms.

━━━━━━

It must have been only a few hours of solitude Alex had since they returned to base. Laswell sent all of them to medical immediately—and Alex answered with a clean bill of health. He might be out of the woods, but his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

An unmistakable voice roared outside his ward, followed by someone yelling. He cursed loudly when his eyes snapped open. Did everything have to be white and smell of ammonia?

When his door swung open, he immediately shoved his trembling hands into the sanctuary of the hospital gown's pockets. In his doorway, his glazy vision told him someone was propped up by two other figures. Once his vision finally registered who she was, he bolted over. Much like him, she had an IV drip in toll.

Alex caught her by the waist when she faltered. "Farah," he gave her a once-over, "They cleared you?"

The commander nodded, stepping into his room with feeble steps. Although Alex suspected Farah's ashen face wasn't the result of the toxic gas. He passed her the tray of hot porridge that sat idly on his table.

His hands dropped when Farah eyed it in concern. He cleared his throat, jerking his head to the tray. As expected, Farah rejected it too.

"I'm sorry, Farah," he started, tracing the IV needle embedded in his forearm. For strange reasons, it calmed him. "Hadir..."

"Is my brother," Farah said sharply, "I should have known..." Alex rushed to her defence, but Farah raised her voice in both sadness and anger, "No Alex, I should have known. It is my job as his sister. Hadir was losing faith in the militia, but I pretended not to see it."

Alex averted his sight away. Unsure what to say to comfort Farah. He couldn't begin to understand, nor did he want to pretend he could. Farah rubbed an exasperated hand over her face, "Hadir killed most of my men. And..." Her voice wavered, eyes shining brighter under the blinding fluorescent lights.

"Alia," he said on her behalf.

How did everything go sideways so fast? Five hours ago, all of them were squeezed in the back of a truck, wind in their hair and laughter in their words. Alexis had promised Alia to a hamburger after this shitty war passed, because the war-torn girl had never seen one, let alone tasted one.

"Hadir will pay." Again, Alex remained silent. What could be worse than hunting your own brother? "And if Alexis... doesn't make it..."

Alex sighed, still rubbing circles around his IV. Farah's words all but gutted him.

Alexis tried going back for Alia, which prolonged her exposure. Her open wounds sent her condition from dangerous to life-threatening. The ringing in Alex's ears was so loud but he managed to hear something about chlorine poisoning.

Alex tiredly pressed his palm against his eyes, trying to force the memory of Alexis' rigid body out of his mind but only received another vision of her intubated with an oxygen ventilator. "The Cipro and antitoxin are a wild shot. They're more worried about the fluid in her lungs."

To Alex's surprise, Farah picked up the bowl of porridge to eat. The smallest of smiles tugged across her lips and somehow it made Alex feel much better. "I have no doubt she'll wake in a few hours. She's a tough one."

Alex remained silent.

"Maybe we should try dangling that forsaken ration pack she loves," Farah tried to joke, but her tone felt otherwise. A few seconds later, she continued, "Alexis survived worse. She will pull through."

Was Farah talking about St.Petersburg? It almost slipped his mind that she was the reason for Alexis' safe return. Well, her and... Hadir.

Hadir's betrayal would break Alexis... If Alia's death wouldn't.

Maybe guilt encouraged Farah to supplement the gaps in Alex's understanding, but she explained everything. From the burning house, Alexis' threatening to leave, to how she delivered Alexis safely to St.Petersburg. Whatever Alex knew was from the mission report, the gruesome details blacked out for clearance. The way she described Alexis' injuries induced nausea in him again.

But something else Farah said intrigued him. "A few weeks after Alexis left, the mercenaries returned to Urzikstan. Demanding blood for the American, they said."

Alex leaned out of his chair upon hearing this. It was a piece of the puzzle the rescue task force was couldn't collect. Even the joint task force of JSOC, CIA and SAS ran up cold leads as to who was behind the kidnapping.

"One of the men mentioned a name, Gaia."

‧͙��˚*·༓

a/n: alexandra... ward!!!!!!! her name is strictly need-to-know so we gotta thank alex for his pov lmao. & i'm pretty sure her injury counter is through the roof rn. but cheers to me for beating up my characters lol.

alia though... i'm absolutely gutted over this.

taglist: @shigarakiluvbot​ @wanderlustgiant​ @captain-pikas-world​ (wanna be tagged? lmk!)

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/17/2020: SPOOKIES

What do we watch, when we watch movies? This question was sparked by my SOV experience with the very different, and differently interesting BLOODY MUSCLE BODYBUILDER FROM HELL and HORROR HOUSE ON HIGHWAY 5. Within the Shot On Video category, one can find inventive homemade features that are driven entirely by blood, sweat, and the creators' feeling of personal satisfaction. The results are sometimes fascinating, in their total alienation from the conventions and techniques of mainstream filmmaking, and after all, one rarely sees anything whose primary motivation is passion, here in the late stages of capitalism. But, all this talk about what goes on behind the camera points to a discrepancy in how we consume different kinds of production. The typical mode of consumption is internal to the movie: What happens in it? Do you relate to the characters? Are you able to suspend your disbelief, to experience the story on a vicarious level? One hardly needs to come up with examples of films that invite this style of viewing. Alternatively, we can experience the movie as a record of a time and place in which real people defied conventions and sometimes broke laws in order to produce a work of art. SOV production is usually viewed through this lens, where the primary interest is not the illusory content, but the filmmakers' sheer determination to create. We find some overlap in movies like EVIL DEAD, which simultaneously presents a terrifying narrative, and evidence of what a truly driven team can create without the aid of a studio, or any real money to speak of. See also, Larry Cohen's New York City-based horror films, in which a compelling drama with great acting can exist side by side with phony but beautiful effects, and exciting stories of stolen footage that would be dangerous or impossible to attempt today. I'm thinking about these different modes of consumption now because I just watched SPOOKIES, a legitimately cursed-seeming film whose harrowing production history has superseded whatever people think about what it shows on the screen. The lovingly composed blu-ray from Vinegar Syndrome includes a feature-length documentary that attempts to explain the making of the film--which is accompanied by its own feature length commentary track by documentarists Michael Gingold and Glen Baisley. The very existence of this artifact suggests a lot about the nature of this movie, in and of itself. The truth behind its existence is as funny as it is tragic.

I'm not going to do a whole breakdown of the tortured origins of SPOOKIES, which is much better told by the aforementioned documentary. To summarize: Once upon a time in the mid 1980s, filmmakers Brendan Faulkner, Thomas Doran and Frank Farel conspired to make a fun, flamboyant rubber monsterpiece called TWISTED SOULS. It was wild, ridiculous, and transparently fake-looking, but it was loved by its hard-working creators; as a viewer, that soulful sense of joy can rescue many a "bad" movie from its various foibles. Then, inevitably, sleazoid producer Michael Lee stepped in--a man who thought you could cut random frames out of the middle of scenes to improve a movie's pace--and ruined it with extreme prejudice. Carefully crafted special effects sequences were cut, relatively functional scenes were re-edited into oblivion, and the seeds of hatred were sown between the filmmakers and the producer. Ultimately, everyone who once cared for TWISTED SOULS was forced to abandon ship, and first time director Eugenie Joseph stepped in to help mutilate the picture beyond all recognition. Thus SPOOKIES was born, a mangled, unloved mutation that would curse many of its original parents to unemployability. For the audience, it is intriguingly insane, often insulting, and hard to tear your eyes off of--but in spite of whatever actually wound up on the screen, it's impossible to forget its horrifying origin story as it unspools.

As far as what's on the screen goes: A group of "friends", including a middle-aged businessman and his wife, a vinyl-clad punk rock bully and his moll, two new wave-y in-betweeners, and...a guy with a hand puppet are somehow all leaving the same party, and all ready to break into a vacant funeral home for their afterparty. Well, this happens after a 13 year old runaway inexplicably wanders in to a "birthday party" in there, that looks like it was thrown for him by Pennywise, and he has the nerve to act surprised when he is attacked by a severed head and a piratey-looking cat-man who straight up purrs and meows throughout the picture. Anyway, separately of that, which is unrelated to anything, the island of misfit friends finds a nearly unrecognizable "ouija board" in the old dark house. Actually this thing is kind of fun-looking, having been made by one of the fun-havers on the production before the day that fun died, and I wonder if anyone has considered trying to make a real board game out of it...but I digress. Naturally, the board unleashes evil forces, including a zombie uprising in the cemetery outside, a plague of Ghoulie-like ankle-biters, an evil asian spider-lady (accompanied by kyoto flutes), muck-men that fart prodigiously until they melt in a puddle of wine (?), and uh...I know I'm forgetting stuff. One of the reasons I'm forgetting is because of this whole side story about a tuxedo-wearing vampire in the basement (or somewhere?) who has entrapped a beautiful young bride by cursing her with immortality. That part is a little confusing, not only because it doesn't intersect with the rest of the movie, but because sometimes it seems contemporary--as the bride struggles to survive the zombie plague--and sometimes it seems like a flashback, as our heroes find what looks like the mummified corpse of the dracula guy, complete with his signet ring. So, I don't know what to tell you really. Those are just some of the things that happen in the movie.

Some people like this a lot, and have supported its ascendance to cult status, which is a huge relief when you know what everyone went through to make this movie, only to have it ripped away from them and used against them. I found SPOOKIES a little hard to take, for all the reasons that the cast and crew express in the documentary. It holds a certain amount of visual fascination, whatever you think of it; something of its original creativity remains evident in the movie's colorful, exaggerated look, and its steady parade of unconvincing but inventive creature effects. But then, you have to deal with the farting muck-men. What was once a scene of terror starring REGULAR muck-men, that sounded incredibly laborious to pull off, became a scene of confusing "comedy" when producer Michael Lee insisted that the creatures be accompanied by a barrage of scatalogical noises. Apparently this was Lee's dream come true, as a guy who insisted everyone pull his finger all the time, and who once tried to call the movie "BOWEL ERUPTOR". But, of all the deformations SPOOKIES endured, the fart sounds dealt a mortal injury to the filmmakers' feelings, and even without knowing that, it's hard to enjoy yourself while that's happening.

Actually, all the farts forced me to ask myself: Is this...a comedy? Like for real, as its main thing? As the movie slogged on, I had to decide that it wasn't, but I was distracted by the notion for around 40 minutes. I was only released from this nagging suspicion when the bride makes her long marathon run through throngs of slavering zombies who swarm her, grope her, and tear off her clothes, before she narrowly escapes to an even worse fate. The lengthy scene is strangely gripping, and sleazy for a movie that sometimes feels like low rent children's entertainment. Part of the sequence’s success lies in its simplicity; it is unburdened by the convoluted complications of the rest of the movie, whose esoteric parts never fall together, so it seems to take on a sustained, intensifying focus. The action itself is unnerving, as the delicate and frankly gorgeous Maria Pechuka is molested and stripped nearly-bare by her undead bachelors, running from one drooling mob to another as the horde nearly engulfs her time and again. Actually, it feels a lot like a certain genre of SOV production in which, for the right price, any old creepy nerd can pay a small crew-for-hire to tape a version of his private fantasy, whether it's women being consumed by slime, or women being consumed by quicksand, or...generally, women being consumed by something. I wish I could describe this form of production in more specific or official terms, because I genuinely think it's wonderful that people do this. Anyway, Pechuka's interminable zombie run feels a little like that, and a little like a grim italian gutmuncher, and a little like an actual nightmare. Perhaps it only stands out against its dubious surroundings, but I kind of love it--and I'm happy to love it, because apparently the late Ms. Pechuka truly loved making SPOOKIES, and wanted other people to love it, too.

Which brings me to the uncomfortable place where I land with this movie. On the one hand...I think it's bad. It's so incoherent, and so insists on its impoverished form of comedy, that it's hard to be as charmed by it as I am by plenty of FX-heavy, no-budget oddities. Perhaps the lingering odor of misery drowns out the sweet joy that the crew once felt in the early days of creation--which is still evident, somehow, in its zany special effects, created by the likes of Gabe Bartalos and other folks whose work you definitely already know and love. But I feel ambivalent, about all of this. On the one hand, I can be a snob, and shit on people for failing to make a movie that meets conventional standards of success. On the other hand, I can be a DIFFERENT kind of snob--a more voyeuristic or even sadistic one--and celebrate the painful failures that produced a movie that is most interesting for its tormented history and its amusing ineptitude. I'm not really sure where I would prefer to settle with SPOOKIES, and movies like it. (As if anything is really "like" SPOOKIES) With all that said, I was left with one soothing thought by castmember Anthony Valbiro in the documentary. At some point, he tells us how ROSEMARY'S BABY is his personal cinematic comfort food; he can put it on at night, after an exhausting day, and drift to sleep, enveloped in its warm, glowing aura. He then says that he hopes there are people out there for whom his movie serves that same purpose, that some of us can have our "milk and cookies moment" with SPOOKIES. Honestly, I choke up just thinking about that.

[pixelgrotto]

Remixing a tomb plus a highway to hell

Last month I finished DMing Tomb of Annihilation for one of my D&D groups. It’s a campaign that sees heroes adventuring to the land of Chult to stop big bad lich Acererak, who’s made a device known as the Soulmonger that’s emanating a Death Curse and screwing up the world’s resurrection magic. It’s also a spiritual successor to Tomb of Horrors, one of the classic deathtrap dungeons of tabletop RPG history that came about because D&D creator Gary Gygax wanted to screw his players over for opening doors wrong. In short, it’s certainly one of the more memorable adventures for D&D 5e, but the version of Tomb of Annihilation that I ran for my players was actually extremely remixed and hacked apart, as is the case with every official Wizards of the Coast module that I run. 

There were a few reasons for this - my players were coming into this campaign fresh out of Curse of Strahd, and everyone was level 8. One of the players had died early on in Curse of Strahd - in the very first session we played, hilariously enough - and was temporarily sustained by the mists of the Shadowfell only to collapse upon returning to the material plane. With this in mind, I felt that it would be a great twist to have the party venture on a quest of resurrection only to learn that resurrection magic throughout the world had stopped working due to Acererak’s nefarious plans.

Additionally, I wanted to give my players the chance to try out alternate characters if they so desired. In the name of grand ambition, I decided to have my players create two sets of characters, and wove a homebrew story, dubbed “Fiends in Waterdeep,” that would run analogous to and eventually intertwine with Tomb of Annihilation. The first set of characters - consisting of some of the veterans who had survived Curse of Strahd - would investigate the streets of Waterdeep, which was suffering from an invasion of devils and demons that seemed unconnected to Acererark’s dark doings. The second set, consisting of new level 8s, would venture to Chult, the vaguely African-inspired landmass in the south of the Forgotten Realms, to track down the source of the Death Curse. After progressing through seemingly unconnected storylines, at the end of the campaign the disparate plot threads would mesh. The Waterdeep explorers would travel to the Nine Hells only to learn that the fiend invasion was caused by the abduction of the Queen of Hell’s newly born infant - a soul-devouring mass of flesh that could open portals into other worlds with its burps and farts - while the Chult expedition would delve into the jungle to find Acererark, smash the Soulmonger and free the aforementioned child. 

In short, I basically made a complicated D&D adventure even more complicated by layering my own story on top of it and running two campaigns at once. I think I was looking for a challenge, and oh boy, I got one. I probably won’t be undertaking something like this ever again, because it required a lot of planning hurdles on my part. For instance, my players and I usually gamed for about 5-6 hours at most, which meant devoting 2 and a half or 3 hours to both sets of characters. If one battle lasted too long or a social interaction went south, I’d have to adjust this timeframe accordingly, and every DM knows that players will always defy your expectations in one way or another, so there was a lot of improv on the fly to make sure that our sessions stayed well-paced. 

In the name of pacing, I also stripped much of the fat out of Tomb of Annihilation, which is largely composed of a really long hexcrawl. D&D 5e’s hexcrawl exploration and survival rules have never been particularly good, in my opinion, and the rules in the book expect you to roll LOTS of random encounters and deal with stuff like inclement weather, mosquito attacks, hunting, getting lost, etc. I incorporated some of this stuff (the hunting, since we had two rangers in the party), but I pre-rolled all of the random encounters and potential locations the party could go ahead of time, getting rid of some of the ones I didn’t like, and largely handwaved stuff like getting hopelessly lost. Reddit explorations have revealed that by far and large, everyone running this campaign does the same thing - particularly for higher level players trying to get through the jungle without feeling like they’re wasting time. (And from my firsthand experience with Out of the Abyss, there’s nothing worse than going through multiple D&D sessions and feeling like you haven’t accomplished much.)

My approach to streamlining Acererak’s deathtrap lair at the end of the campaign was similar. I skimmed through the entire dungeon with all of its bajillion floors (which could take an average group months to get through) in favor of using the 10 rooms that I liked the most, which was more than enough. Tomb of Annihilation, while probably fairer than Gary Gygax’s Tomb of Horrors, is still in my opinion full of wacky stuff in the final dungeon that just isn’t my cup of tea for D&D, including one trap that can get characters stuck in real-world Victorian London. (Okay, that’s cool on paper, but to actually run it as a DM, especially when your players are in the final hours of their adventure? I’ll pass.)

Additionally, I made Ras Nsi - the warlord-turned-yuan-ti - into more of a developed NPC who was actually willing to help the players slay Acererak. In the book, he’s very much a Darth Maul-type bad guy who looks cool but has a minimum of characterization. This is because Tomb of Annihilation leans into the stereotype that Ras Nsi and the rest of the yuan-ti are all merciless bastards with inscrutable plans, and while this may be fine if you’re familiar with the Conan the Barbarian serpentfolk tropes that inspired the yuan-ti, it’s not great if you’re trying to build a believable world with compelling characters. Much has been written about how Chult stumbles at portraying a fantasy Africa - largely by depicting the characters as foreign saviors and the Chultans as relatively helpless - and while some of this was alleviated in my game by the fact that one player’s character actually was Chultan, I still felt it was necessary to give some of the indigenous races a chance to help undo the curse that, after all, was first and foremost affecting their land.

Switching gears, when it came to the accompanying Fiends in Waterdeep homebrew story, I recycled some material from Waterdeep: Dragon Heist, which I’d previously run for two different groups, and also took inspiration from the Wizards of the Coast module Descent into Avernus. At the time of planning, Descent Into Avernus was the most recent D&D hardcover, and all the reviews I’d read painted it as cool in concept but a major pain in the butt to run in reality. So, I decided to use only the nifty bits - a journey into the first layer of the Nine Hells via Mad Max-style tanks powered by souls - and mixed it with my own tale that was influenced by a profile of Fury, the dragon queen of hell, that I’d read in the third-party 5e supplement Legendary Dragons. It turned into a mildly amusing story about Fury warring against her ex-husband Asmodeus, and the players ended up serving as therapists in what amounted to an interplanar lover’s spat. I’d recently started therapy when I came up with the campaign concept, so this is probably one of those unique instances where real life truly influenced art. And hey, the unpredictable whims of all-powerful, world-shaping deities make for great adventure hooks, and judging by how Greek mythology seems to have re-entered the modern zeitgeist these days (I’m thinking about Hades, one of the most popular indie rougelikes out there, as well as that Netflix series Blood of Zeus) it seems like I was on the nose!

In the end, this two-tiered campaign lasted roughly 70 hours and climaxed with all sets of characters reaching level 10. Acererark’s Soulmonger was smashed, the feud between Fury and Asmodeus smoothed over, and after enduring the eerie mists of the Shadowfell, the hot temperatures of Chult and the flames of Avernus, the story of these motley players - who’d started questing with me back in 2018, and endured a move to online games in the era of COVID - came to a gentle end. I’m a believer in the reality that campaigns don’t necessarily need to last forever, and with real life throwing some of my players (and myself) a few recent curveballs, this seemed like a solid finale point. A consistent campaign running over two years is in many ways a dream for a lot of D&D players and DMs, and I’m glad I got the chance to make it happen.

[thesevillereport]

In Focus: U.S. Infrastructure

Infrastructure is something we hear a lot about on the presidential campaign trail, and usually very little about after the president is elected. After the election, when we do hear about infrastructure, the plan is a scaled down version of what was promised on the campaign trail.

Recently the Biden administration proposed a $2.25 trillion infrastructure package, and Republicans have countered with a $568 billion proposal. Another example of something that is vital to the country's growth and that benefits us all becoming a red vs blue issue, and it shouldn't be.

If you're a conservative and you think the dems want to spend too much, the American Society of Civil Engineers estimated that it would take $3.6 trillion to rebuild America's infrastructure. I'm one to always listen to the professionals, the people who get paid to do what they do for a living.

There are a number of issues that I believe both parties should stand united on, and the country's infrastructure should be one of them, because it has played a vital role in the U.S.'s economic success of the past and will determine how prosperous the country will be in the future.

We've Come a Long Way

In the mid 1800s, to get mail from the east coast to California it took a battery of steamboats and riverboats. Steamboats moved down the east coast to Nicaragua, then river boats took the trek through Nicaragua to the Pacific Ocean, and then another steamboat to finish the voyage to California. This was before railroads became the extensive network that they would become. For people looking to travel from coast to coast back then, the voyage took more than 20 days, but the railroads would change all of that.

The construction of a transcontinental railroad was made possible by Congress passing of the Pacific Railway Act in 1862. The government also provided land grants to several railroad companies. Railroads were largely a private undertaking, but without the government's assistance, a national network of railroads may have never happened when it did.

Because the U.S. had a national rail system in place, Sears, Roebuck, and Co. founded in 1983 would be able to leverage the railroads to create jobs and build wealth for their owners and investors.

The extensive railroad system would make for a better postal service. A postal service that Amazon would later leverage to build a massive amount of wealth for its founder and investors, while employing thousands of Americans.

Reverse the Aging Process and Prosper

Our electrical infrastructure is old (remember the 2003 blackout?), our rails are old, our water utility infrastructure is old, our roads are old, and our bridges are old. A family member, who is a long-distance truck driver, recently told me there are some bridges that he has to say a small prayer before driving over because they're in such bad shape.

While administration after administration after administration has whiffed on revamping our infrastructure we've seen entrepreneurs push the limits of the current infrastructure. One of Donald Trump's issues with Amazon had to do with how the company somewhat abused the postal system, which could be a whole post on its own.

The national issue over net neutrality has me wanting what I've always had when it comes to the internet, but as an investor understanding that for AT&T, to build out the infrastructure needed to support the country's growing streaming habits, they need a decent return on their investment.

In the U.S. the broadband infrastructure came into question during the initial weeks of the COVID-19 lockdown. Experts wondered out loud if networks could handle the surge in streaming created by people stuck at home. Companies like Netflix, Disney, and Amazon cut the quality of their videos to prevent overloads to the system. In addition, Sony throttled game downloads to reduce strain to the network. 

Luckily, networks were able to hold during the pandemic, but how will our current networks fear if we were to lockdown again in 10 years, without having updated the infrastructure? A decade from now we'll have more items connected to the network, as more homes employ the use of smart devices, and more automobiles get connected to the network.

A massive infrastructure spend is just smart business. From the companies hired to complete projects, and the employees those companies hire to work on the projects. Not to mention the companies that will use the infrastructure for their benefit like Sears used the railroads, Amazon used the post office, and trucking companies use the interstate highways. It's confusing to me why infrastructure is such a divisive issue, when politicians know that the last major spend dates back to Eisenhower's National Interstate and Defense Highway Act of 1956.

On the other side of the world we have China spending big on infrastructure inside and outside of China. If you're one that sees China's new belt and road initiative as suspicious, that's on you, but the country's economy continues to grow with every city they invest in, every bridge, road, and high speed rail they build.

I think of infrastructure as the foundation to a country's growth. America's next major growth phase will depend on how it upgrades its infrastructure, from railways, highways, and waterways, to public schools, broadband, water, and the electrical infrastructure. Will we see big sweeping upgrades or more patch work?

When infrastructure gets better, we all get better. Cloud computing, streaming services, online gaming wouldn't be possible if we were all using dial up. Amazon Prime probably wouldn't be a thing if our roads, rails, and airports weren't as good as they are. Americans have gotten a lot out of the infrastructure since FDR's plan saved democracy, but now it's time to upgrade.

We're stepping into an era where cars are going to drive themselves, drones are going to deliver our packages, and close to 90% of the population will have a smartphone. Our infrastructure needs to start looking more like the Jetsons and less like the Flintstones.

[darkestwolfx]

Tales of a Silver Hat

I'm sorry because this was meant to be up last night, but it was giving me problems – in fact, writing anything was, writer's block definitely hit. But I've written a Torchwood fic (shock, I know; it's on my accounts, but I won't be posting it here) and magically writer's block is gone. My mum always said to listen to my head, and it was clearly telling me I needed to write that.

So I've managed to achieve two prompts for @gumnut-logic‘s irrelief2020 in one fic - hooray! I've wanted to write for these from the moment I saw them! I've worked in a board game café as 'guru' of sorts, so this is like, definitely my area. So, this is Board Games for @Tsarinatorment and EOS+Monopoly for @halorocks1214.

I'm sure there will be some of you out there who can sympathise to events in this (I've seen my fair share at work, and from my neighbour).

All of the games I've mentioned are out there, and most of them are still in print, even if in updated copies.

P.S. This one was meant to a normal-ish length, and it was before I cleared by writer's block, but that version was terrible, so it's staying buried in my archives!

Summary: Every family had one; the first to crack in the midst of a game. Usually there was a long story involved; tick. Usually, there wasn't an AI though… Gordon would rather not remember it as it was.

-------------------------

Every family had one; the first to crack in the midst of a game.

With a family like the Tracy's, it happened often enough.

The five brothers each had very different tastes in games.

And as such, they had quite the mass of board games in their house: not that they always had the same amount of time they used to in order to play through all of them.

Scott liked Snakes and Ladders (which the Troublesome Two claimed made him old), Trivial Pursuit (which the double T's claimed made him tasteless), and The Logo Game (which all four of his siblings gave him a look that meant 'seriously?').

John liked Risk. It was one that Scott didn't actually mind either, but they rarely played it. John always managed to take over the world, no matter how poor his starting ground. Gordon had joked that this is what John spent his 'free time' up on Five doing, 'planning how to take over the world from above'. John had simply raised an eyebrow, saying nothing to the contrary, and ever since, Gordon had believed it was a viable possibility (especially after EOS). Chess, was another, and surprisingly, that Gordon would play with John, which made him the only one who could manage it. Very surprisingly.

Virgil had much appreciation for building games, which encouraged dexterity (ones no one else had the patience and balance for, Gordon proclaimed; Virgil preferred to call it skill), like Tokyo Highway and Junk Art. Alan made a mess of them, Scott had very little grace, John had the patience but not the balance, and Gordon always chose to film said games as opposed to taking part. He knew he couldn't hold a candle to his brother's skill, so filming everyone else's misfortune was his favourite past time in place of winning.

Gordon was a fan of the 'fun stuff'. Snap because it was quick and easy; Exploding Kittens, for similar reasons, as well as the funny artwork; and something called Cash n' Guns surprisingly. Surprisingly, because it actually involved using your brain - although Scott was sure the liking for it came more from the fact that it contained and allowed the use of polystyrene guns.

Alan loved a range of things, which no one had yet been able to find a link for… Robo Rally, Terraforming Mars (which was complicated enough without the expansion set which Alan had purchased that only John could actually make playable sense of, leaving the rest of them nodding like idiots whilst the red-heads explanation went right over their hears like rockets), not to mention something called Panic Mansion for the 'Gingerbread Men explorers'. Scott still didn't quite see that point. They were Treasure Hunters, obviously, not Gingerbread Men.

The five brothers had very different tastes indeed.

Except where Monopoly was concerned. John found most games a little too easy – so his opinion went without saying – but Scott, Virgil and Alan all found enjoyment in it (though for different reasons). It wasn't Gordon's favourite, purely because he'd never won, but that wasn't to say that he didn't like it – in a very odd way which he couldn't explain. Alan proclaimed it was the metal hat, which Gordon denied so vehemently, that the others had begun to wonder if the youngest's theory held some truth. It was rarely played unless they thought there would be time to finish it, and that was for two reasons. If they had to pause, Gordon had a tendency to try and 'manipulate' the money – either moving it from his brother's piles or pilfering it directly from the bank. Or, Gordon got bored and that risked the board being thrown in the air.

Gordon still maintained that such had only happened the once.

Scott and Virgil were obstinate that it was more like thrice.

But, this afternoon they had found time.

And, this afternoon, EOS was joining them for a game, and that was a first. It was tricky, but not impossible. They'd managed to get MAX to play before, so they figured it couldn't be much harder. John minded her assets – because he was the best at multitasking – and Virgil had conveniently placed himself between John and Gordon to stop the latter from stealing money during the game. Gordon had folded his arms, pouted and made some mumbled point about 'never daring'.

They all knew it wasn't quite true.

Just because he'd yet to be psychically caught in the act, didn't mean they were all unaware to his doing it.

EOS had never played a board game in her life. She'd heard about them. She probably knew more of them than the boys did as well – after all, she had access to every rule book, cheat book and video tutorial, and actually thought that she might be quite good at some of them. Of course, she'd never had the chance (before now) to try and put those skills to the test.

John had been a little surprised when his AI jumped at the chance, but didn't comment on or question the matter.

And so, that was how, on a sunny, quiet (hopefully staying so) Thursday afternoon, they'd managed to sit themselves on the floor of the lounge, with EOS on the holo-communication channel and everything ready to go. Grandma had even made them a stack of cookies for the afternoon. Hooray(!). It had actually been EOS who came up with the suggestion of throwing them out of the window.

There'd been a small moment of raised brows and pointed gazes, as they silently tried to work out between them whether Grandma would notice. They chose not to risk it. Who knew if Kayo would be around to see. She wouldn't tell Grandma out of spite, as such, but only so the kindly lady could make them more. That very well defeated the point.

So, the cookies sat untouched as they settled all the necessary pieces around the board.

Alan had already proclaimed that he was looking forward to the challenge. Virgil voiced nothing aloud, but he did share a look with Scott and John. What challenge? Alan was known to blow all his money by at least halfway through the game, and end up in serious debt to one of them. Sometimes it worked in their favour; they'd once agreed to give Alan a non-existent loan in a swap for him doing the dishes for a week. The youngest, too keen to stay in the game and not lose, again, had taken it before he could think better of it. Gordon had momentarily complained that they never gave him one of these 'definitely-not-fair-because-it's-not-in-the-rules-imaginery-loans', before promptly backing away when they offered him one on the spot.

He wasn't doing the dishes for a week, thank you very much.

Scott had to admit, he'd almost thought about not playing. He was doomed (enough) when John joined them, let alone with the AI contributing as well. He'd decided instead that he should probably strategise for once, and was studying the board a little like a man possessed. Gordon and Alan had already noticed, and shared their own wondering looks, but left the eldest to his scheming.

Scott had the Scottie dog (obviously), John had the cat, Virgil had the wheelbarrow, Gordon had the hat (theory definitely proven true), Alan had the racing car (no questions to be asked there) and EOS had the battleship.

As with Monopoly tendencies, the game started off very tame.

Scott weighed his decisions up for what felt like hours, the younger pair sitting with their heads in their hands waiting for an end, and even EOS suggested a time limit in the end.

Virgil always seemed to play with many strategies, but if you said that to him, he would have scoffed at you. He got lucky; there was always an element of luck to be had with dice, despite what John may argue about the science behind it. He had preferences as well; properties that you were more likely to land on, or just places which were his particular favourites that he might seek to obtain. If it looked like strategy, well, he wasn't going to be heard complaining.

John, on the other hand, did have strategies in place. An endless amount of them. As was to be expected. The red head would buy properties according to those his brothers bought, always waiting and saving and somehow managing to catch you unawares when you were least expecting it. He was the only person Gordon had ever known to be able to buy Park Lane and Mayfair and have hotels on it without going bankrupt before he made the money back. That tactic's mysteries had yet to be solved.

Gordon liked to think he had tactics. Then he'd make a move which his brothers would frown at, and he'd try to cover up the fact that such response questioned 'why?' with every ounce of acting ability he had. Confidence, that made it look like you had a plan. Or at least, that always seemed to have worked for Dad. So, he played like fish and copied that response, even if he knew someone might have seen through it.

Alan acted in traditional Alan fashion, and began to promptly blitz money on everything. Literally anything he landed on which he could buy was immediately his.

EOS, unfortunately, seemed to think much like John. Once again, that was hardly surprising. However, it was shocking to see that her thinking let her down. When John had asked her why she didn't buy the third pink property to complete the set, she had simply 'shrugged' (as Gordon interpreted it anyway,) with the movement of little yellow dots and answered;

"I am not disclosing my strategy."

"Ok then."

First time experiences with a game. Everyone learnt from them.

For once, Gordon was a little excited that there might be a player worse than he (or Alan) in the family! Scott began to wonder if winning against EOS wasn't such a lost cause. John had even enquired as to whether EOS' new processors were working.

Scott's 'strategizing' – if you could even call it that, Gordon thought – wasn't going very well. In fact, he looked to be in a worse place than usual. And of course, they'd managed to make it through four rounds. It was only a matter of time before… oh yeah, there it went, the triple double roll. Scott always ended up in jail first. Alan found that quite amusing, and Gordon didn't want to risk the eldest's wrath to tell the youngest a few home truths. Even Virgil would chuckle at that one, and Scott would dejectedly move himself to jail, and insist that he'd be lucky enough to roll his way out on the next go.

Safe to say, it went that the eldest rolled twice with failure, and on the third round paid to get out only to then roll what he needed. Gordon didn't know what fluke of nature allowed it to happen, but he got one hell of a kick out of the pilot having to eat his words.

As far as Gordon knew, John had never made his way to jail. "Good planning", he claimed, but the Aquanaut wasn't sure there was such a thing. If there was, he'd like he gain that ability. By the time they'd made it six rounds in, John had managed to acquire all three green properties, and still have money to spare. It always happened. No matter whose property he landed on, there was always money appearing before him… like he took it out of the bank! But he didn't. Not that anyone saw… Gordon knew John wouldn't cheat, but it made him feel a little better about losing to consider the possibility.

After John, it would be Virgil's go and like usual, Gordon knew how this worked, because Virgil did have an uncanny sense of luck with the dice. No doubt he'd would land on the Water Works and buy it to go with the Electric Company he'd bought in the first round, at long last. Somehow, whatever he bought, for the middle child, that always happened.

And on his go… what happens? He's gets himself a nice little double and lands on John's property. Get's to roll again because of it, and for the first time this game lands on something Scott owns (fortunately, its only worth a couple pounds, but John's just robbed him for hundreds, so he's not in the mood; and unfortunately, Scott is screaming like it's the 4th July, because he told Virgil "that would be a good buy in the end!" when the middle child had protested everyone landed on 'Go' and skipped what came after). It always happened to him. He couldn't just get a nice little double to his advantage, oh no, only to make him pay out to others. He was probably keeping John's funds afloat.

Gordon threw the money at Scott's feet. They were getting to that point, where the paying out was more than the coming in, and everything seemed an irritant.

"This game is ridiculous."

"No, it's not! It's fun!"

"Losing is not fun, Alan."

"You're just a sore loser, Gordon."

Gordon shook his head. He knew how this went down too. The Tax square was coming up, and Alan – rash as he was with money - would definitely land on it.

"Oh what? This game is ridiculous!"

Gordon really wanted to point out that he'd already said that, but refrained. It was much nicer to listen to EOS not laughing at him for once.

EOS wasn't a constant though.

Gordon had never seen her play before. He didn't know her strategies or her quirks and he found it hard to predict what was going to come her way. She seemed to be the perfect mix between Alan and John, spending money fast, but just enough money that there was enough in reserve to take her past properties which weren't her own. Gordon could actually see how that made for a good playing strategy. But EOS, practical though she was, seemed to have little to no luck.

A little like me, Gordon had found himself thinking.

At first, Alan had insisted it was rigged, EOS' continued landing on the 'Chance' and 'Community Chest' cards. That was, until, Virgil read out the resulting cards on her behalf. It was always 'pay this' or 'repair that', or 'move here and collect nothing', or (the most interesting by far) 'go to jail'.

"That's silly." EOS had whined.

"It's the game, EOS." Virgil had reasoned before John could, because honestly the red head looked to be wearing the same expression Dad had when he'd tried to teach the boys Monopoly – oh Gods that was so long ago – and Scott was finding great amusement out of it.

"But that's silly."

"Tough luck, EOS!" Alan called almost victoriously as he moved EOS' piece to the corresponding square, despite the fact his bank's grand total was currently sitting at around forty-eight pounds. "You're in jail! No money for you."

That one would at least be a saviour for the next round, and Gordon breathed a sigh of relief as the fear of the yellow strips on the board was nullified for him.

"But it's still a silly thing! I can't go to jail. You could never lock me up."

Many confused faces had stared across the holo-link, until it had clicked with John, like it only could.

"There's a section on the board, EOS, not a physical jail."

"I know. You still could never lock me up. I'd break out. I'm already great friends with the security systems of The White House."

Eyes here turned to John, who promptly dismissed every piece of awareness which had allowed him to hear that comment. Later he'd claim momentary deafness. It was scientifically possible to have momentary blindness, so he would just argue the points until he was either blue in the face or his brothers were stumped out by the language (the more likely of the two).

"We'll talk about that later. But the point is, it's not physical, so none of that matters."

"I know, John, I do. But it's still silly!"

Alan rolled his eyes, Scott dropped his head into his hands, and Virgil sighed with weight equal to that of Two. Gordon really wished he hadn't 'dropped' his camera into the pool.

"It's silly, John, because-"

"EOS-"

"The card doesn't tell me what it's sending me to jail for."

There was a beat.

A pause in which John swiped the card out of Virgil's grip and studied the 'Go to jail. Move immediately to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred pounds' standard text which they'd read so often, as though it might open up new possibilities, or give a re-rising to the lost lands of Atlantis.

Which actually, Gordon wasn't going to think about because he associated that trip with Lemaire, and that was a step too far for a Thursday afternoon. Give him until Sunday at least. He might be properly awake by then and able to deal with it.

"Well?"

Scott asked after a while, when it seemed like nothing was going to move on. John set the card in the discard pile and chucked the dice (EOS had wanted to use a virtual dice, but that had been overruled. What? Gordon though, validly, that it was a good way of her cheating, so a different brother would roll for her each turn) towards Alan who failed dramatically at catching them.

"Well what? She's right, it is silly. Who sends someone to jail without having charged them for something?"

Gordon would have copied his brothers in dropping his head into his hands, he very much would have, but it was far more entertaining to be watching, to notice as Scott whacked his head just a little too hard onto the edge of his wrist bone.

And definitely wished he hadn't killed his camera.

**********

After they'd decided that EOS and John must, somehow, share genetics, they moved on with the game. Little changed, except for the state of the board, which was beginning to pile up with houses and hotels. Virgil was currently reshuffling the Chance cards, again, because EOS still kept landing on them. She'd been sent to jail by one for a second time – to Alan and Scott's shared delight, since they usually shared the luck in drawing those – and they'd promptly managed to cease the return of the 'silly' argument. As it would forever be known in Gordon's secret diary.

Luckily, the second time around EOS had a 'Get out of Jail Free Card' which she had bought from John in return for Mayfair. Gordon still maintained that he smelt a rat there as the houses appeared and he began to set aside a chunk of money just in case he was unlucky enough to land upon them. He wasn't going to let that powerhouse strategy of John's catch him again.

Said card had at least saved some stalling, however not all. The game had been paused yet again as EOS remarked;

"That card is stupider than the one which sends you to jail."

The sigh had been unanimous, but it was Scott who found voice for the question, "And why is that, EOS?"

"Because you never get out of jail free. You have to have a court appeal. Or at the very least pay bail charges."

"EOS, it's a game," John had finally silenced. "Suspend your disbelief for the next two – or however many – hours it takes us to finish this please?"

"Ok. But when it's finished, I might ask Parkmoor Scrubs printing system to make me such a card-"

"What for?" Alan had cut her off, but John had promptly shook his head, hoping the youngest would get the simple message. Sssh. It wasn't hard to receive, and even Gordon got it first time round.

"EOS, we'll talk about that later. It's Alan's go."

"But I want to know-"

"Alan, just have your go!"

Scott, sensing what John was trying to do, had laughed, and promptly ended up with a pillow lobbed at his face. John's balance was rubbish, but his aim, was somehow spot on. As Scott was pulling said pillow away from his face, Gordon was sitting happy remembering why he didn't try to call the red head out on his deflection attempts.

***********

Pause number three (or argument number three, depending on your view) happened a little while later.

Apparently, EOS' grand strategy was beginning to break down.

"I don't care how much you offer me, EOS, you're not having it." Virgil proclaimed, properly putting his foot down on the property exchange EOS had been trying to offer him. John just looked done, and Gordon honestly wondered if they'd been this annoying when Dad was trying to teach them, because that expression truly was a replica, even though it had been yonks since he'd seen it.

Scott seemed to be the only one not minding the extra time now. He was using it as his way to study the board without Alan telling him to hurry and have his go, or heaven's forbid call him old. Because that had happened, only three turns ago, and it hadn't ended well. Gordon didn't know which he would hate to be more right now: Alan, or the poor plate of cookies the youngest was belligerently munching his way through.

"But everything I've read says if the deal is preferable, players will swap."

"Yeah, well the internet doesn't say much for human emotion."

"But John always makes preferable deals."

"Well I'm not John. And I'm not giving you my reds so have your go."

"But-"

"No, I will not swap them, even for another hundred."

"You don't conform to my research. I do not understand you, Heavy Weight."

"Heavy Weight?"

"That's my nickname, John warned me she had poor taste."

"I heard that!"

"Ooops." It occurred to Gordon that Virgil didn't really seem that sorry. It was the same tone from when the shower on Two cut out all that while ago. If he hadn't thought it then, he knew now the elder definitely had something to do with it. And he really wanted to impress Penelope with their rescue skills that day too.

"But why Heavy Weight?"

"That's obvious, Alan. Because Virgil does all the heavy lifting."

"So the Fish can cope out of water, after all."

"Hey!" He found himself gapping, absolutely flabbergasted.

"EOS, had you said that earlier, I might have swapped with you for free."

"Go on then."

"No, I was joking, EOS."

"Virgil, EOS has my sense of humour."

And somehow, Gordon just knew this was doomed to go on.

Some point during the discussion, Scott nudged his jaw closed…

*********

It had taken nearly half an hour to actually play EOS' turn before things could get moving again. Gordon was pleased when he made it past 'Tricky Corner' as he'd dubbed it, got his two hundred for passing go, and was reimbursed his tax.

Maybe this game wasn't all that bad, after all.

Scott and Alan were floundering, and Gordon honestly couldn't work out which one of them had more left. The youngest was surviving purely through mortgaged property. It wouldn't be long until Alan was out, and then it really would turn into a free for all.

"Oh, that's mine! EOS, you owe me."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do."

"Do not."

"It's in the rules."

"But you rolled the dice before you noticed."

"I did not!"

"You did too."

"That's not in the rules."

"I think you'll find it is."

"It is not!" Alan demanded, and Gordon wondered if paracetamol would be needed. Scott was looking rather thankful for that pillow John had chucked his way now, the eldest using it in place of earmuffs.

"I'm the AI-"

"Yeah, well I'll-"

"-and I'm the one with access-"

"-the rule book out, shall I-"

"-to the worlds bank of knowledge and-"

"-and read to you exactly what it says-"

"Anyone want a drink?" John offered.

Gordon thought he wanted to get away from the noise more than he wanted to act as a butler, but it worked and John took himself from the room to fetch what Virgil and Scott had asked for.

It was a very entertaining debate – Alan and EOS, arguing across the one and only lounge in the world that expanded into space, and all over whether someone had to pay money or not.

Five minutes later, Gordon wanted the paracetamol, and wasn't honestly sure that the entertainment was still worth it. If he managed to play at all well with this headache, it would be a new record.

"I'm right, aren't I? Tell her I'm right!"

"What? Sorry Alan, we weren't listening."

Since John's return, he, Scott and Virgil had taken to talking quietly whilst the pair fought it out. Gordon had just continued to watch, re-counting his money whilst wondering whether he still needed to keep aside his just in case fund, or if it would be more beneficial spent on some hotels.

"You what? Right, well, that's it! I'm right EOS, so pay up!"

"You are wrong! I'm not paying you a single penny of my hard-earned money."

"Um EOS- No, alright then, ignore me."

Gordon had a feeling he knew exactly what John was going to remind the AI of as well; the money wasn't real.

By the time Gordon had counted his money three times over and decided that yes, he would buy those hotels on his next go – which was supposed to be shortly approaching after Alan's – he was ready to call it quits. The argument was still on going and Scott really seemed to be losing the will to live. How Virgil looked so clam still Gordon would never fathom, and John… John really was beginning to increasingly resemble Dad.

Gordon chuckled when John's next sentence – the final breaking point for the camel's back – put a stop to the argument and had Alan willingly fulfilling the rest of his go. Definitely more like Dad.

Funny. Gordon had always thought he'd see Scott turn that way first.

*********

He'd never known – or remembered, rather – it take them four hours to play Monopoly. And they weren't nearly done.

Alan was out. Like usual. And the youngest was instead spending his time darting between them, trying to work out everyone's money and take stock of what that had left on the board so he could put bets on a winner.

Gordon knew it wasn't going to be Scott. There was no way the eldest would make it past Virgil and John's properties on his next go.

In fact, Gordon wasn't feeling too bad by this point. Usually he'd be worried that he could be next on the list for demolition, leaving (as was typical) Virgil and John to battle for the crown. But, he was hopeful that he could make it to go next turn. He only needed three – that wasn't much to ask for – and then he'd be back round to safety for another roll. His hotels had been a good choice too. They'd made money.

If anyone ever asked him though – strange question it would be – whether Monopoly was a good game to be played with technology… well, the answer would be no. EOS almost seemed to know too much that it hindered her. Held her back from playing in her own way. After all, that was why they always seemed to enjoy it so much. Well, Gordon thought so at least. He'd done better this time, but if he landed on John's money-making property before making it to go… well, long story short, Scott might have a chance at not being the second one out.

He hadn't expected to be proven wrong so soon. And Scott wasn't the one to do it.

"EOS, I think that's it."

"What John?"

"I think you're out of money."

"I am not."

"Well I make it eighty short of what you owe Virgil."

"Oh uh."

"I am not bankrupt, John."

"I'm afraid you are."

"Virgil, how much do I owe you?"

"Two hundred. I've got hotels."

"But I'd never pay that much for a hotel there. It's in the middle of nowhere. And I'm family. I'll have a discount."

"You will not!"

"I will. That is a badly run hotel."

"I think you'd find I'd be great at running a hotel-"

Demolishing, Gordon had coughed beneath his breath, remembering their trip to Switzerland five days ago. Virgil couldn't wait to knock down what was left of the burnt-out building which was now classed as structurally unstable. It wasn't even technically their job anymore, but hey, who was he to comment.

He wanted to live, thank you very much.

And maybe win Monopoly for just once in his life, but living definitely came first.

"-and I will not be offering you a discount."

"If not for the location, then for-"

"I don't care about location or the fact you're family, there is no discount!"

"That is terrible! I'll be writing a review and I'm not paying you penny for a poor stay."

"You have to pay me, that's in the rules."

"Give me a discount and I will."

"No, it doesn't work like that!"

"EOS, you have to pay Virgil what you owe him, and there are no discounts in Monopoly."

"Says you," Oh dear, Gordon decided he was very glad to not be Scott, who had obviously butted in thoughtfully, yet carelessly. "You were complaining only two turns ago that you wouldn't pay for a hotel that had no view-"

"Really Scott?"

"I didn't know she'd remember that, Virgil!"

"She's an AI."

"Fair point."

Comically, Virgil's eyes widened as Virgil found money dropping past his eyes.

"It's eighty short," John declared, "You'll have to take it from the bank."

"Thanks."

"This is ridiculous."

Yeah, tell him about it.

"I'm not playing anymore."

Virgil mumbled something about being bankrupt, but Gordon was glad EOS didn't hear that.

"This is the world's worst game! I don't know why people go on about it like it's something special. I am never playing this again- Hang on-"

What for?

Scott had mouthed. John had shaken his head. There was trouble ahead when John didn't know what EOS was thinking either.

"I am definitely not bankrupt even though you say I am, and this game is silly, and so I'm going to throw the board!"

For all her intelligence… Gordon wondered whether John has as much of a headache as it looked like he might.

"Um, EOS..?" Scott started, testing the waters almost, "You can't throw the board. It needs hands."

There was a moment.

"John, throw it for me!"

The red head pulled his head up, but hadn't even needed to say a thing for Gordon to know what the answer was. No way would John ever do something like that… he had experience on the other hand.

"I'll do it!"

He didn't know quite what possessed him – maybe it was the fact he always lost, or that this had taken so long, or goodness knows what – but he reached out, tucked his fingers as far beneath the board as his palms would allow before flipping it into the air with the same delicacy he did pancakes.

Very little. Aiming high.

The board went through the air, taking pieces and money with it in a flurry of blurred shapes and noise.

For a moment afterwards, it was quiet.

Then there was a little whir and a flicker of blue.

"I asked John to do it."

And then the link was closed, and EOS was gone from their sights with John muttering something the Aquanaut had no chance of catching.

"Oh yeah, no – 'thank you Gordon'. I just can't win with her!"

Gordon folded his arms, and waited expectantly for someone to think of how to resume their game. But there was silence for a long while.

"What?"

"Um, Gordon..?"

Scott started, wearily, unsurely, like he was predicting a storm to brew at his words. John, Virgil and Alan all looked to be waiting expectantly, like they were ready to run at the first sign of said storm turning into a hurricane. Gordon couldn't for the life of him fathom out way. Scott, after a very long moment of quiet, pointed towards his stack of money, and Gordon followed his eyeline.

"You do know you were winning, right?"

The blonde took a moment to estimate the value of his pile before moving his gaze around those of his brother's (and the resigned EOS'). They were pulling his leg, had to be, he'd never won before.

"I'm winning? Let's hurry up and…"

Yeah, his brothers were already ahead of him, eyes looking at the very upturned and unrecoverable state of the board, pieces scattered just about everywhere, at a guess.

"Ahh, dammit!"

Gordon reached out, ready to re-enact his grand piece-scattering moment from the last time he'd thrown the board into the air in anger and promptly realised – a little late as his hands grabbed air – that it was a little bit too late for that. There'd be nothing to throw but the board and that would hardly be grand at all…

And he'd been winning.

Damn. It. All.

**********

Safe to say, Monopoly wasn't played again in the Tracy household for quite some time. Not until Jeff's return, actually – because it had always been one of his and Grandma's very traditional favourites.

Jeff had looked at the board carefully, studying it, trying to work out what was different about it. He settled with the fact it had been a long time since he'd last seen one.

Truth was, Grandma had brought them a new board a little while ago, even though it had remained untouched until now. She'd had too, after that last disastrous game had resulted with Gordon lobbing the already tossed board out of the lounge and into the waiting waters of the pool.

Jeff didn't understand either, why Gordon wasn't allowed near the board, and had to give instructions to MAX for the robot to play his cards and houses.

EOS didn't really like Monopoly – she wasn't as good at it as she thought she would be, but she did love to watch the boys play it, even if it was just so she could think of ways to mock Gordon later.

They'd get there eventually with the explanations, hopefully without the need to buy yet another edition of the game.

The first one, might need to be the explanation of why Gordon was always relegated the little silver hat.

[what-even-is-thiss]

Fic, Off of Land, Out of Water, Part 5, After.

Warning for injury and implied homophobia and questionable relationships.

First Previous Next

Abstract: Dangerous games are afoot. Logan. Is involved.

5. After

Roman looked out at the ocean, wondering silently how exactly he got here. It’s not like he hadn’t earned this after all. He had gotten himself a lawyer, and not a bad one at that. He had worked his way up the ranks, written his book, leaked his makeup routine.

But still. Here, in a condo overlooking the ocean? Now that was just ridiculous. And his boyfriend did seem to take a lot more business trips since they moved in together. He wondered about his brother’s safety slightly if a certain fact were revealed. Or that other fact. Or the third, slightly newer fact with glasses and weird freckles.

No, that was crazy talk. Crazy talk. Listen to him. He’s starting to sound like Virgil. If Virgil were into anyone enough to date them, that is. Paranoid. He’s just paranoid. He earned this. He earned this view. He deserved a little time to himself while John was on his trip.

He took another shot of tequila as the buzzer rang by his door. Who the hell was visiting at one am?

He hit the button by the intercom.

“Hello?”

“Roman, let me in. Right now.”

“Virgil?”

“Let me up, moron!”

Virgil’s voice sounded deeper than usual, like it was being damaged by something. Roman hit the button to unlock the front door of the building and went to put on a shirt. The frantic knocking started when he got back to the entryway.

Virgil grabbed him so fast that he didn’t comprehend that his brother was completely naked and dripping wet until after he grabbed Roman so hard he felt he might break and said

“Where’s Logan?”

……….

There’s a game that mer children play with brine lakes. Pools of water under the water that rest there due to their high salt content. 

Like with many games that unsupervised children play, there’s a level of danger to it. Like human children playing crack the whip on thin ice or putting dimes on railroad tracks, mer children kiss danger by luring blooms of jellyfish into brine lakes.

The nearest equivalent to the name of this game in English would be pop the bubble in the central to south Atlantic and hug of death in most other places. Logan of course, growing up in the central Atlantic, would have called it pop the bubble, and despite what he will tell you he played it quite a few times growing up with his classmates and with his best friend Virgil. Everyone did, and all parents know that no matter how many times they warn children against this game they will end up playing it anyways.

………

Virgil angrily ran the towel through his hair. The pink t-shirt that said “baby queen” on it sticking to his wet skin did nothing to improve his mood.

“How do you know he’s in danger? We’re hours away from the central coast. How could you know?”

Virgil threw the towel at him.

“I told you already! The ocean is angry!”

Virgil went into another coughing fit and Roman led him over to the sink where he promptly coughed up a disturbing amount of black sludge.

“Fucking black gold.” Virgil said.

Roman hit his back. “Come on, chemical bromance. Hack it up.”

With a few more coughs and a bit of vomiting all the black sludge found its way out of Virgil’s body. Or at least, no more came out.

“I’m no expert, but should I take you to the doctor?”

“No time! Get me your leather jacket.” Virgil said. “We need to get to Tampa.”

“Why Tampa?”

“Because Logan’s in Tampa.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do, okay? We don’t have much time!”

……….

Pop the bubble has no winners or losers. It’s done just for the thrill of it, and quite honestly the rush of adrenaline that comes with it is very addictive.

The magical scaled parts of mer people’s bodies are highly resistant to most forms of damage, including mild hacking, biting, and jellyfish stings. The same can not be said for the human portions of skin, however. Although the human half of the body provides warmth and the ability to breathe in almost any environment and eat almost anything, it’s also open to being stung. It’s this danger that having two types of skin on one intelligent creature provides that makes this game even possible in the first place.

……….

As they drove down the road a little too fast and Virgil changed into the emergency clothes in the backseat, Roman kept trying to change the subject.

“But the bigger problem here is Logan. How do we really know he’s there?”

“Logan and I are connected by the primal ancient force which is the petty bitch fight between the land and sea.” Virgil said. “Now tell me why you haven’t gone back to- ow!”

Virgil fell off the seat as he tried to pull his boots back on.

“If mother were here I think she’d say something about seatbelts.” Roman said.

Virgil awkwardly made his way into the front seat.

“Yeah well if mom were here that would mean she accepts us all now wouldn’t it?” he said, putting his seatbelt on. “Now shut up and tell me why you’re still living in Miami with that idiot.”

………

Jellyfish can’t sense in the way most creatures would, but they do have senses and they can become agitated. Mer children often make noise or bat at blooms with their tails to get them away from the unpleasant stimuli and towards the brine lakes. Many times children will come very close to being stung before they lure the jellyfish into the lake and watch them die.

Every time they come close to being stung they tell themselves “Well I haven’t been stung yet.”

And it’s all fun and games until it’s not.

……….

“...and it was just one time. I’m sure he didn’t mean it. It’s not like he got physical, okay? He’s a perfect gentleman most of the time. Like me.”

Virgil sighed and whistled high pitched first and then made a sound in the back of his throat almost like a mating whale.

“What does that mean?” Roman asked.

Virgil rolled his eyes. “It’s a saying. A man doesn’t realize that water pressure is killing him until he’s almost dead.”

They went for most of the way to Tampa in silence. Or, Roman’s version of silence. Which meant he only spoke about half the ride. Thankfully, highway patrol didn’t notice how fast they were going. Once in Tampa, Virgil seemed to know exactly where to go, even though Roman had no memory of ever visiting that place.

“No, moron. The other left. Okay, it’s up here.”

They were in a residential neighborhood with private woods behind it that led to the bay. It was pitch black out except for the occasional street light and as they got out of the car Roman couldn’t help but think that this was exactly the type of environment he could chip a nail in.

“He’s here.” Virgil said.

“Honestly I can’t believe you would… did you hear that?”

It was a masculine yell, and one that sounded very familiar. Not one that would wake someone from a deep sleep, but one that you would learn to pinpoint from a mile away after hearing it being afraid of their mother for the first time.

“Patton.” they both whispered together before jumping the fence and running towards it.

……….

Virgil was too squeamish to actually touch the jellyfish with his tail.

“They are so disgusting.” he clicked.

“I am starting to believe what you told me about the witch not letting you go anywhere.” Logan said, tying his hair back. “It’ll be slightly more difficult for you given your…” he gestured to Virgil’s mostly blank torso, “...condition, but I think you’ll be fine. Just resist the urge to let them touch the scaleless areas of your skin.”

“And why would I be tempted to do that?” Virgil asked, pulling his hands close to his torso in a very human show of disgust.

“They are very squishy looking.” Logan said in a very serious tone.

Virgil let one small laugh escape. Logan showed him the right way to swirl the water around and swim away really fast when it became too dangerous. If either of them were ones for laughing they would’ve laughed. As it was even the two most somber looking young mermen in the city with reputations for looking like they were always attending a funeral together, grinned from ear to ear.

As the jellyfish started to almost melt in the brine lake Virgil held onto Logan’s much smaller shoulders to anchor himself. At first Logan thought it was silent laughter. Then he noticed the heavy breathing.

Logan turned Virgil over and saw an angry red mark on his chest. And others on his side. They were slowly growing.

“Oh, gods and sacred tides. Virgil, can you hear me? Virgil, I can see that you’re still breathing. Virgil? I need you to answer me.”

……….

“Logan, answer me!” Patton called out.

Logan looked carefully over the waves for the first time since he had changed. The bay was much calmer than the open ocean, but not enough to quiet the screaming in his mind.

He had to be ready. He had to be, right? That’s what this must be. The call of the ocean that Virgil keeps talking about. It must be. It’s only logical. Why else would he hijack Patton’s car? If he’s doing it then there must be as reason behind it. That’s who he is. That’s what he is. If he goes in he can return to what he really is. That must be it.

Voices and footsteps mixed with Patton’s. They were almost there. All he had to do was go in. Find is way home. Finish his test. Pretend like none of this ever happened.

“He can’t swim!” Virgil called out. “I can’t swim! Not like this!”

“What do you mean you can’t swim, fishy edgelord?”

“I mean, I can’t change back right now and nobody ever taught me how to swim with a human body! Logan! No! Pop the bubble!”

The last thing that crossed Logan’s mind before the water engulfed him was “Wait. What? Oh. Oh no.”

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @flynnifox!

The prompt by @flynnifox:

I really like soulmates, and please fluff as it's christmas, coffee shop au's are also great, I like wolf Derek, werewolves are known, all the AU's, did I say please fluff? I totally love slow burn, kissing, nipping, scentmarking, sassy Derek, sassy Stiles, Alpha Derek, having to share a bed, snow, ice-skating

Here's to hoping that I blended these elements together in a satisfying manner that captures the soulmates + scents + sass + fluffy adorableness. Most of that brought by Derek's red eartips (because he's embarrassed so frequently).

Read on AO3

*****

Chocolate and Notebooks

Stiles pulls his eyes from the road, taking a glance at the clock as the trees zip past in the dark and chilly evening. One glance at the clock confirms his suspicions.

"It's 5:43 in the morning and this is a very dumb time to be driving through unfamiliar territory." He tilts his head, as if considering an argument. "And yet, we're perfectly safe because the shields are up and the path is true." His head cocks to the other side. "And yet, we are definitely feeling sleepiness come on." He hopes the next town is near, and avoids the part of his mind that would happily confirm for him that he's getting closer to his destination.

Built-in GPS is a great tool for a spark, but it can take the mystery and adventure out of life if he indulges the spark too much. And despite what others might say, he's not entirely convinced that there isn't a limited amount of magic available to any one person or to all beings and he feels responsible for not flaunting his magic with every waking moment.

"Beacon Hills: Next two exits" reflects back at him in bright white text on a shiny green background. The name sounds like an omen. A good one he hopes, and a town with a good little history, he double-hopes. Can't be too careful when there are many town that are just full of weird and sometimes bad things. Hunters are less likely to come make a mess in a peaceful town than they are in one with a reputation for trouble. Beacon Hills is, as far as he dimly recalls, not a name that's appeared in association with anything terrible in the last many years. He and whatever supernaturals may be around should be fine, so long as nobody upsets the balance.

Which is exactly the problem: The spark that constitutes the magical expression of Stiles is actually very interested in mischief. Supremely interested in making some things very much tougher for Stiles, and he tries to remind himself it's also done a lot of good for him over the years. A nudge here to take this turn, and a thought of just stopping and waiting somewhere on the sidewalk for a minute can both lead to finding old friends and good times, or missing a falling chunk of the facade from some ancient brick building. He can't often tell ahead of time despite pleading with himself to make it work.

He's decided that Beacon Hills has to be a good place, with good WiFi and good coffee and all that stuff. Nature is also calling more insistently against his bladder and he really hopes there's someplace open this early with internet service and decent restrooms.

"If I find that nobody in this town is awake at this terrible hour, and that they haven't got decent WiFi, I'm going to write them a very bad review and hex their coffeemaker. There are standards for how these things should work and that last place was a disaster!"

Of the four diners in the last town, some eight hours ago down the highway that specifically avoids the big urban centers, he found no curly fries on any of the menus. They seemed completely unimpressed with the idea of tater tots and he considered hexing them in some way or other but ended up just snagging food from the hot case at a convenience store and busting a move out of town.

When the first exit for Beacon Hills comes up he passes without exiting. It seemed too wild, like it was a regional wildspace, or something. Maybe this was more of an industrial exit for logging and whatever else they do here. The next exit surely showed promise.

Quietly in the back of his mind, a tiny version of Leslie Nielsen's voice replied, "And don't call me Shirley."

Erica had been ready for several minutes. Derek's routine for how to open the store properly had been whittled down to just 12 minutes for the cleaning prep, six minutes to get all the food out and presentable, and another full minute just to go around and make sure everything was in order. Derek usually closed the shop up, but today claimed he was feeling restless and arrived before she had and was already bustling around.

"Derek, you pay me to worry about these things. Why are you even here?" She watched as Derek redid everything she had completed already so he could be sure it met his extremely specific standards that are in no way related to what actually makes customers happy. Well, he's the boss, so he can ask for what he wants, but she's going to do it the way she knows is best when he's back on his regular routine.

She hollers at him from the cafe's dining area while Derek is in the back organizing and cleaning things in the kitchen he'd definitely organized and cleaned the night before. "You should go run out in the preserve or something. You have too much energy to be in a confined space before 6 AM on this day or any day." Her supernaturally-enhanced hearing helped her catch every syllable in reply.

"I'm here because it's my place and I don't really need a reason to be here, now, do I? I can come whenever I like."

Erica smirked.

"Shut your pie-hole, Reyes, or I'm switching you to the lunch shift and giving your boyfriend the morning."

"He'll hate you for that."

"I'm the alpha. I can take it."

At Erica's snicker, Derek growls to himself. As the alpha, his hearing is even more enhanced, but he can also feel her perpetual sniggering through the pack bond. He tells himself he should be used to it by now but he just can't. Wolves aren't monsters, they need to behave in a respectable way.

"Are you lecturing me mentally on how wolves should behave respectably in polite society? I mean, I know these customers and though some of them are gems, some are definitely not polite and don't belong out in society."

"Erica," Derek says as he enters the room. "Keep it down. You don't want anyone to overhear you talking trash about others."

"It's three minutes to six and I'm going to open up."

"It's too early. We open at six. Don't mess with people's expectations."

"Anyone here this early is here because they have no expectations, just a demand for coffee, bossman. You really don't have anything to worry about."

Erica walks to the windows and turns the lights on in the displays. She admires the way the colorful borders around the windows twinkle in the early air. They cast bright splashes of light into the intersection, visible from any direction of the street. Derek does fine display work and has made a version of the town in a huge diorama lit with tiny LEDs in the windows of the shops and homes, and decorated with the tiniest versions of people Derek knows. Customers, family, random people who caught Derek's eye are all represented in some way in the display.

She thinks it's the softest, brightest, most wonderful thing Derek does and he pretends to everyone like it's no big deal. He's the most ridiculous rough-edged marshmallow-soft man she's ever met. When she told Boyd about it, he agreed with a knowing nod of his head before he returned to mixing beverages for the fine residents and visitors who came through the door.

The subtle change in the air alerted her to potential danger, and she spun around to catch Derek standing at the door, looking confused and surprised at the man standing there.

"Uhh, if you're not open, that's fine, but I really need to use a restroom. Can I come in anyway to take care of the call of nature? She's been really, really going hard these last few miles."

Erica's snort escapes unintended. The man at the door snaps to look at her and grins, holding a thumbs-up. He gives her a sort of look that says, "Is this guy broken?" and Erica replies with a look that yes, totally broken, and harmless.

"Hey, welcome to Beacon Hills! We're opening right now and the bathroom is right down there. Go for it."

The man exhales and seems to weaken for a moment before taking off at a fast walk between the chairs and to where Erica had pointed. "Close your mouth and the door, Derek. I hear the landlord hates when people waste energy heating the outside."

The door closes with a click at the same moment Derek's jaw slams shut. She watches him transform from bare surprise to guarded watcher in an instant. "Watch out. I didn't hear him at the door when I want to go put the mat out."

"You still have that in your hands, Derek." She looks at him as he seems to realize the truth. Derek opens the door and half throws it out, trusting it to land however it lands as Derek seems to listen to the back area.

"Are you listening to him pee?"

"No, I'm—" He flashes his eyes at her. There's a visceral reaction for any beta to the flashing of one's alpha's eyes, but Derek does it so often they've all become somewhat immune to the power of it all. Derek's mother warns him about overusing his strength when a simple word will do, and while Erica see's he's gotten better with her coaching of him, he's still got a long way to go before Talia's advice actually makes a solid difference for him. "I can't hear anything. Nothing at all."

"He's probably just shielded, Derek. There are a lot of good reasons for that, especially when traveling alone."

Derek is a good-hearted alpha, and he's young, but Beacon Hills has been stable for long enough that his parents leaving him in charge isn't a disaster. Talia and her husband are consulting for another pack in Idaho and Derek's putting his training to use at home. The pack in Idaho had lost their alpha and Emissary in an attack of some kind, and they some serious help getting back on track. The mission, as it were, will be for a couple of years, but they're not far away and so the territory isn't really at risk even if Derek has some trouble to deal with.

"I don't think he's a threat, Derek. He seems kind of fun.." Which Derek would have considered if he wasn't being totally weird about this guy.

"Anyone who can sneak up on us is a potential threat, Erica. I shouldn't have to remind you of that." Indeed, Erica flashed right back to the moment she and Boyd finally returned to the territory after having been abducted by a nutty grandpa hunter and his daughter.

"Yeah, but like you also said, we can't just go in being suspicious of everyone. What if he's one of the good ones? You're the guy in charge, so people need to know they can come to you. He's probably not even aware this is our territory."

"We can't know that."

"I can just ask him, dude." Derek looks at her with an expression of disgust. She's solid in her sense of this new guy and his not-at-all-threatening intentions. Whoever he may be, or whatever he may be, he's good people. And he's not a werewolf, so there's no direct threat there. Derek's had his heart broken and his trust trampled on extremely effectively, so he's far less willing to consider his instincts and defaults to threat mode whenever something both supernatural and unexpected comes around. She regards him for a moment.

"I think we'll be okay. I'll find out about him and you hang in the back and listen, okay?" She considers for a moment. "What do you think he likes to drink?"

"I have no idea," he mutters and heads to the back room. Derek's taking things down to DEFCON 3 from DEFCON 2, which seems like a mark in her favor. She's not his first beta, but she does seem to be able to get him to think about other stuff sometimes when other people can't. When anyone happens to notice she says it's her brilliant curls, but the blonde really does seem to get his concern in a way the rest of the pack don't. Except for Boyd, and he's too busy being silent to really help Derek so directly. She lets a smile fill her face and nods to herself. Derek is trusting them more. He's been training them hard, and it's working, and she sets herself to figuring out who the new guy is and what new guy is up to.

She forgets for a moment how weird he was when he opened the door.

Stiles throws his bag onto the bench in one of the high-backed booths with a good line of sight to both the counter and the entryway and heads to the counter.

"What can I get you?" Erica says in her warmest 6-am customer service voice.

"Well, I think I want a coffee, but I also need to sleep soon, so that's probably a bad idea. I mean, caffeine can put me to sleep if I have a little, but it's been a while since I've taken my medicine and my ADD is probably going to fight me for sleep if I don't indulge in some delicious beverage action."

Erica laughs. Stiles beams. "I'm here with the jokes, folks."

"Oh, yeah, I can tell that about you."

Too quietly for normal hearing she hears, "Ask him who he is!" in an urgent tone from the back. Erica rolls her eyes briefly, making sure the visitor doesn't see it. She growls subvocally.

"Welcome! Sorry you had such a weird first experience with my boss at the door. He's not normally a weirdo."

"Eh, I'm not worried. I'm plenty weird. But he is okay? I mean, he seemed kind of... surprised?" Somehow, in some manner she didn't interpret, she heard the meaning behind it. The boss seemed both surprised and actually afraid of something, and the new guy had picked up on it.

Erica beams. "Yeah, we get that all the time. Boss is a total weirdo." Derek growls in the back and sets something hard against the table.

Stiles glances in the back then makes eye contact with Erica. "Is he alright?" he mouths at her.

She shrugs her shoulders. She isn't about to explain the weirdness on display right now. Derek's never been like this before.

"I am not sure he slept at all last night. He normally works the closing shift. I'm here to open, but when he needs pre-dawn fun, I'm apparently the one he needs to hang around."

"Oh, really?" Stiles raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, no, not like that. I'm taken. Boyd's a really good guy and he's not into sharing."

Stiles had glanced again to the back room but that comment brings his full attention right back to her. "Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to flirt! I am just like this all the time."

Erica leans back. "Hear that, Derek? He's like this all the time." She adopts a theatrical pose for a moment. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, I've completely forgotten to introduce myself. I'm Erica, and that's Derek."

Stiles doesn't miss a beat. "I'm Stiles, and you're one of the betas, then? Is he the only alpha around? It seems a little..." Stiles seems to taste the air, sort of. Erica isn't sure how to describe the way he takes an open-mouthed whiff and kind of lets his eyes go blurry. "Oh, I see. Got it."

"What do you think you get, Stiles?" Erica says with a dash of suspicion. She'd heard Derek freeze in the kitchen, his heart racing now. She tries to be a cooler customer than her alpha and hopes that Stiles isn't offended. She's not really sure what a spark is, or what they do, but Derek's got an idea and it's shocked the hell out of him for whatever reason.

"Eeek, yeah, sorry! Sorry. I find I do this all the time, and usually on accident, if I haven't prepared ahead of time. I'm a Spark, and I'm really just here to find a quiet place to rest and drink something hot and warm. I'd like to write for a bit in the booth," he says, gesturing with a huge swing of his arm to the booth.

Erica nods at him. "I am pretty sure we can accommodate that request and we won't even have to do some paperwork for it," she makes a show of stage whispering, "Since my alpha is hiding in the back instead of greeting important guests like he's supposed to do."

This time the growl is clear to everyone. Erica smiles wickedly. "Alpha Hale, I believe you have some alpha-level responsibilities here with regard to our guest. Don't you think you should get out here and be polite?" She winks at Stiles, who returns the wink with a laugh he tries to stifle behind his fist.

Derek comes out and now Stiles looks at him without saying anything. He seems to close-off a bit, looking at the alpha in his black shirt and forest-green apron with the cafe's logo on it.

Erica notices the two of them and then grabs her phone from the counter and stepping out of the way.

"Stiles, you're welcome to be here. We have no restrictions against visitors," and by this Stiles heard between the words that the alpha meant. "of the supernatural variety." Stiles hadn't met an alpha so formal as this before. He mentally knocked his hand against his temple to try to recall proper protocols. He was not successful.

"Hello, Hale. I mean, alpha. Gah. This isn't going well. I don't do many formal introductions and I'm sorry to mess it all up. I hope you're not offended."

"No offense taken." Derek looks at the counter and then at Stiles. "Do you know what you'd like to have to drink this morning?"

"I hadn't decided that, though I imagine you already heard." Erica and Derek watch him as he catches himself glancing back. "And crap! I left my shields up without regard to any possible werewolf packs in the area. I'm sorry!" he said emphatically. "I would have taken them down in the parking lot if I'd have been thinking. It's been a long trip, and again, I—" he waves in the direction of the restrooms in the back and at that moment Erica and Derek both got a whiff of the spark without his protections. It took a moment to realize he was still talking.

"...distracted, on top of that, I've got ADD. You know how it goes? Wow, this probably explains why Alpha Hale had some trouble deciding what to do with me when I was at the door." Erica couldn't tell if Stiles noticed Derek was taking deep breaths, seemingly to scent him over and over again, which our staunch Alpha Hale never, ever does.

It was the, "You can call me Derek," said in a very warm and cozy tone that persuaded Erica to get the pack here. Whatever was going on needed witnesses, and she wanted to be sure someone else could verify this totally bizarre behavior by their alpha. Stiles didn't lie about being a spark, though if he were doing sexy mojo on the boss she doesn't know if she could tell. The scent of magic in the air happened only after he released the shield, and even hen he's been fading into the background. She snaps a picture of them with her phone and sent a broadcast message to the pack. Derek's phone vibrated, and he subconsciously pulled it out and put it on silent, no vibration, as he continued talking with Stiles.

Something is odd here, and Derek's doing things with his eyebrows that are perfectly adorable. Erica wants to find out what's going on, and she wants witnesses. While Derek and Stiles worked out the beverage order for a specialty hot chocolate, Stiles had also talked himself into a muffin and some veggie snacks. She's been providing summary notes to the pack and comes to a conclusion about this situation that she debates momentarily, then shares with the pack.

She's certain that Derek is deeply smitten by this newcomer.

By 6:45 the pack had all arrived, even those who had other jobs they were supposed to be getting ready for. Derek seems to have blithely missed the fact that the pack had arrived at the cafe and had been huddling together at one of the larger tables getting the play-by-play from Erica about whatever each had missed before they arrived.

Stiles had developed his senses such that he noticed Erica noticing them, and noticed that there were more wolves coming. Their energy wasn't hostile, but it was actively engaged. As he talked with Derek, he couldn't help but wonder why the alpha didn't seem to notice the rest of them. During a break in their chat about a particularly delightful staff he'd made friends with at a diner in Nevada, Stiles nodded to where the pack was sitting and waited for Derek to follow his gaze.

"Why is your pack here, Derek?"

"I don't know." He seemed surprised at not noticing. Derek looked at them and noticed that yes, everyone had arrived. He gave a glance at Scott who was loosely affiliated, being an alpha in his own right but mostly disinterested in claiming territory and building his pack.

"Don't you have work, Scott?"

"I'm sure Deaton won't mind that I came for the show at the cafe." Stiles laughed, and Derek looked at him, confused. "What show?"

Stiles isn't sure how to break this to him, so he tries to ease the wolf into the idea in a roundabout sort of way.

"Derek, what time is it?"

Derek glances at the clock above the exit. "It's almost seven. Why?"

"When did I arrive?"

"Just before we opened, I think." He scrunches his eyebrows. Stiles smiles, having already started learning the way the wolf's expressive eyebrows communicate thoughts he doesn't speak with his words. "Yeah, I opened the door and you were there."

"So you've been here talking with me for an hour and haven't noticed?"

Derek looks at Stiles, and the pack, and then moves to leave. Stiles gently sets his hand over Dereks' own hand, interrupting his sudden (and fearful?) escape.

He opens his backpack and pulls out a notebook. He then slides out of the booth and heads to the pack table, and pulls up chairs for him and Derek to join them. He sets the book down.

Wrapped around the book is a worn leather cover. It's got a few scratches and stains, and it is soft to the touch. Stiles loves this book, and as he holds it up for the pack and explains the leatherwork. Derek looks at the cover, surprised. Erica brings over a plate of cookies from the display and they show the same triple-spiral pattern, a triskelion, curled into itself in a familiar form.

Erica seats herself in the lap of one of the pack members. "Good morning, Boyd" Boyd nods to Stiles, unfazed by the recognition. Derek looks surprised that Stiles knows Boyd's name, and even more so that his packmate seems unbothered by the way Stiles already knows his name. Stiles says hello to each of the pack members. He gets to Scott and instead of "hello," Scott asks, "Why does your book have Derek's tattoo on it?"

Derek finds himself flushing and he's not half-sure why. The triskelion is a common symbol in supernatural circles. They've got it on their cookies, as the plate suggests. He grabs one of them and takes a bite. Stiles laughed at Scott and confesses that he sometimes blurts questions out, too. When Scott beams back at him, Derek sees how the two of them will become fast friends.

Then he tilts his head to the side. The pack takes notice, and then so does Stiles, who has turned to him with a sly smile.

"I hope you will allow me to share something with you all that I haven't shared with anyone, not even my dad." They nod, and then Stiles looks at Derek and raises an eyebrow.

"Go ahead, I guess. Not sure what you need our permission for."

Stiles grins at Erica, who knows something special is about to happen that will make all everyone's grumbling about being up early disappear in an instant.

"At three years old the little wolf, with his bare little feet and scruffy face and pointed ears, was poking around at the wild things in the area near his home. He couldn't control his shift yet, so sometimes he was half wolfy and half boy, and he barely noticed."

Stiles tilted the book at Derek who took a look at the image and said nothing, but his heart skipped a beat and his eyes opened wide.

"And the little wolf saw a lizard. The lizard told him that they could be friends, but that they needed to learn how, because one day, the little wolf might have to remind the lizard who his friends were."

Stiles didn't glance at Jackson, but a couple of the others did. Danny set his hand on Jackson's shoulder and squeezed gently.

"The little wolf did not understand the lizard. He asked the lizard how he would know him in the future. The lizard said they were family, but they didn't know that yet."

Scott's excitement overruled his better judgment again. "Jackson was a kanima and we found out that he was Derek's cousin!"

Stiles glanced at Derek and nodded. Derek avoided looking directly at anyone, but remained attentive in his listening. When Stiles continued, he looked at Jackson and smiled slightly. They had a rough go of things at first, but they've come a long way. Jackson really has worked on letting his fears go, the ones that fed the kanima and he's becoming a better man. Derek likes to think the experience has humbled him, too. After all, it isn't every day you discover that a dangerous were-creature was basically possessed by the darker side of his own fears and ended up doing some pretty awful things until they got it all worked out.

Jackson is reliable now, and Derek is one of the people he sends texts to when he is looking for advice. Derek considers it good progress that Jackson doesn't just ask about pack advice anymore, and instead about real-life stuff, like running a business and all that stuff.

Stiles has moved to a new story and Derek catches his name again. He inhales once more, and Stiles stops to scoot a little closer.

"Oh, sorry, this one is out of order. I'm not sure Derek will remember it." Derek sets his hand on Stiles' knee almost as an afterthought. It is as if being with Stiles is a thing that has already happened, and they've been together for decades. They haven't, but it's so easy to believe it, to trust Stiles, and to trust Stiles with his pack.

"When the little wolf had his first birthday, his asshole uncle creepy pants..." ("That's exactly who he is" slips Lydia under her breath, echoed by "yeahs" around the table.) "...gave little wolf a box. Little wolf was a boy at this time, almost never being wolfy at all. The box in front of him had a very interesting handle. Uncle creepypants showed little wolf boy that he could spin the handle around and around and listen to the music the box played. Little wolf boy was so excited! He squealed with delight and turned the handle in his tiny fist and laughed himself silly."

"But when the box clicked and the lid opened to reveal an ugly clown on a spring, the surprise of the moment caused little wolf boy to change, with little sharp teeth and little sharp claws and he knocked the little box over with his mightiest growl." Derek chuckled at this. The image was adorable even if he still has a thing about clowns."

("Derek's got a thing about clowns." Scott chimes in. "Perhaps we should not keep interrupting Stiles, Scott?" Lydia said with a glare. Scott was suitably threatened into silence and put his hand over his mouth as a reminder.)

"After little wolf hit the toy he ran to his father. The man was tall, friendly, and even for a human he was strong. This man was not a wolf like the little wolf was, but he seemed just as strong as everyone else to the little wolf and Derek felt himself scooped into his father's arms and held close as he cried about the toy. His father soothed him, promising to damage his uncle's personal things in retribution for such a prank. Little wolf was happy, and though he dreamed of bad clowns for a week, he also dreamed that he and his dad would fight them together."

The pack seemed to adore the stories, and Stiles kept reading. Derek would have preferred if the pack never heard some of these stories because many of them revealed parts of his life he'd forgotten about, or didn't want to talk about. Stiles was a good storyteller, though, and he found that as he wrapped his arm around the other man's shoulders, and felt the lean muscular strength there, and smelled the way the chocolate and spice and scent of orange blossoms filled his nostrils, and how there was almost a flavor to the frisson of electricity in the aura of the spark. He felt cozy, and watched as the pack listened raptly to this master storyteller at work.

"This one is set in the future. Not even today, but in the near future." The pack looked at each other. Stiles looked at Derek, sat-up so Derek couldn't read ahead, or see the drawings in the margins. He wanted them all to experience this together. After all, the future isn't set, but this particular event isn't one of great triumph or struggle, so it shouldn't impact much of anything one way or another.

"It's the kind of Christmas morning where the windows are foggy and the lights on the houses nearby are blobs of color on the glass. The snow is on the ground thick enough to muffle noise, but not so bad you can't walk through it. In the great house in the preserve the pack meets. The little wolf is now a big wolf, but not a bad wolf. He's got his own pack now, and they welcome family and friends from far away every Christmastime."

"In the kitchen big wolf makes hot chocolate using a secret recipe he's developed at his cafe and which delights everyone. He prepares a cup for his electric friend, and for his friend who knows the ghosts, and for his cousin and his betas, for his sisters and their partners. He brews a magical potion of love and chocolate for everyone and makes it only at this time of year, as a treat to himself for his birthday, and as a cherished present to those he loves." Stiles grabs a cookie and munches it and glances at his notes.

"Oh, dang. Sorry, everyone, but I need to skip the rest of this."

"What, is it PG-13? We can handle a little of that. You two are already cuddling up."

"No, it's not that. The future is not set, and these stories might be pretty close to reality, but they're not facts. I don't know if the newcomers — No, sorry, I just don't know what I should say, so I'm going to skip it. And don't go trying to get into it later, Erica, you literally cannot read it, on top of getting a nasty burn if you try to open the book without my permission." She grunts back at him something about Batman with all his tricks and traps. "We'll get to it when we come to it. Together."

Derek nudges him with his shoulder. "Oh? Have you already decided you're staying?"

"Well, yeah, duh. When people meet their soulmates they really shouldn't just keep going."

"What? You did?"

Erica takes a cookie and throws it at Derek. "You're an idiot!" Derek looks at her confused, and annoyed. Boyd gives him a look that says to Derek that he is, in no uncertain terms, "being so stupid right now I can barely stand how stupid you're being. Would you please figure this out right now so we don't have to hold your hand through this life-changing event? What the hell, dude?"

Derek looks at Stiles, looks at the pack, and Jackson says, "Yo, dude, just check your threads."

It's Jackson's way of referring to the bond the pack has, and how they're bonded together with something that mentally looks like an energy string tying them together, supernaturals and humans alike. It's also the thing that Jackson knows will have Derek realize the truth of the situation. Derek tends to have to feel things out for himself. He doesn't think his way so much as do and feel and goes with that. The pack bond is one of the alpha's most powerful tools for relating to the people he's responsible for, and Jackson knows it's the kind of thing that will quickly get Derek out of his stupid place.

So Derek does at Jackson suggests. The pack are held with bright yellow bonds, the links between betas and between betas to their alpha. There are links to his family in colors that are tinted mostly with greens. Even Danny and Scott, both of whom are loosely associated with the pack, still have bonds to the alpha which show as gold from Danny and red from the other alpha. But there's a new line now, one directly to Stiles, and from Stiles come lines to the rest of the pack. There's a sort of hum to the group, a frequency that sounds like a cat's purr, or the perfectly tuned note on a piano, or the breeze through the forest in spring.

And the smells are incredible. He can now tell each member by scent just by thinking about them. Stiles being part of the group enhances his abilities considerably. He has the scent of desert clay and expensive wine from Jackson. There's the mixed whiffs of poppy and rain from Erica and Boyd. There is a tickling scent of dust from Lydia that underrides the floral of begonias and sparking wine. Allison smells of metal and snickerdoodles, and Scott of cane sugar and browned butter.

"Why can I feel your dad, Stiles?"

"Oh, well, we're a package deal. I bet you that within two years he'll move here, become Sheriff, and everyone will know him. He's just that kind of guy."

"How do you know this?"

Stiles opens the back cover of the notebook and holds it up to Derek so that only he can see. He folds it quickly before the pack can lean over enough to catch a glimpse. "Does that answer it?"

"Yes and no. I mean..." Derek glances at the window. Erica watches, and Lydia gasps minutely before catching herself. She barks an order.

"Boys, why don't you go get those figures and bring them to the table?" Jackson and Scott rise without a thought, only belatedly realizing they came to attention at her order. She's got no direct power over them, but yet, she somehow really does. She's just that intimidating. When she and Jackson broke-off their relationship, they took some time to heal from it, and now it's genuinely a good, close friendship between them. But he still does her bidding without necessarily meaning to, at times, to his minor annoyance. Danny just laughs at the situation, having been Jackson's best friend for ages and aware that Jackson really just kind of likes to be told what to do sometimes.

Stiles sits upright as the figures are laid before them. Derek is red-faced again, up through the tips of his ears. It's easily one of his most endearing qualities that are entirely outside of his control. Stiles loves that about the man, that his embarrassment and pride show through even when he doesn't mean to. and he's adorable when he's struggling with it.

"Wait." Stiles holds one, and then taps the rest, seeming to sense something about each. "You made these figures? The whole pack?" Derek nods. "These are great! Look, you even gave Jackson a little lizard tail. So cute!" (Scott had brought the Jackson doll over and hadn't realized that feature had been added. "Asshole" is all he says before sitting back in his chair and watching his cousin squirm under Stile's scrutiny.

"They're wonderful, and I think you did a great job. You could sell work like this for some pretty big bucks online, Derek. But why are we looking at them?"

Derek rises from his chair and goes to the window display. There's a house there between some tall trees. He reaches to the back, opens the door, and looks at whatever it is outside of Stile's line of sight.

"Come on, big guy. You don't need to hide your toys. Bring it over!" Stiles says playfully, and the pack giggles. Derek's ears flush brighter red and he steps over to Stiles and holds up to him a tall, thin figure with wild hair, a backpack just like the one he's got (down to the star and moon diagram in the middle), and sets it in front of Stiles next to the figure that looks like Derek.

"When did you make this?"

"I've had dreams about you for a long time. I could never see your face, but I knew the hair, and the bag, and the flannel shirts and tight jeans. I knew you were coming, but it wasn't until a few minutes ago that I realized this was you."

Erica holds her hands out. Several pack members put fives and tens into it. "I told you they were soulmates, but you all didn't believe me. All Stiles had to say was that he needed to pee and Derek just couldn't control himself."

Stiles and Derek could not help but laugh at that. Lydia and Boyd both gave half-disgusted, half-amused looks at her. Danny and Jackson were just laughing their asses off and Jackson silently filed that quote away for use later.

On Christmas day, not a week after they'd all met Stiles for the first time, the alpha and his soulmate had organized the pack to put up decorations inside and outside the Hale family home, they'd been cooking food, with Stiles giving Derek a flavor suggestion that perfected the recipe Derek's been working on, and they gathered everyone together for a huge pack picture. Stiles' dad and Derek's parents were able to get to town in time to welcome the happy couple to their first major holiday together and celebrate the blending of their families and pack.

As it turns out, the cafe has excellent WiFi and Stiles never has to worry about his things disappearing when he has to make runs to the restroom between writing chapters of his children's books about the Little Wolf and the Boy in the Red Sweater.

[aviationfiction]

XXX

Dante St. James

Upon slipping the other Air Jordan I sneaker onto my foot, I glanced towards the slightly uncovered enormous window and glossed my eyes over the unrivaled Los Angeles skyline. Though there’s is no way possible it can compete with New York City’s and the view of it I have from my own bedroom, it did a decent enough job in relaxing my body and allowing my mind to focus on the hectic day ahead. I’d made it through a mental rundown of this afternoon’s tasks before the stirring between the sheets of the canopy style California King Bed abruptly interrupted my thought process and completely captured my attention. As the rays of the sun subtly peaked through the curtain’s opening, they cascaded over her ever smooth skin and illuminated her nudity and the top sheet that barely covered it. I froze; partially because I didn’t want to awaken her but most of all, because it’s become a normal response to the breathtaking sight that I can’t quite get enough of or used to.

Over the years of coming into my manhood, my version of my dream woman transition from being a foolish figment of my imagination to an afterthought because the concept seemed not only dated, but childish. For friends and the occasional cousins who were within my age bracket, their versions of that particular woman consisted of about five to ten different celebrity women morphed into one person with the capabilities of a God, domesticated nature of their mothers, and the intimate capabilities of their wildest dreams while yet trapped into the unrealistic sexist standard of being untouched by any other man. As a matured, I began to seek instant compatibility. I figured that it was a fair enough necessity to judge a woman and relationship by. It’s what also withheld me from going beyond simple conversations and trapped me in a limited amount of dates. My short lived college relationship seemed to have started with a decent amount of compatibility and yet the lack of there being enough drifted us apart. Later on down the line, I revised that standard to testing out the waters and seeing if we could learn to be compatible. I lived that life with Samira for a couple of months and realized it had no standing. I then left it up to the higher power and universe to work something out and present it to me as one of my greatest gifts at some point in my life or to give me a sign of what to understand and seek while awaiting her. Both happened. As I sit here and stare at the being that has become an essential in my own world, I know that she is the woman of my dreams. I cannot deny questioning it and even wallowing in fear for having fell so hard in such a quick paced manner and yet every question has been answered, every fear is quickly alleviated, and every prayer is answered with a deeper understanding of who we are individually and as partners. My life hasn’t been the same since my eyes landed on her tear stained face. Days after that encounter, I found myself bitterly chuckling because she filtered into my thoughts and remained locked there despite my multiple attempts to distract myself. My nights in bed were filled with questions of her well being. My urge to get back to that jet company exceeded any other desire I had. What I thought was vacuous infatuation turned into this; all of this. My humility and thankfulness is boundless.

“Babe.” As her groggy voice filled my ears, I quickly stood up and approached her side of the bed. When she reached for the empty side, I leaned over to soothe her with a kiss to the side of her neck and a soft caress to her bare thigh.

“Go back to sleep. I have a few things to do so I’m heading out.”

“What time is it?” As she placed her hand over mine, I contemplated whether I should tell her that or not.

“Noon. It’s still early. Continue resting okay? Neither one of us slept much.” I had every urge to climb back into bed, wrap her up into my arms again, and fall back into the slumber my body so badly wanted but last minute details are awaiting me and I’d rather not have another deafening wake up call from Stacey.

 “Okay. I love you.” The words flowed from her supple lips so effortlessly and arose those normal chills I get in the napes of my neck whenever we’re within one another’s presence. My lips met the side of her neck once more and then the soft skin of her cheek as she drifted back into her slumber.

“I love you too.” I placed my American Express Centurion card and fifteen hundred dollars in cash on a nightstand before quietly exiting the bedroom and closing the door behind me. Fredrick’s slick persuasion caused us all to end up at Playhouse last night, including Stacey who rolled her eyes at the thought of being in the Los Angeles nightclub amongst the disgustingly small circle that is Hollywood’s celebrity scene. All it took was one drink for me and about two for Autumn to worsen our already raging hormones. I don’t even remember the poor excuse we used to leave, but we were gone within an hour of our arrival and pulling one another’s clothes off before the door to our executive suite could close behind us. Somewhere in the midst of catching our breaths and yet her straddling my lap for round two, she playfully scolded me for having sweated out her hair and stated that I’d be paying for it to be styled for the Baraya Los Angeles grand opening tonight. I’m keeping my word. The cash is for her hair and the card is for whatever catches her eyes if she passes by some stores around the city. I’ve yet to see what she intends on wearing this evening but I’m assured in whatever it is being a cause for us to sweat out her hair yet again but at least the event would be behind us.

Before exiting the suit, I grabbed my Nike backpack off the living room couch and tossed it over my shoulder as the door closed behind me. The elevator ride was as quiet as I needed it to be and surprisingly, so was the walk through the main lobby of The Four Seasons. I knew I was the last one to leave out of my comfort zone because Mike had already texted me and told me that I was on “light skinned people time” while they waited for me to come downstairs.

“What took you so long? Don’t pull that Mariah Carey ass shit no more.” Drips of Fredrick’s Gatorade trickled down the side of his mouth as he laughed at Mike’s unnecessary complaint and my middle finger was the only response that I could muster up.

“You look tired. Have you slept?”

“Not much.” Stacey examined my face and her eyes narrowed in curiosity as she awaited an excuse for why that was.

“Why not?”

“Y’all ready to go? This isn’t court. What am I being interrogated for?”

“Oh, I get it. You’re cranky because you and Autumn were humping all night long even though you knew you had to get up early. Now you’re tired as hell.” Of course she’d go there. Even if her assumption was completely inaccurate or baseless, she’d still go there because she can’t help herself nor is there a filter in her throat that waters down anything she says. “Go ahead and tell me I’m lying.”

“You’re not lying Stace. Look at his face. Most of all, look at his neck.” Fredrick pointed at a spot on the left side of my neck and I instantly reached my hand up to cover whatever love mark it could have possibly been. I don’t know how I missed it while glancing at myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth.

“There’s nothing there, but you damn sure just told on yourself.” Their laughter was loud enough to catch the attention of a number of people exiting through the revolving door. Though my lips curved into a subtle smirk, I suppressed my own laughter so I could refrain from giving them the satisfaction of getting off a shitload of jokes on me today.

“Y'all are clowns.”

“Aye man. It’s a beautiful thing.” Before Mike could pat my back in jest, I opened the door behind me and stepped outside. “She stole you from us and I’ve come to terms with that. We all have. You’re married and you’re not even married. Shit, are you married? I don’t know when it comes to you two these days.”

“Nah. I’m not married yet.”

As we piled into the awaiting SUV and took the thirty minute drive to our now completed Los Angeles location, I was thankful Stacey called for a driver. My sleepiness would spark up a restlessness that wouldn’t have been able to handle the never-ending and absolutely ridiculous Los Angeles traffic. While New York is supposedly the city that never sleeps, it’s laughable to speak on our rush hours when there’s literally always traffic on the roads and highways on the West Coast. There doesn’t even have to be an accident, construction, or some trivial hold up. The traffic is embedded within the city’s day to day life. It’s a norm that I can’t get with which is hilarious because I have a home in Malibu that I plan to live in at some point in my life. I suppose I have to mentally toughen myself up to bare it, but for now?

Hell no.

“This is absolutely breathtaking. You three have yet to do anything less than amaze me.”

Twenty-four floors above the downtown skyline, Baraya at The W Hotel, Los Angles is the embodiment of three visionaries coming together to supersede what we’d already done out in New York City. Initially, there was the idea tossed around of literally replicating the New York restaurant’s interior design and ambiance but it was myself who tossed that idea out of the window when I explained how both cities are absolutely nothing alike. While the three of us have our own biases towards the city we were raised in, there had to be acknowledgement of the Los Angeles tourists and it’s natives who stand by their city, it’s impact, and most of all, the vibe. After having secured a deal with the W Hotel, and choosing to build it on it’s top floor, it was a no brainer to use the skyline as the sole influence for the interior. Fredrick implemented the concept of creating a dining and lounging experience perfectly meshed together for a variety of age groups to enjoy. A group of women could come and relish an outing together for a girl’s night, a man can impress the hell out of the woman of his affections with a date night, and it’s the perfect setting for business dinners or an outing with colleagues. The custom pendant lighting served as a continuation of the L.A. skyline, by pulling it inside and continuing it above the heads of our guests. The atmosphere of the New York location is all about sophistication but this one is all about the grown and sexy. It makes me damn near want to remodel.

“Thanks Stace. I can’t believe it all came together like this. Look at this place.” Mike turned in a complete circle and crossed his arms over his chest in a moment of pride and contentment.I nodded. Hell, there was a point I doubted we’d be able to close the deal with Starwood. I don’t give a damn how educated we are, the accomplishments that followed, and the wealth that we’ve amassed. There has never been an instance where in some capacity we weren’t reminded of the color of our skin and our “place” when conducting business and trying to close a deal that no one within our ethnic background has attempted. Whether it’s the extensive research into our backgrounds and the onslaught of questions that follows it or the snide remarks about our kind and culture that are masked as jokes, it’s never as easy to leave the table with agreements made and contracts signed as it would be if we were of their kind. Not only does it take genuine determination, it takes being just as much of a shark, master manipulator, and slick fuck as they are. If I had to give Richard credit for anything in my life other than childhood financing, it would certainly be that.

“Not to sound arrogant, but this is the kind of place I could see myself eating dinner or having a drink at frequently. This is literally my style and I’ve yet to see anyone master that other than us. It’s was perfect switch shit up with the restaurant while keeping the nightclub as golden and first class as the one in New York. We gave them something new and yet something known and raved about. Pat your damn selves on the back fellas; shit you too Stacey. You’re always the essential helping hand we need. This is our accomplishment.” His words reigned truth in every single sense. Stacey isn’t only essential in helping. We see to it that she has actual stake in most of our endeavors. Initially she argued against it, but we wouldn’t have it any other way.

“A shot to that?” I suggested as I pointed at the fully stocked bar. Since our bartenders weren’t in yet for the grand opening this evening, it was left up to me to pour everyone’s vice into four glasses. Fredrick? Patròn Silver. Mike? Rèmy Martin XO. Stacey? Malibu Coconut Rum. She’s a lightweight. Myself? The good ol’ potent Hennessy.

“Shots not only to accomplishing yet another goal we set out to make happen, but also to being a family and continuing to do all of this together. I wouldn’t want it any other way. Love, family.” The sound effect of our glasses clinking together solidified our toast and we tossed back the contents inside of the glasses.

“Lets get a good look at downstairs and then get out of here. I promised Erica I’d take her to find shoes and accessories for tonight and then I need to pick up a shirt from the Tom Ford store over on Madison.” Fredrick tossed the glass on the counter and Stacey smirked as her eyebrow flew up.

“Mr. Only Spend My Money On Me is taking his girlfriend shopping? So you really love her huh? It’s quite interesting to see you all letting go of those boyish ways and actually becoming grown men. You all literally proved that men are teens until they’re damn near forty. How cliché.”

“First of all, I’m not damn near forty. Second, I’m not selfish. I just don’t prefer to spend the money I work my ass off for on temporary people. Third, I do love her. I can’t even deny that.”

“Oh shit. He finally admits it. It only took your ass how long? A year and some change? Shit, two years? You’ve been knowing her for a minute and refused to even acknowledged that you liked her. Then you denied being in a relationship. Now you’re in love? You and this Al B Sure face ass really has Satan chilling in winter gear right now.” Our laughter filled the entire room as Mike finished his statement and I shook my head at his antics. He’ll never fail to make his additional two cents a mixture of truth, jokes, and insults to keep the moments lighthearted between all of us. He and Stacey are notorious for it and yet the both of them serve as the perfect balance of tough love and endless support that both Fredrick and I need. “You’re taking her to Christian Louboutin aren’t you?”

“Shit, probably. That and Giuseppe are her favorite spots.”

“If you’re dropping stacks on shoes, I know this man here is probably buying Autumn property. He’s vomit worthy romance film in love with Esmerelda.”

“Esmerelda?” Stacey and I both called out the name in unison. His statement went completely over my head. I can’t even get Autumn to allow me to buy her a pair of socks let alone some property. I just want to spoil her. I know men typically do it for the stroking of their own egos, but for me it’s because she deserves it. She doesn’t spoil herself enough. She gives me a challenge when it comes to doing it on a normal day to day and is keeping up with that when it comes to her birthday. This evening, I’m wearing a damn near seven thousand dollar watch she gifted to me for mine and yet all she wants is a pair of Kanye West’s kicks for her birthday. Her stubbornness is wild.

“She looks like her. Y'all never seen The Hunchback of Norte Dame? Autumn looks just like Esmerelda.”

“You watch Disney on your spare time?”

“Shut the fuck up. I know what I’m talking about. Look it up. Your girl looks like her.”

“Okay, Mike. I see what those young ass paralegals you be running through has you watching during pillow talk.” I glanced back at his widened eyes as I turned to towards the elevators and the sounds of him pleading his case for why my claim is inaccurate made me snicker the whole entire way downstairs to the nightclub. He’ll refuse to admit it but a lot of those paralegals literally aspire to work in the same building as him. He's a hot commodity around his firm but the best part about it is there isn’t a single person who’s employed there who doesn’t respect and appreciate him. No matter what their job position is, their ranking, or the amount of money they’re bringing in, I’ve yet to ever hear of anyone not speaking highly of him. He’s a hot shot lawyer so it’s a no brainer he’ll have paralegals, legal secretaries, attorneys, and even judges trying to get into his presence on a personal level. I’m just waiting to see which one’s going to actually keep his attention beyond playful flirting or one casual dinner date that every now and then leads to a night in their bedroom, because it’s damn sure not happening in his. The day I hear about him laying up with a woman in his house, is the day I’ll know he’s in love.

Until then he’ll flirt and pretend like he’s too busy to be the sucker for love that he truly is.

Lunch was pizza and because of that, I felt guilty because Autumn wasn’t with us. Before leaving, I ordered a personal pizza for her just in case she wanted it for either lunch or some sort of a snack as she readied herself for this evening’s festivities. Upon my arrival back to our privacy, the only signs of her presence were her possessions and her scent. I knew she planned to get her hair done but I thought she was going to pull one of those moves where she pays the hairstylist to make a personal visit to her. Instead, she chose to go to whatever salon Heather suggested. Of course, as I expected, the cash and my credit card were in the place that I left them in. I can already tell that I’m going to have to exhaust myself in trying to get through to her unnecessary pride and make her comfortable enough to confide in me for everything that comes with companionship.

A small smirk tugged at my lips as I glanced at my now steamed shirt hanging on the door of the bedroom’s closet and the rest of my attire for tonight neatly laid out so I’d be able to grab it with ease. On the night table was the jewelry box containing my Cartier watch and cufflinks and my Tom Ford loafers were conveniently at the foot of the bed. A chuckle followed my thoughts of how I’d occasionally picture what it would be life to have a woman doing all of these things for me. What makes it all the more amazing is my lack of expecting it. She does it because she wants to.

I’m so proud of you

While standing in front of the mirror in the suite’s master bathroom, I read aloud the message she wrote on one of the Post-It notes she tacked onto the corner of the mirror on my side the sink.

Your endeavors aren’t what make you successful. It’s your heart. It’s that beautiful mind. It’s your soul.

That message was on it’s own neon green little slip of paper right under the first message. In all of the racing that my mind had been doing, until that toast an hour or two ago, I hadn’t taken a moment to truly bask in yet another task on my list of dream endeavors having been executed and completed. As Autumn has told me time and time again, I tend not to celebrate myself or take time out to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I’m rarely interested in compliments from people outside of my circle and I tend to shrug off theirs as well. I’ve yet to actually stop immediately jumping into what’s next and appreciate the now. It’s Autumn who’s been influencing me to celebrate everything as they come because despite any preparations, you don’t know where life is going to take you next. Her whimsical nature is rubbing off on me in some aspects which is why something as small as her little notes feels so grand. No materialistic item can measure up to her love being put into words and thoughtfully tacked onto a mirror simply to put a smile on my face. To have her be proud of me counts tremendously because she now is apart of the reason why I do everything that I do.

After wrapping up a quick phone call with Stacey, I flopped down on the bed and allowed my body to sink into the comfort of the down comforter and the memory foam it covered. The scent of berries and cinnamon filled my nose as my face meshed against her pillow and I allowed the faint sound of the television to send me to an on and off couple of hours of slumber. Though I heard her when she returned, not even the sound of Autumn doing her best to quietly move around the room could coerce me to move my lazy body off of the bed.

“You can have the bathroom whenever you’re ready Suga. I took my shower.”

“Nah, you can have it. I know you have to finish up your make up and whatever else. I’ll use the other one.” I still hadn’t moved. I could barely lift my head to take a glance at her. When I forcefully opened my eyes, I happened to catch her as she walked around the bed and to the closet. Her wavy hair cascaded down her back and slightly sway with every subtle switch in her walk.

“You’re tired huh? I kept telling you that you should go to bed but no, Mr. Endless Stamina wanted to be the Energizer Bunny.” My groggy chuckle slipped out easily as I thought back to the moments of her warnings that I needed to get some rest and the moans that immediately followed them.

“The Energizer Bunny is just recharging for tonight’s rounds.” Her sudden silence was followed by a pillow crashing into my head. My laughter harmonized with her own and she hit me with it once more before dropping it.

“Go and take your shower.”

“Get in with me.” A chuckle and the shaking of her head quickly followed my request. I should have known she’d deny me.

“Oh, no, no, no. I’ve already done so and I have things to do. I let you sleep longer than I actually should have. So, it’s time to get up and get yourself ready.” I took her into consideration for an additional five minutes and didn't move until she was tugging at my shirt and doing her best to completely pull me out of the the bed. My vengeance was a reach up under her silk robe and smacking my hand into the completely bare flesh it was covering. I had every intention to wait until the last possible hour to handle it but it’s just my luck that the woman I’m in love with and the woman who is undoubtedly my big sister share a trait in staying ahead of things for me. I knew she wasn’t playing when she literally followed me to the second bathroom with my necessities in her hands and closed the door behind me once I was secured inside. As I turned on the shower water, I could faintly hear music being skimmed through. Of course. She rarely, if ever, gets ready without it.

“Do you need help with your cuff links?” In the half an hour I’d spent under the shower head drowning in my thoughts, she further transformed her already sublime appearance and entranced me in her usual manner. Her loosely curled and wavy hair fell over her shoulders in such a full and grand manner while my eyes panned over the make up she’d done on her face. Usually, she keeps it natural looking but this evening, she opted to create some sort of a silvery, muted grey, and maybe even black look over and slightly around her eyes. Everything else was natural, including her nude colored lips, but her eyes were dark and attention grabbing. She’d found a way to not only enhance but to brighten the sage green that I’m obsessed with. Her enthralling beauty should be illegal. It’s graceful and yet the most tantalizing thing ever.

“Thank you.” Once they were in her hands, she carefully secured what was apart of her birthday gift to me on the cuffs of my sleeves and then properly straightened my black cocktail jacket. The floral jacquard print certainly isn’t my taste but she saw something in it that she liked and persuaded me into making it my option for the evening. She also is the reason I’m wearing a white shirt instead of going with black in it’s entirety for every piece I’m wearing. The white is to compliment whatever jumpsuit or pants contraption I’m going to assume is being covered by her robe.

“Are you excited?” Her head swayed from side to side as sound of The O’Jays stimulated and serenaded her soul. I nodded to answer her question and untied the loose knot binding her robe together and allowed it to fall open to reveal what was under it. The suspense was killing me and the revelation completed the job. The angelic white against her sun kissed skin served like a piece of the heavens gracefully laying upon the earth. As I glanced over it’s left half, my eyes helplessly bulged at the intricacies of the thin material looping and intersecting to prevent the slipping of her nipple while revealing quite a bit of the skin of her upper body. The jumpsuit teeters the fine line between sexy and risqué and yet she in all of her grace made it tasteful and alluring. My hand grazed over her amusing Lil’ Kim inspired moment and I mimicked Diana Ross in my own manner by giving her breast a subtle squeeze.

“It’s Versace Atelier and it’s old. I dug this out of one of those garment bags lying around my parent’s basement and decided to bring it because I’ve never worn it. Hell, I’m surprised the white hasn’t faded into that awful yellowish color.”

“You look so damn good.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. You’re stunning.” Somehow in the midst of our speaking, I joined her in the swaying back and forth. To further it, I pulled her closer by her hips and wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Oh?” One of her arms slid up until it was draped over the back of my neck and I grabbed the other to lace our fingers together. “You can slow dance too? Well aren’t I lucky.”

“There are a lot of things that I can do. Only for you though.” In all of the times that I’ve done this, it’s always and only been with one woman; my mother. If I’d be within her view while she and Richard’s favorite oldies blared from the speakers around the house, she’d wrapped me up into her arms while the both of them attempted to teach me how to woo a woman with their fraudulent love. It was their way of paying some sort of attention to me and fooling themselves into believing they were being hands on parents. I remember this song being played amongst her favorites on those Saturday mornings when she’d actually have Richard all to herself.

“This was my parents wedding song.”

“Really?” She nodded and slowly ran her hand over the back of my head. “Good choice.”

“It is.” Our lips met with a soft peck. “I got you a congratulatory gift, with help from a friend.”

“Did you? What did you get?” I heard her discussing some sort of surprise with Mike but I didn’t think it was for me. She carefully worded everything she spoke about in order to conceal the receivers name, so instead of being nosy, I summed it up to being something for one of her relatives.

“I’ll give it to you when the songs over. I believe you’ll like it. It’s for your office at your apartment. I feel like it needs a pop of color and this will do it.” A painting? Granted that I love art, I could imagine her figuring out some kind of way to incorporate some of my favorite artists into maybe a collage or poster for the wall. Maybe it’s a sculpture or some type of mosaic fixture. Maybe it’s a photo of us on one of our many trips that we’ve taken. Actually, I hope it’s that. I’ve been meaning to have something printed up, so I could hang it up in the living room. I’ve even considered it just being her. There’s this one particular photo of her standing in front of the Eiffel Tower that I’m in love with.

“Give me a hint.”

“Hmm. Vino.”

“Vino? What the hell is that?” Her eyes widened as the song slowly faded out and she cocked her head back in surprise.

“Seriously? Hmm. I’m going to have to question just how much of a fan you are now.” Once she was out of my arms, she hurriedly went into the closet and rummaged around for what she was looking for. With excitement, she unfolded the all too familiar yellow, purple, and gold Jersey for me to see.

“Vino. As in Kobe. Doesn’t he always say that?” My laughter followed her question.

“Yeah, that’s some nickname he gave himself. I don’t call him that shit. He’s been and will always be Bean to me.”

“I’m sure you have one of these, don’t you?”

“A jersey. Yeah. I have two.” I didn’t say it to rain on her parade because I’m appreciative either way.

“But are they signed?” She slowly turned it around so I’d see the back and there, in bold black marker, was Kobe Bryant’s famous signature sitting inside of the four of his twenty four jersey number.

“Are you serious?” I didn’t hesitate to grab it out of her hands to examine the signature and it certainly was there. I swore one of these days I’d run into him and get something signed, but it’s never happened. I’m not one of those people who shows their face at events for the sake of faux popularity or to feel like I fit in amongst certain circles. Outside of attending a couple of games over the years, I’ve yet to meet and converse with him. With his retirement looming, I already had plans to make it happen at All Star and here my lady is, ahead of the game.

“Mhm. I have both his number eight and the twenty four signed. The other one is in there too. Thank God for Heather. I gave them to her the last time she was in town and she pulled it off. I figure I’ll get frames for them and hang them up for you. You like it?” My answer was a kiss. We’re not even in an unspoken gift competition because she’s winning by a landslide. Her efforts have yet to be anything less than impressive and meaningful. She makes it a genuine effort to keep a smile on my face no matter what either one of us are dealing with and I’ve never had that outside of the three people in my life that I call my real family. Her love, much like theirs, is one that I’ve never had to question. I see it in the way she stares at me, I feel it in her touch, and she showers me in it with her actions.

“I love it. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Let me get into my shoes so we can get going.” I snuck another kiss and carefully placed the jersey down on the bed. Within minutes, Stacey will be calling and yelling about my lagging so I’d rather hurry up and get out of the door before she rips my head off with no regard.

“I’ll be moving around a lot tonight, but I’ll make my way back to you whenever I can, alright?”

“I know. No worries.”

No worries is how I pray things will continue to be tonight.

I had absolutely nothing to do with the guest list nor did I ask any questions. That’s Fredrick’s expertise and his streak certainly continues tonight. His knack for drawing in a celebrity presence never fails to impress me and yet I do not see him hanging amongst any of these people. He’s an architect and even so, his phone book is filled with some of the biggest names in multiple entertainment industries and the list continues to grow. Whether it’s his suave personality and the way he works a room or his undeniable charm that woos the panties off of women within minutes, it works to his advantage because they gravitate to him like flies on shit whenever he’s within their presence. It’s no different tonight as we welcomed guests and mingled from table to table to politely welcome all in attendance to our cuisine experience. I know they say it’s not about what you know but rather who you know, but he takes that quotable to a level that I don’t believe I can reach. Shit, I don’t want to. Though we tend to shy away from using investors, that’s my lane, along with the negotiating. Mike? All legal. He makes sure everything has the appropriate legitimacy and is within legal standing to be successfully executed. Stacey’s the follow up and back up. If we miss something, she’s sure to catch it. The fake ass Calvin Klein model that is Fred can have the networking portion of it. The most interesting part about it tonight is Erica being by his side as he does it.

Yeah, he’s going to marry her.

“Yo. Did you see this?” As I stood near the entrance of the kitchen, Mike passed me his phone and I skimmed over the headline of the Forbes article. “Effective Immediately: A&M Longtime Partner and Investor Rick Malone Steps Down.”

A lump formed in the middle of my throat at the thought of such a reality and what it potentially means for no one else other than myself. Rick and I have had a long and upstanding relationship with one another that stems back to my childhood. He’s watched me become a man and a pivotal part of the company. He held me in high regard and though I’d shun it, he often used words like progressive and the future when speaking of me in board meetings and negotiations. He would have told me something like this is coming whether it be in person or through a phone call. I’d been the first person he reached out to when everything went down with his son and I did everything in my power to reverse that decision and the tension that brewed before and exploded after it. At the time, I was no match for Richard’s stubbornness and his revolting hunger to have me in a position of power right under him. This has his name written all over it and it’s sudden nature fueled the once dormant fears that have been budding within the pit of my stomach and tormenting my mind for the past couple of months.

“It’s interesting.”

“He’s coming tonight. Your father that is.” He shot me a glance as I passed his phone back to him. I’d already known that before Stacey could shoot me a warning. He wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to show his face as a prideful father to a son he believes he built better than anyone elses’. This is his element. He’s the giant in every room and the snake when backs are turned.

“I know.”

“You told Autumn?”

“I told her it was a possibility yesterday. I didn’t necessarily confirm it. She wants to meet them. From my point of view, I don’t understand why but I’m not going to stand in her way.”

“You sure?” In unison, our eyes panned over to Autumn who was standing at the restaurant’s bar with a glass of wine in her possession and giggling along side Stacey. If I had it my way, she’d go downstairs ahead of me because I know they have no intention to step into a nightclub, but I’d rather not blindside or hide her. I’ll never do that.

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” He wouldn’t question me any further. If it were anything else, it would have been a small interrogation happening on the spot, but when it comes to this particular situation he remains short and straight to the point as I prefer it.

I remember when we were working on opening up the New York City location. Though it was quite a bit of a struggle to balance, the excitement within me was the endless adrenaline rush I needed to multitask A&M and our project equally. We spent years talking about opening up a restaurant and a nightclub so to see it coming to fruition had easily turned that year into one of the best ones of my life. It wasn’t myself who told Richard and Elizabeth about it over a Sunday dinner, it was Matthew. While preparing for a conference call, I’d been on the phone with our contractor trying to figure out why our budget was increasing by another hundred thousand dollars within a day. Had it been something trivial, I would have hung up the phone and handled it another time, but I couldn’t and I allowed him in on what was supposed to be quietly kept on my end. I damn near thought we were going to have a genuine brother to brother moment when he assured me that not only was he proud of me, but also that he’d keep it to himself, but I shouldn’t have known better. Like a gossiping school girl, he blurted it out days later and left what was dear to me out on the table to be critiqued and damn near ripped to shreds by the two people I didn’t want to hear it from. For my mother, her curiosity about my being interested in the culinary and nightclub industry held hints of condescending amusement. She quickly called me a hermit crab who never leaves his shell and wondered why I’d ever put myself out there to be the often times awkward person she knows me to be. For Richard, his agenda was about his pockets, nothing more or less. He damn near nagged about the potential for it to be one huge distraction and it not being as profitable as what I’m doing at A&M. According to him, I needed to focus on expansion of the business that was built by actual family instead of a pipe dream venture with my friends because I’m a grown man and should know better than to get into business with friends. That evening worsened the trend of myself either barging out or leaving those dinners earlier than expected. A Sunday dinner in my apartment while I bask in solitude has given me far more peace than that bullshit.

In those early teen years, I wanted an Uncle Phil or a Carl Winslow kind of father. Shit, I would even take the headstrong James Evans. I wanted a Claire Huxtable maternal figure who understood what it took to be nurturing, understanding, and stern all at once. Television is scripted and often times unrealistic depending upon the program, but I knew that there was realism trickled in those family oriented shows. My friends have that. Their parents didn’t ship them off to boarding school when their screw ups continued to have a plague like affect on everyone around them. Shit, even the kids at that school had normal relationships with their parents. I could of had it at some point. My uncle wanted me. He’d even gone as far as assuring them that it didn’t even have to be an official adoption. Richard’s ego and his underhanded competition with him nipped that in the bud immediately. Besides, they’d already had plans to send me to London prior to him even asking. While away, I didn’t become cold. I had no interest in becoming hardened and completely shut down because of my circumstances. I adjusted and raised myself. I became knowledgeable and cultured by living and analyzing the success, failures, and mishaps of others. I don’t look at myself as bitter. I’m indifferent and I’ve outgrown that yearning to be the son who they accept and actually want. Now, I’d just prefer they stay the fuck out of my face.

“Hey.” I could feel the smoothness of Autumns hands touching my face and interrupting my thoughts. I’d lost track of how long I’d been lingering behind.

“Did I tell you how proud I am of you?” Only about a dozen or more times since our arrival. Her gasps, squeals, and raving hadn’t stopped. If she were trying to make me any more big-headed about all of this, my head should’ve exploded an hour or two ago.

“Did I tell you how much that means to me?” I drew her body in for a hug and a kiss to her forehead. She could tell me all night if she pleases. It’ll never grow old.

“I’m so proud of you. I really am. I keep looking around and I’m in awe of everything you all put into this. The ambiance is beyond anything that I could’ve ever imagined and you all have outdone yourselves. No matter what you’re doing, that brilliant mind yours finds a way to take it to the next level every single time. You don’t give yourself enough credit so I’m going to drown you in it. I’m inspired.”

“The inspiration is inspired. I suppose that’s fair enough. Thank you.”

“You kill me with all of that.”

“What? That you inspire me? You do. It’s the most important kind of inspiration. You inspire and influence who I am as a human being; as a man.” Her finger tips grazed the back of my tingling neck and those intoxicating eyes stared into mine. Though I know my words didn’t go unheard, the manner in which she stared was beyond them. Her lips fell agape and her eyes brightened and softened within an instant.  

“You’re so beautiful.” My surroundings morphed into nothingness as I basked in the feeling of her words and the caressing of her hands. I don’t know how much more deeper in love I can fall. I don’t have any parts of my body and mind that aren’t already synced to her every word and movement. She fills my dreams as I sleep and is who I reach for when the slumber is over. Her scent follows me everywhere I go, no matter the setting. I am captivated. I want her and I have her. I have a school boy crush on a woman who supersedes women who have graced films, music videos, or magazines. I’m enamored, smitten, besotted…all of it. I’d marry her tomorrow if she were ready for it. That would be my greatest accomplishment thus far and then our children would come along and further enhance that. I want nothing more than for us to be one of those couples who spent all of our lives together and then I want to die first, because she has the strength to live on without me. I can’t say the same for myself. I’m okay with a lot things in my life being temporary, but not this. This can’t be that.

“Can I borrow her for a photo please? ” Before I could protest it, Stacey was pulling Autumn out of my arms and hauling her back to the bar for whatever photo op moment she and Erica were concocting. I’m not sure if it was planned, but they looked like the black Charlie’s Angels in their white and silver attire. Of course, Mike jumping into the middle of their moment made himself Charlie. He can’t help himself and we all love him for it.

The live jazz band for tonight’s opening was a last minute pull through. The lighting needed a soundtrack behind it and nothing else could have done it like live instrumentation filling the atmosphere with vivacious and somber medleys. It’s what separates the two expressions of nightlight we’re presenting this evening. Aside from my love, it serves as a secondary soother for the tension smoldering me.

An all too familiar medley drew my attention to Autumn and we instantly locked eyes with small smirks tugging at our lips. The mesh of Ellington’s piano and Coltrane’s tenor saxophone painted a vivid picture of us and though our mental imagery may not be of the same experiences we’ve had together thus far, I know that she too has us on her mind. We are the notes, tone, and mood. We are the key. We are the words the sultry Ella Fitzgerlad’s sang.

“Sir.” The hostess was careful not to step into my line of view but she came close enough for me to see her out of the corner of my eyes.

“Yes?”

“We’ve seated Mr. and Mrs. St. James. They’re requesting your presence at their table.” My exhale was through my nose. Though I’ve known about their decision to come, I still quietly held an optimism that they wouldn’t give enough of a damn to take a five hour flight to Los Angeles in order to further exasperate me more than they already do.  

“Thank you. Have a glass of Glenfiddich 1977 sent to Mr. St. James and a glass of  Richebourg Grand Cru from Cote de Nuit sent to his wife.” My request for some of the most expensive wine and scotch we have wasn’t for brownie points. Richard would have ordered it himself without ever skimming through the drink menu either way, so I chose to handle it on my own. My next move was to lure Autumn away from Stacey.

“Give me your jacket.” My eyebrows flew up at her request as she fiddled with the ends of her hair and eventually tossed them behind her.

“For what?”

“I can’t meet your parents in this. I didn’t even think of that. You made it seem it was a toss up whether they’d be here or not. I should’ve just worn the dress.” Her nerves were worse than mine and had I not already been unnerved by all of this, I would have laughed because that confidence and slick mouth disappeared. This is all her idea and she was so assured in wanting it to happen and now that the moment is here, she’s damn near sweating.

“What’s wrong with it? You’re grown. I’m grown. I like it. You look classy in it. There’s no need to cover it.”

“Give me your jacket.”

“No.”

“Dante.” Once I had her hand in mine, I laced our fingers. Though I took the lead, she closely followed behind instead of stubbornly standing in place and sparking a back and forth spat over something so ridiculous. The calling of my name didn’t cease until we were within inches of the table that held enough prestige to have two guests who I don’t even know standing and shamelessly fawning over the pompous egomaniac sitting along side his wife. The manner in which she ogled over him while he boasted about me nearly made me turn around.

“Excuse me. There’s my boy.” Surprisingly, he stood to his feet and stepped around the table for a proper greeting. I tower over him and even so, I could sense Autumn taking a step back in clear intimidation. His conniving glare panned in her direction and locked on her frame. He scrutinized her physical appearance with a number of head to toe glances and turned to me with a sly smirk.

“I would have beat his ass too.” His laughter was lone. I have a feeling he’d been waiting for this moment just for that joke. Their interest in her heightened when Matthew and I came to blows and he warned me that she better had been worth attacking my own flesh and blood over while my mother whined to meet her. Now as she swiftly moves to stand beside him, the cheerful smile on her faces proves that she’s satisfied.

“Hello.”

Autumn stepped up until she was standing along side me and reached her hand out for his own. With no hesitation, he latched his on to hers and brought her hand up to his lips for a kiss.

Strike one.

“Hello. I’m Autumn. It’s very nice to meet you Mr. St. James and you as well Mrs. St. James.” When her hand was no longer within his grip, she immediately reached over and shook my mother’s, who was staring at her as if she were a rare object or some sort of a mythical being.

“Oh, Autumn. It’s so nice to finally meet you. You’re stunning.”

“Thank you. A compliment from someone as beautiful as yourself means a lot. I see where you get your looks from.” Autumn turned and smiled at me. I had no choice but to forcefully smile back. I don’t see it. Though I’ve never met the man, photos show me that I share a close resemblance to her father.

“He does look a lot like his mother doesn’t he? He has her looks and my brain. A perfect mixture I’d say.”

“So would I.” Bullshit.

“So where did you two meet?” And the questions began. I thought that typically happens with teen relationships. Autumn’s parents didn’t even ask me that question. Then again, it’s probably because they already knew.

“Through work. I work for my older brother’s companies, Blue Star and Meridian. I’m currently a corporate flight attendant and we crossed paths in that manner.”

“Really? What an interesting way to meet.” Though I have no intention to verbally pounce on my mother tonight, if she dares to say anything condescending, I’m going to embarrass her. The manner in which Autumn and I met will never compare to her intrusion on someone else’s marriage for the sake of self gain.

“So you two didn’t know one another prior to your divorce with the NBA guy? My son didn’t woo you away from him right?”

Strike two.

“Oh, no. Not at all. We met prior to my divorce, but my ex-husband and I were separated for about two years before we divorced one another. He’d already moved on with his life romantically and even created a life before Dante and I met.” She didn’t flinch nor shrink at his shrewd questions. Her answers were just as swift and straight to the point as his blunt questions were.

“Why did you two divorce?”

“Does that matter?” I chimed in to end it all because there was no purpose for what he’d been asking. They could have divorced for the most trivial or pointless reasons and it wouldn’t matter within this moment. Is she asking why he left his first wife to die while he had an affair with the woman standing beside him?

“It’s okay. We divorced due to irreconcilable differences. He wasn’t happy anymore and he wanted out.”

“You two had no children.”

“By choice.” Her tone wasn’t as lighthearted as before. What he implied was far worse than him treading into a sensitive territory.

“Enough. This isn’t a background check.”

“It’s okay.” She gave my hand a squeeze of assurance. “They’re just questions.”

“Well you’re happy now right? That’s truly all that matters.” The genuine smiles between both women cut some of the enmity down between she and Richard. This time it was my mother who reached for her hand and gave it a maternal like caress.

“I am. Life is better and this guy certainly plays a part in that.” Her arm wrapped around my waist and she leaned into me to express that sentiment.

“That’s so nice to hear. I’ve always known that any woman who has my son in her life is a woman who should be considered lucky. He’s a gentlemen and upstanding guy. It’s why I continue to be so proud of him.” I didn’t mean to snicker but I did and it put a damper on everything. The smile on her face fell into the pursing of her lips and her once gleaming eyes turned solemn. She’s proud of what she doesn’t get credit for. How can I not laugh? Autumn knows enough to know that this isn’t a normal happy family moment. Every St. James who is standing in this small huddle knows this is nothing more than showmanship. She’s just taking it up way too many notches.

“I’m the lucky one.”

“Indeed you are, son.” Richard raised his glass of scotch and poured every bit of it down his throat. “Take a walk with me.”

“I’ll keep Autumn company while you do that. I’d love to know more about her.” Before I could protest, Autumn obliged her suggestion by taking a seat at the table and giving me a nod to walk away.

“Follow me.”

Whatever’s on his mind has to be about business and I know what it entails. He’s been pushing to acquire more Hollywood clientele and I’m not the man for the job. I passed off the Calvin Harris account as quickly as I could and I’d do it with every single one we acquire. I’m a negotiator and closer. I only deal with personalities for a specific time frame. Personal PR and marketing work is exactly that, up close and personal. I have no interest in obliging a person’s unpredictable requests while quietly being a victim to their personality traits. I don’t want to build celebrities. The entertainment industry is a silent murderer and I don’t want any parts of physically or mentally ruining anyone for the sake of self gain. That’s Matthew’s talent. Let him handle that.

“Your flight attendant? She knows and is apart of your every move now. You’re going to get tired of that and her. You do know that right?”

“What the fuck happened with Rick?” Autumn was nice enough to answer his questions. I’m not.

“Fuck Rick. He’s been bullshitting ever since I brought forth how much his son wasn’t bringing a damn thing to the table and yet was making a seven figure salary. He makes everything personal and who the fuck has time for that when you’re trying to run a damn near billion dollar enterprise? He’s been pissed ever since and had been talking about how he wanted out behind the scenes. I just helped him relieve his misery. I’m going to buy him out and that will be done with. We don’t fucking need him anyway.”

“He helped you build that company from the ground up.”

“And he was willing to bring it down.”

“How do you not expect a man to defend his son?”

“And what do you think I’m doing right now? I’m not worrying about anyone elses’ sons but my own. I’m protecting my family. I’m keeping a roof over the heads of my family. I’ll be damned if I allow another man to take the food off of the tables of my children and my wife. A&M is mine. I am solely responsible for the idea and the brand. He came in to help me execute what I’d already began to formulate. Don’t ever mistake our partnership for it being some shit that we brainstormed together. He was never mistaken about that, he just wanted it to be implied because that’s what white motherfuckers do. This country was built on white people standing on the backs of people who look like us and taking credit for our shit. That’s not going to happen me. That’s not going to happen to my sons.”

“And you think creating an enemy with someone who knows the ins and outs of the company is a good thing? That man was your friend. Hell, I call him uncle.”

“A wise man once said the man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies but also to hate his friends.”

“Whoever said that must be as fucked up in the head as you are.” His laughter was boisterous and brazen. The smug expression on his face matched his stance.

“Congratulations on all of this son. It’s impressive. You haven’t allowed this to get in the way of what we’ve built. Keep that trend going when it comes to who you’re fucking around with in that bed of yours.” He stepped around me to return to their table but stopped briefly midway. “And send me another glass of that scotch.”

I got my drink, I got my music, I would share it but today I'm yelling…

Kendrick Lamar’s performance controlled the energy of the crowd and their response to him felt like we were inside of the Staples Center instead of surrounded by golden interior and floating bottles of champagne. Snoop Dog’s presence as the most overqualified hype man revved up the energy even more. I’d been in and out of the office since coming down here not only to look over paper work and the successes of the night, but mostly because I needed space to think. The need for it seemed to be mutual because Autumn hadn’t invaded mine and didn’t complain or send for me to invade hers. Instead, she sat at the bar and basked in the moment while every bit of the male energy in the room gravitated her way in some sort of manner. From the moment Richard walked away from me, I’d only exchanged goodbyes with them after covering their dinner and bidding my mother an empty promise of having brunch with her tomorrow at noon. Though she offered, she knows I won’t show up. It’s simply a call for a healing and maybe one day it’ll happen, but it’s not tonight or tomorrow. It’ll happen when she’s ready because though I’m not a perfect man and I have my shortcomings, the strain in our relationship is her sin.

“Tired?” My lips grazed the warmth of her ear and I looked on as she watched who she considers to be one of her favorite artists of this generation.

“No.”

“I want you to take a ride with me when the night is over.”

“I can do that.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Since when do you ask?” She turned her head and sweetly pressed her lips onto mine; the lingering on my bottom lip enticed a tightening in the pit of my stomach.

As we leaned against one another, we looked on as our special guests of the evening musically tore the place down. Eventually, what we deemed to be our L.A. Crew joined us at the bar, and we looked on with cocktails of our choice in hand. We’d done enough for the evening. All that had been left to do was enjoy the fruits of our labor and we did so, until our three a.m. closing time.

“Where are you taking me that has had us in this backseat for an hour? And then what are these hills? I do like to run, but I’m not a hiking kind of a girl, especially not in heels.” Our cuddling and lip locking session had come to an end when she sat up and looked out the window in an attempt to figure out our surroundings.

“Also we don't have to make out in a car. We have an amazing suite we can do that in…while naked.” She didn't join me in laughter. Instead she cut her eyes and awaited an explanation.

“You’ll see in about two minutes.” Her stubborn huff furthered the amusement and my caressing of her thigh did nothing to soothe that. It wasn’t until the driver brought the vehicle to a halt that she relaxed and once again turned to me to await an explanation.

“There’s water down there. Is this Malibu?”

“Yeah.” I didn’t wait for the driver to open my door. I did it myself and hopped out of the backseat with an impatient Autumn coming right behind me. She turned in a complete circle to give herself an panoramic view of the entire property. Her gesture reminded me of myself the first time I stood out here in the midst of nothing other than the view. I gazed at the sea for over an hour as daydreams of a future here washed over me one after the other. I envisioned my home and every single intricacy about it. It differed from my original design and yet surpassed it in beauty. Whenever I’m in L.A, I take a ride here and render myself to speechlessness in knowing that it now exists.

“This is the house.”

“Yes.”

She didn’t move. She stared and marveled at it’s Mediterranean style while two hundred and seventy degree views of rolling hills and ocean surrounded it. Though my apartment is very modern, I opted for a vintage style of design here because I wanted it to give the illusion of being timeless and lived in. It needed to be a place that aged with me rather than something that’ll make me feel like I’m going through a midlife crisis within the next ten to fifteen years. The pavers, French oak floors, and mahogany doors were all personally picked out by me and it was a lengthy process in finding exactly what I wanted. Though Stacey and I argued on it being three, it’s a two story home because I don’t want or need anything more than that. I didn’t want a mansion and I don’t consider this to be that despite the six bedrooms and eight bathrooms.

It’s just home.

“This is breathtaking.”

“You want to go inside?”

“We can?”

“Well, it is my house.” My sarcastic response earned a light punch to my shoulder. I had to keep up with her as she swiftly made her way to the door and awaited my next move. As I unlocked it, she awaited my invitation for her entry and I was left to turn on the lights as she quietly examined every hall and the rooms that led off from them. She had no questions for me or criticisms about my choice of interior design. Everything was a polar opposite from New York. The blackened interior of my apartment was a reflection of the city’s nightlife and the vibrancy here balanced out with the ocean and true blue skies.

“Is every part of the house fully furnished?”

“No, not yet. There are two or three rooms left behind that need to be done. There’s also an office that has to be done.”

“How many rooms?”

“Six bedrooms and eight bathrooms. Ten thousand, one hundred, and thirty five square feet.”

“Wow.”

“Come through here.” We returned to the grand foyer and walked straight through the main sitting room. I opened one of the doors and her gasp nearly startled me as we stepped out on the trellised patio and into the illuminated back of the house. The nearly two acres of impeccably landscaped grounds contains the pool, a lighted basketball court, a tennis court that I’m never going to use and will probably turn into something else, and multiple sitting areas for entertainment purposes. There’s enough room back here for a barbecue or a huge family gathering. It’s perfect for birthday parties and whatever else can possibly be celebrated. Whenever Mike and Fredrick come out to visit, I know we’ll spend most of our time out here with cognac, good music, and card games at night and rounds of basketball during the day. Stacey and all of her diva antics will lay pool side and relax while I enjoy time with my God daughter.

“This place is a dream.”

“That’s a perfect one word description.”

The lighting from the pool and the glimmering stars faintly illuminated the white covering her body as she walked across the yard and eventually stopped to glance at the horizon. She became lost in the rhythmic percussion of the light waves as they rolled toward the sandy coastline and fizzled out.

“I can see why this is home for you.” She didn’t break her gaze away from what would soon be irradiated with orange hued rays of the sunrise. “This is the place where you’re most at peace.”

“It is.” My head nodded with the response. “I plan to be here permanently in a year.”

“A year? What happened to two or three?”

“In looking at it, I’ve realize how much that’s just wasted and stalled time. I’m ready. It’s what I need to be a peace with myself more than anything else.”

“I’m glad you realize that. You need to put what you want and deserve first, at all times. You work too hard and give too much to not do that. I’m sure things will be different because everyone you love is on the east coast, but that’s what planes are for right?”

“They’re coming.”

“What?” It was then that she turned her head and gave me her full attention.

“Skidmore, Owings, & Merrill LLP is a global firm. Fredrick can be wherever he pleases. Mike passed the bar exam out here years ago. He’s also considering not having any ties to a particular firm. He’s seeking his own practice and he has enough clientele to pull that off without sweating.”

“And Stacey?

“When I began building this place, she threatened that I wouldn’t be leaving her behind. I know her husband wouldn’t jump for joy at the thought of her wanting to move out here just to continue working with me and I’m okay with that. She has a family and I’d never ask her to sacrifice that for me, though I believe somehow someway she’s going to find her way here.” My chuckle was lighthearted and yet gloomy. I can’t imagine walking out of my office and not having her there to insult or scold me about something. It feels like she’s been around all my life even though that’s not the case.

“It’ll be hard for you to leave her behind.”

“I’m not leaving her behind. That’s my sister. Distance doesn’t stop us from being family.”

“True.”

Her gaze returned to the water.

“What about me?” That’s a question that I didn’t expect her to ask and it’s not because I’m afraid to answer it. She should already know the answer.

“I’d like to think you know me well enough to know that I didn’t bring you here to just show this to you. I could have shown you pictures a long time ago.”

“I know.”

“I know you’re not going to allow me to put a diamond on your finger right now but I want you to know that I want you here. I want to share this with you.”

“And what am I going to share with you? You’ve already shared so much with me.”

“Everything that you share with me now. More will come later.”

The shadows of the sun began to bleed through and filter out the deep blue of the skyline. A gust of air washed over me and the warmth of Autumn’s body meshing into my own interrupted it’s coolness. Her lips pressed into my neck and trickled their way from the back to it’s chill coated side.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”  

[your-dietician]

Summer dreams dry up on the Russian River, a paradise whipsawed by drought, flood and fire

New Post has been published on https://tattlepress.com/latest/summer-dreams-dry-up-on-the-russian-river-a-paradise-whipsawed-by-drought-flood-and-fire/

Summer dreams dry up on the Russian River, a paradise whipsawed by drought, flood and fire

The Russian River, just north of drought-stricken Lake Mendocino in Ukiah, Calif. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

If there was any respite to be found, it was here on the Russian River.

A river otter popped up next to Larry Laba’s inflatable canoe, then dived down with a plop. A yellow swallowtail butterfly, big as a hand, fluttered past.

Yet everywhere were signs of the West’s ever-intensifying drought, with the Russian River taking the early hit.

Laba, the owner of Russian River Adventures, who had paddled this river hundreds of times over 20 years, made note of unfamiliar things that made him uneasy.

Larry Laba, owner of Russian River Adventures, paddles down the Russian River in Healdsburg, Calif. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

The river was at a historic low. A hot wind blew through the canyon, when summer breezes here are usually gentle and cool. The leaves of the cottonwood trees made a brittle, crackling sound. The same trees, way up high, had cracked branches from a devastating flood in 2019.

Just below the water’s surface, Laba noted colonies of an algae he’d never seen. Then there was his worry over algae he couldn’t yet see. In 2015, during a terrible drought, his dog Indy — whom he described as a dumb, happy-go-lucky retriever no one could resist — died of a seizure on the river. The next week, a 2-year old golden retriever died on one of the trips run by Laba’s company. This time officials pinpointed the cause as a fast-acting neurotoxin from blue-green algae. The algae occurs naturally, but when temperatures rise and water is warm and stagnant, it blooms and releases poisons.

The Russian River area holds a panoply of California treasures: majestic redwoods, ocean mists, summer sun, famed wineries, breweries and a casual, come-as-you-are culture that mixes high-brow with hippie and a bit of barn party.

Receding water levels forced a closure of the north boat ramp at Lake Mendocino in Ukiah, Calif. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

It also sits at the center of climate-related disasters. After the drought, which ended in 2017, came fires that burned across eight Northern California counties, killing 23 people. In late February 2019, at the tail end of the wet season, rain pelted down without halt. Some of the area’s mountains saw 400% more than the average amount of rain for the month. The river flooded, cresting at 45-feet, the highest in more than two decades. The river valley towns of Guerneville and Monte Rio became islands, with automobile parts and pieces of buildings floating past. Restaurants that sat on cliffs 30 feet above the river were under water.

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In August 2020, walls of fire surrounded those same towns as more than 12,000 residents evacuated through smoke and ash. Vineyards burned and beloved cabins turned to tinder. Up and down the West Coast, fires raged, sparked by a combination of extreme heat and a lightning siege. For weeks, this valley — which usually has air so fresh that you can taste the ocean — registered some of the worst air quality in the world.

Laba said he avoids thinking about what all of it — drought, fires, floods, lightning sieges, heat waves — means.

Merganser ducks on the Russian River in Healdsburg, Calif. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

“Look, I can’t go there,” said the 69-year old. “I’m not a worrier. I can’t lay awake at night thinking about climate change. I look around and if there is something I can do —even if I know it won’t make that much of a difference �� I do it.”

He spotted tall stalks of scarlet wisteria on the banks, flashing their bright flowers. He beached the canoe.

“They’re huge water-suckers. They’re invasive,” he said, trying to pull up a plant that showed no signs of budging. But Laba pulled and strained until it came up by the roots and couldn’t produce pods to scatter seeds.

Michele Wimborough, left, owner of Hazel restaurant in Occidental, Calif., chats with guests Rahna Schiff, right, and Keith Holamon. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

That evening, farther down river, in the small community of Occidental, off Bohemian Highway, Michele Wimborough stepped outside of a cozy restaurant that was as much a dream as a business.

She and her chef-husband Jim, former Bay Area residents, had searched for years for just the right small town where they wanted to live and raise their son. They opened Hazel, named after Jim’s grandmother, in 2015.

This night was one of their first with in-house dining since before the COVID-19 pandemic, and the restaurant was packed. Earlier, Wimborough had wondered if she’d miss when it was just her family inside, alone, making to-go meals. But she had found herself laughing and happy to be in a crowd.

Now, after the dinner rush, she stood outside, tipped up her face and breathed in a cool mist that was slowly enveloping the town.

Part of the reason was that it gets hot running around a restaurant, but the other was that such moisture was becoming rare.

A canoe floats past an exposed gravel bar, right, on the Russian River in Healdsburg, Calif. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

She had been caught off guard by notices pleading with residents to cut water use by 20% to 40% and the news of an emergency water regulation that cut river water rights for up to 2,300 wineries and farms. The restrictions were aimed at keeping the Lake Mendocino reservoir from going dry before summer’s end. Similar cuts are expected soon in California’s other watersheds.

While she was preoccupied with COVID-19, the drought had sneaked up on her.

“I feel like so much has happened that I can’t keep track of it all,” she said.

Just in her tight circle of friends, five families had moved away, people who had planned to stay forever, driven out by fear of disaster.

Wimborough said that by nature she is anxious. But that had changed over the last five years. Now, she steadfastly clings to a stubborn optimism.

Joseph Lustenberger, 15, jumps off a railroad bridge footing into the Russian River in Healdsburg, Calif. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

“I definitely believe in climate change. But I concentrate on ‘We’re going to keep going and it’s going to be OK’ — until it’s not,” she said.

“I love it here and this is a beautiful moment and I’m grateful we were safe for one more day.”

The Russian River begins in the mountains north of Ukiah in Mendocino County and cuts a winding path to the Pacific Ocean. The Pomo Indians once trapped salmon in its pools, before water was diverted. The river gets its modern name from Russian Ivan Kuskov of the Russian-American Company, who explored it in the early 19th century and founded Ft. Ross. It was the Russians who first planted grapes in the wine region.

Outside of Sebastopol, not far from the sea but worlds away from bustle, or even cell service, Eric Susswell, owner of Radio-Coteau, makes wines that he said are meant to capture place and a particular moment in time.

Land once underwater is exposed by receding water levels on Lake Sonoma in Geyserville, Calif. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

His water comes from domestic wells, not river allocations or a municipality, but the drought gripping this land of red barns, grapevines, goats and sunflowers will still be in this year’s vintage — if they can get the grapes to harvest. Last year Radio Cocteau barely got the crop in before smoke damage. Many other wineries lost their grapes.

Radio-Coteau’s vineyard is one of the few Demeter-certified estates in the U.S., meaning it meets a set standard for a bio-diverse organic farm. That includes methods such as mulching, no-till farming and monitoring moisture to improve soil — something akin to the farming version of holistic healthcare.

Sussman, who studied organic viticulture at Cornell and trained in France, said he considers his farm a living organism in its entirety, plants that become resilient with a good root system.

The water level has been steadily receding at Lake Sonoma in Geyserville, Calif. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

“There is an intelligence in their ability to adapt,” he said. “It gives me some sense of hope.”

Some vines on his property date to 1945. Sussman said they sustain his faith that seasons will pass and the vineyards will continue.

“I’m not blasé about climate change,” he said. “But I’m not watching all of this from high above. I’m down on the ground right in the thick of it, day by day making decisions about sustainability.”

Nine miles south of Healdsburg, another group of pleasure seekers had paddled down the river.

Beachgoers enjoy the cool water at Monte Rio Beach on the Russian River in Monte Rio, Calif. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

Mathew Knobel, 19, who works for Laba, was waiting to greet them at the end of their trip with hoots and hollers.

He tried to be supportive when they were visibly stunned by how low the river was, how there were spots where they had to get out of their boats and walk.

“People get really emotional when they see it for themselves,” Knobel said. “It’s almost shock and awe.”

It’s not a reaction he shares.

“To be very honest, in my lifetime, I haven’t been able to experience anything different,” he said. “I’m 19. By the time I was old enough to have a consciousness about climate change, it was here.

“It’s not that I’m not concerned,” he added.

“But to me, drought, fires and floods are what’s normal.”

This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.

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[hopefulfestivaltastemaker]

March 28, 2021

My roundup of things I am to this week. Topics include dimethyl ether, milage taxes, scout mindset, and environmentalism vs. ecologism.

Dimethyl Ether

Dimethyl ether (DME) is a fuel that can be produced fairly easy by dehydration of methanol. It functions as a substitute for diesel that can be used with relatively little modification of engines, and thus it may be an effective alternative for shipping and trucking. It’s probably not dense enough for aviation, though. I mentioned DME in passing last week, and this week I took a closer look.

Most methanol in the United States is, in turn, produced from steam methane reforming of natural gas. It’s fairly cheap compared to diesel, about 15-20% less expensive at 2019 prices when the lower fuel economy of DME is taken into account. Yes, DME is only a bit more than half as energy dense by volume and 10% less dense by mass, and in addition, for a given amount of energy, DME trucks are about 10-15% less fuel efficient than diesel trucks.

On a per-BTU basis, DME produced from natural gas reformed methane is not quite as greenhouse gas-intensive as diesel, but accounting for the lower fuel economy, DME comes in a few percentage points higher by my estimation (about 4%). It’s fair to call them as about the same. The big advantage of DME is reduction of other air pollutants, particularly NOx and unburned hydrocarbons. It also helps to move pollutants out of interstates and into factories that are more isolated from population centers.

Unlike electrofuels, which are prohibitively expensive for the time being, lower carbon methanol isn’t too expensive. The IEA estimates that applying carbon capture and sequestration to gas reformed methanol cuts emissions by about 2/3, and I estimate that doing so would have a carbon abatement cost of about $14/ton, which is well within the range of most proposed carbon pricing schemes and mainstream estimates of the social cost of carbon. Methanol by electrolysis has a carbon abatement cost of about $160/ton in my estimation, which is doable but quite expensive.

I noted a few weeks ago that catenary wires for trucks might work in corridors where truck density is strong and where diesel prices are high, but it is hard to make the case in the United States. Tesla’s electric semi looks appealing, and maybe it will work well, but battery density doesn’t seem to be there yet. Hydrogen trucking looks appealing as well, but the concept took a major hit with the apparent fraud of Nikola Motors, and I don’t see a strong alternative. DME looks like the most readily available option to reduce air pollution from trucking, and by decarbonizing methanol production, reducing greenhouse gas emissions as well.

Milage Taxes

Pete Buttigieg, the Secretary of Transportation, made a statement in support of milage pricing and brought up debate on that topic.

Historically, road transportation funding has been driven by a user fee in the form of a gas tax. However, gas taxes have not kept up with road construction and maintenance costs, meaning that an ever growing share of highway funding is from the general fund. With the expectation that electric vehicles will become more common, an alternative is needed. A per-mile tax on driving makes sense as a substitute.

We should be careful, though, to understand the basis for taxation here. First, there is the user fee model, or the very reasonable principle that the users of road infrastructure should pay (at least part of) the cost. Similar principles are at work with development costs on new construction, airports, train stations, and other infrastructure. In this regard, a gas tax is a subsidy for electric vehicles, since EVs impose road costs but don’t pay the gas tax. But advocates of continuing to subsidize EVs support keeping the status quo for exactly this reason.

Congestion pricing may look similar to a milage fee, but it differs in the basis for taxation, as congestion pricing is meant to charge drivers for the external cost of congestion that they impose on other drivers, as opposed to the cost of roads. Pigouvian pollution taxes on drivers is yet another basis for taxation, and maybe the one area where there is justification for treating EVs differently from combustion cars.

I’m looking forward to doing more research in this topic.

Scout Mindset

I recently watched some material from Julia Galef, who talks about several issues related to probabilistic and rational reasoning, but in particular soldier vs. scout mindset. Here’s a short talk, and a longer talk at the Long Now Foundation. I’d recommend the shorter version at least for starters.

Soldier mindset is the idea that a person has to be epistemically confident to achieve goals and attract followers. It is the idea of promoting a given idea and is highly associated with religions or political groups. Scout mindset is a higher degree of epistemic uncertainty and the idea that the goal is to find the truth of a matter, rather than to promote a view. Julia is a proponent of scout mindset as a more appropriate way to determine truth, and she rejects much of the purported advantage of soldier mindset in achieving goals.

I like to hear this, as a major premise of my work with Urban Cruise Ship is that I (and most people) don’t know the best environmental solutions from the outset and we have to invest the effort to figure them out.

Environmentalism vs. Ecologism

Bernie Sanders tossed a rock into the hornet’s nest this week recycling the old argument that we shouldn’t invest in space exploration, even (or in his case, especially) private investment, if problems remain on Earth. The debate parallels, and in many ways is a subset of, a debate in environmentalism.

I take environmentalism to be any belief system that calls for the protection of the non-human environment. This is a broad term, as environmentalism can be motivated by human concerns, concern for the natural world per se, and encompasses a wide range of issues including air pollution, climate change, land use, animal welfare, and so on.

Ecologism is a related but distinct worldview. There are at least two definitions of ecologism that I am aware of that are themselves distinct but related. The first, which I think is the most common viewpoint by self-described advocates, is the belief that the natural world is valuable and should be preserved for its own sake. It is articulated by, e.g. Aldo Leopold, and is something I would label ecocentrism. The second view, not one often described by advocates and so maybe a pejorative term, is the belief that human activity, whether wealth, population, new technology, industry, or capitalism, needs to be restrained, often for environmental goals. Robert Zubrin refers to ecologism in this sense. In this latter sense, we can further distinguish between descriptive antigrowth views, often pejoratively labeled as Malthusianism, and prescriptive views.

Even if the term is not so common, ideas such as degrowth, population control, and ecosocialism are fairly common in the environmental literature. Furthermore, outside some factions such as ecomodernism, it is not common for environmentalists to explicitly reject ideas in ecologism, leading many of us to wonder if these ideas are implicitly endorsed by environmentalists when not commented upon.

Critics of environmental policy frequently conflate the two as well. Organizations such as the Competitive Enterprise Institute argue that global warming is a hoax, advanced by ecologic advocates as a pretext for their broader agenda. I don’t think this is accurate, but I can understand the suspicions that would give rise to such a belief.

For those environmentalists who disagree with ecologic views, I would like to see more explicit distancing. Although ecologism is generally framed in environmental terms, it does little to help environmental outcomes, and in many ways hinders environmental outcomes when ecologism is, for instance, invoked against nuclear power, GMOs, or dense cities. Ecologism alienates a great number of people who might otherwise be on board with environmental objectives. Last but not least, ecologism has advanced in a great many areas of policy and could advance further, and in so doing could do as much damage to human well-being as communism or fascism, and this is something that needs to be pushed back on.