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beerecordings · 5 years ago

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Three in the Morning

Part 24 of My Brother’s Keeper (Part 1 I Previous I Next)

tws: needles, discussion of past suicide attempt, suicidal ideation, choking, blood, death threats, panic attack including self-harm

All of that aside I’ve been waiting to give you cute kid content for so long hahaha. As a reminder, I’m not tagging for this anymore unless you really really need me to cause, uh. I don’t want to :) hey thanks for reading

Reversing time to bring him back from the secret he discovered, Jameson finds himself in the forest with Chase coming after him to bring him home. There’s help to be had back at the house, and even a warm toddler or two to hug, but running away has set off a chain reaction of fear among his brothers, and not all is well. Maybe it won’t be for a long time.

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“What were you thinking? What were you thinking? What were you thinking?”

He chants it against Jameson's ears. Waves of sound coming down on him. Crashing, smashing against the stones.

“What were you thinking? Did you think at all? You scared me to death, you scared all of us to death, Jameson, Jameson!”

He needs to stop yelling. He knows he needs to stop yelling. He knows he probably shouldn't be squeezing him so tight or refusing to let go of him or pinning him to his chest in the middle of the forest at three in the morning. Blood is trickling down Jameson's thorn-torn fingers and finding a place to stain the skin of Chase's arms. Sticks and roots prick meanly at their legs and thighs and shove against their bones. Chase does not care.

“Shit, shit,” he gasps, clutching him even tighter, and Jameson gives a weary little groan of a sigh against his chest, his fingers fluttering on Chase's arms. “It's okay, Jamie, it's okay, I got you.”

He thinks he might be comforting himself more than his little brother. Shit, Chase, keep it together. He sucks in air like it's Albuterol and he's asthmatic, forcing his chest to take it in. He has to stop freaking out. Why is he crying?

“I tried to kill myself last year,” he sobs, and he doesn't know what he's saying until he's said it, and Jameson goes still against him. “I don't know why. I didn't know what else to do. I just wanted a way out, that's all. It's not that I wanted to die. I just wanted everything to stop. It was too much change and I was afraid.”

Jameson's hands move from his arms to his back. Chase presses close, close against him. And there's a million more things that go along with the beginning of that speech – a million things he could say, a million ways to try and express this, the great crested wave of his understanding, I understand, I understand! – but he doesn't know how else to say them.

Jameson doesn't seem to need anything else. Eventually they are slumped back against the trunk of a great strong tree, their heads together, exhausted.

And Chase understands, and Jameson understands, and they're together.

“Just don't do that again,” whispers Chase, hidden against his shoulder. “Or tell me, at least, so that I can help you go and know that you're safe and going somewhere, instead of just trying to escape any way you can. I already lost Marvin. I can't lose you too.”

Two weeks ago, he had not known Jameson was real. But he had once woken up in a hospital bed surrounded by a family he didn't know he had, and before he could open his tired mouth to speak their names, already they loved him, so he supposes that sometimes, that's just the way things go.

And maybe this is something that Jameson doesn't understand yet, but he will. Chase promises. He will.

“Just tell me next time... I'll take you anywhere you want to go.”

“No,” whisper Jameson's hands in the cool light of the moon. “No.”

“You won't tell me?”

“I don't want to go anywhere.”

He looks up at Chase, his face wan with the shock of it all, dazed, even, exhausted. Chase feels the warm heat of his head and the pressure of his fingers, sighing blood into the back of his sleep-shirt, and nothing else matters.

“I made somebody a promise,” he says. “I want to try this again. If you still want me.”

“Oh,” says Chase, lamely, a shaky laugh falling out of his mouth. “I do, man. I really do.”

Jameson buries himself against his chest again.

And then, even smaller, he asks: “Can we go home now?”

Chase gives a little croak and hugs his shoulders. “That, little man, sounds really fucking good.”

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The house that Marvin made them appears between the trees in the soft blue glow of the porchlight. Athanasius and the Queen lie side-by-side on the wooden slats of the deck, their tails swaying against each other, twitching on impact. From feet away, Chase can hear them purring.

At least someone's having a good night.

Jamie stumbles against his chest a little, rubbing at his eyes. “Just a few steps more,” Chase promises, his arm thrown protectively over his shoulder. Jameson doesn't answer, his face numb and his fingers wrapped limply around Chase's waist. Chase holds him tighter.

“Bedtime, huh?” chuckles Chase, pulling him onto the porch.

“I'm fine,” sign Jameson's tired fingers, and Chase laughs warmly at his determination, opening the door.

Jameson stiffens and his spine snaps straight, with just a little tense warning in the forward duck of his head and the black flash of his eyes. The change is so sudden Chase jolts, stepping back, and Jameson lets his arm slide away, his gaze piercing into the shadows of the house.

“What?” asks Chase, staring at him. “What's wrong?”

Jameson is frozen, teeth gritted in his mouth. Chase has never seen anyone's eyes glitter like that. The moon and the nightlight at the top of the stairs are mixing with the ferocity in his vivid eyes.

A soft cry echoes through the house, low and broken. Chase stiffens, grabbing Jameson's arm, and Jameson holds him carefully behind him, protecting his body with his own. Chase doesn't have time to be touched, though.

“What's going on?” he asks, a little squeakier than the first time.

Jameson holds up a hand.

“Breathing,” he signs.

“What?”

“Breathing. House.” He points into the living room. Everything has gone silent again. The silhouettes of the kitchen and living room stare back at them.

“Breathing?” Chase pauses, staring in. “You mean there's someone in there? You hear them breathing? Not Jackie or Schneep, I'm guessing.”

Jameson hisses air through his teeth.

“Intruder.”

Chase stares at him, caught off-guard by his intensity. “What happened to intruders with you and Anti?” he asks suddenly.

Jameson blinks and turns to look at him. His hand reaches uncertainly for the place on his side where he used to keep his knife when Anti would let him keep it. Chase nods slowly and steps in front of him. Jameson gives a little whistle of protest and reaches out to grab him and push him behind him again, but Chase keeps moving into the house, looking around, trying to calm the beating of his heart.

Jameson needs to feel safe in this place. Fear is learned. He will show him that there is nothing to be afraid of. Maybe he's imagining the breathing, or it's Jackie or Schneep after all, of even the cats, for fuck's sake. No, he won't let Jameson believe there's danger here. There are only so many things Chase is certain of in this world, but here is one of them – this universe is safe. His brother gave it to them to protect him. He steps through the kitchen and onto the soft pad of the living room and he hears Jameson give a shrill warning behind him, but Chase doesn't come back to him.

Sighing, Jameson summons his courage and creeps over to the couch, hoping to put Chase behind him again, ready to fist-fight an intruder up to three times his size if needed.

But that isn't what's waiting for him.

“Who the hell is this?” he turns to sign, almost accusingly, frowning back at Chase.

And Chase is laughing, his hands over his face, and then pulling Jamie slightly away from the couch, trying to shush him.

“Chase! Who, who!”

Her little legs are kicked into the pillows of the couch, wearing socks with clownfish on them. Her arms wrap around an extra throw pillow and her face is buried in it, so all he can see are her perfect little pigtail puffs sticking out of the back of her head.

He's laughing so much all he can do is cling to Jamie and try to keep the sound down, his chest welling up with the happiness of it. How long has it been since he saw her? Weeks, months? Eventually his eyes pick up on other new details to the room – a purse by the door, a woman's coat beside the couch, a discarded toddler-proof cup of Cheerios.

“My wife – my ex-wife is here. Jackie must have called her. Oh, shit! I'm such a mess right now, what's she going to think? Aw, shit, is she – oh! Jameson, this is my daughter, Izzy.”

“What?”

“Yeah! Don't look at me like that, I know I told you about her!”

“From the way you talked about them, I thought they lived back in America or something.”

Chase's face falls. “Sometime it feels that way,” he admits, the excitement dying down. He casts another look at his perfect little daughter splayed over the couch like she's got Slinky's for bones. He wants to wake her suddenly, but he won't, he won't, it wouldn't be fair to her. And he's trying to be a better father. Less selfish. He's let her down enough times already. “I need to sort this out.”

Jameson sinks down slightly beside him, and Chase is sorry to see that he still looks rattled by the stranger in his house, even if it is a little girl. The last time someone came into his house, Anti impaled them on the staircase. A pair of cops. After that, they left the great cold house. Jameson shivers. So close and so faraway. Like another life, but he's only just begun a new one.

“Hey,” soothes Chase, reaching out for him as he begins to sink with exhaustion of every kind, feeling heavy.

“Can I go lie down with Henrik?” he asks. “Please?”

“How about my room, okay?”

“I want... I want Doc.”

“I know, bud, but he was pretty upset when you left. I need to check that he's okay and then you can go sleep with him, alright? For now, let's go to my room, come on. Shh, let's not wake her.”

He leads Jameson gently up the stairs. There seems to be no sound at all up here, not even the movement of the air, and Jameson gives a nervous little click when he sees that Henrik's door is open and his room empty.

“He must be with Jackie,” whispers Chase, leading him into his room. “Lie down, okay? I'll handle this.”

Jameson has no more protest in him. He slips under the covers and Chase sees him curl in on himself and close his exhausted eyes. He'll come back to bandage his torn-up fingers soon, but for now, he's nervous. He needs to see Henrik and Jackie. Fuck, what a fucking night. What is he even supposed to be feeling right now? Angry that Jackie called Stace without telling him? Relieved that he did? Worried about him, scared for him? Does Jackie need him, is Jackie okay, is he freaking out? He hurries down the stairs and slips into Jackie's room.

“Okay, good news,” he calls, shutting the door behind. “I got Jameson back and everything... is going to be... Hunt?”

It's not Jackie waiting for him.

But on his bed, sitting up patiently, is another little kid.

Jackie's asleep beside him, his chest rising and falling steadily, his face nearly grey with exhaustion and beaded with sweat, one hand set on Hunter's fat toddler tummy. Chase can barely take his eyes off Hunter to look at him, stepping forward like he's afraid the floor has nails sticking out of it, emotion rising in his throat.

“Hi, Daddy,” says the boy, straightening up seriously on Jackie's pillows, a little smile gracing his round face. “You found me!”

“Hey, Hunt,” croaks Chase, warmth filling up his chest and a smile to match blooming on his mouth. “What are you doing in here with Uncle Jackie, huh, bud?”

“Oh, you know. Just waitin' for you.”

Hunter scoots forward conspiratorially, whispering. “Mommy didn't think you'd be back soon, but I knew you'd come find me.”

Chase laughs and reaches out, unsure of where they stand, but Hunter reaches back enthusiastically, and, with a kiss on his cheek, Chase has scooped him up and swept him into his arms, positioning him so he can lay his head back down on Dad's shoulder. Right where he belongs.

“Oh, buddy,” murmurs Chase, taking a deep breath of his strawberry shampoo. “My best buddy.”

Hunter stares up at his dad with intensity in deep onyx eyes, chubby kid fingers stroking at Chase's beard. Almost shaking from the weight of his love, Chase can only smile back at him and lean forward to kiss his face. Hunter responds by taking his chin between his two little hands and kissing Chase on the mouth.

“I missed you, Daddy,” he says, putting his head down on Chase's shoulder.

“I missed you, too, sweetie,” whispers Chase, putting his head against his baby's. “I missed you so much. Mommy just left you down here?”

“She went to check on Uncle Henrik. Cause she says he's not doing so hot.”

Chase frowns. “Did she? Are you sure they're upstairs?”

“Yeah, Papa. And she said, she said Uncle Jackie was going to look after me, so I didn't have to be scared of Uncle Sheep.”

“What, why were you scared?” Chase bounces him a little on his hip, backing off towards the hallway, leaving Jackie snoring thickly, his face full of mucus. He really caught the full brunt of that sickness he stole from Chase, but there's a little measuring cup with a blue Nyquil stain at the bottom, and he's grateful for Stacy amidst everything he feels about her. “You love Uncle Sheep. Was he fighting with Jackie?”

“I was scared cause – cause he was crying, Daddy, and he was yelling at Mommy.”

“He was yelling? At Mom? Schneep was?” Disturbed, Chase turns towards the door as if expecting a guilty Henrik to wander in through it. “Hunt, why was Sheep yelling?”

“He was having a really bad day, Dad.”

Chase laughs despite himself, clutching his chubby, warm little toddler closer to his shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

“I mean like... a really bad day, like we talked about. A bad bad day.”

Chase's heart stutters. He rocks gently back and forth and tries not to sound scared when he speaks.

“Oh – oh, like how sometimes people have really bad days, and then they can't think right?”

“Or bad weeks, Dad, you said they could have bad weeks or bad months, and then they think really bad things and they do things they don't want to do, not really. Like they forget to go to your soccer game even though they love you, or they will – they will even hurt themselves, Dad, cause their brain's like – ” Hunter throws his hands up and rolls his eyes. “Ahh! Like that, Dad. Their brain is bullying them.”

Chase bites down hard on his lip. “Y-you were listening,” he manages, swallowing guilt like a horse pill. “When I explained that.”

“Is Uncle Sheep going to hurt himself too, Daddy? Will we go see him in the hospital?”

“No, baby,” whispers Chase, immediate and almost frantic, pressing his lips into the side of Hunter's head, squishing him tight, tight, tight to his heart. “No, baby, of course not. We're not going to let him do anything. No, Hunt, nobody's going to hurt themselves. Not Schneep, not Dad, not anybody.”

“He shouted at Mommy. He said a lot of bad words. He was crying.”

“He was scared, buddy. He was having a really bad day. He was really scared. Cause we've talked about how bad things have happened to Uncle Sheep, right?”

“He said he'd die if you didn't come home. And he grabbed a lamp and went crash! And it cut his hands. And he said he'd break his neck like that too and it was easy to break things.”

“Okay, okay,” whispers Chase, by now certifiably panicked. He stares at Jackie, asleep on the bed, snuffling and turning over. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sweetie, you shouldn't have had to hear that. I don't know why Mommy brought you with her.”

Hunter's face is calm. He clings to the collar of Chase's t-shirt, breathing slow and sleepy.

Chase closes his eyes and tries to re-focus. He needs to check on Henrik, but that's okay. He'll be fine, he's sure. Everything's okay.

Isn't okay, isn't okay, isn't okay, chants the voice in his head. He's in pain, my brother, my best friend -

“Uncle Sheep's going to be okay,” whispers Chase, rubbing Hunter's back, trying not to communicate his trembling to him. “And so is Daddy and Mommy and Izzy and Uncle Jackie. Say that for me, Hunt.”

It's a game they've played many times before. “Daddy's going to be okay,” he repeats dutifully, looking up at Chase again. “And so are my uncles and Mommy and Izzy. Daddy's going to be okay.”

“Good boy. Good man. Now, listen – I need to go check on Schneep, okay?”

“Yeah, Dad. He was really scared.”

“Can I leave you here with Jackie again?”

“Okay, but then – can we watch Ponyo, Dad?”

“What? Ponyo?”

“Cause we always used to watch Ponyo.” Hunter is suddenly watery-eyed, rubbing at his face. “We always used to watch Ponyo, and Mom said we were coming to see you, and I want to watch it again with you.”

“Oh, sweetie. Soon, okay? I promise. I don't know how long Mom will stay.”

“But I can stay here with you.”

“No, Hunt. We've talked about this.”

“Your brain's still bullying you, Dad?”

Chase smiles sorrowfully, setting his child down at Jackie's side. “Yeah,” he whispers, blinking away tears. “Or at least, I haven't proven to Mom that it's stopped yet. But as soon as I'm better, we're going to be best buds again.”

“And watch Ponyo,” whispers Hunter.

“Yes. And watch Ponyo every day if we want to.”

Hunter lies back down, plucking at Jackie's sweatshirt. Jackie stirs, glances for a second up at the both of them, and falls back to a thick sleep.

“Well,” Hunter sighs. “That sounds pretty good I think.”

Serious, clever, sweet, beautiful, perfect little Hunter. “I love you, baby,” whispers Chase, and means it so much it hurts to say it, it hurts like fuck just to say it, rattling a tattoo against the inside of his chest – 'I love you, I love you, I love you.' It is the only thing he means more than the words 'I'm sorry.'

“One more kiss.”

Hunter reaches up to grab Dad's face again and Chase is pulled right to him, accepting a kiss on the forehead with closed eyes. “I love you too, too,” Hunter whispers back.

“Good night, best bud.”

“Good night, Daddy.”

Chase's hand shakes so hard he can barely close the door, but he leaves his son behind, as he has done so many times before, just hoping he'll get another chance to kiss him.

The faint cry echoes through the house again, but this time, it sounds angry.

Chase races up the stairs.

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Still water in the bathroom sink and the smell of his bile.

Henrik gives a little groan. His fingers yank at the cord around his throat. Stacy shoves him into the counter again and pulls back harder, her fingers between his throat and the cord, silent.

A steady stream of German whispering babbles out of his throat. In the mirror before them, she can see his blue eyes rolling. Against her body, she can feel his shuddering breathing.

“Hold on, man,” she says.

She's seen him like this before. She knows. She knows to keep her voice steady. She knows to keep his body pinned. She knows not to leave him alone. Not for one second. Not for one second will she let go of the cord he's wrapped around his throat.

They've been here for forty-three minutes and eighteen seconds. Nineteen. Twenty. Her digital clock stares back at her from the mirror. Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

He gives a cry. Yank, he's tearing the cord towards his bruised throat. She shoves back against his pull. No. He pants and tries to slam his head back to collide with her nose, but she expects him now, she knows all his moves, and her head is tilted so he strikes her neck instead. She coughs but does not flinch. He throws his skull back against her once, twice. She tries to pin him down against her shoulder. The more immobile he is, the better.

He laughs.

Cold and tittering in the shadows of his bathroom.

“Hey,” she says, flicking the side of his head with a free finger while he's distracted. “Cut it out. You're not Anti, dumb-ass. Come back to me. This isn't you. Henrik, come back to me.”

His voice drips out of his mouth strained like mud and soaks into her ears, a hiss, a groan. His accent is gone. He sounds Irish.

“Stupid... whore girl... what does she know about it?”

She shoves him back against the counter, hard, and hears him give a wheezing gasp, the fury on his face snapping in half and leaving him staring at her in the mirror, terror on his face.

“St-stacy? Stacy?”

“Here I am, here I am, Doc, hey, are you with me?”

“In my head – in my head – make – make him stop, Stacy, Stacy, help – !”

“You're having a flashback, Henrik, no one's in your head. I promise, I promise. You're home, you're safe.”

Chase is in the doorway of the bathroom. She sees him out of the corner of her eye. He hasn't moved yet – just blinks at her, despair filling up his familiar face. She smells the familiar smell of him, the alcohol, the whiskey.

“You think you can get away from me!” screams Henrik suddenly, throwing himself back against her. She braces her whole body with a little shriek and takes the full brunt of his weight, her fingers struggling with the cord as he yank, yank, yanks –

“I'm going to fucking kill you!” Henrik shouts, thrashing against her, spittle flying from his mouth. “You all think you can hide from me? You think Jackie can protect you? I'll put a bullet in your skull and this time it will stick!”

“Henrik, Henrik!” she cries.

“Schneep, it's us!” Chase shoves forward to help her, grabbing Henrik in a head-lock and helping her press him back on to the counter, the both of them snatching the cord away from his throat even as his finger struggle desperately with it.

“No, I have to get him out!” Henrik screams. “He will hurt you! Make him stop! I can't take anymore, I can't do it again, no, no! Get out of my head! Kill me, don't make me go through this again, Chase, Chase, my brother!”

“Here I am, here I am!” Chase grabs his wrists and pins them down against the sink. Stacy's hands slam down over his own and she pins Henrik again, ignoring his thrashing, stern as stone, and her black eyes flash up to him. “Stace, why is he bleeding? Holy shit, why are you bleeding?”

“Go get the emergency bag,” she orders, and Chase only lets his heart shake with the fear of it for a second before he turns back into Henrik's room and goes scrambling under his bed for the med kit.

“Wh-what's it called?” he stammers out, shoving through medical supplies.

“I don't know, the little brown one!”

“Motherfuck,” hisses Chase, yanking out the all-too-familiar bottle. “And the – the little syringe, right?”

“No, give me all of it, all of it,” sobs Henrik. “He's here, he's here! Where is Jackie, why doesn't he come help me? I can't go back, I can't, I can't!”

He screams and thrusts his head suddenly down. Stacy shrieks as he collides with the cold metal faucet on the sink and she ensnares his hair in her fist, yanking him mercilessly back to his feet. Blood wells beneath his shirt from the torn stitches around his torture wounds and he begins to cry frantically, tearing at her arms, glass still embedded in his palms from the broken glass.

“I want Jameson!” he screams. “I want my puppet, he's mine, he belongs to me! You stole him away from me! I'm going to fucking kill you! I'm going to fucking kill you! I'm going to – ”

The thin blade of the needle embeds itself in his throat. For a second, Henrik's eyes dilate in the mirror and he croaks, low and confused. For a second, he is in control again, in his right mind again, and she seems him meet first Chase's gaze, and then her own, his mouth frowning, his eyes afraid.

“Chase – no?”

“Here I am, buddy, here I am.”

Henrik is going still in her arms. At last, at last, she can release him. Henrik staggers and collapses into Chase's chest, clutching at his shirt.

“No, no, no,” he pleads, a whisper, sinking to the floor as his legs give out. “Chase, Chase...”

He crumples. Chase crashes with him, cradling his body to his chest. Henrik's head lolls in his hands.

Still water in the sink. The acid smell of his bile.

“This isn't happening again,” says Chase.

She can hear him trying to convince himself. She shifts. Her arm stings where Henrik took a swing with his razor. It lies on the floor beside her, thrown into the corner, away from him. She kept him safe from himself. Forty-six minutes. Fifty-nine seconds.

“It isn't,” repeats Chase.

He is staring at Henrik. Hugging his thin frame. He reaches down and pulls glass from his palms.

“No, no. It was just one freak-out. He was just confused.”

“Chase,” she says, exhausted. “Chase.”

“He can't,” whispers Chase. “He can't go through this again.”

She buries her face in her hands.

“This whole house is falling apart.” She says it to her fingers, to her feet, to the floor. “When Jackie called me, I thought you'd run into the forest to kill yourself. Do you know that, Chase? I thought you were gone. You'd finally gone through with it. Then he tells me that apparently, your little brother is somehow alive – but Marvin is dead. Marvin.”

Marvin who loved her, Marvin who listened to her, Marvin who listened when no one else would.

“You should have told me,” she hisses, low and angry, her face getting wet. “He was my friend.”

“It's not withdrawal,” chokes Chase.

Still fixated on Henrik. Holding him like he could protect him from anything. They both know he can't.

“It's not possession withdrawal.”

But it is. It is. Possession withdrawal. Anti withdrawal. The confusion. The distress. Henrik's curse.

Took him two months to come fully back from it last time.

“It is,” she says. “Accept it now.”

She reaches out to touch Henrik's cheek, smudging away a drop of his blood. Chase looks up at her. Eyes blue and shining. He's still unfairly beautiful. An unfairly beautiful motherfucker with too much weight on his shoulders. And she knows - she knows, she understands - right now, she has to give him more, because no one else can be the person she needs Chase to be. The person Henrik needs Chase to be. Not when Jackie’s sick. Not when Marvin’s gone.

“You're going to have to keep him alive, Chase.”

She looks up and sees a shadow at the back of Henrik's room, outside of the bathroom, hiding in the darkness, silent and wary.

“You two have to keep him safe now,” she says, and Jameson's eyes, silver and blue, stare right back at her. “Or he’ll forget that he was ever anyone but Anti.”

#my brother's keeper #tw needles #tw suicidal ideation #tw panic attack #three in the morning #bee writes

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shannygoatgruff · 5 years ago

Photo

Stay Safe, Stay Home Writing Challenge - (Call me if you need anything) @waiting4inspiration

Genre: Romance

Pairing: Modern Ivar x OC

Warning: Language, sexual innuendo, insecurity

Rating: M

Chapter 3 || Chapter 5

Chapter 4

The table at Clementin im Glashaus was amazing. The greenhouse windows of the restaurant overlooked the beautiful Palais Coburg Hotel, which used to be a palace belonging to the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. Not to mention, Cash and Ivar had a completely unobstructed view of the sun setting over the city, from the domed glass ceiling of the restaurant. She felt like a princess. Had she known they were coming here, she would have worn something a bit more elegant than the Fashionova dress she was currently wearing.

“Stilles Wasser, mit Eis, bitte?” Mineral water with ice, please. She asked the waiter just before he left the table. She was trying her best to let him be chivalric and order their meals after they had discussed the menu. But he had forgotten about the water. She didn’t like sparking water, let alone it at room temperature. She had to say something. She couldn’t tell if she was being an obnoxious American, or not. Especially since men from Europe were so different from American men. They were slinky and sensitive. They wore skinny pants that showed off their ankles and shorts that came above their knee and kissed each other on the cheek. It was a different dynamic with them. She wasn’t trying to cross any cultural or gender roles by ordering ice water.

Shit, ice. He’d forgotten. That was so important…how could he let that slip? She was American - of course she liked ice. That should have been a given. He had just assumed that she didn’t even drink water. Americans just filled their cups to the brim with ice cubes and poured soda over it. Ivar mentally kicked himself for the oversight. “I have never met an American that spoke German with an Austrian accent.” He remembered that she had minored in German in college and Graduate school, but to hear her speak it, with an Austrian accent was rather impressive. Too bad she hadn’t decided to study Norweigan. “I have also never tried ice in my water," he said trying to make small talk.

“Really?” Cash blushed and tugged on the loose thread at hem of her dress, “It’s good. Cold.”

Why were they having such a hard time talking? They normally would talk for hours on the phone and their text and DM threads went on for days. The two of them never ran out of things to say to one another. She could think of a hundred things she wanted to say to him right now, but he seemed so much quieter in person. She kept waiting for one of his snappy comebacks, or for him to flirt with her like he always did, but he was giving her nothing. Maybe he didn’t like her after all.

“So, have you been here before?” She asked looking around the restaurant. It was easier to look anywhere than at him because all she wanted to do was stare at him. She had never been a fan of the man bun before, but it worked for him. Everything looked good on him. If she didn’t keep diverting her eyes, she would look like a total stalker. “This place is nice.”

Ivar put his napkin in his lap and hoped that the wine wouldn’t take much longer to get to the table. If he didn’t get a drink soon, he was going to clam up completely. He wanted to talk to her. He loved talking to her. He was just so nervous now that she was in front of him and she was so vibrant, pretty…real. “To Vienna or this restaurant?”

“Either,” Cash answered with a shrug.

“I have only been to Austria a few times. Mostly with my brothers.” Brothers. Right. He was going to have to explain Hvitserk… “I have never been here before. My brother, Ubbe, told me this is a good place to take a date.”

Was he blushing? God, he was cute. “Oh, this is our first date?” She licked her lips and smiled.

“Am I not doing something you want?” Fuck. Had been out of the dating game that long? Why didn’t she know this was their first date?

“No. Everything’s perfect. I just didn’t know if we were hanging out as friends, or on a date.” She took a big sip of her water. “We said we wouldn’t talk about our pictures, so there was no pressure, either way.”

“I already told you, I thought you were beautiful before I saw your picture.” Ivar had never been so happy to see a waiter in his life. He graciously accepted the glass of wine and motioned for the waiter to leave the bottle. He waited until Cash had her mixed drink placed before her and when they both had drinks they toasted. “Skol,” he said quickly before looking into the bottom of his glass, as he gulped nervously.

“So…” Her phone rang, causing her to jump. She quickly hit the video button and rolled her eyes. “Hey, Ma.” She smiled when Ivar smiled at her.

“Shay, are you okay? I been waiting for you to call me.” Barbara pursed her lips at her daughter to indicate she was upset. “You tell me you’re going to meet this Ivar-boy and then I don’t hear from you. I don’t know if he chopped you up, or sold you on the black market…”

Cash shook her head and threw her napkin ring at him when he chuckled at the comment. “I’m fine, Ma. In fact, Ivar and I are at dinner, right now.” She panned over for her mother to see Ivar.

She felt all warm inside when Ivar waved at her mother and politely said, “Hello, momma.”

“Well, hey there baby. It's good to finally see you. Were you excited to meet see Shay? She's so pretty, isn't she?" Cash rested her head on hand as she watched Ivar's face light up, as her mother refused to let him get a word in edgewise. As usual, Ivar and her mother sat there talking like two old friends. "And look at you...you're so handsome. I bet you just have all the girls all after you. You better not break my baby's heart. You take care of my girl while she's over there, okay?"

Ivar thought Cash's mom was a hoot. He had always enjoyed hearing about her and talking to her when Cash was in the States. Looking at her face, it was easy to see where Cash got her looks. "Cash is as beautiful as her momma. When I saw her, I just want to keep smiling." He glanced over at Cash and noticed the coy way she looked at him causing him to divert his eyes back to the phone's screen. "I promise, I will take care of her." He handed the phone back to Cash and poured more wine in his glass.

"Make sure to call me later.” Barbara Heath said to her daughter when her face reappeared on the screen. She held the phone close to her mouth and dramatically mouthed the words, He’s cute. “Love you, Shay.”

“Love you, too.” She disconnected the call and looked at Ivar. “Sorry about that. My mom’s a little over-protective.”

“Your momma is sweet. My brothers? They are a pain." He rolled his eyes, "My older brother, Ubbe, sent my brother, Hvitserk, here to be my chaperone.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I have almost 26 years, I do not need a babysitter.”

“Why did he do that?”

The second glass of wine he had just started on was finished in about two gulps. Ivar knew he was drinking too fast, but it made him feel better about talking, but it did nothing to stop his hands from sweating. All he needed to do was deflect the conversation away from his legs, Hvitserk and everything else wrong in the world for tonight. He could worry about the truth tomorrow. “I always wanted to ask. Why does your momma call you Shay?”

“Oh, that. My first name is Cachet.” She made a disgusted face at the sound of her government name. “Most people call me Cash. My parents still call me Shay.”

“Which do you prefer?” Cash shrugged, giving no real thought to question. “What would you like me to call you?”

She lifted her eyes to him with a heavy-lidded stare. “What do you want to call me?” She was hoping it was be something freaky, like Chocolatate, or Sexual Chocolate…what exactly was in this drink, anyway?

“Nydelig.”

"And what does that mean?”

Ivar’s lips turned up into a boyish grin, “Look it up,” he said as the waiter sat their dinner plates in front of them.

It was a beautiful night and the city lights were magical. After dinner, Cash and Ivar stopped for torte at a local bakery and to pick up spirits before Cash decided that she was ready to head back to her hotel. She would see Vienna tomorrow; it was almost 8 pm and she was exhausted. A day of nerves, traveling, and now jetlag meant she was going to sleep good tonight.

Ivar had insisted that he see her back to her hotel safely and who was she to refuse? The walk from the restaurant to her hotel had been a short one and she had invited him in because though she was tired, she wasn't quite ready for their first date to end.

Sitting on the patio of her ground-floor hotel room, she folded her legs on her chair and sipped on a glass of Moscato d’Asti they picked up along their walk. “So, we’ve been talking for months and in all this time, you never said anything.” She twirled the liquid around in her glass. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” She wanted to bring it up earlier, but before didn't seem like the right time. But now they both seemed a bit more relaxed and the conversation felt more organic. It felt like one of their normal conversations, not like two strangers meeting each other for the first time.

Ivar’s heart stopped in his throat. Did he really think he could avoid the pink elephant in the room? Did he honestly believe he was going to get through tonight without addressing why he lied to her about his legs? Of course, she had noticed his limp and those damn crutches. She knew he had a physical impairment; he wasn't that skilled at deflecting the conversation, she had just been too polite say anything all night.

He took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out in the opposite direction. “I was going to tell you, but I did not know what to say. I hate these things.” He took his crutches and roughly pushed them into the corner. “Since I was small, all the surgeries and bone lengthening and leg braces…canes. I did not want you to pity me.” He picked at a rough cuticle on his thumb before putting his cigarette back to his lips.

Cash laughed, “I was talking about the fact that you smoke.”

“Oh, shit.” Ivar laughed in return. He took a sip from his glass of whiskey before sitting it back on the table. “I am Scandinavian. We all smoke.”

Cash nodded, still trying to digest what he said before about his impairment. “Are you in pain?” She asked, hoping she wasn't prying.

Shrugging, Ivar sat back in his seat and looked out at the lanterns that illuminated the small garden. “I hurt, but not really pain.” He licked his lips as he tried to think of how he could make it make sense to her. “When I was born my legs were deformed…one shorter than the other and both twisted. They were fucked. I had surgeries with metal rods to make them straight, and longer, and all that. But, they never really got strong and the pain never really went away. I grew up with it. I live with it.

Sometimes, when the weather is bad – snow, or rain for many days, or when it starts to get cold and wet, I have pain. When I walk too much or go a whole day without taking these damn braces off, I get pain. But the normal hum that always is there? That’s just Elias.”

“I'm sorry, who?”

“The name of the pain. My old friend, Elias.” Ivar chuckled at the memory. It was a code-word he and his mother made up when he was little. It was his way of letting her know that he was in pain, without alerting the rest of the family. He never wanted his brothers to treat him differently because of his impairment, so they came up with a code. If he would tell his mother that Elias visited him at school, she knew that he needed medicine, warm compresses and rest.

“The people in my head have names,” Cash said absently.

“Excuse me?”

She wiggled herself forward in her chair and leaned to rest her elbows on the table. If they were dishing about their crazy, he was in for a treat. “You know on in the movies people have an angel and a devil that sit on their shoulder to tell them what to do?” She waited until he nodded. “I don’t think I have that. I just have these people in my head and they are always having conversations. Jasmine and Jessica. These bitches don’t agree on anything. They’re supposed to be here to help me, you know like my conscious. But I’m usually playing referee between them…like everybody calm the fuck down. They get on my nerves.”

Ivar laughed at her animation. He couldn’t believe that he just told her about his legs and she countered with the fact that she was probably schizophrenic.

Taking another sip of her drink, she studied his face. “Can you walk without that stuff?” She pointed to the crutches.

He shook his head. “I can stand, but not walk. My legs do not hold my full weight. My right leg does not bend. My left does but, I still need to hold onto objects to balance, otherwise, I would fall. The legs do not move together, so I bind them. .” He closed his eyes, “When I do not have the braces – I crawl.”

“We talk about everything, Ivar…”

“I could not just tell you.” He looked her in the eye, holding her gaze for the first time that night. “I could not stand it if you stopped talking to me.”

“Did you think I talked to you all this time because I thought you were going to win a Walk-A-Thon? You didn’t even give me a chance.” She watched as he played with the wrapper on the whiskey bottle.

“I did not want to disappoint you.”

She licked her lips, “I’m not disappointed.” Her words came out in almost a whisper.

Did she move toward him, or did he come toward her? Just like knowing which truly happened between the Big Bang Theory and Evolution - it's all a matter of opinion. Perhaps there was a seismic shift in the tectonic plates that moved their bodies toward each other at the exact moment in time. Whatever happened, the space between them closed and their lips touched.

It was so soft at first, that the feeling of their warm breath on each other’s lips left more of an ache than the flesh that preceded it. But after that brief contact, came a hand. A soft, small hand, with delicate fingers, gently holding the side of his neck and her thumb tracing invisible patterns along his jawline. When her hand made contact with his face, his lips reclaimed hers with just the slightest bit of trepidation, but much more curiosity.

He pulled back for a moment just to look at her face before she gently nipped at his full bottom lip and the next thing he knew she was swallowing his moan. Her mouth was still sweet from the Moscato as Ivar opened his more and allowed his tongue to gently lick her lips. He wasn’t sure when he seized the back of her neck and pulled her toward him. Maybe it was when she looked at him that way, the way he had always wanted a woman to look at him. The way Freydis used to look at him all those years ago. Cash looked at him like she wanted him. No one had looked at him like that in a very long time.

Oh, he was good – how had she ended up on his lap? His lips felt like velvet and his tongue was as smooth as silk. His breath had a pleasant smoked whiskey flavor that reminded her of a bar she went to in college. That’s where she had met Big Dick Darryl. What a fun night that had been.

Ivar had this gentle way of pulling back, like he was about to break contact, only to come at her mouth at a different angle. He wasn’t a sloppy kisser by any means, every placement of his lips was deliberate, tactical, well thought out….sensual. Even the people in her head were in awe of his lip skills.

It took every ounce of restraint he had when Ivar felt Cash’s fingertips touch the base of his throat and gently slide down his chest. More than anything he wanted to be able to pick her up and carry her back into her room, throw her down on the bed and do whatever they do in movies before the camera pans to the vase on the dresser. But, he knew he would never be able to do that. He wasn’t sure what exactly caused it – be it finally meeting her in person, the feeling of her lips on his, a woman touching and wanting him, or knowing that he’d never be able to share in the same stories of freaky sexual exploits like his brothers…but suddenly he had the urge to cry.

Pulling back slowly, Ivar kept his eyes on Cash’s lips noticing how they still glistened from his kiss. He had been so cool, so smooth all this time, with her, from their first online conversation, and now, all he wanted was to be held. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” Why were they stopping? This was going extremely well. Were her kissing skills not up to par? No one had ever told her she was a bad kisser before. She’d made it a point not to get anything filled with garlic or onions with dinner so she wouldn’t have stinky breath, just in case he tried to get a good night kiss. Hell, she even had on a really cute matching ‘just in case’ underwear. So far, things were going extremely well, she thought.

Running his thumb across her jawline he tried to restrain himself from kissing her again. “I think I should go back to my hotel. You had a long day and are probably tired.”

“You don’t have to go, yet.” Did she sound too eager? She didn’t want to seem slutty, but they had been talking for six months and it had been a hot minute since she got laid.

Ivar exhaled slowly through his nose, trying his best to calm himself. “I don’t want to spoil our first date.” He kissed her lovingly on the forehead “I think it is best if I go now.” He let her follow him to the door before stopping and turning around to kiss her softly on the lips. “I can see you tomorrow?”

Cash got on her tiptoes to kiss him again, “Yes.”

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axelxmartinez · 5 years ago

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(Hi I love to plot, hit me up and let’s chat!)

Introduction @redridgeimp

FULL NAME: Axel Jose Diego Martinez

NICKNAMES(S): Axe, Ax, Diablo

AGE: 33

DATE OF BIRTH: October 30th, 1986

PLACE OF BIRTH: Red Ridge, Nevada

CURRENT LOCATION: Red Ridge, Nevada.

ETHNICITY: Latino. Mexican primarily and his mother was partially Caucasian (European descent), as well as Mexican and Dominican.

GENDER: Cis male.

PRONOUNS: He/him/his.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: quoiromantic

RELIGION: Atheist.

OCCUPATION: Owner of Roberto's and Bone breaker for Valencia.

EDUCATION LEVEL: he dropped out of high school in the beginning of 11th grade.

EXTRACURRICULAR: Boxing, lifting weights, playing video games, occasionally reading

LIVING ARRANGEMENTS: Owns his parents house, a medium sized single family home with 4 bedrooms, an unfinished basement, nothing to brag about on the south side of redridge

SPEAKING VOICE AND ACCENT: Deep, smooth voice with a hint of a Spanish accent, especially when he's angry. Normally keeps a steady tone, unless he’s really upset about something.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE, ETC.

FACECLAIM: Manny Montana

HAIR COLOR AND STYLE: black, shaved short

COMPLEXION: Brown on the lighter side with neutral undertones

EYE COLOR: Brown.

EYESIGHT: 20/30 the last time he checked, he probably could use corrective lenses for driving or reading something but he doesn’t bother with it.

HEIGHT: 6’1” or 185cm

WEIGHT: 169lbs or 77kg

BODY AND BUILD: Muscular, lean, well-defined muscles.

TATTOOS: tons, he gets them at random and the only theme to them is that they are black and white. The obvious ones most people see are the skull on his throat and the ones on his fingers and hands. (See his pinterest linked at the bottom for more ideas in this area)

PIERCINGS: none, he fights too much to have piercings.

CLOTHING STYLE: jeans, hoodies, t-shirts, flannels, button down shirts, primarily black for everything.

DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: tattoos all over his body, small linear scar on his eyebrow where no hair grows, various scars all over his body - some covered with tattoos and some not. Also wears necklaces and rings, has a few random bracelets made by his nieces and nephews.

HEALTH.

MENTAL DISORDER(S): ADD is all he’s been diagnosed with, though he likely has an anxiety disorder as well.

PHYSICAL DISORDER(S): none

ALLERGIES: the pollen gets to him in the spring but he just ignores it

SLEEPING HABITS: insomniac, he sleeps in small shifts between work and whatever he’s doing during the day.

EATING HABITS: Axel has a high metabolism so he eats a lot and often, he tends to pick things up while he’s moving around town and keeps protein bars and snacks in his car for in between meals

SOCIABILITY: extroverted introvert, he tends to be around people but doesn’t go out of his way to strike up conversation unless he feels it necessary, knows the person already, or is spoken to first.

BODY TEMPERATURE: neutral.

ADDICTIONS: Nicotine, Caffeine, some would argue he drinks a little too much but he doesn’t think so.

DRUG USE: Depends on the drug. He smokes marijuana frequently, but anything else is occasionally and he refuses to touch needles or anything made purely from chemicals (i.e. Meth).

ALCOHOL USE: Frequently, usually has a drink or two everyday. Sometimes more, sometimes less. He prefers brandy and tequila but also enjoys beer and will always accept a free drink regardless of what it is.

PERSONALITY.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Hardworking, Efficient, Honest, Strong, Confident, Curious

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Callous, Insensitive, Secretive, Possessive, Withdrawn, Stubborn

LIKES: Fighting, good food, drinking, video games, smoking, sex, most things physical, some reading, fire

DISLIKES: Schools, authority (mainly police), drama, airplanes, inactivity

FEARS: His only fear that he could ever pinpoint was his father.

HABITS: Plays with his fingers, touches his face, staring without talking, smoking, rain

ASTROLOGY: Scorpio Sun, Sagittarius Rising, Libra Moon

PERSONALITY TYPE: INTJ

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral

HOGWARTS HOUSE: Slytherin.

ELEMENT: Fire

WEATHER: Overcast or Sunny

COLOR: Black

MUSIC: Rock, Metal, 90’s hip hop

MOVIE: Documentaries or Action movies

SPORT: Baseball and Soccer

BEVERAGE: Brandy or Tequila

FOOD: Waffles

ANIMAL: Snake

SEASON: Summer

FAMILY, RELATIONSHIPS, ETC.

MOTHER: Antonia Martinez (Rodriguez)

FATHER: Roberto Martinez, deceased

SIGNIFICANT OTHER: none

SIBLING(S): 5 younger siblings, names and ages vague for future wc

CHILDREN: TBD

PET(S): Ball Python named Slinky

PROMPT.

“ROUTINE”: violence tw, death tw

Ever since he was a teenager, Axel has worked at Roberto’s. At his father’s insistence to teach him some responsibility, as the owner, it was common for him to hire his children and other relatives because he didn’t trust anyone. When Roberto, his father, went to prison and was simultaneously killed while there, his business was given to his eldest son. Axel wasn’t very torn up about losing his father, it made his life significantly easier and allowed him to take over the role as head of the Martinez family. Something he’d been well prepared for and while he wasn’t the nicest guy, he wasn’t the psychopath Roberto was. At least, he didn’t think he was.

With his father gone, his days started with the sun (if he even got to bed the night before). He opened the convenient store, put the money in the till for the starting shift and made sure everything was turned on and stocked from the night before. Once the first shift comes in, he usually heads to the back to double check that everything is locked up and set up for the next shift. After that is usually when he gets word of anything Valencia needs him to do that day. Even though he’s not a soldier anymore, he likes to keep busy so he picks up slack where he can. If not, he starts checking in on his younger siblings and making sure they are doing what they’re supposed to be doing and staying out of trouble. If he doesn’t have anything pressing to get done, he heads to the gym to do his usual workout and possibly some sparring to keep his endurance at peak along with his fighting technique. Afterwards, he hits up Ridge Roasters if he’s going to the North side of town and gets his coffee with a random pastry to go. Otherwise, he heads to Blue Hill Diner for a proper breakfast and chats with the staff there or scrolls through his phone. He heads back to the convenient store if they need him, otherwise he heads home for a nap or just to relax. Most days he can trust his shift supervisors or the manager to finish up the rest of the day at Roberto’s. Only on occasion does he have to cover a shift or go in to change the cash register for a shift.

By five or six in the evening, Axel crosses the threshold of St. Peters and takes a spot at the bar. If he feels like dinner, he gets something to eat. Otherwise he has a few drinks to pass the time and watches the environment. If he’s lucky, he catches something that isn’t supposed to be happening in Redridge without approval and brings it to a higher up. Otherwise, he wastes some time before Rogue’s opens and he can go watch the fights for the night. By the time it’s his turn to get in the ring, he’s usually itching to start fighting. He’s not one to get excited about much, but once he gets sight of his ‘opponent’ a wide shark-like smile will spread across his face. Axel loves the work he gets to do with Valencia and if he could do more he would. Fighting and getting rid of people was something he specialized in, he was damn good at it, too. If he was lucky, he brought someone home with him at the end of the night. If not, he has another drink and heads back to his house to watch something on the television or, if he’s even luckier, gets a few hours of sleep before he has to wake up and repeat it all the next day.

“REMINISCENCE”: violence tw, alcohol tw, blood tw, death tw

“Not everyone gets to just blurt out how the feel about whoever or whatever on a fuckin’ whim, dude.” Axel spoke into his glass, the third brandy making his voice hoarse. Stuck in the reverie that his best friend had pulled from him. That afternoon they’d gotten the news that his father was found dead in the showers that morning. He was out celebrating. That man had never done anything for anyone, nothing good at least and definitely not any of his kids. Axel looked at the brown liquid in his glass and swirled it around. “Remember back in high school, that kid Jake who used to hang around sometimes?” He asked, eyes still on the glass. “We used to mess around or whatever. I was young and stupid.” He shook his head, knowing at twenty-five he wasn’t exactly old but he was a lot older than he was then. “Anyways, it had been a few months and I started talkin’ a big game like I was the boss of my house. My papi didn’t give a shit what I did or who I was with and all that. We stopped at Roberto’s after school to get some snacks or whatever. You know, same shit different day.” Axel paused and let out a slow sigh. The alcohol was getting to his head and loosening his tongue to reveal shit he’d never talked about with anyone. Most people knew his father was a prick that was quick to correct his children with his hands rather than his words, but Axel didn’t ever make it seem like it bothered him. He sure as hell didn’t let on that he harbored a great fear of the man. “We were at the counter paying, right in front of my dad and Jake tried to lean in for a kiss or somethin’ to say thank you or some shit. I just freaked out, I didn’t know what to do because that shit wasn’t goin’ to fly with Roberto Martinez. Not one of his kids. So, I pushed him away and beat his ass bloody right there for all the world to see.” He didn’t want his dad to do it and if he thought for a second that Axel was into guys he would probably shoot him on the spot. Definitely would have gotten rid of him in one way or the other. Even if he still liked girls, too. “My brother had to pull me off of him. I was so fuckin’ scared man, I just kept hittin’ him. He had to go to the hospital and his parents didn’t even press charges, they straight pulled him out of school. I never even saw him again.” Axel finished off his glass and exhaled the burn it left in his throat and chest. “Out of all the people I’ve beat in my lifetime, all the shit I’ve done, man. That’s the only one I regret. But you know the sad part?” He let out a bitter laugh. “If I could go back and do it over, I’d still beat his ass. What the fuck does that say about me?” Axel shut up after that, didn’t even really pay attention to what his friend had to say about any of it. He drowned himself in a bottle and had no idea how he got home at the end of the night.

BACKGROUND. ( abuse tw, death tw, violence tw)

Born and raised in Redridge, oldest of six children. Some of his siblings still live in Redridge, others have left and spread around the country. He has a large extended family. They live all over the country, Mexico, and South America.

His father was a very strict man and ran his household with an iron fist. He believed his children should be seen and not heard. If one of them were to step out of line, show defiance, or generally make him angry in any way, he normally responded by correcting them physically instead of with words. He owned Roberto’s, which he started before Axel was born. Roberto was also a member of Valencia working up from street rat to lieutenant. He was arrested when Axel was twenty and died in prison when he was twenty-five.

Antonia, his mother, was a reserved woman. She was hard-working and loved her children. However, she listened to her husband and he was the head of the household. When Roberto went to prison, Axel took over the role of head of the household. His mother fell ill in his late twenties and currently lives in an assisted living facility in Redridge. Axel visits her regularly.

As for his siblings, he keeps up with all of them. One attends the community college and he is adamant that they keep up with their grades and continue their education. He keeps in almost daily touch with each and every one of them and adores his nieces and nephews. Whenever he can visit, he makes a point to but hates to fly so it is usually only once or twice a year at most for those who live outside of Nevada.

School wasn’t Axel’s strong suit. He could never focus and everything just made him feel like he was stupid when he knew he wasn’t stupid. He just wasn’t book smart. So he dropped out right before eleventh grade and worked at Roberto’s. As soon as he was able to, he joined Valencia as a street rat and moved up the ranks to Bone-breaker once he had proven himself. However, he enjoys doing soldier work still so he will pick up any spare jobs if they are available.

As far as romance goes, Axel has never been with anyone long. He enjoys both women and men and their company, but he has a hard time letting anyone past his walls. The few times he has tried, he fucked it up in one way or another. So, he stays single and just holds casual relationships.

He loves to fight and he is good at making people disappear, getting jobs done efficiently, and intimidation. Axel is very loyal to Valencia.

Currently, he is always on the move. He doesn’t like to be idle for long. So he is either doing work for Valencia or Roberto’s, moving around town, drinking at a bar, eating somewhere, fighting at Rogue’s, at the gym, watching fights, or sleeping in between any of those activities.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

Friends With Benefits/One-night Stands (unlimited): He likes physical activity and touch, he tries to pick people up often and especially after a fight. This could have been happening for a long time or just a night or be brand new.

Best Friend (0/1): This person knows him better than anyone. They just get him and is likely the only person he’s ever opened up to.

Close Friends (0/6): These people know him better than most, but he probably has only opened up about one or two things to them. He trusts these people and likes to be around them.

Employees: Anyone who wants to work at Roberto’s

Budding Romance (0/1): could be a fwb that progresses, someone who’s always been around but neither of them made the move to advance it past anything.

Enemies: Self explanatory, but they always butt heads in one way or another. Possibly have fought in the past, but definitely never have anything nice to say about one another.

Past relationships (0/4): People who tried to break through his walls and didn’t get through. Or they just didn’t work out for any multitude of reasons.

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/kitmeowza/c-axel-martinez/

#redridgeimp #intro #; about #//have my child #//hope this is okay

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gussolomonsjrtest · 5 years ago

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DIMITRIS PAPAIOANNOU’S THE GREAT TAMER

The sold-out opening performance at the Howard Gilman Opera House at BAM of “The Great Tamer,” conceived and directed by Dimitris Papaioannou, most likely had to do with the fact that this artist was the first one commissioned to make a full evening piece for Tanztheater Wuppertal Pina Bausch after her untimely death – “Since She” (2018). Although he has made some 25 productions from the opening and closing ceremonies for the Athens 2004 Olympic Games to avant-garde works like “2” (2006), “Nowhere” (2009), and “Primal Matter” (2012), this marks Papaioannou’s BAM Next Wave debut, and the New York audience – avid Pina Bausch fans all – turned out in force.

I think it’s fair to say, judging by its vociferous response to the 100-minute-plus, intermission-less piece, it was not disappointed, even though there isn’t a dance step in the piece. “Tamer” captures and enthralls you with surreal imagery, most often symbolically relating to birth and death, emergence and disappearance, which stem from its maker’s prodigiously imaginative plundering of the history of fine art from ancient Greece onwards. In fact, the work is classified in the Next Wave brochure as visual art, not dance. Nonetheless, it is highly kinetic from beginning to end.

THE GREAT TAMER by Dimirtis Papaioannou. (center) Alex Vangelis as Adam in a Renaissance tableau.

A tall, handsome man (Christos Strinopoulos) is onstage while the audience is entering. He stands, gazing at us cryptically, perhaps judgmentally, until the seats are filled and house lights lower. Then, he steps out of his shoes, walks upstage to a small, round table, takes off his jersey, suit, socks, and underpants, strolls, naked, to center stage, where he flips over one of the gray panels on the floor – it’s white underneath – and lies down on it in dead-man’s pose, savasana. Man Two enters from upstage and unfurls a white sheet to cover Man One; he exits. Pause. Man Three enters, picks up another panel and lets it fall, blowing the gossamer sheet completely off Man One’s nude body; he exits.

Man Two re-enters and replaces the sheet. Man Three reenters and re-blows it off. The pauses between their re-entries shorten until the two men are alternating their tasks with competitive urgency. Finally, Man Two curls naked Man One’s panel up and rolls him upstage, where he the appears suspended horizontally between Man One’s knees, while Man Three steps into Man One’s abandoned shoes down center, does a handstand, arduously ripping the shoes out of the floor, revealing foot-long roots growing from the soles; he walks offstage on his hands.

THE GREAT TAMER by Dimirtis Papaioannou. Composite woman made up of three performers.

Black and white clothing, white skin, gray floor, and Evina Vassilakopoulou’s cleverly mysterious lighting enables visual illusions of bodies, composed of parts of multiple people, connected to form whole figures, which explode apart like an unstrung marionette, strewing limbs, torsos, heads across the floor.

A woman in a tan Grecian tunic walks down the raked stage balancing a potted tree on her head. An astronaut in a space suit emerges from the rear of the slanted stage, breathing audibly, and digs up a body from under the floor aided by a second astronaut, while four black-suited me stand by, two of them exposing their bare chests.

THE GREAT TAMER by Dimirtis Papaioannou. (l-r): Alex Vangelis, Paulina Andriopoulou, Yorgos Tsiantoulas.

Another naked man somehow gets lashed onto stilts and keeps collapsing into the arms of waiting attendants. He is then eviscerated and served as a banquet meal to a group of nobles straight out of a Rembrandt painting with stiff white ruffs around their necks. Two men, lying down stacked face to face, toes and hands connected, balance on the round table in a reference to Narcissus adoring his own reflection.

THE GREAT TAMER by Dimirtis Papaioannou. (center) Alex Vangelis as the main course

As the work unfolds, snatches of Johann Strauss II’s “Blue Danube Waltz” in various mutations by the assistant director Staphanos Droussiotis, accompany the episodes that unfold across the expanse of gray panels, covering the raked stage floor like outsized cedar shingles on a Cape Cod bungalow roof. And the performers shift and slide the “shingles” to reveal openings in the floor, from which props, people, and body parts emerge and disappear magically.

THE GREAT TAMER by Dimirtis Papaioannou. (l-r): Christos Strinopoulos and Alex Vangelis

In one scene, Man One is confronted by a tall figure in a plaster cast from head to toe (Alex Vangelis) – Michelangelo’s David? – who slowly approaches downstage. Strinopoulos, with gruesome cracking sounds that seem amplified somehow, breaks open the parts of the cast – shins, thighs, arms, neck, torso – and lets them fall into a pile of dusty rubble on the floor. The newly Vangelis then sprays an arc of water from a pool that’s hiding under the ubiquitous floor and takes a bath, as Strinopoulos collects the plaster fragments into a cloth sack along with a slinky tube that earlier has taken on a life of its own, when balanced on a man’s arm, before being stretched across the stage into a kinked garland and discarded.

Two men have a silent-movie duel, casting shadows from downstage lights onto a wall of panels their mates hold up. A naked man (Vangelis, I think) retreats under a “tent” of connected floor panels, to save himself from a sudden, shocking, minutes-long barrage of arrows that flies in from stage left and stick into the floor, like a medieval siege on a castle. Later the cast en masse plucks the hundreds of missiles out of the ground and places them into a basket, where turn from deadly weapons into harmless bulrushes.

A man channels Atlas, bringing in a large ball, painted like the globe; another man kneels precariously atop it and rolls it across the space. A burly man undresses with his back to us, and digs a naked woman out of the ground; the pair twisted together like a pretzel roll across the space and disappear.

THE GREAT TAMER by Dimirtis Papaioannou. High-heeled madonna with admirers.

A naked woman in high heels and a white halo stands on a table in high heels, surrounded by men. Two men unearth a fossil skeleton, carefully arranged anatomically on a panel buried down front and let the bones slowly slide down in a “choreographed” cascade, tibias, femurs, pelvis, ribs and vertebrae, skull last. And the final image of the piece has a man literally burying himself beneath the stage.

THE GREAT TAMER by Dimirtis Papaioannou. A composite person, made up of five performers.

Motifs reappear – the sheet-blowing, the lady with basket, the composite body, made of a woman’s trunk and the back of one leg each of two unseen men in black, wearing heels. The humor balances the macabre, and the imagination of the corporeal imagery transports us to a dream state, where we are compelled to follow Papaioannou’s bizarre visions like lambs to the slaughter.

photos by Max Gordon

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simone-garnett · 6 years ago

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title: only love can hurt like this pairing: snowbarry word count: 7.5k information: to marge aka @panalegs27 aka one of the greatest, sweetest, kindest people on this site, and one of my closest friends. hope you have a wonderful birthday and that you’re spoiled rotten and that you take a tonne of cute photos (bc guys, her curls are the most adorable things ever). i could spend hours talking about how wonderful and nice and gorgeous you are, could write an essay longer than this fic (and this is 7 500 words!) i won’t, but just know i’m forever grateful you messaged me on tumblr. love you <3

prequel to this ; the p&p au (of that scene)

ffn /// ao3

Receiving the invitation from Julian and Patricia to stay at their abode comes as a surprise to Barry, who didn’t think that either of them would think that fondly of him. He had rejected her proposal after all, though it came from a place of kindness than that of love.

The sentiment was sweet, protecting him and the West household from possession of the estate through their marriage, but he couldn’t marry her for that alone, couldn’t imagine marrying her at all. But introducing her to Julian had been exactly what they both wanted. Two people with similar interests and temperament, people who were sharp but sweet and caring. It had been a casual introduction in town, after all, he and Julian could be considered acquaintances and work colleagues at best. But Patty, with her bashful smile and sparkling eyes had caught Julian’s attention immediately, the pair spending their time courting each other. It had filled Barry with happiness, seeing the pair of them together, Patty listening - contributing - to Julian’s explanation of the new scientific advancements made at the university where he had studied. They seemed to always be enraptured by the other and Barry, knowing he was responsible for the introduction, took full credit for their relationship.

Even if he didn’t envision them getting married so soon.

He accepts the invitation immediately.

It had been kind of Julian to move to Patty’s home after the marriage, practical, as it was closer to the university he had wanted to be transferred to, but kind all the same, no confirmation of the transfer occurring until after they had agreed.

And Barry, as the coach approaches the home, can’t help but feel as though it were the right decision. Because the gardens were incredible, enough paths and acreage to walk and get lost in. The air is more fresh, the flowers more colourful and in bloom. The south is wonderful, and he knows he should travel England a lot more than he currently does, especially if there were places such as this awaiting him.

Patty is standing at the front door when the driver pulls up the cottage, a beaming smile on her face, positively glowing with joy. He doesn’t waste a second to jump out of the carriage, his arms around her, pulling his cousin into a hug, chuckling as she tightens her arms around him, a squeal of delight leaving her as he is here, finally here. He doesn’t want it to end, a rush of emotions hitting him after being separated for so long. Barry hadn’t fully understood just how fond of her he was, not until she was here in his arms.

It is then he processes the weight pressing against his stomach, the small bulge that was hidden by her dress.

“You’re -” The words leave him, awe shining in his eyes as his hands hover over her own, the bump more prevalent with her hugging it protectively. And her eyes are glistening with unshed tears, a smile so wide on her lips.

She nods quickly, hands wiping away the tears as they pour out the sides of her eyes. “Yeah.”

“Oh, wow.” He stutters over his words, but the smile of pride says what he can’t.

“I told Julian we should name it Bartholemew, after the man who had introduced us a little over a year ago.”

It elicits a wet laugh from both of them, a feeling swelling inside Barry’s chest that he couldn’t describe. “I don’t think he would have appreciated that.”

“If I wasn’t pregnant I’m sure he would have kicked me out of the bed.” A noise undignified leaves his mouth at the comment, so wholly untrue. Julian would never, so in love with her he wouldn’t consider anything but having her right by his side. She rolls her eyes at the noise, and the sound of the carriage pulling away breaks up the conversation. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

He collects his luggage and follows her inside the house, Patty showing him to his room, allowing Barry to familiarise himself with the location. It is a perfect place for her, for them, and he couldn’t be any more pleased that she had found herself a doting husband and a wonderful house.

Barry ignores that soft pang inside himself, ignores the longing for his own partner and home and child.

And he settles into his room.

It is sunset when Julian finally arrives at the house, a brisk handshake all that he offers the Barry. Patty, he offers something much more affectionate, a gentle kiss on the back of her palms, words whispered that Barry couldn’t hear for they were not for his ears.

It brings a blush to Patty’s cheeks, and Barry finds himself turning away, ignoring the fascination that bubbles up inside him at the glimpse he had, ignoring the feeling of loneliness, the desire to find a love like theirs.

They settle down for the afternoon, Julian regaling stories of his work, Barry and Patty listening in interest. It is only when the clock strikes seven that Patty is drawn from the world of scientific curiosity and discussion they had all fell to. She jumps up from her seat, a conversation without a word spoken, done between her and Julian. His eyes light up and it has a nervousness settling into Barry’s bones.

“Come on Barry,” Patty says, tugging him into a standing position, a keen eye scanning his outfit before nodding sharply to herself. “We’re going to Cisco’s for dinner. His laboratory is simply incredible, you must see it.”

Julian nods at her words, a slap on the back as leaves the room to freshen up. “Come on mate, loosen up. It’ll be a blast.”

If he hopes for an explanation to who this Cisco is, he doesn’t receive it until the walk to the house, Patty reciting all his accomplishments and interests. Apparently a love of science had bonded the two neighbours, the Albert’s often spending hours with Mr Ramon, endless topics spoken and debated until exhaustion.

Barry feels as if he knows the man before they reach the front door, can feel a kinship with him that he hopes will translate into reality.

It does.

The man is just as sweet as he sounds, a wide smile on his face comes to the door, the servants hovering over his shoulder, ready to take their coats. He is an affectionate man, pulling the Albert’s into a hug, gentle and lingering and Barry can feel the love between the trio.

“Cisco!” The exclamation is muffled by his shoulder, Patty pulling away and smiling brightly. Barry almost feels like an intruder on the threesome, but she gestures toward him, barely a word out of her mouth before Mr Ramon pulls him into a hug of his own, pulling away far too quickly, a dazed Barry unsure of anything, not when Mr Ramon puts his hands on his shoulders and gives him a brisk shake.

“It is very nice to meet you my good man.” There a wide smile on this stranger’s face, and Barry finds himself relaxing immediately, a kindred spirit found in Mr Ramon’s soul. It could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, he thinks. He hopes.

“You seem happy mate.” Julian elbows Mr Ramon in the side, a twinkle in his eyes.

It is as though the question brings more life into the man’s bodily frame, a joy lighting up his countenance. “Caitlin and Ronnie are staying for a while.” And he cannot hide the delight he feels, smile stretching further as he utters the words.

It doesn’t strike Barry that the Caitlin Mr Ramon spoke of would also be his Caitlin. Not that Miss Snow was his Caitlin, but rather, the only Caitlin he had the displeasure of being acquainted with.

But then they all walk towards the sitting room, and he sees her there standing, a slinky green dress on, the young woman leaning on the back of a chair, talking to a tall, dark-haired man, head tilted back in laughter.

And oh, he thinks.

Oh.

(Oh no.)

The dinner is stilted, or maybe it is just Barry, because no one else seems to pick up on the tension in the room. Miss Snow seems to be in an intimate conversation with Mr Raymond, whispering quietly with each other, secret smiles and soft words shared between them. He doesn’t know why it distracts him so, captivating him more than it should.

“So you lived near Netherfield Park?” His head jerks to Mr Ramon, distracted from the conversations around him.

“Hmm, yeah.” He nods sharply.

“So you know Miss Snow then? When she was staying with the Thawne’s?” There is almost an excitement in Mr Ramon’s smile, the man distracted from his meal at the mere notion.

His gaze flits to her against his will, lingering as she smiles and laughs with Mr Raymond. “Yeah, we’re acquainted.”

It feels like an inaccurate word to describe them. But it is all he can think of.

“She -” Mr Ramon clears his throat and it is that which pulls Barry’s attention away from the lady on the other side of the table and toward the man he was conversing with. “She was treated well there, wasn’t she?” His question is met with silence, Barry far too surprised by the urgency and concern in the tone of Mr Ramon to consider answering it, of alleviating his fears. It prompts Mr Ramon to stumble on, pressing the importance of the question. “She won’t speak much of her trip there, of the people. And I fear there was an incident that may have troubled her. So, I was hoping...” He sighs and there is a shift in the aura surrounding is dampened when in comparison to but ten minutes previous. It is dramatic and Barry appreciates just how much he cares for his friend.

“How did the two of you become acquainted?” It isn’t a question he was anticipating, Barry left momentarily speechless at his own words. Because he cared not for her, cared nothing about her past, her life. But he was intrigued now, no matter how much he didn’t want to care. The words soften Mr Ramon, the man’s demeanour lighting up at the memories.

“You’ve met Mr Thawne, have you not? He -to my knowledge - also resided in Netherfield Park for the time?” A nod encourages him to continue on, Mr Ramon quickly becoming lost in his past. “Well, Miss Snow was almost an adoptive member of the Thawne family, her father and him oft in discussions with regards to their work. She studied, she learnt, and when I became a pupil of Mr Thawne, she became my best friend. And when my elder brother died -” He cuts himself off, and the anguish of the loss still shines in his eyes. “I don’t know how I would have kept myself together if not for her unwavering loyalty and support. Miss Snow is worth 100 good men and you must forgive me, but I will always be protective of her.”

There is much more that Mr Ramon would not divulge, Barry can see it in the looks that he shouldn’t be privy to, the repressed feelings that could never be spoken aloud. And it makes no sense, how the cold, uncaring woman who despises dancing, could inspire such loyalty and devotion as she did from Mr Ramon, how she could possibly be a rock to such a loving and caring man when she was so unfeeling herself.

It shakes him to his core, this new version of Miss Snow that he had never been exposed to before. “Mr Ramon -” Barry stops, Mr Ramon lifting a hand, silencing him without a single world.

“Cisco, please. I think you’re entitled to that after I bore my soul to you like I did.”

It brings a flicker of a smile to Barry’s lips. “Cisco then. I do believe that she was treated well by the Thawne’s. They seemed very generous and, from what I gathered, they both seemed determined to have her involved and a part of the family, I imagine.” His words seem to soothe Cisco, the man relaxing in his chair, a lingering smile on his lips as he nods at Barry’s words. It is that which encourages him to continue, Barry leaning in conspiratorially, “though there were balls and, even though men outnumbered women, she refused to dance.”

But she did dance, he thinks. Once.

With him.

Barry doesn’t confess that, not to Cisco, barely even to himself.

They migrate to the drawing room, Miss Snow gravitating towards the pianoforte, the men and Patty distracted by conversations of possible technological advancements being debated in Oxford. They were all educated and opinionated, and, had the situation been any different, he would find himself just as vocal, just as fierce in his arguments.

But Barry finds something else, someone else, holding his attention and he cannot find it in himself to stop.

She plays the piano elegantly, fingers dancing over the ebony and ivory keys, barely a smile on her lips even while the music itself was lively and joyful, bringing the rest of their spirits to high levels.

He finds himself paying less attention to the talk around him and more to the woman on the other side of the room, a musical instrument beneath her fingers and a gift he could only hope to achieve a fraction of. She is alone and isolated over there, voluntarily, losing herself in the music.

Barry looks, but he can’t see it, can’t see how the cold, uncaring lady who hates dancing and brushes off others like dirt on her clothing could possibly be the same woman Cisco says she was. It is impossible to reconcile the woman he knew and the one he was told she could be.

It haunts him throughout the night, but he can’t see himself mentioning it to anyone else

“She’s incredible, isn’t she?” Mr Raymond approaches him, his presence startling Barry out of the trance he had slipped into without ever realising. “She’s been able to play like that ever since her father bought her a pianoforte at ten and four.”

“You’ve known her for that long?”

Mr Raymond chuckles at the surprise in Barry’s voice. “We’ve known each other since the cot.”

“And you’re...” Barry drifts off, biting his bottom lip to stop the rest of the question from tumbling out.

“Oh no.” He laughs it off but he can’t mask the longing underlying it. “Just childhood friends.”

It doesn’t make sense, her ability to make everyone fall in love with her, not when her demeanour and treatment of others isn’t tolerable in the slightest.

It distracts him, Barry watching her, not with disdain but curiosity.

And when he leaves Cisco’s home that night, he isn’t sure what he feels toward Miss Snow anymore.

Patty and Barry pull up at Cisco’s home late Friday morning, Julian having ducked out of their house to attend the university. Patty had taken Barry around the town throughout the week, but discussion with her on Thursday night alerted him to the fact that she frequented the Ramon home every Friday morning.

It is an hour before noon when they finally arrive, breakfast a longer affair than usual, Patty rummaging through sheets of paper in her room to find what she was looking for, a exclamation of joy when she finds the formulae she had spent a week working to perfect before the weekly meeting.

Cisco opens the door, eyes alight as he drags both of them into the house, rambling on about his discoveries and potential theories. It is like a whirlwind for Barry, a barrage of information he can make neither head nor tail out of, and he seems to be the only one, Patty responding to Cisco’s ramblings with those of her own.

Finally they stop and he can take stock of where they are. The laboratory.

And, Barry concedes, the Albert’s were right, the laboratory was incredible.

He wanders around it with child-like glee, eyes wide and mind scrambling to understand how everything works and its purpose. He makes a full circuit of the room before realising that Mr Raymond and Miss Snow had joined them. Three of them had started talking but Miss Snow, he realises, while listening, wasn’t making any contributions to the conversation. Her eyes catch him and he struggles to not look away in response, Barry making deliberate steps to join the group.

“I was going to take a walk through the gardens,” she states out loud, the other conversation dying momentarily as they all turned to listen to her. “You are welcome to join me Mr Allen if you so choose.” In a hushed whisper she continues, “Cisco and Patty are in the middle of a project and while I could try and understand, they are months into development and it would take far too much time away from them for explanations. Ronnie is only there because they had been mailing each other letters on the topic. Feel free to stay however, it’s just an offer.” There is a smile on her lips, or at least, there is the teasing of one, Miss Snow looking so much more happier than he had seen her yet.

It was a drastic shift from her norm.

And, he thinks later that night when reflecting on his actions, this is why he says what he does.

“I - okay then Miss Snow, if you don’t mind the company.”

She smiles more brightly at his acceptance and, not for the first time, he wonders if he had mischaracterised her completely.

The walk is brisk and conversation is scattered and scarce, but it is different. It is though he is seeing Miss Snow in a new light, sunlight shining down on the woman, illuminating her in its rays. And he stops, much more than he would on any normal walk, the excuse of appreciating the beauty of his surroundings stumbles off of his tongue when she stops, a quizzical expression on her face.

It is what he doesn’t tell her that is the cause of his embarrassment, because it wasn’t only nature’s beauty he was appreciating in the beautiful spring sunshine,

it was also her own.

The church is stunning, Cisco and Miss Snow encouraging them all to attend with them that Sunday morning.

And Barry can’t really avoid attending, not when Patty was delivering the sermon, Julian and Mr Raymond - Ronnie - also going. Luckily Barry manages to be seated by Ronnie, the man with a horrible habit of fidgeting. He discovers quickly that Ronnie is a man of action, that staying still for hours isn’t comfortable. Ronnie is a kindred spirit he isn’t expecting and, although he feels guilty, Barry can’t help but lean side ward and start a conversation during the sermon.

Patty glares at them from the pulpit, their quiet whispering obvious even to her. He knows the moment that they get home he will be scolded and can only hope that Julian will be there to soothe her before her anger overwhelms.

It’s Julian, so he doubts it.

“So, how long are you here for?” Barry asks, head ducked as though her were reading from the Bible and not talking to his new friend.

Ronnie chuckles, to himself and out loud. “For however long Caitlin is, I’m at her command.” It takes Barry by surprise and yet, it makes perfect sense, fits into the mould he has of her. Or rather, the one that he had for so long. Demanding, cold. Of course she was take pleasure in dictating the lives of her friends. And maybe he wasn’t so off on his perception of her after all. He needs to bite his tongue to hold back the retort - there is no universe where his words would be taken kindly by his company. “I think she’ll want to go back to London soon, what with Edward and his constant depressions.”

It takes all the strength Barry has not to freeze at the mention of Eddie. “Oh, why?” The false lightness in his voice is grating to his ears but there is an obliviousness to it by Ronnie that Barry can’t help but feel thankful for.

“Oh, apparently back at Netherfield there was a girl.” Ronnie seems to light up at the chance to converse and gossip. “Cute, but using the poor man, so Caitlin put a swift end to that. He’s nursing a broken heart, but god - imagine if he had pursued it further, he would be more devastated.”

The rest of Ronnie’s words fade into nothingness, the pieces falling together. And oh, how he had misdirected the blame at everyone but the culprit of his sister’s unhappiness.

“Was it -” His voice catches, “was it because of her colour?”

“God no.” Ronnie manages to look ashamed at the glare thrown his way from Patty, his exclamation too loud to disguise. Not enough to shut up however. “Caitlin would never care for that. Apparently he loved more fiercely than she ever did.”

The feeling of betrayal is swift, clawing at his heart, the beating organ slowed by the viscous black coating of the emotion. He had started to believe his impression of her was wrong, and he was correct. For she was much worse than he had ever envisaged, more heartless than he had ever imagined. It was her, she was responsible for upending the happiness of his sister, of the tears and the denial and the heart break.

It was Miss Snow.

The clap of thunder is nothing to deter Barry from taking a walk after the Sunday sermon, ignoring the calls by the Albert’s to wait for a carriage, confused looks from Mr Raymond and Cisco doing nothing to discourage him or slow his stride. He brushes past them, ignoring the rules of propriety that he had always sworn by. There was a darkening of the sky, a promise that wouldn’t fail to be delivered, but he goes on. The spring shower is nothing to compare with the storm of emotions inside him,

Barry is unaware that he is followed, not when the rain starts storming down, not as he starts running, the burning in his lungs unable to ease the pain in his heart. All he can think, all he can see is Iris, tears streaming down her face when she was unaware of his presence, of the way she tried to hold herself together when the moving of Mr Edward Thawne left her heart falling apart.

She didn’t deserve the agonies inflicted upon her, but to hear that Miss Snow was responsible, that she found the separation a point of pride and not a source of shame and embarrassment... it leaves an emptiness inside of him that he wants to explain away, that he cannot.

He can only find himself able to breathe when he is unable to do so, the burning in his chest a resultant of exhaustion more than heart ache. It is only now that he considers his surroundings, the sky black.

And as he looks up, does the rain come down.

There is a gazebo in the distance, and he takes his time approaching it, choosing to sit and wait for the storm to pass than endeavour to make his way to the cottage, or at least Rosings Parks.

But then he sees a figure in the distance, and as the person approaches he feels his heart fall to the floor. Fate is a fickle mistress, because he came here to avoid her and now she’s the only one he can see. Miss Snow runs quickly, the hem of her dress ruined by the mud, the rest of it by the rain.

She is soaking from the rain, dress utterly ruined, hair stringy and clinging to her face. But she is still beautiful. And he hates her for it.

“What are you doing here?”

She appears oblivious to the hatred dripping in his voice, Miss Snow wiping the hair out of her face. He can barely look at her, Barry choosing to pace instead. The anger bubbles just under the surface, an uncontrollable monster so close to breaching the surface. It wouldn’t be right to lash out though he desires to. “I - I had to come after you. I couldn’t just leave you to storm off alone, not when you were so obviously distressed by something.”

Her words cause him to stop, Barry turning to her, confusion and anger warring inside him. “Why would you even care?”

She takes a step toward him, looks at him beseechingly and it makes no sense, this callous woman attempting to show any semblance of emotion. “You know, surely you know -”

“What?!” And like that the monster inside reaches the surface, Barry snapping at her.

“I know it doesn’t make any sense, it certainly isn’t advantageous in any way for me. But you can’t control matters of the heart and even though it goes against everything I was taught, even given, the circumstances of your family and the your rank. I’ve tried to fight it, but I can’t so, it would only make sense to accept it and -”

“The circumstances of my family?” And it is incredulous, the words he is hearing, the way it cuts through him. “What are you trying to say Miss Snow?” The rein he manages on his emotions is miraculous, but he tries.

“Surely you know the gossip that follows you, father hanged for the murder of his wife, the boy suffering delusions following the death he witnessed. The rumours that follow you; none of this makes sense and yet I cannot help but feel as I do.”

“May I ask for the reason that you followed me, only to make disparaging comments about those I care for?”

“I love you.” She shrugs helplessly, and he can’t tell if it is raindrops or tears rolling down the sides of her face. “I’ve tried not to, I’ve wanted not to. But I do.”

Barry startles, unprepared for her words. “Well then, I apologise for pain you’ve endured. I did not mean to inflict it.” They come out terse, his jaw clenched in anger.

“I - Are you mocking me?” And she has the gall to act hurt, as though she were an innocent in this.

“No, I would never.” The derision in his tone is evident, and though his words have the appearance of civility, they both are aware of the disgust beneath them. “I’m just unsure as to what you want. An apology is the best I can offer you, unless you were seeking a proposal?” The look on her face betrays her emotion. It is enough to elicit a broken laugh from Barry, the man looking skyward, in disbelief and awe. “Were you truly? After you have denied, perhaps forevermore, the happiness of my sister?” And it is his words which finally bring out the Miss Snow he was familiar with, the cold woman with ice in place of a heart.And he keeps on pushing her, pushing and pushing until he could make her snap as she did him. “Or what - are you pretending to be innocent in the mess you orchestrated? That Mr Thawne was simply compelled to leave Netherfield Park and Iris without the encouragement of you.” His words are bitter, the glare thrown her direction sharp. “You broke them up, and for what? Jealousy?”

It elicits a laugh, an empty bark of laughter. “Jealousy - of what? It was obvious that Eddie was more attached to her than she him.” His lips curl into a sneer at the use of Mr Edward Thawne’s Christian name, and a nickname moreover. “I love my friend dearly and if making tough decisions to help protect his heart needed to be made by me than so be it.” There was pride in her tone, a satisfaction that makes him sick.

“You know nothing of what she has gone through.” Anger sustains him more than he could have determined, it warms him up, Barry almost vibrating with rage.

Miss Snow, cold and clinical, is more measured in her voice. And heavens above, he thinks, how could he have imagined her to be any different than what she is? “Pray tell me why she wouldn’t make any indications of anything more than casual affection for a man who was so clearly devoted to her?”

And it’s the dismissal of Iris’ deep feelings that rile him up once more. “Oh, excuse me,” he scoffs. “But you were not a witness of the scorn and abuse she received simply for the colour of her skin. Of course she isn’t well versed in showing the world her feelings, she barely shows her true emotions to me!” There is a measured pause, Barry taking the time to steady himself, blinking away the tears burning his eyes. “People, ever since she was but a child, have taken pleasure in her pain, and Iris learnt to hide the hurt, to not give them the satisfaction of a response. So please, forgive her if hiding her true emotions is something she’s been forced to do since childhood. But that does not mean for one moment that she doesn’t feel deeply, and for Mr Thawne -” a weak smile crosses his face, tainted by painful memories of a past he had witnessed, but not lived. “She was happy with him, she was so very earnestly happy with him, and to take that away...”

There is remorse in her eyes, Miss Snow struck silent by his words. “I - I’m sorry. I didn’t realise - I could only make judgements on what I witnessed -”

He ignores her, Barry charging ahead. “Oh, and what of Jay Garrick?”

So caught up in his emotion, does he miss how she stops breathing, how she freezes. If he looked closely, if he dared to, he’d see the sliver of pain and fear lurking beneath her tough exterior. But he does not, chooses not to.

And in an instant that vulnerability is gone, her emotions sealed off. “I know no one by that name.” Her voice is clipped and that, he notices, notices the sharp way she addresses someone whose life she had, once again, ruined.

The growl of frustration takes them both by surprise, Barry running his fingers through his hair, rain droplets disturbed and sent rolling down his face. He continues to pace around the gazebo, piercing gaze still focussing on her, unable to be anywhere else. “Why do you choose to continue lying to me? How could this possibly be the basis could a relationship stem from?” There is sarcasm coating his words.

“Why do you persist to ask questions on issues you are not privy to?” And there is a flare of emotion, one he hadn’t seen in her, so usually detached and unfeeling. “Drop. It.”

“I know enough, but please, enlighten me.” There is a cruel edge to his voice, Barry looking down on her, Miss Snow’s eyes aflame with fire and heat and it is cold outside. He craves warmth.

It is only then he realises that, in the heat of their argument, they had drawn closer. So much closer in fact. He sees the dusting of freckles across her nose, the pigment standing out more now than previously before, her skin now pale and white. He watches as her eyes dart from one side of his face to the other, watches how they drop to his lips. He watches how she licks her own in response.

She lingers and it makes him painfully aware, unable to not notice how their chests brush against each other’s with each inhale. The shift in the atmosphere is sharp, the air electrifying around then. And he can’t help but remember his traitorous thoughts, of how beautiful she is, of the feeling inside his chest when he first laid his eyes upon her. Because up close, where he can admire her, admire all of her, it is a dangerous position to be in. Her bottom lip trembles, he notices, probably from the chill settling into her bones, dress and skin soaked from the torrential rain that had run through but an hour before. He shouldn’t be distracted by such a small movement as her lips, but he finds it easier to stare at than her eyes, so bright and bewitching.

She leans in towards him, the minute distance between them shrinking at her motion. He thinks it for warmth, thinks she is drawn to his own, but her eyes betray a truth he isn’t expecting, but unsurprising all the same. They flicker down to his own lips, and they linger, gaze almost tracing the outline.

“Is this your answer then?” She whispers the words, still so close to him. It feels intimate, soft voices and close bodies, and it scares him, scares him because he hadn’t made a move to leave. And he should. “You want nothing to do with me?”

He almost nods in response to her question, catching himself only moments before he does so. Because they were still close, too close. If he were to even try he would brush lips with her. And that would be dangerous - he isn’t sure how he’d respond if it were to happen.

“You destroyed, possibly forever, the happiness of the one woman I love. I could never forgive you for that, and I would never forgive myself for even contemplating anything more.” His words are soft, but lethal, her head turning to the side as though it were a physical blow.

“Okay,” and she takes the step away from him. He longs for her proximity once more, even as he despises himself for the baser thoughts. She nods to him, to herself, her tongue heavy in her mouth. “Okay.”

And like a ghost she vanishes from his sight, Barry left standing there for hours after and no more settled.

It is a cruel thing to inflict on Patty, his beloved cousin watching in concern as he retreats to his room, a feeble excuse on his lips as to why he couldn’t attend the luncheon at the Ramon house. He knows it is weak, knows it hurts her and angers Julian, but he cannot muster the strength to leave the house, is unsure if he possessed the control needed to face Miss Snow once more without bursting into another argument with her.

He can’t fathom the idea of seeing *her* there, can’t stomach the idea of pretending nothing had previously happened.

It is cowardice that leads him to hide in his room, but he knows and acknowledges that fact, if not to everyone else then to himself.

But Patty allows him this flaw, her and Julian pulling away in their carriage, leaving him alone in their abode to stew in the torrent of emotions that had crept on him, now threatening him like a tidal wave, moments away from being swept up by it.

It can only be but an hour after they leave that there is a knock on the door, Barry moving to open the door, to blinded by his feelings to question who would be at the door at this time.

He should have,

because it was her.

It was Miss Snow.

Neither of them speak initially, her shallow breaths filling the air as she watches him with wide eyes, flinching at the hatred burning within his.

“I realise I’m the last person you would like to see,” she starts, lips pursed together tightly after the finishing the sentence. “You accused me of various grievous attacks on my friends and yours alike, I just ask for the opportunity to defend myself against these crimes.” She holds out a letter to him, and Barry, too overcome with surprise and curiosity, takes it from her hand, Miss Snow flinching as his fingers brush against her bare hands.

She turns her back on him quickly, Barry left staring outside long after she left, the warm night’s breeze doing nothing to heat up his cold skin. But finally, finally, when he was sure he wouldn’t immediately burn the paper in his hands, does he go and close the door, retreating to his room.

It is with shaking hands, of anger, of fear and trepidation, does he open the letter, eyes greedily scanning for its content, its justifications, its excuses.

Dear Mr Allen,

I accept the rejection you made abundantly clear last Sunday, have no fear, I am not repeating my feelings. I do, however, feel as though you perjure me with these ill-conceived notions you cling to most ardently. So, if you permit me the time, I feel I must explain my actions.

In order to adequately address your former alleged grievance, I must first explain the latter...

The feeling of revulsion overwhelms him when he finally learns the truth between her and Jay - Hunter. She was still a girl, not yet sixteen when she had met the older man, tall and handsome and dignified. There was still a few months before she would be formally introduced to society and, having spent so long in the laboratories, trailing her mother and father and, after that Mr Thawne, quenching her scientific thirst, interactions with males her age was limited.

It doesn’t take long for her to fall in love with the mysterious older man who bestowed upon her affection and gifts, who made her feel treasured and special. She was but a child, unaware of the cruelties of other people, not yet jaded by the human experience. Pure.

She had never imagined it would be used against her.

They had planned to elope, she confesses, ink smudged from what he could only assume were tears of a pain and past not yet healed. The paper crinkled from drying, the torrent of tears making it uneven and rough. He tries to smooth it with his hands, as though the action could soothe the heart which wrote it. He fails in his efforts and he grunts in frustration, running fingers through his hair before picking up the letter and continuing.

She had fallen in love with the man she believed Hunter to be,

he had fallen in love with her wealth.

She recites in clinical detail the abuse she had endured by his hand, the bruises, the tears, the verbal assaults. And she had endured it for so long, his apologies and soothing words enough to make her forgive and forget.

Miss Snow had been shaking, he realised. She had been made to relive all her pain for him, to explain herself to him.

Barry wasn’t sure how deep his self-loathing was until that very thought.

And so, reading of Eddie, of the boy who saved her from the neglect of her parents while she was but a child, who was her only friend in the world at such an age, of the man who had saved her from the depths of despair she had spiralled towards, it made everything more clear. He was her saviour, noticing the marks, the abuse. He had convinced her to abandon the plans, had protected her when Hunter sought his revenge on the woman.

Eddie was more than a person in her eyes, he was her guardian angel, her greatest friend, her confidant. He was why she felt safe opening up to other men, why she didn’t completely shy away from society, limiting herself to associations only with Eddie and Ronnie and Cisco.

And he understands her fear, her concern of seeing her closest friend and ally fall for the same schemes she had but a decade earlier. It hurts him to think that anyone could look at Iris in such a way so as to believe she would be capable of such deceit. But he has the benefit of a past with her, Miss Snow had nothing to rely on but the scars of her past romantic entanglement.

It makes sense that she would seek to protect him, that she would endeavour to stop him from jumping into a marriage without love, not when she was so close so as to taste, however briefly, the potential consequences of such an action. It was wrong, she was wrong. But it was understandable.

Barry devours the letter, again and then once more, memorising each detail contained within it, each turn of phrase, every full stop and comma. It stays with him long after he puts the sheets of paper down. As he lays in his bed the words haunt him, images flashing through his mind, memories more poignant with context.

His hatred of himself increases as his of her dies.

And all he knows it that he must, he must see her once more.

It is with that thought he finally allows himself to fall asleep.

The next night he does attend the dinner, anticipation thrumming though his veins at the notion of meeting her again. He isn’t sure how he would respond, nor did the rules of etiquette explain how he should. For she had bore her soul to him, had confessed feelings and secrets for his benefit.

The anger that had sustained him had evaporated, disappeared into nothingness, a confusion left in its place

His fears are for nought, a despondent Cisco telling them that Miss Snow had fallen victim to a terrible cold, after running through the rain Sunday afternoon. It takes all his strength to not stand upright and ask to visit her, the impropriety of the action the only thing holding him to his seat.

He wonders if she told anything to Cisco, but the man still embraces him with a warm smile and open arms so he believes her to not have. It leaves him itching to go and see her, to make sure that she is safe and healthy and taking care of herself.

So he could apologise and apologise until a book could be filled with his words, so that he could explain his feelings and emotions and not lash out at her.

But he couldn’t, her maid taking care of her, a firm woman who wouldn’t let any one interrupt Miss Snow’s recovery. And it is selfish of him to want to disregard the warning, Barry uncaring for his own health in that instant, a moment with Miss Snow worth more than his own heartiness. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t get away with it even if he tried, both Cisco and Ronnie anxious to have her in full health, sparing no expense to achieve their need.

And so he comes back night after night, hoping for her to be well enough to come down for dinner, for her to be kind enough to listen to his apologies. He had been prejudiced, made assumptions. And while she wasn’t perfect, she was the monster he envisioned.

There was a fleeting thought, a question. Because if she was no longer the cold witch he had seen her as, if she was no longer a bundle of contradictions,

what would he now see her as?

It is a week when Patty receives a letter, Cisco sending her information of Miss Snow’s recovery. It has her smiling in glee, Patty determined to visit immediately and greet her newest friend. The news leaves Barry’s body locked in position, a rush of emotion flooding his body.

It was his first opportunity to talk to her, it was his only real opportunity.

He doesn’t intend to squander it away.

However he was able to form coherent sentences he’ll never fully understand, but he manages to convince Patty that he should go ahead and alone, that she should wait for Julian to return in a quarter of an hour - the man would be confused if he returned to an empty home and, what is fifteen minutes when they would have the night to catch up.

He doesn’t wait for the carriage to be set up, Barry choosing to run to their neighbours property, his speed not once slowing as he approached the home, his mind a flurry of thoughts, unsure where he would start, what he would confess, the words that would come out.

But eventually he makes it to the door, Barry almost doubling over due to his exertion, breathing air a new difficulty.

The door opens before he could knock, a pensive Cisco ready to step out. But then he catches sight of Barry, arm raised, an expectant look on his face. There is a rage that contorts his face, a look that looks misplaced on Cisco’s normally cheery expression. And Barry knows in that moment, knows she had told Cisco the truth. The other man only has to spit out two words for confirmation, acid in his voice, burning Barry down to the bone.

He has the door slammed on his face,

and Caitlin,

she was gone.

#snowbarry #snowbarry fic #caitlin snow #barry allen #the flash #with bonuses of #cisco ramon #and #ronnie raymond #ruthie writes #marge tag #hbd!!!#sorry it isn't fangs #but that cutie pie is for christmas gifts only :P

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chuckling-chemist · 6 years ago

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You’re A Kind One, Miss Elsker (11/14)

((Aside from “Dance of the Fuchsiablood Fairy, this is my most clever title. Doesn’t get better than this. And if bad friendships are a squick or trigger for you, please skip.))

Some trolls lived the high life. Swinging off chandeliers with seadwellers, drinking the finest Faygo with clowns, feather boas and pretty trolls lounging on pianos as servants in tuxedos played rhapsodies on the ivories. This was true of Atenic’s friends, all of whom adored it. Pereon loved the dark, slinky dresses in elegant masks where she’d take business partners for mysterious affairs. Siroet loved the colors and entertainment scattered abound for her to find. Careen reveled in the atmosphere, the dancing and overall aesthetic of flaunting her infinite wealth. She didn’t know much about Dontoc, but anyone who comes from the underwater City of Twinkling Lights must enjoy the high life. And Pothos...well...Atenic mostly avoided thinking about him.

Did Atenic enjoy the high life? That’s a hard question. On one hand, not only did the high life enjoy Atenic; but she also hated all the boisterous, drunken, bloody parties found among lowbloods where she couldn’t even wear a pretty new dress from Kordof. She loved going out and enjoying time with her beautiful friend, Careen, which made these events fun despite the crushing anxiety that occupied her thoughts the minute Careen went away. A shame that was guaranteed at any socialite event. And when Careen was absent, Atenic felt a crushing emptiness in her bones unlike no other. It made the same nights she’d adore now impossible to enjoy. Trolls like Siroet or Pereon didn’t fill the hole the same way Careen did. So at best, she’d file her answer down with little more than a solid maybe.

This also meant tonight was no exception to the rule. This time, Careen finally managed to convince her unwilling matesprit to go out and actually enjoy the night with her for once in his life. Judging by their lack of return to the table, he succeeded at such. Siroet already left off in one of her usual Siroet-tantrums some time ago. And Pereon disappeared some time after Careen to discuss business with well-to-do highbloods in snug outfits. Only Atenic remained at the table to sip expensive punch and pick at crumbs of triple moobeast milk crumb pastry. Unlike the rest of them, she’d prefer to stay in the VIP room away from general populace lowbloods. Lowbloods meant trouble. They jeered at Atenic, despite her caste, when she couldn’t hear. Careen was adamant of such.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, pushing around crumbs in complete silence to keep away her dejection, before a chilly hand rested on her shoulder. She looked up to see Pereon standing behind her, smiling politely down. Another troll, a rather toned and meek-looking indigoblood who stood taller than Pereon’s own hair, stood next to her. The indigoblood’s arms rested behind her back. “Atenic,” Pereon said sweetly, “you should enjoy the ball. It’s not every day you’ll see a landdweller host like this.”

Atenic glanced down at her food, nodding absently. She liked Pereon, but Pereon didn’t understand. No one here did. None of them understood the impossible challenges Atenic experienced when Careen wasn’t around. She was...what was the word? Antisocial. Atenic was antisocial.

She craned her neck up again. Pereon was dressed as beautiful as ever, dressed in a two piece dress with a long, two tiered purple skirt and short, lacy halter top. “I am enjoying the ball. The food is very good. And I love wearing this dress! It makes me feel like an eight pointed snowflake!”

Had she been standing, she may have swished her dress for emphasis, but she settled for squirming around in her seat. It might’ve been a shorter dress, but the cute snowflake pattern on the skirt, pale blue ribbon and sheer, sparkling cape made Atenic feel like a true lady of winter. Kordof never failed in making her feel she danced around in other troll’s daydreams.

The indigoblood next to her snickered behind her hand. Pereon, though, she was too respectful for that. She merely quirked her arched eyebrow high enough to blend into her hairline. “Atenic, you do realize snowflakes have six sides, right?”

“Oh.” Where did she learn that? Must’ve been from some cheesy novel. “Sorry Pereon. You’re so smart.”

Pereon patted her shoulder. “It’s fine, little one. Anyone in your position would’ve made the mistake.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” Pereon ruffled Atenic’s hair, right between the small, curved horns on her head. “Perfectly normal mistake for landdwellers. It’s why Careen took you in out of the goodness of her soul.”

“Yeah...she did.” Atenic smiled bashfully as warmth flooded and added the barest amount of blue to her face at the memory. Long ago, probably at least ten sweeps at this point, Careen found Atenic hanging around the lower castes and brought her in. Careen brought Atenic into the light of seadwelling society. Atenic learned everything Careen put in front of her, lapped up the praises and criticisms in equal fervor, remembered and internalized every facet until she perfected it to get where she stood now.

“And I’m sure Careen would appreciate if all the help she gave you was put to use.”

She frowned, kicking her legs underneath her chair as Pereon’s hand disappeared. She didn’t like it, but Pereon did have a point. Standing around here waiting for Careen disrespected the hard work she did, not just for the work Careen did in the past couple perigees for her, but for all the work Careen’s done for her in her life up to this point. “Yeah…maybe you’re right.” Atenic stood up, smoothing the skirt of her dress down. “I think I’ll go out on the ballroom.”

“I think that’s a good idea.” She patted Atenic’s head a couple more times before taking the indigoblood’s hand. “You’ll know where to find me if you need me.”

Atenic nodded silently, eyeing them as the two sauntered back toward the orchestra. She wouldn’t need them. Atenic was an adult troll, long past her seventh sweep ordeal and everything. Anxious tendencies or not, she didn’t need Pereon’s help just to go find a specific troll, especially when she knew exactly where that troll would be.

Atenic scuttled her way into the main ballroom in a hurry, rushing past all sorts of lower casted trolls flitting in her way. The music’s quick tempo spurred her footsteps faster, faster toward her eventual goal. She had to be here somewhere important. Find someone important. But where was she? Amid the twirling capes and glittering adornments, she couldn’t make anything out. Nor could she find an easy way in. Not with the sheer volume of trolls. If she wanted to do anything without making a scene, she would have to wait until they thinned out.

“I simply cannot abide this betrayal of my sensitivities!!”

The voice rang out above everything else in the room, clear as day. Atenic didn’t have to see the source to know who it was.

Careen.

All worry of causing trouble washed away. She squeezed between a couple greenbloods doing some odd dance to get into the dance floor proper, frantically darting her head around to look for the voice’s owner. Surrounding trolls, mid and lowbloods mostly, danced on, blocking off Atenic’s line of sight. The curse of being a smaller troll: even when the trolls were distinctly younger and lower casted, she couldn’t see past them. But then again, she knew Careen. She knew Careen better than any other troll knew her. She knew how Careen needed to stay in the public eye in these difficult times, what with that other tyrian pink troll making a calculated effort for Empress.

She pushed her way toward the orchestra. A few trolls resisted, but she was a cobaltblood. No reason not to take advantage of such. Especially when the trolls who pushed back looked like nosy tealbloods thinking they deserved better for being a higher midblood. Someone had to remind them of their standing. May as well be her.

When she arrived, she found herself standing on the edge of what looked to be some kind of standoff. On one side stood Careen, in all her beauty, next to a tall highblood in a rather fru-fru FLARP suit. On the other side was Dontoc in that odd suit with some rust dressed in blacks and bright reds Atenic didn’t recognize. Despite the lack of trolls paying attention to them, none of the four appeared to notice her arrival to the scene unfolding in front of her.

“I just can't fucking fathom why you're being possessive over the pale quadrant!” the brownblood exclaimed. She threw her arms in the air for emphasis as she added, “ The hell do you think you are?”

“Last I checked, I am the Heiress--”

“Yes, Careen. We know.” Dontoc sighed in exasperation. He looked tired. Moreso than before they left, anyway. “That being said, heiress or not, I am allowed a dance or two with my moirail of five sweeps.”

“I was your first quadrant!” Careen stamped her foot on the floor. “I deserve to have him for the event. It's what I deserve after everything I've given him.”

With a shudder, Dontoc looked down at the floor in silence. He almost appeared to curl inward on himself, drooped fins and all.

At the same time, every aspect of brownblood bristled. Her posture straightened, her gaze angry and hateful, the fingers at the side of her body that didn't take his hand twitched violently. “If I'm being honest, I think you deserve to have me shove my boot up your frilly waste chute but you see me parading around like I own the place,” she said darkly.

Finally, the indigoblood standing next to Careen registered the conversation. He pointed at Dontoc and said, “Control your moirail! She should realize who she speaks to.”

With a huff, Dontoc pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ignoring how wildly inappropriate you are every time you speak, especially now, why are you here? This does not concern you.” He jerked his head up. “Unless you are attempting to get something from us.”

The brownblood seemed to mutter something under her breath, but Atenic couldn't make it out over the indigoblood sputtering, “I would never do such a thing! I feel only that I give my Heiress what she deserves!”

Careen craned her head up to the indigoblood with a particularly indignant look. “What I deserve is my matesprit and I don’t know why you’re so insistent on anything otherwise.”

Atenic frowned. She deserved so much better than Dontoc. She deserved a troll to be there for anything and everything. Dontoc didn’t have the emotional energy to live with her full time and be there at any minute when she needed him. He lacked the patience. The gentle temperament she showed towards those lower than her needed to be returned to her in full.

She cautiously nudged herself out of the edge and into the center of the four of them. Her focus fell only on the Heiress. She didn’t care about any of the other three of them. “Hey, hey Careen?”

She didn’t have to look at the other two trolls to feel the daggers on her back. Careen though, Careen watched her with curiosity. “Atenic, I’m surprised you made it out,” she said. Her gentle tone soothed Atenic, calmed her anxieties the same way a good cup of hot chocolate does. “What is it you need?”

“I just want to say I agree with whoever the big scary blueblood is. I think you deserve better too!”

Careen sighed, putting her hands on her hips. “That’s great you feel that way, but really Atenic what I deserve is well...you know.” She gestured toward the two trolls behind her. “Someone like Dontoc.”

“A damn shame that what he deserves--”

“I would silence your tongue before I cut it myself,” Careen sneered. “Remember who you speak to, rustblood.”

“Bold words for someone trying to look pretty and nice for the cameras,” the brownblood threw back. “If you want to fight me, actually come over here and do it. Otherwise? Just shut the fuck up.”

“Oh please I have a sense of self respect. Unlike yourself,” Careen scoffed. She flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “Truly, Dontoc should have a troll who actually cares about what he wants.”

“That’s rich considering--”

“Valeba,” Dontoc sighed in defeat, “stop.”

Atenic whipped her head around behind her to Dontoc and the other troll. The lowblood looked upset, but the glint of murder in her eyes faded into a general glare directed toward her moirail. Dontoc took her hand as he leaned over to whisper into her ear. She frowned deeply, but the her expression softened into...something. Or maybe it didn’t so much soften as return to a neutral state. With the resting bitch face, Atenic couldn’t tell. “Right. Yeah. You’ll know where I’ll be,” she said quietly, quietly enough Atenic could barely hear it. She looked up to Careen with a scowl and before she left, growled, “Do understand though, if it weren’t for the restrictions put upon me for tonight and tomorrow, I would have culled you here and now. She sharply turned on the heel of her foot and walked out before anyone could stop her. The sea of trolls nearby them parted like an ocean as she moved.

Careen made a motion toward Dontoc, but he stepped back. “Careen? I suggest you let me go talk to her.”

“But Dontoc, this is your fault! You let that nasty lowblood into your life, and see how it’s turning out? I should just end it--”

“I don’t think she cares,” he snapped. His fins grew, making already large fins take up a good chunk of his face.

“Well maybe I care!”

“And perhaps, the last time you cared that I danced with a troll who holds no interest in women, you got possessive despite cavorting with…” he looked over to the indigoblood with a raised eyebrow “...numerous curiosities. So do what you will tonight, but understand unless you plan on making this drawn out, you are rather limited to tormenting me like last sweep, and such is a bullet the both of us know I will take. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to speak to her and calm her down proper before you must deal with the beloved kismesis of the only other Heiress competing. The same one looking for an excuse to cull you. Who is also here tonight.”

She stepped closer, seemingly unaware Atenic was in front of her as she only focused on her matesprit. “And what about everyone else? About--”

“Then maybe this time, you should have thought about someone other than yourself. Because I have. And this is, quite frankly, possibly the path of absolute least resistance for you, and yet you still threaten me. This will take a whole five minutes, and then I shall remain with you for the rest of tonight and tomorrow.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Do you not understand that?”

Atenic looked frantically between the two of them. Should she...should she do something? She’d heard Careen complain about Dontoc before, but she’d never actually seen them fight. And what did Dontoc mean by threatening? Careen hadn’t threatened him. She hadn’t threatened anyone.

“Uh...Careen, maybe you can spend some time with me!” she blurted out. “Until Dontoc’s back, at least.”

Dontoc’s fins shrunk as he stared at Atenic, flabbergasted. “Um...if you wish, I suppose? Erm, thank you. Assuming it is, ah…” he looked up at Careen. “Is that a suitable compromise?”

She released her crossed arms with a huff. “That can work, yes. And if this doesn’t come back to me, Dontoc, I guess I’ll make sure your little quadrant doesn’t get thrown out.”

He nodded, and as he turned around to walk away, Atenic could have sworn she saw him roll his eyes. “Of course, dear. Always so forgiving,” he remarked dryly. “I will meet you in the VIP room when I’m finished.”

Careen’s face brightened up. Dontoc was right: she was just so forgiving. “Okay darling! See you there! Come on Atenic, we shall dance in private. I know how you dislike crowds.”

Dontoc nodded, but Atenic wasn’t sure he completely heard, otherwise he might be happier about the whole state of affairs. Their fight was over, and Atenic managed to solve it herself! Maybe she could even slide into being an actual quadrant with Careen. Moirail? Or... auspistice. If it was possible to auspistice a matespritship.

But when Careen shooed away the rather confused-looking indigoblood and took Atenic’s hand, she realized she didn’t care. For this one moment, she was the Heiress’ world. It was all she needed.

#12th perigee ball 2018 #fantroll #homestuck #fanfiction #long post #not a starter #my writing #careen #dontoc #valeba #atenic #a tale of 12th perigee

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janeykath318 · 8 years ago

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The Trials Of Being A Bodyguard

#my fics #mckirk #genderswap #royalty au

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privateplates4u · 6 years ago

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2018 Nissan Leaf First Drive Review

“You know what I’d do if I were you guys?” The jet lag from the 11-hour flight to Japan had me talking in a stream of consciousness. “I’d build a NISMO version of the Leaf. Make it all crazylike, you know what I mean?” The young Nissan engineer sitting across from me stared back blankly. I tried a different angle. “The Leaf’s image needs a big shakeup. I mean, Elon Musk has had the press in the palm of his hand with his Insane- and Ludicrous-mode stuff, right? How about you do something like that!” Without a muscle twitch of expression, he replied, “Thank you for your suggestion, Mr. Reynolds. I’ll pass your views along to our team.” Then he gave me a polite, Japanese nod of the head. Well, that went badly. Was it too obvious that I think the Nissan Leaf is a car in need of a pulse? If done right, though, this redesigned 2018 version of the car has the makings of a NISMO EV heart-pounder. About 30 minutes earlier, maybe 50 of us were seated around the Leaf for its styling explainer at the Nissan Technical Center. But the whole time, I’d been staring at its profile, thinking that it reminds me of another car. Light bulb: the Faraday Future 91 I rode in a few months ago. I Googled its profile. The 91 is longer, but yes, there are some very similar ideas here. And what’s important about that statement is this: Whether that Faraday sinks or (miraculously) swims, it’s a seriously cutting-edge design. And here I am, comparing it to the descendant of one of this century’s most notorious oddballs. If Leaf 1 (my name for it) looked like a four-wheel amphibian, this Leaf 2 before us has not only flash-evolved into a svelte automotive shape, but it’s also learned to speak in the visual language of the rest of Nissan’s edgy designs. I must say, I’m not a fan of every word in its vocabulary—particularly Nissan’s Vmotion grilles. But for Leaf duty the rabbit-grin frames an interesting 3-Dish blue finish, which does pull you closer in to study it. And did you know that Leaf 1’s surprised-eyes headlights had an aerodynamic purpose? They did—to twirl air sideways and around the side mirrors. Now the twirling’s done by more elegant ribs on the hood, a trick Nissan’s aerodynamicists later demonstrated in a full-size wind tunnel where we watched smoke from the tip of a handheld wand magically bend sideways off the cowl. EVs are quiet, amplifying your awareness of side-mirror wind hiss; the ribs specifically hush that. There are additional noise defeaters, too, including greater rigidity of the inverter, a noise-blocking top for the integrated charger and DC-to-DC power inverter, and even a quieter motor. I looked back at the profile. There’s a lot going on here. But I’d characterize it as complex rather than busy. Although the Bolt shares many of these same EV-identifying cues, it’s a jigsaw jumble of pieces—some of them are a bit too forced into place. The Nissan’s elements are all aware of each other. Fit together like the neat rectangles in a Piet Mondrian painting. (Ironically, the Model 3 entirely dispenses with all these noisy little EV cues, being finished with starkly pure surfacing. To equate it to another painter, I’d pick my favorite one, Mark Rothko.) While we’re staring at the new Leaf’s profile, let’s use it to do a little automotive detective work. Imagine overlaying the current Leaf’s profile on it. See the match? The front and rear wheels exactly align—a giveaway that Leaf 2’s platform is fundamentally carryover bones not only in wheelbase but also in front track (its rear one is 0.8 inch wider), its essential suspension components, and the positioning of all the basic building blocks needed to assemble a modern EV. Consequently, its interior specs are a close match, too (it’s luggage space is more useful from ironing out small intrusions); externally, it’s 1.4 inches longer, 0.8 inch wider, and 0.4 inch taller. But don’t dis Leaf 2 as just some sort of overblown reskin. Nissan’s techs took the time to sprawl it out on their engineering operating table for a marathon multiple-organ transplant; the motor is all-new, spinning out a chunky 147 hp instead of 107 and 236 lb-ft of torque, up from 187 lb-ft. The electric power steering is more refined. Nissan is anxious to note that although companies are ballyhooing the births of their first EVs, Yokohama was there/did that back in 2010 and now has 270,000 customers, 2.1 billion miles of user experience, and programs such as 6,000 Leaf-to-home installations in Japan, where bidirectional charging/discharging coupled with solar roofs is slashing power bills. This ain’t Nissan’s first rodeo. It’s their second. And the show could be on the brink of going big time—the cost of battery storage has dropped from $300/kW-hr in 2015 to a projected $150 by 2020/23 and below $100 by 2025/26, according to a Morgan-Stanley analysis. (Nissan’s says they’re beating this.) And by the mid-2020s, battery-electric cars will be cheaper than internal combustion ones (in part due to the ramping complexity of internal combustion engines). So. Nissan should have anticipated the Bolt and base Model 3’s 238- and 225-mile ranges, right? Cue the drumroll. How big is the new Leaf’s battery pack (still underfloor and cooled with recirculated air, by the way)? Forty kW-hrs for 150 miles of range (S and SV trims). Eyes narrowed. Chins rubbed. True, that doubles the original Leaf’s 73-mile capability (from 24 kW-hrs) and is a 40 percent jump from its current 107 miles (from 30 kW-hrs). In a world without the Chevrolet Bolt, 150 miles would be a bold type headline. Now it’s a number in a math problem: How much less is it than 238? There’s going to be a lot of data thrown at you arguing that 150 miles more than matches most people’s real-world lifestyles most of the time. Let me ask you: How many gasoline-powered, five-passenger sedans could be sold with a 150-mile range? Maybe anticipating criticism, the Leaf will offer an even-better-chemistry 60-kW-hr pack next year (SL trim), likely extending its leash to about 225 miles (a two-tier strategy akin to the Model 3’s estimated 50 and 75 kW-hrs). Thus, the Bolt’s singular battery size will be bookended by its competitors, with the Nissan’s upgraded pack matching it and the Tesla’s smaller pack offering Bolt-competitive range due to better sedan aerodynamics. (One of the reasons, by the way, why I think Tesla controversially went with a mass-produced sedan first: A crossover’s worse aero would require a bigger, more expensive battery—something that’ll be more affordable by the time the Model Y makes its debut.) If carrying over the Leaf 1’s platform has painted Nissan into a corner, it’s these subsequently locked in battery dimensions that require expensive chemistry to keep it apace with the Bolt and base Model 3. (A plus for us is that it offers an insight into the march of ever-rising energy density; those additional 16 kW-hrs crammed in there mean 67 percent greater energy density in seven years, or 9.5 percent per year.) Another questionable call: clinging to the CHAdeMO standard for fast charging. Maybe it’s stubbornness, maybe Nissan’s got a giant investment in this thing, but CHAdeMO is a dead plug walking in the U.S., and Nissan would do the EV cause a big, fat favor by finally adopting SAE (or everybody going to Tesla’s standard). Time to drive. During their presentations, Nissan repeatedly emphasized twin messages: One, the Leaf is about making driving less stressful, and two, it’s about making driving fun. Not knowing what stress-free, fun driving exactly means, we headed out onto the test track to find out. The new Leaf’s most potent driving relaxers? ProPilot Assist is sort of a Tesla Autopilot light (at a fraction of the price). Relying on just a single forward-facing radar and a monocular video camera, ProPilot Assist provides single-lane, feet-off-the-pedals driving (what’s called adaptive cruise control). Alone, this is nothing unusual. Its dexterity in responding to slinkying traffic (including right down to 0 mph) is, though. Yet what elevates it to the same conversation as AutoPilot is how accurately it also threads down the center of the road. Like with other Level 2 semiautonomous systems, you need to keep your hands on the wheel, but here, there’s no need to give it periodic tugs. The electric power steering’s frequent and small corrections automatically sense their presence. I later tried the system in Detroit, driving for several miles on an expressway with my hands relaxed on the rim. No scoldings to put my hands back ever appeared (which, if persistently ignored, would ultimately result in the car stopping in its lane). Available later this year, ProPilot Assist is ordinary sensors doing an extraordinary job due to great software. Within two years, the system is expected to be even greater (perhaps with added sensors) by expanding to automated lane changing, and by 2020 it should have the skill to negotiate city scenarios, too. Next year it will joined by ProPilot Park, which highly automates parking, including selecting an empty spot not already bordered by a parked car (reading lane stripping). Remember this system as the tipping point when semiautonomous driving finally met the masses. (It’s had a 60 percent take rate in markets where it’s already available on other Nissan models.) The Leaf’s other driving simplification is its one-pedal EV-driving feature—what they call e-Pedal. Tesla has long offered a similar heavy-regen effect when you release the accelerator. But completing a stop requires a brake pedal dab at the bitter end. In its transmission’s Low mode, the Bolt will come to a one-pedal stop without touching the friction brakes, but the deceleration rate isn’t always enough. E-Pedal leapfrogs both with a deceleration rate of 0.2 g’s (covering 90 percent of real-driver stopping, Nissan says) and comes to a complete stop (including automatic friction braking, if necessary). If that stop is on a hill, the Leaf’s motor will just hold it motionless (after pausing, you can lift your feet from both pedals; no need to hold the brake). The new Leaf could quickly become the most popular car in San Francisco. E-Pedal and the availability of ProPilot Assist spotlight the intention to make the Leaf the tech standard-barer for the Nissan Intelligent Mobility Initiative, Yokohama’s campaign to destress driving. The notable destresser, though, is the car’s lowered MSRP of $29,990 ($30,875 including destination)—a $690 drop. Standard with that is a noticeable upgrade in interior materials, and when you option a nav system, Apple CarPlay and Android Auto are included, too. After incentives, this is a heck of a deal. But what about that driving fun factor? I can answer about 65 percent of that question. Without a doubt, its extra power and torque renders the new Leaf satisfyingly quicker and more responsive. Test-track recordings are yet to come, but given the Bolt’s and Model 3’s better power (and power-to-weight ratios) it’ll probably lag in a three-EV drag race. Interior noise is phenomenally hush—a nice complement to its supple yet controlled ride quality (absent of the bounding I’ve sometimes noticed in the Bolt). Indeed, it’s downright limousinelike compared to the Model 3’s German sport sedan tautness. However, the Tesla’s payoff is razorlike steering response, which is tough to compare to the Leaf’s because the suspensions of these Japanese prototypes were not yet tuned for Nissan’s intentions for the American market. Intentions? Sportier ones. Which circles me back to that styling walkaround earlier in the day. As it concluded, the chief designer had an impish look on his face. The one you have when there’s something you want to semaphore with minimal words. As he neared his seat, it finally came out: “Oh,” he paused, “and eventually, um, the letter N will be associated with the Leaf, too.” He had said too much, so out it came. “Not now, but eventually … there will be a NISMO version.” OMG! A NISMO Leaf. The last time I predicted something this correctly was in 1987 when I knew I’d regret selling my Austin-Healey Bugeye Sprite. But here’s the deal, Nissan: Don’t screw it up. It’s your chance to permanently flip the Leaf’s librarian identity right on its peroxided head. With wings and flairs, there’s room between the rear wheels for a second motor, too. (I looked.) Ludicrous Leaf sounds like a villain in a Batman movie. Holy anticipation. Chevrolet Bolt EV Nissan Leaf Tesla Model 3 BASE PRICE $38,370* $30,875* $36,200* VEHICLE LAYOUT Front-motor, FWD, 4-door hatchback Front-motor, FWD, 5-pass, 4-door hatchback Rear-motor, RWD, 4-door, sedan MOTOR permanent magnet, 200-hp/266-ft-lb rear (MT est) AC induction, 147-hp/236-ft-lb permanent magnet, 258-hp/317-ft-lb (MT est) TRANSMISSION 1-sp Auto 1-sp Auto 1-sp Auto BATTERY 60 kWhr, Li-ion 40 kWhr, Li-ion 50/75 kWhr, Li-ion (MT est) CURB WEIGHT (F/R DIST) 3580 lb 3433-3508 lb (mfr) 3,550-3,800 lb (mfr) WHEELBASE 102.4 in 106.3 in 113.2 in LENGTH x WIDTH x HEIGHT 164.0 x 69.5 x 62.8 in 176.4 x 70.5 x 61.4 in 184.8 x 72.8 x 56.8 in TRACK, F/R 59.0/59.1 in 60.6/61.2 in 62.2/62.2 in CARGO ROOM, BEHIND 2ND ROW 16.9 cu ft 23.6 cu ft 15.0 cu ft DRAG COEFFICIENT 0.31 0.28 0.23 0-60 MPH 6.3 sec 8.0 sec (MT est) 5.6 sec (mfr est) LEVEL 2 CHARGE TIME 9 hrs 16 hrs, 3.6 kW/8 hrs, 6.6 kW na FAST CHARGE TYPE SAE COMBO, 50-kW CHAdeMO, 50-kW Tesla, 145-kW RANGE 238 miles 150 miles 220/310 miles *Before potential federal and state incentives The post 2018 Nissan Leaf First Drive Review appeared first on Motor Trend.

http://www.motortrend.com/cars/nissan/leaf/2018/2018-nissan-leaf-first-drive-review/

#First Drives

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acornrising · 8 years ago

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Going Back

hey man it’s only been three years I guess now’s as good a time as any to sort out what the fuck Irda’s deal is right?

It was surprising still to Iman that any of the Underclan refugees would choose to live underground again. It wasn’t just that she’d heard the stories second-hand. She’d re-lived a few, holding the hands of shaking survivors as the memory of caving walls and falling earth clawed through them. She understood why they wanted them removed. They did not understand why she refused them this service.

Most members of the Underclan now lived in lean-tos and tents, propped up homes that stayed well above ground, whose collapse would mean little more than an inconvenience or a few smart bruises. But some, as if born under the wrong gods or simply unphased by the tragedy they had survived, returned to the ground. “A tundra must dig.” Galagar had told her. “It is as much in our blood as our traditions.” But she had seen him hesitate at the mouth of his home. She had seen him flinch at the sound of rocks rolling together.

Borrowed memories gave her borrowed paranoias- Iman kept looking up at the ceiling, at the skylight, just large enough to put her hand through, and tried to remember that it wasn’t going to fall in on her. The sun cast a dim light through the burrow, a low, wide round room shored up with red clay and stone (There were not many trees in the deserts of Dragonhome, and the few they’d grown were still yet saplings.). It was a simple home, with few decorations beyond some piled furs and fabrics, on which Irda reclined, and Iman sat respectfully.

“I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.” Iman said carefully. “And I don’t wish to sound… discriminatory, but your… heritage, makes this-”

“Please speak plainly. If you feel this is beyond your ability, then say so.” Iman’s own ‘heritage’ had taught her a polite, but tedious means of mincing words, a habit her (No longer quite ‘brief’) time in the Underclan had not yet broken her of. Not that politeness was discouraged, but in cases like this, Irda had always found it unnecessary. She was a leader, but not a very good one. Such formalities were a waste of time.

“No! No, it’s not beyond my abilities, I don’t think-” and here, Irda quirked an eyebrow, and Iman flinched. “It is not beyond my abilities to dig that deeply- It’s just that it can be beyond the tundra mind to store memories that long. I can go as far back as you like, but there might not be anything to find.”

“Then I’ve nothing to lose for looking.” She lay her head in Iman’s lap. “Whenever you are ready.”

Iman did not need long to prepare. She placed one hand to the side of Irda’s temple, and one to her forehead, and breathed deeply. “Focus on now. Think of now.”

This was how she got her grounding. It was not long before she could feel the echo, the peculiar feedback loop of remembering what was still happening, the dissonance of time felt in two places at once. From here, she could begin to wind it back, like a spool of thread. Grip the thought, grip the memory, grip the now, and pull until the past came tumbling in.

It was always slow, at first. But like all things, the past had momentum, hurtling desperately into the distance. Slowly, they pulled past that morning, past the night before, past the previous day, past the day before that, and the day before that, and slowly, it began to pick up speed. There was the digging of the burrow, the planting of seeds, the embarrassingly intimate process of laying eggs, arriving in Dragonhome, the flight across the canal.

It made more sense, Irda’s willingness to return underground, when you realized that she had never been part of the cave-in. They snapped past the conflict, past the battle, past the screeching shamble of bone and skin and magic so raw and potent you could smell it burning through the air. The taste of cold blood and the tearing of raw flesh, now flicking by so quickly Iman could barely register them. And soon, somewhere between a hatching nest and a bountiful harvest, the memories all began to blur. Then they began to slow again, like a thread tangling itself. Iman found herself groping in Irda’s mind, reaching blindly for memories that may have long since ceased to be. Invariably, she found the thread. This happened many times.

Irda grew younger. The clan grew smaller. The stuttering stops and starts became more frequent, the gaps in time between where one memory started and the next one stopped grew wider, jagged pieces of a puzzle dragged from the abyss and crookedly fitted together. It was imperfect- it was always imperfect with Tundra.

It was with a shock that Irda’s depth perception returned- the actual memory of losing her eye came and went and suddenly, the world was twice as wide. The clan was little more than a huddled mass of dragons, barely held together by the knowledge that those alone in the wilderness of the Labyrinth rarely survived it. Galagar, young and broad enough to be a warrior, but without the heart for battle. The twins, Frinzy and Rok, before the former found her lust for combat and the latter gone devoutly feral. Hesti, and Arpa, untrained, unscathed. And, while neither of them saw him, there was, for a time, the near constant sensation of someone small and afraid in the crook of her wing that could only be Slinky.There were others, of course, though Iman recognized none of them- eventually, they too faded into the future, wiped away by the far reaches of the past.

There was no Galagar. There was no clan. Every day pulled from the depths was a tug-of-war between time and her own stubborn insistence, slowing the whole process to a crawl. Irda was young, but not yet, or long since, a child. There were years yet to unravel. Iman paused, for only a moment, to collect herself, then wrenched at the memories, pulling them back with sheer might of will. There was no clan. There was no Galagar. There were dragons, of course, they came, and they went, and they saw her with suspicion. The word ‘runt’ was whispered suspiciously. There was talk of blood-scent among other tundra, of her uncanny lack of history.

And then, as if toppling over a cliff, it all went black, and it all went green, and Iman began to pulse. There was nothing but the pulse, and a dull hum, and the never-ending blood rush of adrenaline. It was almost like fear, but more like mania. The giddiness of flight, the pressure of canned energy, she could feel herself laughing, screaming, an echo in her own body, the desire to run, the desire to fight, boundless energy in spades and buckets and avalanches.

Exactly when she ended up on the floor was hard to say. But at some point the ceiling whirled back into view, and she could hear voices.

“- really anything I can do about it, it’s all mental, from what I can tell. Physically, she’s just fine. Keep her feet elevated, and let me know if she doesn’t wake up within the next eight hours or so.”

Slowly, still dizzy, Iman pushed herself to a sitting position. Slinky and Irda turned to look at her, surprised. But, nearly immediately, Slinky turned back and said “There, see? Fine as a fiddle.”

“My head hurts.” Iman said dully.

“Fine as a slightly untuned fiddle.” She couldn’t tell where he conjured it from, but the good doctor handed her a flask. “Drink this. How does it hurt?”

The water was crisp, but did nothing to ease her mounting headache. “It just… hurts.” It felt like something had attempted to stretch her skull from the inside out, and now her head felt oddly light, and empty. It was hard to think.

“Lie back down dear.” Irda gently pushed her over, and Iman couldn’t find it in herself to argue. “You can stay here until you feel better.”

“Thank you…” her own voice sounded distant. “Do you know… what that was?”

Slinky cocked his head, and looked quizzically at Irda, who only shrugged. “I couldn’t say. I wouldn’t even know who to ask.”

#Tales from the Underclan #storypost

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hunnybadgerv · 8 years ago

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Guidelines for Evil Empresses

(From The Evil Empress Guide)

Beauty is fleeting, power is vulnerable. I will not risk the latter for the former.

I will use my magic mirror for spying on my enemies rather than for vain attempts at preserving my position as fairest in the land.

I will not fret over the comparative beauty of the Hero's True Love or any Beautiful Yet Innocent kinfolk. They may be attractive enough for peasant wenches/quivering maidens; but I am The Evil Empress, and there is no comparison.

I will not bed the Hunky Hero before my plan is executed, unless having him believe I am carrying his child gives me a decisive advantage.

While seduction has its place in my vast arsenal, I realize that "evil" and "skanky" are not mutually inclusive. Royal Dressmakers unable to realize this fact will be flayed alive in the presence of their replacements.

I will wear flats, or better yet, running shoes when executing crucial plans.

My slinky sorceress' robe will have a chain mail foundation garment, at minimum.

I will not be put off by the Hero's rebuffs of my sensual advances. If he doesn't succumb to me, I will not fly into a jealous rage. Instead, I'll shrug my shoulders, send him on his way, and have him picked off as he exits the fortress.

Where winks, suggestive remarks, and body language won't get me what I want, a well aimed semi-automatic will.

Sex is certainly a weapon at my disposal, but then so is a blaster. If it is not clear which weapon I should be using, I will opt for the blaster.

I, and my elite guards, will never assume that we have managed to confiscate all weapons or escape aids from the captured Hero. "Interrogations" in my private chambers will only be conducted if the Hero is completely nude. This will, in fact, satisfy a number of objectives at once.

I will promote chivalry and urge my minions to exhibit proper behavior at all times when it is not counterproductive to my schemes. This increases the chance of running up against only chivalric Heroes, as well as increasing the surprise factor when I ditch the pretenses and get really vicious.

I will not seize power for my beloved son or husband or other close individual, especially since they may not, in the end, be grateful that I was so ruthless and treacherous on their behalf. I will seize power for myself and grant my loved ones small fiefdoms they can call their own, if they want.

If the Hero is an old lover of mine (and they almost invariably are), I will remember just why he is a former lover, and keep it in mind as I destroy him.

If I know the Hero is an old lover of mine and he is not aware of this fact, I will keep it to myself. I will be more able to exploit his weaknesses and my other intimate knowledge about him if I do not allow my identity to be revealed.

If the Hero says he is willing to betray his cause and accept my offer of ruling the world at my side, he will only be believed once that betrayal results in his cause's total destruction, at which point his demonstration of total lack of principle should lead to his immediate execution.

I will not punish or kill lovers who fail to satisfy me. Such a policy would cause performance anxiety in future lovers, defeating the purpose. I will instead reward exceptional effort, and lavishly reward exceptional proficiency.

My poison-fanged or -clawed beast minions will not be spiders, snakes and ravens, but kittens, goldfish, and canaries.

I will wear breakaway clothing whenever risking capture. It will facilitate escape if I am grabbed, and it will distract the captor (but not me) for those crucial seconds it will take me to either escape or steal his own weapon.

I will wear form-fitting clothes rather than flowing gowns: they're just as, if not more, flattering and are less likely to snag on something or catch fire at the moment of triumph or escape.

If I require my Hag or Crone to poison someone, I will require the poison be quick and deadly rather than a mere sleep aid.

My Amazon Hordes will either be dyed-in-the-wool lesbians or have a nice pool of suitable comely men of their liking at home.

My Amazon Hordes will wear full body armor, rather than three small triangles of chain mail, which are reserved for dress occasions.

The infantry of my Amazon Hordes will use advanced tactics such as the Phalanx and will employ sophisticated weapons such as the 10' pike when closing with the enemy, but only after the longbow-women have emptied their quivers from 200 yards away.

I will re-evaluate any job that requires manipulating a man in my thrall. Chances are one of my Amazons could do the job with less risk.

Male Sidekicks are almost always corruptible with a wink and a nod or charmable by a simple spell or potion, at least until the crucial encounter with the Hero, at which time they should be safely entombed somewhere far from the action.

The effort of turning female or gay sidekicks generally makes killing them the least bothersome tactic.

If I married into the title of Evil Empress, I will let my Overlord take the flak for the Empire's evil actions and ingratiate myself to the people with my kindness.

If I married into the title of Evil Empress under duress then my very first order of business must be the disposal of the Evil Overlord, since he must already know he can't possibly trust me as far as he can throw me.

If I married into the title of Evil Empress under duress then using the Hero to free me of the Overlord does not obligate me to abdicate my throne.

If I am competing with other Overlords, Empresses and High Priests for ultimate domination, I will assume they have access to this and other lists and the brains to listen to them.

I will not try to turn a son (even mine) against his father, no matter how estranged to two are. Blood relatives can be annoyingly sentimental.

I will neither repress my Beautiful but Wicked Daughter nor smother my Handsome but Evil Son. It's hard enough raising a ruling family these days without extra dysfunctional baggage. No one wants disgruntled offspring suddenly "seeing the light" and turning Good simply because mother dearest gave them an unhappy childhood.

Unless immortality comes with Absolute Power, I'd better be grooming my Evil Offspring to take the reigns someday. It's better to carefully feed their growing lust for power by gradually increasing Imperial responsibilities than having them plot my untimely demise.

If I am unfortunate enough to have a Beautiful but Innocent Daughter, as opposed to a Beautiful but Wicked Daughter, I will unconditionally love and nurture her nonetheless, and be as supportive as possible of any budding romantic relationship with potential young Heroes. This will a) delay Heroic action while I study his strengths and weaknesses, b) cause emotional conflicts within the Hero that will encourage fatal hesitations or mistakes, c) provide another chance for my daughter to see things my way before I'm forced to eliminate her.

I will not mistreat, abuse, or plot elaborately to kill my Beautiful Yet Innocent Stepdaughter (she's destined for something, count on it). Instead I will treat her with all the kindness and love possible while slowly reshaping her in my image.

However insatiable my appetites are, it is virtually guaranteed that at least one of my millions of subjects is both far more gifted at satisfying them and far more loyal to me than the Hero who seeks my destruction, no matter his reputation with the ladies.

My personal servants will be professional bodyguards and assassins, but will dress and behave as eunuchs and maidservants. Even if I dismiss my regular guards for a "private audience" with the Hero, these personal servants (just so much furniture after all, right?) will remain in my chambers.

Any one bodyguard who cannot maintain concentration and discipline in my boudoir will be eliminated immediately by the others.

I will learn the various arts of self defense and not rely solely on muscular minions to protect me.

The appearance of weakness can be as useful as the appearance of strength. I will exploit the double standard for all its worth.

If I must enlist the powers of the nether-worlds I will first bone up on contract law. My own soul, mind, and/or (especially) body will never be negotiable.

If I get the bright idea to seduce a powerful yet malevolent being into becoming an ally, the actual seduction can be handled by my body double. Exotic anatomies are not to become a factor.

My Radiant Amulet of Power will not be worn around my neck on a thin gold chain, or on a ring that is two sizes too big for my finger. If a line of sight is required, then a good strong locking watchband will do. If the amulet need not be exposed, being Empress I have a variety of far more secure hiding places at my immediate disposal - and to hell with the glow.

Men already enthralled by my Feminine Wiles will just as easily take my orders when radioed from my fortress as in person on the front lines.

I will keep my hair short and my fingernails trimmed. Short hair provides no convienent handle for the Hero, Sidekick or Backstabbing Evil Ally. Trimmed fingernails enable me to press The Button myself, rather than rely on minions with blunt nails or try to find a stick.

I will locate any phobias or nervous habits I may posses and take therapy until I can overcome them; that way, I can't be chased from the scene of my Ultimate Triumph because someone dropped a snake from the air vent.

If the seeds of discontent look ready to bloom into open rebellion, I will hire a top PR firm to create the public image that I am 1) only a figurehead and that all power really resides in the Prime Minister; 2) misunderstood; or 3) only a woman who's getting bad advice from her Council. Choices 1) and 3) give me the option to keep my head if my side is defeated by the Hero -- and leave the possibility of a sequel.

The internet is my friend. I can inspire loyalty with www.EvilEmpress'.budoir.live.com (be it with a body double or not as the mood strikes me) and obedience with www.EvilEmpres'.pit-of-dispair.live.com.

If there is any conceivable thing the sight of which can melt me into mawkish sentimentality, I will wear sunglasses designed to make it look like a Chia Pet.

If the Hero has an evil twin, the twin will probably make a far more suitable Love-Happy Stooge. Keeping this in mind, I will beware advisers who might have a Non-Evil twin.

Magic Girls, no matter how frilly their dresses, high their screams, or incompetent their sidekicks, will be treated as the credible and dire threats they are, and I will direct as many, if not more resources to their destruction as I would for a more classical Hero.

If I take an Orphan as my own to corrupt I will be sure that no genetic relative exists to turn him or her against me.

Investigate the lineage of all prospective allies. Allies lacking any trace of grandparents, or whose genetic roots intersect with yours, or whose genetic roots intersect any known or suspected dieties should be kept at arm's length (but within blaster range).

Allies need never see my command center or budoir. Almost any business can be taken care of in a rented conference room.

I will not expose myself needlessly to potential personal security risks, such as by shopping, or allowing my Beautiful but Innocent Daughter to shop at the local Star Galleria Mall.¬Ý As Empress of all I Survey, the merchants will come to me with their wares - after being throughly vetted by my Chief of Palace Security (to prevent assassination attempts), and then by my household steward (to avoid fashion disasters and poor quality goods) before being brought to my attention for purchase.

I will not transform the rival/good sorceress and exile her to the back of beyond. If she can't keep me from transforming her, she can't keep me from killing her.

No lingering curses or sleeping-forever potions for my rivals; Instant Death is the least I can do.

If I can turn the Good Prince into a frog, I must also be able to turn him into a centipede. The latter form is far better as any princess in her right mind is unlikely to kiss a centipede. Also, centipedes are more easily squashed under my bootheel.

#Evil Empress Guide #Villains #Evil Characters #Characterization #Writer's Bulletin Board #Long Post

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internetdetectives · 5 years ago

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11/20/19 - Chat with BUP and The Producer

Slinky Stinks△ 5:54 AM: "https://youtu.be/2RtI5UEZlzU”

Xenquility 7:04 AM: "Hey the lunarchildren forums are now password protected too”

Slinky Stinks△ 7:13 AM: "Holy fuck”

BUP 10:28 AM: "wow”

Slinky Stinks△ 10:28 AM: "BUP”

Slinky Stinks△ 10:28 AM: "ITS SPOOKY MONTH”

Wolfcat 10:43 AM: "bupboy”

Wolfcat 10:43 AM: "or girl”

Wolfcat 10:43 AM: "the bupess”

BUP 11:31 AM: "@The Producer”

BUP 11:31 AM: "dont you think you're being a bit too open”

ADULT_LINK△ 11:32 AM: "bupperoo”

ADULT_LINK△ 11:32 AM: "ooh can i get that green role jos has?”

ADULT_LINK△ 11:32 AM: "looks nice”

The Producer 11:36 AM: "hey, i havent really revealed anything”

The Producer 11:36 AM: "i figured why not throw them a spook bone”

ARGdov 11:36 AM: "ahahaha I just watched that Toad video”

ARGdov 11:36 AM: "such a beautfiul singing voice”

ADULT_LINK△ 11:36 AM: ":thumb: danke”

BUP 11:36 AM: "mmmok”

ARGdov 11:36 AM: "my ears were bleeding yet I mad am assive grin on my face”

ARGdov 11:36 AM: "and yeah”

ARGdov 11:36 AM: "hes been as cryptic as Im sure company policy demands”

The Producer 11:37 AM: "even if I had revealed something its likely they wouldnt have been able to pick up on it anyways”

The Producer 11:37 AM: "(no offense)”

The Producer 11:37 AM: "oh right i did reveal company policy”

The Producer 11:37 AM: "they think we're a floating office in the parallelos now”

ARGdov 11:38 AM: "I mean, probably not for a few months until we sit down and go over our notes for the first time”

The Producer 11:38 AM: "(sorry guys its not that exciting)”

ARGdov 11:38 AM: "I mean, we were meming about that”

ARGdov 11:38 AM: "I doubt you'd have something like that, this isnt a damn Iris Wildthyme novel”

ARGdov 11:38 AM: "unfortunately”

The Producer 11:38 AM: "that the fuck have you just said to me”

The Producer 11:38 AM: "also fuck i told them about the D”

ARGdov 11:39 AM: "yup”

ARGdov 11:39 AM: "you produce the d, somehow”

ARGdov 11:39 AM: "despite what I said yesterday”

ARGdov 11:39 AM: ""one does not produce the d”

ARGdov 11:39 AM: "one gives the d”

ARGdov 11:39 AM: "or recieves the d”

ARGdov 11:39 AM: "or, if they are fun”

ARGdov 11:39 AM: "does both"”

ARGdov 11:39 AM: "also Iris Wildthyme is awesome, and thats the only thing you need to know about her”

ARGdov 11:39 AM: "oh also that she looks like this”

The Producer 11:41 AM: "is that a doctress who”

ARGdov 11:41 AM: "shes a spin off character in the doctor who expanded universe”

The Producer 11:41 AM: ""doctor who expanded universe"”

ARGdov 11:42 AM: "like the spin off books and audio dramas”

ADULT_LINK△ 11:42 AM: "dweu”

ARGdov 11:42 AM: "shes a mysterious figure who travels through space, time, and the various dimensions in a double decker bus thats exactly the right size on the inside that its meant to be, fucking around, drinking too much, and having a good time”

ARGdov 11:42 AM: "also her main companion is a living stuffed panda whos also an art critic””

ARGdov 11:42 AM: "basically shes awesome”

The Producer 11:43 AM: ":mugen:”

ARGdov 11:43 AM: "and her adventures are whacky and would totally include an office block floating in space”

ARGdov 11:43 AM: "was this just an excuse to ramble about some doctor who related thing? duh”

The Producer 11:44 AM: "truthfully I cannot judge given my own interests”

ARGdov 11:44 AM: "Ooog”

ARGdov 11:44 AM: "what are yours?”

The Producer 11:44 AM: "spook shows on spook television”

The Producer 11:44 AM: "you've probably never heard of them”

ARGdov 11:44 AM: "probably not”

ARGdov 11:44 AM: "but they sound neato Im sure”

ARGdov 11:44 AM: "trans dimensional tv”

ARGdov 11:44 AM: "anyways, Im a massive Whovian”

ARGdov 11:44 AM: "come to me with all your doctor who questions”

The Producer 11:46 AM: "I got a who question”

ARGdov 11:49 AM: "yes?”

ARGdov 11:49 AM: "pulls out massive scarf and gets out the tardis wiki”

The Producer 11:50 AM: "Who cares”

The Producer 11:50 AM: "gottem”

ARGdov 11:51 AM: "https://tenor.com/view/rbd-anahi-glaring-mad-angry-gif-15178189”

ARGdov 11:51 AM: "what you just say to me”

The Producer 11:51 AM: "im sorry that was mean”

ARGdov 11:51 AM: "Im messing its good lol. I know you were kidding”

ARGdov 11:51 AM: "unless you werent...?”

The Producer 11:52 AM: "unless...?”

ADULT_LINK△ 11:52 AM: "lmao”

The Producer 11:52 AM: "ok i gotta go before bup rides my ass again”

The Producer 11:52 AM: "i mean like in a "get to work" kinda way”

ARGdov 11:52 AM: "unless you werent”

ARGdov 11:52 AM: "in which case ITS ABOUT TO GO DOWN”

ARGdov 11:52 AM: "anyways, enjoy your work”

BUP 12:13 PM: "pfft i havent said shit”

BUP 12:13 PM: "he is makin excuses”

Wolfcat 12:20 PM: "damn”

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sinceileftyoublog · 6 years ago

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Live Picks: 7/31

Nilüfer Yanya; Photo by Molly Daniel

BY JORDAN MAINZER

A band that’s been around for almost three decades and a new artist that just might.

Spoon, Huntington Bank Pavilion

When review aggregator Metacritic came out with their top music of the 2000′s piece, the best-reviewed band was, to the surprise of many, Austin indie rockers Spoon. Unlike, say, Radiohead, Spoon didn’t have any singular masterpiece (though Kill the Moonlight comes close). Rather, they were remarkably consistent, releasing four terrific albums that decade. Almost ten years and three albums later, and Spoon is taking a look back at their past two decades with Everything Hits At Once: The Best of Spoon, a greatest hits compilation. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: Spoon doesn’t have any “hits” in the traditional sense. But they do have songs popular enough for presidential candidates to use to pander to millennials. More importantly, they have great songs and a diverse catalog, so in that sense, they’re ideal for a “starting point” retrospective that could win them new fans.

Likewise, in assembling the track list, lead singer Britt Daniel opted for songs that illustrate the band’s change and growth over the years. The title track and Moonlight’s “The Way We Get By” showed their rock minimalism. Though the first dancey song they did was probably Moonlight’s “Stay Don’t Go”, the band opts for Gimme Fiction’s way more known “I Turn My Camera On” to lead off the entire compilation. The next track, They Want My Soul’s “Do You”, is an interesting second choice--if you knew nothing about the band and heard the first two on the compilation, you’d think Spoon were a mostly upbeat pop band. Yet, we forget how catchy all of Spoon’s songs are, and “Do You” is one of their best, the song that let you know they were truly back to Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga heights after the comparatively middling Transference. Soul’s “Inside Out” is an aesthetic outlier, its twinkling synth harp contrasting with the direct gravel of Daniel’s strained scream, one of the band’s most beautiful compositions. And of course, Ga Ga represented the point at which Spoon collided the worlds of schlubby hipster stylings with a chic sound, and it’s represented by the slinky, unassuming “Don’t You Evah”, horn-laden “The Underdog”, and Motown jam “You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb”, the last of which I’ll always point to if anybody ever again calls the band “stiff.”

Naturally, with the curation, there are some bones to pick, mostly with representation. Of the three okay to very good albums released this decade, two have one representative, which is fine. But their first two great albums also have one-song representation, which is a bit maddening. Spoon has never made a bad album or arguably a bad song, but they have too many great ones to include newer highlights over beloved older classics. As such, I’d substitute “Black Like Me”, “Jonathan Fisk”, “The Fitted Shirt”, or “My Mathematical Mind” for the meaty but unnecessary “Rent I Pay” or acoustic lightweight “I Summon You”. (Though the latter is one of Daniel’s favorite Spoon songs.) Otherwise, what else from Transference would you have included besides the dark and chugging “Got Nuffin”? And the Hot Thoughts title track is probably the best representation of what that album sounds like even if “Can I Sit Next To You” or “Do I Have To Talk You Into It” are better songs.

Spoon embrace the tradition of closing a greatest hits compilation with a new song, “No Bullets Spent”. Appropriately, it’s not an entirely new direction, since you’ve come to expect a little studio experimentation even if not exactly what you’ve heard from them before. But it does combine the pop vocal effects of their post-Soul sound with the new wave minimalism of their first couple releases. “What we need is an accident / No one to blame, and no bullets spent,” Daniel repeats, trying to figure out the best way to overthrow an oppressive master. Once an underdog, always an underdog, I guess.

Album score: 7.5/10

The inimitable Beck & Kentucky rock band Cage the Elephant co-headline. Psych pop band Wild Belle also opens.

Nilüfer Yanya, Sleeping Village

When I first saw the credits for Miss Universe, the long-awaited debut album from British singer-songwriter, guitarist, and composer Nilüfer Yanya, I thought it would be a case of too many cooks: There are nine different producers on the record (though no more than two on each song). Fortunately, the vision is singularly Yanya’s. Her malleable sense of composition and performance allows her to take even songs she wrote when she was 14 or 15 and make them totally new.

Miss Universe is, first and foremost, an impressive debut because it follows a high-level narrative that would be shaky in lesser hands. Centering around feelings of anxiety, isolation, and our constant desire for perhaps unattainable self-improvement, the record starts with “WWAY HEALTH™”, one of a few spoken tracks whose voice adopts the style of a company’s automated messaging machine. (In the world of the album, the full name of the company is “We Worry About Your Health”.) We know well that our options for what’s going on in our lives cannot be boiled down to cut-and-dry call center options a robot can solve, and so the world presented here to us, led by the album’s titular character, is disquieting. Fortunately, in contrast, Yanya lives in the imperfections. Her voice sways between creaky falsetto and deep deadpan in the charging, synth-washed “In Your Head”; during the verses, it’s layered with slight delay. She employs a similar style on standout “Baby Blu”, which combines elements of quiet storm with a steady drum beat. “Don’t tell me the truth / Tell me it’s alright,” Yanya begs of someone, perhaps a customer of the fictional company from the first track, but portraying her position of doubt as desirable because she’s actually feeling something. Similarly, the looseness of the music--the saxophone-soaked finger snaps of “Paradise”, grungy rhythm guitar and arpeggio electric of “Paralysed”, rushes of sparkling synthesizer on “Safety Net”--gives off an aura of rawness.

Miss Universe is filled with anthems for the flawed. “What a mess I’ll be,” Yanya repeats on the propulsive “Heat Rises”. “I hope you melt on the way back to your place,” she seethes at someone on “Melt”. “They all say I’m not okay / Such a shame, never felt so good,” she quips on “Monsters Under the Bed” before a climactic moment, repeatedly singing, “The feeling’s...good!”, increasing in volume with the thump of a drum beat that could just as well be her hitting her guitar. (You envision her experiencing exactly what she’s singing about.) And the wonderful “Angels” references an ambiguous experience so great it’s causing angels to nose-dive from the sky in jealousy of the earth dwellers, the most provocative image on the album.

While the glitchiness of the penultimate “automated response” track, “Give Up Function”, is perhaps meant to exude nervousness, its presented choices of “please give up or try again” are, really, the only choices any of us have. This makes album closer “Heavyweight Champion of the Year” so moving. The track’s about Yanya struggling to realize when she’s reached limits within herself, basically when to make the choice laid out in the previous track. What she does know is that the idea behind the title character, which reads like the crown of a fucked-up beauty pageant, is a non-existent entity, and the album’s thankfully filled with sly paeans to such a non-existence.

Album score: 8.3/10

Miss Universe by Nilufer Yanya

Pixx (singer-songwriter Hannah Rodgers) opens. Yanya also does a free in-store performance and singing at Shuga Records at 7:30 P.M.

Judah Friedlander, Hideout

For the majority of Judah Friedlander’s 2017 Netflix stand-up special America is the Greatest Country in the United States, he pretends he’s running for President and engages the audience on hot-button issues with the pretense of patriotism so absurd it constantly contradicts itself. The result is a set of clever, deadpan jokes, often one-liners and quick-thinking crowd-work, that brilliantly dissect the current political climate by, well, appearing a bit too close to it. It appears that two years later, Friedlander’s found a format that works on a night-by-night basis, allowing him to establish a base of responses to predictable audience answers while riffing on individual idiosyncrasies. His current tour, the Future President 2019 tour, purportedly has “new material.” Of course it does: The news gets more and more Kafkaesque every single day. Somebody’s gotta make us both get off our asses and laugh.

Political comedian Arish Singh opens.

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robertkstone · 7 years ago

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2018 Nissan Leaf First Drive Review

Well, that went badly. Was it too obvious that I think the Nissan Leaf is a car in need of a pulse?

If done right, though, this redesigned 2018 version of the car has the makings of a NISMO EV heart-pounder. About 30 minutes earlier, maybe 50 of us were seated around the Leaf for its styling explainer at the Nissan Technical Center. But the whole time, I’d been staring at its profile, thinking that it reminds me of another car. Light bulb: the Faraday Future 91 I rode in a few months ago. I Googled its profile. The 91 is longer, but yes, there are some very similar ideas here.

And what’s important about that statement is this: Whether that Faraday sinks or (miraculously) swims, it’s a seriously cutting-edge design. And here I am, comparing it to the descendant of one of this century’s most notorious oddballs.

If Leaf 1 (my name for it) looked like a four-wheel amphibian, this Leaf 2 before us has not only flash-evolved into a svelte automotive shape, but it’s also learned to speak in the visual language of the rest of Nissan’s edgy designs. I must say, I’m not a fan of every word in its vocabulary—particularly Nissan’s Vmotion grilles. But for Leaf duty the rabbit-grin frames an interesting 3-Dish blue finish, which does pull you closer in to study it. And did you know that Leaf 1’s surprised-eyes headlights had an aerodynamic purpose? They did—to twirl air sideways and around the side mirrors. Now the twirling’s done by more elegant ribs on the hood, a trick Nissan’s aerodynamicists later demonstrated in a full-size wind tunnel where we watched smoke from the tip of a handheld wand magically bend sideways off the cowl. EVs are quiet, amplifying your awareness of side-mirror wind hiss; the ribs specifically hush that. There are additional noise defeaters, too, including greater rigidity of the inverter, a noise-blocking top for the integrated charger and DC-to-DC power inverter, and even a quieter motor.

I looked back at the profile. There’s a lot going on here. But I’d characterize it as complex rather than busy. Although the Bolt shares many of these same EV-identifying cues, it’s a jigsaw jumble of pieces—some of them are a bit too forced into place. The Nissan’s elements are all aware of each other. Fit together like the neat rectangles in a Piet Mondrian painting. (Ironically, the Model 3 entirely dispenses with all these noisy little EV cues, being finished with starkly pure surfacing. To equate it to another painter, I’d pick my favorite one, Mark Rothko.)

While we’re staring at the new Leaf’s profile, let’s use it to do a little automotive detective work. Imagine overlaying the current Leaf’s profile on it. See the match? The front and rear wheels exactly align—a giveaway that Leaf 2’s platform is fundamentally carryover bones not only in wheelbase but also in front track (its rear one is 0.8 inch wider), its essential suspension components, and the positioning of all the basic building blocks needed to assemble a modern EV. Consequently, its interior specs are a close match, too (it’s luggage space is more useful from ironing out small intrusions); externally, it’s 1.4 inches longer, 0.8 inch wider, and 0.4 inch taller.

But don’t dis Leaf 2 as just some sort of overblown reskin. Nissan’s techs took the time to sprawl it out on their engineering operating table for a marathon multiple-organ transplant; the motor is all-new, spinning out a chunky 147 hp instead of 107 and 236 lb-ft of torque, up from 187 lb-ft. The electric power steering is more refined. Nissan is anxious to note that although companies are ballyhooing the births of their first EVs, Yokohama was there/did that back in 2010 and now has 270,000 customers, 2.1 billion miles of user experience, and programs such as 6,000 Leaf-to-home installations in Japan, where bidirectional charging/discharging coupled with solar roofs is slashing power bills. This ain’t Nissan’s first rodeo. It’s their second. And the show could be on the brink of going big time—the cost of battery storage has dropped from $300/kW-hr in 2015 to a projected $150 by 2020/23 and below $100 by 2025/26, according to a Morgan-Stanley analysis. (Nissan’s says they’re beating this.) And by the mid-2020s, battery-electric cars will be cheaper than internal combustion ones (in part due to the ramping complexity of internal combustion engines).

So.

Nissan should have anticipated the Bolt and base Model 3’s 238- and 225-mile ranges, right? Cue the drumroll. How big is the new Leaf’s battery pack (still underfloor and cooled with recirculated air, by the way)?

Forty kW-hrs for 150 miles of range (S and SV trims). Eyes narrowed. Chins rubbed. True, that doubles the original Leaf’s 73-mile capability (from 24 kW-hrs) and is a 40 percent jump from its current 107 miles (from 30 kW-hrs).

In a world without the Chevrolet Bolt, 150 miles would be a bold type headline. Now it’s a number in a math problem: How much less is it than 238? There’s going to be a lot of data thrown at you arguing that 150 miles more than matches most people’s real-world lifestyles most of the time. Let me ask you: How many gasoline-powered, five-passenger sedans could be sold with a 150-mile range?

Maybe anticipating criticism, the Leaf will offer an even-better-chemistry 60-kW-hr pack next year (SL trim), likely extending its leash to about 225 miles (a two-tier strategy akin to the Model 3’s estimated 50 and 75 kW-hrs). Thus, the Bolt’s singular battery size will be bookended by its competitors, with the Nissan’s upgraded pack matching it and the Tesla’s smaller pack offering Bolt-competitive range due to better sedan aerodynamics. (One of the reasons, by the way, why I think Tesla controversially went with a mass-produced sedan first: A crossover’s worse aero would require a bigger, more expensive battery—something that’ll be more affordable by the time the Model Y makes its debut.) If carrying over the Leaf 1’s platform has painted Nissan into a corner, it’s these subsequently locked in battery dimensions that require expensive chemistry to keep it apace with the Bolt and base Model 3. (A plus for us is that it offers an insight into the march of ever-rising energy density; those additional 16 kW-hrs crammed in there mean 67 percent greater energy density in seven years, or 9.5 percent per year.) Another questionable call: clinging to the CHAdeMO standard for fast charging. Maybe it’s stubbornness, maybe Nissan’s got a giant investment in this thing, but CHAdeMO is a dead plug walking in the U.S., and Nissan would do the EV cause a big, fat favor by finally adopting SAE (or everybody going to Tesla’s standard).

Time to drive. During their presentations, Nissan repeatedly emphasized twin messages: One, the Leaf is about making driving less stressful, and two, it’s about making driving fun. Not knowing what stress-free, fun driving exactly means, we headed out onto the test track to find out.

The new Leaf’s most potent driving relaxers?

ProPilot Assist is sort of a Tesla Autopilot light (at a fraction of the price). Relying on just a single forward-facing radar and a monocular video camera, ProPilot Assist provides single-lane, feet-off-the-pedals driving (what’s called adaptive cruise control). Alone, this is nothing unusual. Its dexterity in responding to slinkying traffic (including right down to 0 mph) is, though. Yet what elevates it to the same conversation as AutoPilot is how accurately it also threads down the center of the road. Like with other Level 2 semiautonomous systems, you need to keep your hands on the wheel, but here, there’s no need to give it periodic tugs. The electric power steering’s frequent and small corrections automatically sense their presence. I later tried the system in Detroit, driving for several miles on an expressway with my hands relaxed on the rim. No scoldings to put my hands back ever appeared (which, if persistently ignored, would ultimately result in the car stopping in its lane). Available later this year, ProPilot Assist is ordinary sensors doing an extraordinary job due to great software. Within two years, the system is expected to be even greater (perhaps with added sensors) by expanding to automated lane changing, and by 2020 it should have the skill to negotiate city scenarios, too. Next year it will joined by ProPilot Park, which highly automates parking, including selecting an empty spot not already bordered by a parked car (reading lane stripping). Remember this system as the tipping point when semiautonomous driving finally met the masses. (It’s had a 60 percent take rate in markets where it’s already available on other Nissan models.)

The Leaf’s other driving simplification is its one-pedal EV-driving feature—what they call e-Pedal. Tesla has long offered a similar heavy-regen effect when you release the accelerator. But completing a stop requires a brake pedal dab at the bitter end. In its transmission’s Low mode, the Bolt will come to a one-pedal stop without touching the friction brakes, but the deceleration rate isn’t always enough. E-Pedal leapfrogs both with a deceleration rate of 0.2 g’s (covering 90 percent of real-driver stopping, Nissan says) and comes to a complete stop (including automatic friction braking, if necessary). If that stop is on a hill, the Leaf’s motor will just hold it motionless (after pausing, you can lift your feet from both pedals; no need to hold the brake). The new Leaf could quickly become the most popular car in San Francisco.

E-Pedal and the availability of ProPilot Assist spotlight the intention to make the Leaf the tech standard-barer for the Nissan Intelligent Mobility Initiative, Yokohama’s campaign to destress driving.

The notable destresser, though, is the car’s lowered MSRP of $29,990 ($30,875 including destination)—a $690 drop. Standard with that is a noticeable upgrade in interior materials, and when you option a nav system, Apple CarPlay and Android Auto are included, too. After incentives, this is a heck of a deal.

But what about that driving fun factor? I can answer about 65 percent of that question. Without a doubt, its extra power and torque renders the new Leaf satisfyingly quicker and more responsive. Test-track recordings are yet to come, but given the Bolt’s and Model 3’s better power (and power-to-weight ratios) it’ll probably lag in a three-EV drag race. Interior n

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