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crqstalite · 4 years

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stargazer.

just a little something from the wip folder. i started writing it months ago and i honestly have no idea where it was supposed to be going. you might be able to tell where earlier!andre stops and now!andre begins.

otherwise, a drabble about kodelyn and her mother, hannah shepard. no warnings.

She used to love the stars.

She used to be a child who knew nothing more than the skies of Rio, curious and wide eyed when they'd say goodbye to her new stepfather and siblings. Then, out into the warm and humid air with her mother, who'd braid her hair back in cornrows and pick her up to a piggyback style. So far outside the city, she was amazed by the lack of noise, lack of light. The way the sky would be speckled with white and gold, the way they'd twinkle when she lifted her head just right.

They'd never had the time before her sister was born. It'd always just been them, her and her mother bouncing between stations. Hannah Shepard and her daughter, Kodelyn, with the endearing habit of typing her own reports with nonsensical subjects that the crew would take in stride. One had started giving her stickers for each one, much to her happiness.

She saw the stars outside her window on Arcturus, wondering what lay beyond the twinkling lights in the distance. She'd used to make up stories that there were aliens, like any good child would in the years preceding the First Contact War. It'd fascinated her, so far away, yet they sped past them with the usage of the mass relay network. Anywhere she could, she stuck glow in the dark stickers. Whether that be in the crew cabin or elsewhere, she loved the way they looked. The nebula of purples and blues and black mixing into a vision of what she lived to see. Her curiosity about the galaxy before her made many believe she was simply a carbon copy of her mother, someone who asked just about all the right questions and maybe a few that weren't relevant. They saw Hannah in her, a few officers referring to her as simply 'Little Shepard'. A little clone that was constantly on her heels, but it was more endearing than annoying. Most of the time. As long as she didn't get underfoot too often. And that was fine, she liked it. Loved it even. Would've been happy if it stayed that way.

Then all of sudden (well, to her it was all of a sudden), she wasn't living on stations anymore. It seemed sometime between all the childish fantasies of being a spacefaring heroine, domesticity had settled in and didn't seem like it was leaving. Someone who took care of her when her mother was on tour, a 'proper' father. Then, a sister that hung onto every word that came out of her mouth. Then a brother who thought she was the best thing since the Mars relay had been found. It wasn't just her and her mother anymore, a family had grown around them.

At first, she was confused. Why she didn't accompany her mother on cruises anymore, why she was rarely home. Nearly upset even, until she came back through the door with a smile on her face and tired crinkles around her eyes after months on missions. A warning not to dirty her dress blues when she'd been away at the garrison, but never minding to bend down and hug her daughter. The stars became her connection back to her, wondering which one had her mother's ship behind it. As much as the megaopolis' bright lights drowned out those in the sky, she still stayed up to watch the city sleep and the stars find their way to her window. Watching as the ships came in at the dock, becoming adept at identifying each model, growing excited when she recognized the one she'd been looking for. Her mother always said she didn't have favorite children, but considering the shiny models of Alliance ships brought back for her, only her, she had reason to believe otherwise.

Well, most of the time. She'd never tell her baby siblings, but she was pretty sure she was the favorite.

"Do you have to go back?" Kodelyn asks, voice small as she rests her head on her mother's shoulder. The last day of her shore leave, and she wasn't excited to let her just go again, "Let them have Mr. 'Quin, then you can stay home with me all day."

Her mother chuckles, adjusting her hold on her small legs, "If that were how the military worked, I'm sure he'd be gone already, Dee. But you know I have work to do, and I'll be right back here for your birthday."

"But that's forever away!" Kodelyn exclaims, incredulous at the notion. April was a long time from then, nearly a whole year from that July. She believed she was completely justified in her reaction to the absurd amount of time her mother would be gone. In the grand scheme of things, it was decidedly absolutely unacceptable, "You're gonna miss Mason's birthday, and Mr. 'Quin's."

"I wish I could be here for them all, you know that, bug. Shore leave doesn't always come easy to us marines," She responds, stepping out of the way of a bush, the crinkling of leaves underneath her boots, "Tell you what, how about we get a dog for him and Mason? They like dogs, don't they?"

"There aren't pets in space, mom. Everyone knows that," Kodelyn giggles, her mother shaking her head and surely smiling herself, "Are we there yet?"

A pause before they step out from the tree line, Kodelyn craning her neck to stare up at the sky. Her mother gently puts her down, sliding to the ground to sit. Her daughter unceremoniously does the same, eyes wide. It was true, then, you could see so much more from the forest than you could from her house. Gently, she lays down on her mother's legs, Hannah carefully drawing her fingers through her scalp. Names of constellations come to her in waves, pointing out each one to the woman who smiles.

"There's an entire galaxy out there for you to explore," Hannah smiles down at her, hands resting on the ground before she looks back up to the sky, "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," Kodelyn responds, playfully exasperated. She already knew that, and she knew that she wanted to be a ship captain just like her mother when she grew older. Of course she was going to explore. She'd get back up into space someday, even if she was only twelve right now, "It's pretty from here, right? So you can just stay here, with me."

Hannah sighs, though still good natured when she gently pulls Kodelyn into a soft embrace, "I'd love it if I could. Though I have a commitment to the Alliance, and I can't just walk away, little one."

"Then take me with you...." She whines, while Hannah chuckles.

"What do you have against being on Earth? I thought you'd like it, after all the time we spent on the Citadel, and the stations, and the ships," Hannah asks, leaning her head gently on her daughter's, "So much room to run around and play with kids your own age. You don't have to keep to the mess or medbay anymore, isn't that what you wanted?"

"Earth is...nice, I suppose. Too many bugs though," Kodelyn sticks out a tongue, reminded of her first experience with a spider only a few years ago. She shivers at the thought, but turns her big brown eyes back up at her mother, "I wanted to stay with you. And then you keep leaving."

"Oh." Hannah pauses, then squeezing her just a little tighter, "Kiddo, I'll always come back."

"And what if you don't?

"I will, and that's that," Hannah answers firmly, "And if you have your way, you'll be with the Alliance in a few years yourself. Just be patient, and be happy you still have solid ground under your feet for now, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." Kodelyn figures this is as much insurance as she's going to get on the matter, and relaxes her head back onto her mother's shoulder, "Space is still better."

"As if there was a question," Hannah brushes her hair out of her face, "Love what you have right now, kiddo. Please. You’ll never know if you’ll get this back.”

“You just said you’ll always come back, what do you mean?”

“Don’t take things for granted -- you could lose it in an instant.”

And that's how it would've gone. She probably would’ve lived out the rest of her days on Earth, had her younger sister not been swept up in the biotic tests that drove them to live on the Citadel more often than not. And that's how it would've gone had they taken it in stride and gotten her further treatment on-planet instead of the Citadel. Had Hannah's stations not moved further and further away from Earth. The list went on. And that's also, probably, how it would've gone had she made an actual point to stay on Earth. That didn't happen for a multitude of reasons.

Does she miss it? Not particularly. Spiders didn't follow her up, so that was a win.

No, she doesn't miss Earth exactly. She misses how she and her mother's calls end up being less and less frequent. There aren't anymore evenings that she drags Hannah out by the hand to stargaze. It isn't as if Kodelyn can't just look out a window and see them either, but it's a special sort of lonely that she can't quite put a finger on. Did she ever love the stars, the ones that eventually killed her, or was it the time spent together?

After her death over Alchera, the first thing she does once she can get her hands on a secured and encrypted channel is call her mother. She’s nearly clamoring for any real sense of reality, or part of her past that she can get her hands on.

Hannah nearly cries when she hears her daughter's voice for the first time in three years. She figures she’s lucky to get in contact with her at all, considering her current situation. Yet even though she still knows next to nothing of what Kodelyn is doing, she’s just grateful that she spares the time to speak to her.

“Hey mom?”

“Yes?”

“Remember when we used to go star-gazing out on that hill by the house, when I was still a kid?” There’s a muffled chuckle on the other end of the line, “After Alchera, someone in Cerberus had a sense of humor and decided I must love it so much that there’s a skylight above my bed.”

Hannah curses, “Great. Is there a way you can cover it?”

“I’m looking into it,” Kodelyn answers, “Still, I think it was far more fun when my feet were on the ground, and would stay that way. You used to hold me like I was the most important thing in the galaxy when we went out there. Hard not to miss it.”

“Hard not to,” Hannah echoes the sentiment, “I can’t stay for much longer, but please, stay safe. I don’t need to find out that your ‘death’ was only a trial run.”

“I will. At least to the best of my ability. Love you.”

#kodelyn shepard #oc #original character

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kammieceleek · 5 years

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Halfling: Chapter 1, Different

Sarai was young but she wasn't stupid.

She knew she was different from others in Xadia. While her interactions with other elves were limited the few she'd had were less than ideal. Many regarded her as some kind of plague or outcast and walked away quickly. Her differences were in the way they looked at her and in the way they spoke. It was in her difficulties with magic that no elf should struggle with. It was in her fear of combat and confrontation. But most of all, it was in her hands.

Elves, she knew, had four fingers.

Sarai had five.

Her father was human and her mother was an elf. It was why she was unusual. Elves and humans hated each other but her parents had fallen in love despite the bad blood. And Sarai's admiration for them was never-ending, just like their determination and spirit.

Rayla, a Moonshadow elf assassin who had once been asked to kill a king and a prince. Instead she'd found her future husband and they'd gone on a journey to end a war that should've never even started. Strong, beautiful, hilarious, and a great warrior, Rayla was what Sarai wished she could be. A fighter, somebody who wasn't afraid of battle or death. Furiously protective of what she cared about, which these days was her husband and her daughter. Sometimes Sarai even wondered how she was her mother's daughter, what with how different they were. But then she'd see her horns reflected back at her and the answer was there, among the locks of long dark hair she'd gotten from her father.

Callum, a human and former prince who had protected his younger brother from Rayla on that fateful raid. He had traveled with her to bring Zym back to the Dragon Queen and end that war. Compared to his wife, he was more scholarly and bookish with an honest face and an aptitude for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. And Sarai took after him in that regard, as well as with her extra fingers and the fact that Moonshadow magic wasn't exactly for her. He was kind and caring and she knew that both he and her mother loved her more than themselves. The only times she ever saw him get angry were when someone threatened her or Rayla.

Their family was small but had plenty of love to go around. On Rayla's side, her parents were gone—not dead but not with her—and there were no other relatives she knew of. Callum's father was unknown to him and he'd lost his mother and stepfather years before Sarai was born. He had a half-brother, but Sarai had never met the man before. Something had happened and they weren't able to enter the human kingdoms safely anymore. It had been the cause of several arguments when Sarai was younger, where Rayla insisted she could protect them and Callum wanted his daughter to live to adulthood. Eventually they'd settled on the border near the Storm Spire, where King Zym (Sarai refused to call him anything else) assured their safety from the elves but not the humans.

Now, however, things were very wrong.

Things were so wrong that Sarai didn't know how she'd ever help set them right.

Her parents had been captured by a team of rouge elves and a human—a human woman whose hair was almost completely white, save for a few locks of black on the righthand side. Callum and Rayla had been shocked and horrified to see her. Not the elves, but this odd-looking human woman who used dark magic. They hadn't gone easy, mind you. Rayla had fought while Callum tried to help her, but she yelled for him to take Sarai and run, to let her handle the battle while he saved their child. He'd obeyed, only for the human woman to catch up and hold them in place with her evil power.

"Callum. It's been years," the woman said breathily.

"It seems magic hasn't been kind to you, Claudia," he spat. She narrowed her eyes.

"Why are you angry?"

"You attacked my family and you didn't think I'd be angry?!"

Sarai bit her lip as she listened to her father. Hearing him speak with such venom and anger and scorn, a tone that her mother usually reserved for herself, was disconcerting to say the least. He was usually joking or giving her advice or even helping her with magic and drawing. Anger was a rare emotion and she was afraid of this woman who could draw it out of him.

"Please, it wasn't my idea. I wanted to just take you and draw your bloodthirsty lover out so we could take your child, too. The elves had other plans. Now, what to do…"

Out of the corner of her eye, Sarai saw her father's fingers moving in a familiar shape—a rune. He was trying to free them. She could already feel the binding spell weakening around her and before Claudia could finish her mutterings Sarai was free. Claudia had yet to notice but the binding was still tight around Callum. Worriedly, he looked to his daughter, who remained by him.

"Sarai, go find help. She's not as interested in you so you can slip away."

"But Papa—"

"Please. I can buy you some time but it's limited. Go now and run."

Running. It was the one physical activity she was good at. Sarai nodded and leapt to her feet. Before Claudia could even figure out what had happened, the halfling was gone and well out of her reach. She let out a growl and turned her attention to Callum, who glared at her defiantly… then she dragged him back to where his wife was lying on the ground, heavily bruised and injured but alive, surrounded by the elves who had brutally beaten her.

"Rayla!" Callum gasped, desperately trying to reach her.

"She's not dead yet," snorted Claudia. "But she may be, soon."

"Touch her and you're dead!"

"Where was this fire when we were younger? Or is it just because your elven mistress is lying on the ground and your hell-spawn is off who-knows-where?"

"Sarai is—"

"And you even named her after your mother. Hmph. Well, we have somewhere to be, don't we?"

The last thing that registered in Callum's mind was a spell.

Then darkness.

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It had started as a rumor in the street earlier that week.

An elf is in Katolis—a Moonshadow elf!

Those rumors were never something that Soren took seriously. People made mistakes like that all the time and it was kind of dumb when you thought about it too much. No, the rumors worried him when they switched to they're looking for help. Only one Moonshadow elf had connections in Katolis and it had been many years since he'd seen her. And the fact that she didn't go to the castle, knowing Ezran would gladly help her, worried him most of all. So he posted guards in the streets to find the elf and bring her to the palace.

But it wasn't Rayla deposited at his feet.

"Who are you?" he asked. She looked up at him with wide green eyes.

"Who are you?" she echoed, her voice denoting her youth. She couldn't have been older than six.

"I am Soren, the head of the Crown Guard."

"M-my name is Sarai. I was told to go get help."

"Help?" She nodded.

"I need to save Mama and Papa. S-some…" Her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell to the ground. He realized after kneeling beside her that she was starving and tired and nothing that an eight-year-old girl should be.

"Make sure she gets food and rest. We'll continue this when she's feeling better."

His orders were followed. And out of custom, he informed Ezran of their guest. The young king insisted upon seeing the girl, and as soon as he did he backed away in shock.

"Why is she here?"

"To get help for her parents or something." Ezran reached out and touched one of the girl's horns.

"Do you know her name?"

"Sarai."

A shaky breath was inhaled by the king of Katolis.

"I… I think… I know who her parents are."

"Who?"

(Really, Soren had not gotten any sharper.)

"Rayla and… Callum. No doubt about it—everything about her is just like them."

"Huh. Weird. I didn't know they had a baby."

"We haven't talked to them since they were forced to cut contact eight years ago. I can't figure out why their daughter would be here unless something bad happened."

Sarai let out a groan as she came to and Ezran smiled.

"Hey, feeling better?" he asked.

"I… I don't know…"

"Your name is Sarai, right? I'm Ezran."

"You're Ezran?" Sarai's eyes widened.

"I'm guessing you've heard of me?"

"Papa talked about you a lot. So did Zym. You can talk to animals, right?"

"Yes, I can. How old are you, Sarai?"

"Five. Almost six."

"And your father's name wouldn't happen to be Callum, would it?"

"Yeah… and my mama is Rayla. Papa told me to come to Katolis to get help. He and Mama were taken away by bad elves and a mean lady named Claudia who wanted to hurt me and Mama."

"Well, then, you've found your help. We are family."

In truth, however, the news that Claudia had resurfaced troubled both king and guard. Soren was glad to hear his sister was alive but furious to learn she'd tried to harm a child…again. Ezran was bothered by the fact that Claudia had apparently overpowered both mage and warrior, though the fact that elves were helping her made sense. None of them wanted the uneasy peace that had settled over the human kingdoms and Xadia over the past decade and a half. It made sense that they'd go after the human-elf couple and their halfling child. But at the same time, they'd made the mistake of going after his family, the only family he had left other than his aunt Amaya. Sarai was his niece and he'd protect her.

"Soren, send word to Aunt Amaya and the Storm Spire. We're going after Claudia." His eyes turned to Sarai. "In the meantime, let's get you rested and fed. And some new clothes."

Sarai looked down. Her knee-length blue dress was tattered and filthy, its hue dulled by the muck and mud. Her eyebrows knit together and she smiled up at her uncle.

"Thank you, Uncle Ezran."

"What else is family for?"

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Word had spread that she was in the castle over the past several days. Sarai noted the stares and whispers as she walked through the hall in the clothes that Ezran had said once belonged to her father. Her long hair had been braided to keep it out of her face for the time being, horns still up and standing proud and denoting her elven heritage alongside the blue markings she'd inherited from her mother. To so many she appeared the enemy, despite the years of tentative peace between the human kingdoms and Xadia her family had led. War had once been the way of life for both places, for both races, but now that was over.

"You okay, Sarai?" Ezran asked as she entered the dining room.

"It's weird, being around so many people."

"How so?"

"For as long as I can remember, it's just been me, Mama, and Papa in our little cottage by the Storm Spire. Zym babysits me a lot when they had to go do things because he likes me. Mama said it was because they did the same for him when he was a baby."

"I remember. I helped them take care of Zym when he was newly hatched." She sat down next to him. Opeli looked slightly unnerved at the breach of protocol but said nothing.

"I miss them…"

"Me, too. I haven't seen them since before you were born."

"Mama was fighting the bad elves, and Papa told me to run away and get help in Katolis while he faced Claudia. I'm fast."

"Really?"

"Yeah!"

"Well, then, we'll have to have a race once this is over. And you and your parents will have to come visit."

Sarai nodded in agreement and began to eat some of the food that had been set out. Ezran noted the way she ate was so much like Callum; no doubt his older brother had instilled manners into his daughter in case she ever came to Katolis. But the way she held the knife and the markings under her eyes—it was pure Rayla. His heart ached to know just what Claudia had done with his brother and sister-in-law. Sarai was the last thing he had left of them at the moment (save for a couple of portraits done before they were forced to leave). Already he was growing attached to her.

"When are we leaving?" she asked. "I wanna know so I can pack."

"Sarai…"

"You don't want me to go?"

"No, you're coming. It's just… we need to figure this out. I don't want you near the battlefield when you're so young, especially not if we're going against Claudia. She's a dark mage."

"I understand. That's why we live near the Storm Spire. Zym protects us better and Papa didn't want me to see how ugly fighting is."

That sounds like Callum.

"We're leaving tomorrow morning. You'll have to guide us to your home and we'll start looking from there."

Sarai nodded and went back to eating.

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"Ezran."

The young king sighed as Soren approached him in the throne room.

"Soren, we're doing this. It's Callum and Rayla."

"That's not my concern. My concern is you going along."

"Why?"

"If… if something happens to you, you have no heir. Who's going to rule the kingdom if you don't come back?"

"Oh, that's easy. Sarai will." Soren blinked. "Look, she's Callum's daughter. That means in terms of succession, she's after him."

"But Sarai is coming with us."

"And she'll be staying with someone at the Storm Spire. I'm not risking her life, but I'm willing to risk mine."

"…you're just like Harrow, you know. He was the same way." Ezran faced his old friend. "Viren offered him a way out, the night the assassins came. A snake that could put his soul in another body. But he refused, saying he'd rather die a king than a coward who let another die in his place."

"Then that's what I believe, too."

"I'll prepare to head out. Should I alert Amaya?" Ezran nodded.

"Send a message to her and Janai. They can meet us on the Xadian side of the border and guide us the rest of the way."

Soren nodded. Ezran eventually left the room and wandered until he passed his niece's room. He could hear her sniffling. Out of concern, he entered her room and found her curled up with one of Callum's old stuffed animals; no doubt Opeli had given it to her.

(She may have appeared reserved, but she had a soft spot for children.)

"Sarai?"

"Uncle Ezran?" She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

"You're upset, aren't you?"

"I… I just want Mama and Papa…" Ezran pulled her into a hug.

"It's going to be okay. We'll find them and we'll make sure they're safe."

"But elves are mean. They talk about me and Mama all the time. They say Mama is a traitor to Xadia and that I'm an… a-bomb…a-bomb-in-ation?"

"Abomination. And it's not a good word, especially if they're using it to talk about someone."

"What does it mean?"

"It means… unnatural. Bad. Like something never should have happened. You're not an abomination, Sarai. You're a little girl with two loving parents and a family who cares about you. There's nothing more natural or good than that."

She smiled up at him and that smile was pure Rayla, especially the way her eyes crinkled when she did it. He held her tighter for a moment, then sighed.

"Tomorrow, we're leaving for Xadia. And I promise you we will bring our family back together, no matter what."

Ezran stayed with her until she fell asleep, tucking the stuffed dragon under her arm before he left.

I promise, Sarai.

#published on ao3 #the dragon prince #dragon prince rayllum #fanfiction #family #rayllum child #rayllum #callum x rayla

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claimingtheflame · 4 years

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I had meant to give each family member a post of their own, as kind of a reflection on each, but that will have to happen as I write. All of the people in this post were key figures in my childhood and this post will serve to kind of map them out, so I don't have to explain them as I go. I have already written about D and mom, I will not include them here.

I warn you. Race may be mentioned a lot here. I grew up in an extremely racially mixed environment. The distinction between peoples is a big part of my upbringing, as I grew up among just as many hispanics, asians, and african americans as I did white folk.

My father

If there is a hero to this story, it is my father. A sad hero, yes, but a hero. You will hear me describe people and their various dualities throughout these reflections. Often, one hand would give and one hand would take. Not my father. There were times he disappeared, sometimes for over a year, but none of them was his fault. He is so important to this story because he was everything to me in those times.

My mother cheated on him and moved in D when I was 3 years old. I remember most of those events, believe it or not. I have a very early memory, and I remember when he lived with us. I also remember when he left. After that, we would go visit him every other weekend. Those visits were another world entirely to me and my sister, Nevada. So much could be said, but I will just say that without my father I would be a much more damaged person. These people destroyed him. They took his soul.

Grandfather Paul (maternal grandfather)

Another important figure. Close to my father in benevolence , save for a few infuriating and perplexing acts on his part. I know him, from my earliest memories to later teen, as a powerful and intimidating figure. He was a big-deal attorney in the area, and most of my memories are of him sitting at his desk in his high-backed leather armchair, booming at me in jolly tones. He grew up in Georgia, and you can detect the trademark accent, very different from Kentucky's, only slightly when he talks. I mostly grew up as white trash in the Kentucky valley, but on occasion I would be spirited away by Grandpa into an entirely different kind of life. We would see art, opera, or theatre. He gave gifts often and was very kind. He had 7 daughters and a son, so when that family gathered it was unreal. All beautiful, fair of hair and complexion, somewhat formal and subdued compared to what I was used to. Remember the description of "the hospitality of elves" in lord of the rings? It was something like that to me. His gatherings happened a few times a year. He lived thanksgiving the most. I get much of myself from this man, from my interest in books to my interest in law and philosophy, and even my appearance to some degree. Yet, there was always a barrier. I was always a class below these people. It was empirical, throughout my childhood.

Grandmother Betty (paternal grandmother)

When my father would take us, we often visited him at my grandmother Betty's small house in Radcliff. She was a very crabby, but gentle woman. Half italian, half german, I believe she was originally from New York. She was a widow the entire time I knew her. My father technically is a bastard, and my given name is that of her deceased husband Andrew (died in Egypt just after the Vietnam War, he was taking apart a bomb). This man adopted my father despite my grandmother's infidelities with my Grandfather Carl while he was serving his tours of duty. My father was technically born in Germany due to this. All my other cousins are of mixed race, or look way more italian since Andrew and my grandmother's first husband were Italian and Puerto Rican respectively. What's more, Betty's children(my aunts Tina and Susan, Uncle Richard) also married italian and puerto ricans, so me and my sister stick out like a sore thumb among our darker cousins, with our lighter colored skin and hair, and brighter colored eyes.

My grandmother loved Radcliff, but it was a strange town. It has a large Korean and Puerto Rican population due to it being right next to the Fort Knox base. Often you would feel the thrum of artillery fire as a normal part of life due to the testing and training of tanks on base. I think 30% of the population is also black. This was a big deal growing up. A contrast to my country life on the weekdays. I got in a lot of fights, often due to my whiteness believe it or not. Many of my cousins ended up marrying black men, and having mixed children. My grandmother hated this, she hated blacks. She went to a korean church in order to avoid them. That said, she doted on her mixed great-grandkids and gave much to them. This would prove to undo her eventually. My cousins children ended up destroying her house and bleeding her dry to the point where she lost her beloved home. This happened much later in life. They even went as far as stealing from her.

She suffers from dementia now, and no longer recognizes me. My uncle Rick married into one of the families of her Korean friends, and they care for her now, as they shared some childhood bond with her and consider her family.

Aunt Lisa and Cousin Brittany(maternal aunt)

Also heroes and crucial to my upbringing. Aunt Lisa would take us a few weekends a year, and we would visit with her and her daughter, who was only a year younger than I. She was always living in an apartment or townhome somewhere around Louisville or Greater Clark Indiana. She wasn't poor but also wasn't exactly the picture of middle class either. I remember her as a beautiful and wholesome woman. Tall with curly blonde hair, the beakish nose that betrayed my grandather's British lineage. She was silly and always laughing, and played games with us like red rover or simon says. I will never understand why she took to us like she did, but there was no doubt we were special to her. She later married a pretty cool scottish man, they live together to this day.

Cousin Brittany looked a lot like her, just as tall, even taller now, a flat out blonde amazon towering over me and all the other cousins. Brittany was raised a bit more puritan than I, but we bonded over pokemon and Harry Potter as kids, and play video games online when we can. She lives in Maine now.

Grandfather Carl(paternal grandfather)

When my father did not take us to Betty, we went to visit Carl and his wife Margie. They lived on a property in Southeastern Kentucky somewhere.

If there was ever an image of the stereotypical Kentucky man, it would be Grandpa Carl. He was wiley, salt-of-the-earth, bearded, always covered in some kind of oil, and inexplicably strong (I've seen this man lift car engines and slam my 280lb father deep enough into a wall that his assprint was visible on the opposite side). He listened only to old rockabilly music and had skills at a pool table like something from a bygone era. We saw this man a few times a year.

He has alzheimers now and lives with my father.

Grandmother Mary(maternal grandmother)

I knew very little of her. She moved to florida when I was 5. We spoke once a month on the telephone throughout my childhood. I remember she looked very native American. She had long black hair with gray streaks in it. She died in 2015 of flu and pneumonia. She was in her mid 60s.

Her heritage is an enigma. She was born a Culpeper, a very deep-south name, but her mother and grandparents are on the native american dawes rolls. She had the same kind tinge of native to her that Grandmother Betty does of Mediterranean. The thing is, in my 23andme I do show a spot of mediterranean blood, but no native American blood shows up on the dna test.

Her father, she says, was a freemason. This is odd because when she died she left me three things, two of which I still puzzle over. She left his freemason garb to me when she died, along with her record collection and an old pair of opera specs. I only received the record collection and specs, which I treasure. Tons of CCR and other rock records. Rifling through it made me feel closer to her. The Freemason memorabilia is with my aunt Kimberly, I believe. Which brings me to...

Aunt Kimberly(maternal aunt)

I list my Aunt Kim because she becomes important in some aspects and she was indeed a role model me. Also you will see that she and her husband gifted me with my first guitar and synthesizer when I was a teenager. This when I started writing music, so I owe this whole musical venture to them.

This is the definition of a rare and strong-willed woman that likely belonged to the career she devoted herself to. She has become in reputation and stature as powerful as my grandfather, as she worked in his firm from the time she graduated law school. The only one to follow in his footsteps fully. She married at 16 and is still married to this day to the same man. All of my life she has always had short hair cut just above the ears, blond like the rest of my grandfather's children, with a much more dry sense of humor like his own. She does not speak to me much now because she has a feud with my mother. The whole family kind of broke apart a few years ago.

Cousins Kristin, Maria, Samantha, Rosita, and Sasha(paternal cousins)

These are the cousins I primarily grew up with and saw on a regular basis. I saw Brittany only a few times a year but I saw these cousins at least once a month, excluding the times where my mother and stepfather prevented me from seeing my paternal side of the family altogether. We will get into that.

Those are all the family members I will list right now. Maybe I will list separately my cousins, of which I have many and various complex relationships with. My cousin Maria was murdered in 2017 so that may come up as well.

Notice all the names on this list. These are people that I love very much. These are people who no doubt loved me and cared about me throughout my childhood. Every person on this list Sans the younger cousins knew what my stepfather was doing. They had some Inkling. Me and my sister complained at least once in private to each. Only one of these people actually did something to try and stop it. That is the man at the top of the list. That is my father. For all the love I bear these people I will never understand what did not move them about our situation. It's one of the things that this blog is meant for. Understanding those who turn a blind eye. Not evil people at all. To address abuse it takes tremendous strength. My father's tragic anguish over our abuse and his dogged attempts to get my stepfather arrested we're all in vain. They were blocked by some of the members of this list. Maybe they were well-meaning but I will never understand why. I always put it down to Ego or misunderstanding. I will tell one of these stories next and you will see what I mean.

I will try to tell the story chronologically from this point. Thank you anybody who reads this blog. I know I give some of you the link secretly and I hope that you keep what I say here from the rest of my family. I will probably be saying things that will hurt their feelings. To them perhaps I will be saying things out of context. I'm only providing my own point of view. It may seem unflattering at times to them. This isn't about them though. I'm laying these experiences out for the sole purpose of understanding them and nothing more. If anybody on this blog where to be brought to Justice I think we would all agree it would be my stepfather. Yet this whole time I've made no secret that he still walks free, and I doubt anything will ever come of it.

#family history

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fleeting-sanity · 5 years

Text

OC Talk #8

Force Powers List.

Just to compile so I can check back and perhaps incorporate it in writing or art. In order from most proficient to weakest mastery. Leaving out Telekinesis as everyone has it. List is long! Might also update occassionally. Maybe.

Riornivo

Tutaminis / Barrier / Planetary Deflection.

Can catch lightsaber blades with his bare hand, deflects blaster bolts, absorbs Force Lightning, and the most advanced form is creating a shield which can deflect planetary bombardments, although it may cost his life.

Healing / Revitalization / Resurrection.

What he loves and practiced the most. Advanced mastery enables him to completely resurrect a deceased person, which is also costly–puts him in a few days of coma or even death. He’d completely restore the body first, then concentrate in transferring the deceased’s Spirit back to their bodies. Doesn’t work with exploded ones.

Stasis Field.

Stops movement of every being in a wide range, and not as costly to use.

Force Enlightenment.

Absorbs knowledge pretty fast during his Jedi training, as he loves learning as much as healing. Not so much with combat techniques though. Sometimes can learn how by observing or experiencing the Force power by someone else in real time.

Force Empathy / Precognition / Vision.

Reads minds although he dislikes using it, able to see someone’s future hazily by interacting with them, and on a wider scale, events that will happen across the galaxy by meditating.

Time Manipulation.

Basically the highest form of Force Slow. He stops time instead of increasing his own speed by the Force. He moves normally, but his surrounding slows to a standstill. Something he sneakily mastered from Valkorion.

Mind Control.

Fully taking over someone’s mind, and unethical according to him. Only used it once on a Sith Lord out of desperation. Basic Mind Trick included. Also learned how to access and erase someone’s memories from his Stepfather.

Levitation.

If done purely by the Force, it’s still quite intermediate level. Since he obtained Brontes’ Architect Wings, he flies mostly using those tenta–wings. Very rarely so, as he wanted to keep the Wings a secret.

Mental Shield.

Basic mental block taught in the Academy when he was a Padawan. However, powerful Force Users can break through this and read his mind. On the more literal side, after the Patricide he strengthened his mental shield so much that it’s difficult to tempt, corrupt, or break him.

Force Cloak / Stealth.

Standard vanishing out of thin air. Can also shroud his presence and Force energy from others Kreia-style. Most used to avoid fights.

Sever Force.

Cuts other Force user’s connection to the Force. He learned it in the Academy, though it’s never used before.

Psychometry.

Witcher Geralt-style tracking skill. Common amongst Force users.

Fold Space.

Can only teleport him and objects to nearby planets, he hasn’t quite mastered this one yet. When Cloak fails, he uses it.

Force Light.

One he wishes he truly perfected. He kept trying to use it on Sith and darksiders, although the success rate is pretty low. As long as he can decrease some darkside corruption, he’s content with it.

Force Crush.

He only used it on out of pure hatred after his Father forced him to the darkside. When it seems like Father’s dying, he healed him back and crushed him, repeating the torture until he’s satisfied. Scarred him for life.

Electric Judgement.

Weaker than Sith Lightning. Only used other than various forms of Telekinesis to incapacitate his aggressors.

———————

Rionnic

Force Scream.

He’s stoic and untalkative. So don’t make him Scream™ at you. Will irrepairably rupture your hearing. Also comes in different flavours–is it gonna be heavy metal, classical opera, or just straight up belting?

Force Speed.

Ataru Form movesets marries well with Speed, he mostly uses it on lightsaber swings and acrobatic evasions. Using an even faster version trained his body to withstand physical blows and inertia, paired with Force Body.

Force Choke.

Chokes the whole room. Hard to resist. Kinda used it a little too often on his twin brother during their earlier years after meeting each other.

Force Weapon.

Imbues wooden stick or other non-lightsaber objects with the Force so it could withstand blows from lightsabers and be used as a weapon.

Shatterpoint.

Detects weak points and reads fighting styles of his opponents. Will exploit this to gain upper hand in combat.

Force Body.

Trained since he was an Acolyte. As most Sith, he got back up on his feet from hatred and rage. His body had endured so much physical torture during his days in the Academy.

Force Insanity.

Rarely uses it but won’t hesitate to break his subordinate’s minds with it. Learned through his sheer depression and trauma, not through conventional practice or learning.

Force Lightning.

Standard Sith Lightning. Also rarely used, as he’s more of a lightsaber expert. It’s mostly utilized as enchancement to his punches and kicks.

Force Stealth.

Learned from his twin brother. Useful for slipping out of crowds for a figure such as him.

———————

Aryuni

Precognition.

Senses danger precisely on who will it entail and what will happen from years to weeks before it happened. Gives her anxiety.

Affect Minds.

An aura of strange compliance emanated from her. It’s difficult to say no to her–which is quite dangerous, but she doesn’t realize she has this power. Her bubbly and humorous attitude reinforces it. She just thought people are inherently good.

Force Insanity.

She’s skilled in mind games, eventually, and naturally learning how to break people’s minds. It’s especially potent, as Force Healers have difficulty cleansing the corruption. Fueled by the bullying people hurled at her.

Force Empathy.

Good at sensing mood changes, but she’d attribute this to natural ability. Genuinely cares for those in service to her though.

Telekinetic Lightsaber Combat.

Can sometimes disarm people’s weapons from their hands. If she spots weapons lying around whether from defeated opponents, situational, or a result of disarming, she can telekinetically operate those weapons.

Mental Shield.

If you peek inside her mind, it’s filled with memes. Endless memes.

Force Bellow.

Senya used this during their performance together at the Alliance cantina. She later taught Ary this technique for her singing performances.

Dun Möch.

Shrouds her true nature from uninformed enemies, acting defenseless to get them to strike first. With other opponents, she would try to out-logic or reason with if it’s something that could be resolved by a simple talk.

Force Slow.

During her younger years this was still quite weak and difficult to control. As she got older she could slow her surrounding quite significantly, even halting blaster shots if she’s fast enough in anticipating it.

Force Rage.

Found in the Mama Bear package. If she witnessed her children getting seriously injured, be ready for a violent scene… which is not pretty to look at.

———————

Avery

Center of Being.

If given time to fix her stance before a challenge or a duel, she will hold Senya’s Saberpike like how it’s posed with Senya’s Holostatue, preparing herself. A calm and focused Avery is a very formidable opponent.

Ionize.

Having Skytroopers every time everywhere with her, it’s important for her to disable them and other droids as she pleases. Learned this power from her twin sister, enchanced by her natural knack at machinations.

Cryokinesis.

She didn’t get the nickname Ice Queen just for her demeanor. She could drain heat from other living beings fairly quick, and there’s chilling aura emanating from her that the Knights dressed in heavy armors liked.

Mental Shield.

Basic mental training from Senya and the Knights, and learned a new perspective for it from Rio during her brief time in the Order. It’s important to shield her mind as Empress, the most you’d get from her is a string of mathematical equations.

Force Bellow.

Learned from her Mother. She’d use it to startle her opponents mid-fight. Instances where it happened are blades lock, her being disarmed, after a feint, and being outmaneuvered. Handy in her Empress speeches.

Force Stealth.

Also to avoid crowds and for espionage.

Force Lightning.

Golden like her Father’s. Stronger than standard Lightning, she uses it quite often but tries not to do so around her little brother.

———————

Avelyn

Force Empathy.

Senses mood changes like her Mother. Could also read minds, and she uses it often during diplomatic missions. At first she was reluctant on using it, but after several attempts on Zakuul, she’s not taking any chances.

Plant Surge.

Acts like Alter Environment, but with plants. Not many knew about this power of hers, and she had faint memories of flower crowns when using it.

Force Lightning.

Quite strong. Could overpower a Sith in lightning clashes. But rarely used it as she thinks it’s a bit too violent and her little brother hates it.

Ionize.

She could destroy droids with ease, but at most just disables them thanks to her altruistic nature.

Battle Meditation.

Enchances the newly rebuild Eternal Fleet with it, though would only do so when forced to.

Force Valor.

Boosts others capabilities more than she utilize it for herself.

Healing.

She’s still quite amateur with healing. Started learning it from Rio after the first coup. Could heal minor wounds and stabilize conditions.

Force Projection.

Projects images of objects and herself, although it only lasts for a brief period of time. Still practicing it whenever she had free time.

Force Choke.

Used when she was defending Zakuul from the first coup. Swore to never do it again, but deep down she knows she wouldn’t resist if push comes to shove.

Mental Shield.

Still quite weak, and she truly wants to improve at this Force attribute for diplomatic missions. If she could read minds easily, it shouldn’t be hard for her to build a mental fortress, no?

———————

Jurbiend

Force Cloak / Stealth.

Shrouds his Force energy, cloaks his physical presence, and cloaks others around him as well. Even goes as far as muting every noise they might make when moving.

Force Weapon.

Since he loves to forge and design lightsabers, this comes in the package. Imbues solid objects to act as a shield against lightsaber blows, though it could still break if hit hard enough.

Mental Shield.

Perfected it, if you try to read his mind it’s just blank. White, empty space.

Mind Control.

Reads minds easily, accesses past memories, and all aspects of Mind Trick included. Can erase memories from people’s minds.

Force Speed.

Gets in a bout of speedy duel with his then unknown eldest Stepson. He was actually more nimble and precise than the Sith, but lost due to Rio’s resourcefulness.

Force Projection.

Malgus-style–scratch that it’s Naruto-style bunshin no-jutsu style doubles of himself. Still lost against Sithboi, but won him many battles over his enemies.

Sever Force.

Learned this Force feat after he became a Jedi Master. He intended to use it on his fallen Padawan but was forced to kill her instead.

Psychometry.

Handy in his archeology missions for those artifacts. Gets flashes of the place’s history.

Force Enlightenment.

Absorbs knowledge from datacrons, artifacts, classes, and libraries. Some of it might have contributed a little seed of darkness within him. He always be thirsty for knowledge, like his Stepson.

Alter Environment.

Still on amateur level. He could change the winds and weather a little, cause quakes, alter temperature, but only through concentration or meditation.

———————

Saxan

Force Drain.

Planetary Grandpa-style life essence drain, performed without rituals. During his younger years nobody except Dad knew about this power of his. Only used once out of rage, but luckily he was incapacitated before it reached far. Absorbing life essence made him stay young, apparently.

Force Destruction.

Majority of his Force powers are of destruction. He only had to close his eyes and he could topple mountains if he wishes so.

Force Lightning.

Hates when Dad jolts him with a mild spark to get him off his laziness. His version was of a black and golden variant, strongest kind of Lightning there was at that time. Can summon black lightning storms from planets away, though he hates using it.

Force Choke.

Chokes massively, and uses it on his underperforming subordinates.

Force Rage.

Since both his parents had this power, and Sax being the Inheritance Prince™, inherits it. Like a Sith’s darkside corruption, his eyes could turn red and it will take some time to cleanse the corruption. It’s feasible because he’s so lazy and apathetic he can’t even get angry for long.

Animal Bond.

Being an animal lover, he bonds naturally with animals, even the beastly ones. One of the very few things he cared about are animal lives.

Force Stealth.

Practiced it since he was a kid, but a pretty standard one. Uses it to prank the people of the Palace, but some can see through his invisibility. Utilized in avoiding capture and fangirls too.

Force Speed.

Standard speed. Mostly used to escape people, especially his fangirls.

Force Vision.

Because he sleeps so much, his dreams are often premonitions of events happening in the future, ranging from tomorrow to thousands of years later. Dislikes when he got these dreams, as most of them are foreboding and nightmarish.

Pyrokinesis.

He dances a little with his Saberpike to summon some conveniently sized meteors. It perplexed him as to why he needed to dance, because he tried it with other methods and it didn’t work. Perhaps he hasn’t mastered this technique yet.

———————

Vianiel

Force Body.

Her resilience even intimidated the Masters in the Order, she was badly injured more than once in missions but recovered and insisted on going on more missions.

Battlemind.

Coupled with Force Body, she stood back up, sometimes catching the enemy off-guard. During her later years, despite having not battled in a long time, she still fights with agility and precision.

Psychometry.

Used in her archeology missions, tracking emotions left behind and also vague history about the particular place.

Saber Barrier.

She slashes her two lightsabers in an X shape, forming a barrier that lasts around a second.

Force Persuasion.

Basic persuasion, most used when she does her underworld missions.

#swtor #swtor OC #star wars OC #sith warrior #jedi consular #jedi knight

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violetsmoak · 5 years

Text

Tabula Rasa [5/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183281/chapters/47961358

Blanket Disclaimer:

Summary: Tim and Jason have known they are soulmates for years, though neither has said anything about it. Tim thinks Jason doesn’t know, and is just trying to live with it. Jason thinks Tim knows but doesn’t care, which is fine with him, he thinks the soulmate thing is a crock anyway. But one night, a minor mishap forces them to confront the issue head-on, leading to a series of events no one could have predicted.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #i’ll protect you #soulmark tattoo #bright anxiety #soulbond #a lie #hand holding

First Chapter

Author’s Note(s): And now for something completely different... And by different, I mean we get a brief bit of hope in this angst-fest.

________________________________________________________________

His name is Tim, but that’s about all he knows.

He has no memory of anything from before. Who he is. What happened to him.

There is a constant, throbbing, white-hot pain in his head.

The room is full of people. Some wear white coats—doctors. The others—strangers—say they are family. They all carry themselves the same way, but none of them look alike.

He wonders what he looks like.

They say someone shot him.

They say he will be okay. That he is safe.

The first thing sounds right. It explains why he can’t remember. It explains why his head hurts.

But the other things?

He has trouble believing that. He doesn’t know them. They are talking at him. Words that he knows individually, but together make no sense. Everything is heavy and hazy. And painful.

He wants to tell them that but can’t. Even as panic beats against his chest, the words get stuck.

But then he appears in his line of vision.

The redheaded man with snapping blue-green eyes who everyone else is uncomfortable around. The sight of him makes Tim calm. That and the warmth winding across the skin of his right hand. He can’t see the colors on his arm well himself—can’t move to check—but he’s seen them on the man.

The tiny boy that looks like a gremlin and always glares called him ‘Todd’. Tim thinks that’s his name.

Todd has pulled his coat sleeve back down, hiding the pattern from view, but it’s still there. Still a comfort.

Tim’s soulmate is here.

If his soulmate is in the room, the strangers must have told the truth. He is safe.

And he knows things like this—soulmates and how to count and the color of the sky outside of his window. General things. Common knowledge. Not so many things about himself. Or these people he doesn’t recall.

It’s exhausting trying to puzzle it all out. Before he can, he falls asleep.

It happens a lot.

He loses track of how many times he swims in and out of consciousness. He can’t tell the difference being asleep or awake for the longest time.

It’s a whole before the periods of being awake last longer. He can process more.

One morning, he realizes the difference between day and night sleeps. At night he wakes alone, though he sometimes imagines someone is watching him from the shadows. By day, the family surrounds him.

Men in uniform—police—have come to his room a few times to ask questions, but he’s been too heavy-tongued and hazy to answer. Even his blinking answers don’t appear useful to them.

Todd tells him one day they are looking into his shooting, wanting to know if he has any enemies. His smile is cold and his gaze upon the police remains wary and derisive. Like he doesn’t think they can help.

⁂

Todd isn’t always there when he wakes.

It seems like Tim’s soulmate is uncomfortable around the others. He thinks he remembers someone say they don’t get along. He might have dreamed that. But he has noticed how he avoids the room when there are a lot of the others there.

Especially the older man.

Bruce.

Tim’s father.

Or so they say.

The others too, he thinks. The young man with the sad smile has referred to him as his father when the nurse was here. But he calls him Bruce.

Everyone calls him Bruce.

He doesn’t understand why. Why not ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’?

(No, that’s not true. He has heard the boy call him ‘Father’. But no one else does.)

After what seems like hours of reasoning, Tim decides he might be adopted. It would explain why none of them resemble each other. (Tim isn’t sure if he looks like the boy. He doesn’t think so. His skin is far paler.) Or maybe Bruce is a stepfather? But where is Tim’s mother? Does he have a mother? He must have at some point. Perhaps she’s dead, if she’s not here. Or run off.

He tries to feel sad about that but can’t manage it.

Tim doesn’t have much range of emotion right now. Panic, confusion. Sometimes relief, when Todd is there.

Curiosity, a few days later, as he studies his ‘family’.

The old gentleman with the accent is Alfred. Tim doesn’t know what his connection is, but it’s clear he is an important member. And uncle perhaps? Or Bruce’s father? It would track. Everyone calls each other by their first names in this family, or so Tim’s noticed.

The young man who always tries to be so bright is Richard. He introduces himself as Tim’s older brother. Everyone but Alfred calls him Dick. At first Tim thinks people just don’t like him, but it turns out, that’s the name he goes by. By choice. Strange. He’s married to Barbara, a woman in a wheelchair Tim only saw once, on that first day he was awake.

It’s Dick who introduces the others.

The boy, Damian, is his younger brother. It’s rare for him to talk to or even look at Tim. When he does, it’s with a scowl. He sits too far away for Tim to tell anything else about him. Maybe they were fighting before this happened?.

The small woman that drops in sometimes is his sister. Cassandra. She’s almost always accompanied by the pretty blonde, Stephanie, who shares her black and purple soulmark.

Eggplant, something tells him, in a rather pedantic manner. Not purple, it’s eggplant.

Stephanie talks to Tim more than anyone else does. She keeps a running conversation as if he can respond. It’s something that both reassures and frustrates him. Beyond a few painful vocalizations, words run away from his mouth. The constant blinking answers make him fall asleep.

And there’s the black boy, Duke, who Tim figures is another brother though they didn’t introduce him as such. He sometimes sits beside Tim and watches American Ninja Warrior on the hospital television. He jokes with Tim that he’ll be able to pull off moves like that when he gets better.

Tim thinks that’s ridiculous, but it’s also a nice thought.

Today it is only Bruce, Alfred and Damian in the room with him. The former sits in a chair that seems comically small for his frame, head lolling as if he’s about to nod off. He’s only ever here in the mornings, disappearing in the afternoon and not returning until Tim wakes the next day.

Tim hasn’t seen him smile since he opened his eyes the first time. Alfred appears to be completing a large crossword puzzle, while Damian plays a handheld device and doesn’t acknowledge Tim.

Bruce notices Tim staring and straightens up. His expression softens. “Do you need me to get something for you, Tim? Some water.”

Tim blinks twice. No.

It’s the only reliable method of communication right now.

Richard—Dick—wanders in then, carrying an armful of chips and soda and a muffin. That wouldn’t be unusual—he’s always wandering in with snacks—but Todd sidles in after him. Tim’s stomach swoops with happiness.

The taller man leans against the doorframe like he needs to have a handy exit. Tim can understand the urge, even if he’s stuck in this bed. In his body.

But Todd is here, and it’s like having a safety net.

Even if he won’t come to sit with him when there are other people around. In fact, he avoids sitting right next to him unless Tim is on the verge of falling asleep. He’s tried pretending, but the damned monitors keep giving him away.

Dick distributes the snacks while offering Tim an apologetic smile—“Sorry, you’re still eating through a tube”—then holds his hand out to Todd in a ‘gimme’ gesture.

“What?” the redheaded man grumbles.

“Lighter.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t have one.”

“I’m not. What the hell do you need one for?”

“Jay,” Dick groans.

Tim has noticed the past few days that Todd gets called ‘Jay’ a lot, at least by Bruce and Dick. He wonders which is his real name.

In his head, he tries calling him Jay. He decides he likes it better. The name feels like it belongs to him.

Jay, then.

‘Jay’ grumbles and then digs into his pocket, handing over a silver lighter, which Dick swipes with a grin. Everyone watches, bemused, as he produces a cheap, sparkling pink birthday candle seemingly from nowhere, and sticks it in the muffin.

Damian looks up from his game at last and shoots Dick a judgemental scowl. “What ridiculousness are you getting on with now, Richard?”

He doesn’t speak like a child. Another thing Tim’s noticed.

Dick doesn’t answer, lighting the candle and then holding it out to Bruce. The grin on his face is only a little pained.

“Happy 45th Birthday, B,” he declares. “I know it’s not the best time to celebrate, but…”

He trails off.

Bruce blinks at the proffered muffin as if he’s not sure what to say or do.

Alfred hums in amusement and approval. “It is rather thoughtful, Master Richard. And not to put too fine a point on it, but a birthday wish would not go amiss right now.”

“Does it count if everyone knows what that wish is gonna be?” Jay points out, crossing his arms.

“It could not hurt at this juncture.”

Tim isn’t sure what they’re talking about, but he watches along with everyone else as Bruce dutifully blows out the absurd looking candle.

“Many happy returns, sir,” Alfred tells him.

Tim frowns. Who calls their son or nephew ‘sir’?

There’s a knock at the door, and Jay tenses, turning around faster than Tim can track. His hand goes to something beneath his jacket, but he relaxes when he recognizes the woman—Dr. Thompkins.

Bruce stares at the bulge beneath Jay’s coat with a sour expression.

“Good morning, everyone, how are we today?” Dr. Thompkins asks.

“Well in body though considerably rumpled up in spirit,” Alfred informs her. Jay snorts in something like laughter. Tim doesn’t understand the joke, but from the lack of reaction from the others, neither do they.

Another doctor follows Thompkins in.

Dr. Scherr.

Tim has a vague sense of recognition. The man comes in every so often to check his chart and whisper quietly to the nurse.

Everyone looks at the newcomers now, anxious and expectant.

“Do you know what’s going on with Tim’s memory?” Bruce asks, putting the muffin to one side and standing.

“It appears Timothy is suffering a form of amnesia,” Scherr replies. “Though the procedure to treat the brain injury succeeded, the trauma has caused significant damage, resulting in what appears to be a dissociative fugue state.”

Tim frowns at the words, unable to make sense of them.

“How long will it last?” Dick wants to know.

“There’s no way to be sure. It could be days or months. It could be longer. The important thing is that you don’t try to force him to remember. Stressing over it might do more potential damage than good to a healing brain. For now, you and Timothy should focus on a plan for his physical rehabilitation. Re-learning to walk, strengthening fine motor skills and such.”

“Of course,” Bruce says. “Plans are underway right now to outfit the manor with mobility aids for when he returns home.” Jay seems to tense at that. “Dr. Thompkins has also recommended several specialists to come and work with him.”

“You shouldn’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Wayne,” a new voice says.

Everyone turns to see yet another newcomer, a petite woman of Asian descent in a crisp pantsuit and carrying several folders. She wears a plastic lanyard Tim can’t make out, but the sight of it makes Jay clench his fists and even Dick’s expression goes cold.

“I’m Gillian Sato, Child Protective Services,” she introduces, like it’s a greeting and a warning. “I’m handling Timothy’s case.”

“What case?” Bruce replies. “He’s an emancipated minor.”

“The keyword being ‘minor’,” the woman replies. “And when a young person comes into the hospital with injuries to the extent that Mr. Drake-Wayne did, the doctors always notify us.”

Thompkins blinks and then shoots a sharp frown at the male doctor, who shrugs, unrepentant.

“You get a lot of young people in the hospital for a sniper shot to the head?” Jay asks with a dark undertone in his voice.

Sato’s expression is nothing but contempt. “I was referring to the signs of malnutrition and broken bones—some of which are still healing. And the splenectomy scar that has no corresponding records attached to it. Several of the professionals overseeing his care remarked on it.”

Bruce’s face becomes hard as stone.

“Some are a few years old. Almost as old as when he was first adopted by Mr. Wayne,” she continues, waving a folder at them.

“Are you serious?” Dick snaps, as Tim processes this. He was right about being adopted then. But malnourished and injured? That’s a surprise.

“As serious as this situation,” Sato tells him, looking unbothered by his irritation.

“Ms. Sato perhaps now isn’t the best time,” Dr. Scherr begins, but the woman ignores him.

“The office I represent is concerned why a young man, not even of legal age is living on his own in such a dangerous part of Gotham. Given Mr. Drake-Wayne’s public visibility, he should at least employ a security detail. The whole situationmsuggests a lack of judgment, either on his part or on that of the guardian responsible for his formative years.”

“And how do these concerns interfere with plans to help my son’s recovery?” Bruce asks, tone sharp but still edging on polite.

“Oh, they won’t be interfering at all. But perhaps someone other than yourself or whoever you intend to pay off—I mean, hire—would take responsibility for them.”

Bruce’s expression doesn’t change but somehow radiates fury all the same. “Explain.”

“There has been serious consideration by the authorities concerning the revocation of his emancipation status based on the state of his health,” Sato informs them. “It’s clear he hasn’t been taking care of himself before his unfortunate injury. Red flags like that, and it isn’t beyond the realm of possibility, the state wanting to put him under its wardship. If the paperwork goes through, he’ll be remanded to our custody within the next day or so.”

“And what would be the point of that, exactly?” Dick asks coldly. “Tim’s turning eighteen in July. That’s less than half a year, and placement measures for a foster home—especially one equipped to handle some recovering from a TBI—often take a lot longer. You’d be putting undue stress on someone that’s just suffered a traumatic brain injury.”

“It’s because of that injury that I will expedite the process. And given the likelihood of him recovering full use of his faculties, he will most likely retain the status of a minor for longer than you might think. This time under the care of a more…suitable legal guardian, though.”

The look she sends Bruce now is one of disdain.

Damian stands then, brows drawn together. “You realize who you’re talking to, right?”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Sato replies, undaunted. “And the Wayne name and money may stretch far, but they do not buy immunity to the law.”

The tension in the room is ratcheting higher, and Tim stares at the surrounding faces, looking for a clue of what is happening. It’s bad, he knows that much. Something occurs to him then—is she saying someone will take him away from his family?

From Jay?

He makes a noise of protest, his chest tightening in a way that makes breathing almost impossible. His throat seems like it’s closing up—the doctors removed the tube before they discharged him, but the tissue remains bruised and he winces at the pain. His stomach pulls into an uncomfortable knot as he does his best to vocalize.

“Tim?”

Bruce’s gaze has flown toward him, eyeing the monitor beside him, and then Tim. He takes a step forward, but Dr. Scherr and Dr. Thompkins are already there, hovering over him.

“Timothy, are you alright?”

“Is he seizing?”

“No, it’s—”

“—just try to breathe—”

“—check the steroid levels—”

His chest continues to seize like it’s trapped in a vice, and the sensation only heightens as everyone crowds closer to his bed. His stomach heaves, this time, and he wonders if he will throw up. How is he supposed to do that when his throat is so tight?

“You’re making it worse,” Jay snaps then, and shoulders past Bruce and the doctors to sit beside Tim. He reaches for his hand, squeezing it once—quick, harsh and grounding. “Hey, Timbers. Calm the fuck down. Everything’s good. We’re handling it.”

Their soulmarks twist and strive toward one another. They don’t join—Tim has learned his bond with Jay is not complete—but they continue to blossom across their skin in complementary patterns of color and warmth.

It’s a comfort. Tim gives a shuddering sigh.

Jay’s here. He’s safe. It’s okay.

When he tries to pull away, Tim musters whatever strength he can to tighten his grip on Jay’s fingers. He doesn’t expect it to register—even he can tell there’s no force behind the hold—but Jay pauses. He gives Tim a look he can’t interpret—annoyance? Resignation? Surprise?—and relents, leaving his hand within Tim’s for now.

Around the room, everyone else watches without speaking. Bruce, who Tim has never seen gaze upon Jay with much beyond disappointment and sadness, appears to be considering them both with a good deal of speculation.

He isn’t the only one.

“I…had not realized,” Sato says, tone careful. There’s a pinched look on her face. “His file makes no reference to a soulmate. Or at least not that they had found each other.”

“I imagine that changes your plans a bit,” Bruce says with a smile that is anything but kind. “If you have any intention of following through on your threats to remove Tim, you know that a soulmate’s care supersedes government custody. Unless you want to be complicit in a blatant human rights violation.”

“It does…add a different dimension to the matter.”

“Well, then that settles things, for today at least, Ms. Sato,” Thompkins speaks up, and motions for her to leave. “And I’ll be calling your office to speak to your supervisor. Delivering news like this in front of a recovering patient is so far from professional I don’t even know where to start.”

“This isn’t over,” Sato says, although she lets Thompkins lead her away.

“And Dr. Scherr, if you would kindly get the hell out of my son’s room,” Bruce goes on, giving the doctor a hard look. “I’m requesting the hospital assign someone else to his case given your clear breach of doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Scherr nods his head as if he expected this. “My only concern is for Timothy’s continued health and safety. My conscience in the matter is clear.”

“Thank you for saving his life, but the next time I see you, it will be with my lawyers present.”

Then he, too, leaves. Bruce closes the door behind the departing doctors with an air of finality.

“What the hell was that?” Jay demands.

“Most likely someone trying to make a name for themselves,” Bruce sighs, taking his cellphone out of his pocket and tapping something into it. “It wouldn’t be the first time, as you recall.”

They exchange a significant look.

“I’ll go check into what we need to do to get Tim discharged,” Dick says, determined. “Not sure I like the idea of him being here without one of us if that woman comes back.”

“I’m coming, too. Leslie and I need to discuss her definition of ‘vetting’.”

“I hardly think it was her fault, sir,” Alfred says. “Dr. Scherr indicated he was operating with the best of intentions. And Master Timothy’s medical record is…colorful.”

“I know. Which is why whoever she’s recommending help Tim with his therapy need to an up-to-date and accurate account for his injuries beforehand. I would like to avoid any more trouble caused by good intentions.”

They say more after that, but Tim’s head is swimming and his eyes getting heavy. He’s expounded far more attention and effort today than he can remember doing in a while, and it’s catching up. When he tries to squeeze Jay’s hand, he can’t even make his fingers move.

Maybe…when I wake up…

⁂

The next day, Tim wakes to the news that he is returning home.

Wherever that is.

The new doctor that has replaced Dr. Scherr, and the hard-eyed Sato woman from yesterday, stand outside his room and argue against it. Bruce steamrolls over them both. He rattles off a list of specialists he intends to hire to help Tim’s recovery and then makes a comment about updating the neurosciences building.

The new doctor goes quiet at that, but the Sato snarls that she won’t sign off on that.

Their argument moves away from where Tim can hear it, but he has an odd confidence that Bruce will get his way.

Tim is looking forward to being somewhere that isn’t a hospital room until the moment he realizes Jay doesn’t intend to come with him.

“Keep me updated, I guess,” he says to Dick, shifting in discomfort. There’s a glint in his eyes like he’s ready to bolt. It’s not helped by the manner in which Bruce looms from the corner.

“Of course. It’s your right, after all.”

“Right.” There’s a bitter twist to Jay’s mouth that makes Tim feel sick.

No.

Jay can’t leave. He has to come with, he has to be there to help, he can’t leave him with strangers. They might be his family, but he doesn’t know them. There’s no foundation of a relationship there, nothing as intuitive as his soulmate.

Tim’s breathing becomes close again. He tries desperately to catch Jay’s gaze, tries to force his tongue and lips and throat to make a noise that’s recognizable.

The heart-monitor thankfully speaks for him, tracking his quickly increasing pulse. Everyone goes silent, noting Tim’s distress, and Bruce clears his throat, glancing cautiously at Jay.

“You are, of course, welcome to stay at the manor,” he tells Jay reasonably. “Alfred can make up your room for you.”

“Yeah, not happening. Either thing,” Jay retorts.

“You are Tim’s soulmate,” Dick reminds him.

“How could I forget…”

“You being around will probably help him to get better faster.”

“If that’s the case, we can go to his place,” Jay argues. “I can keep an eye on him there, without you guys fussing and helicopter-parenting the whole time.”

“And that’s not going to happen,” Bruce interjects. “Beyond the fact someone shot him not a block away from his apartment, we have a better set-up at the manor. And with the amount of paparazzi camping outside of here and his place, how do you expect him to recover?”

“Well, it sure as hell ain’t with me at the manor.”

Tim manages a noise this time, a breathy whine of protest.

Jay groans and takes his habitual place beside Tim, though he doesn’t take his hand this time. He looks frustrated.

“Kid, I know you don’t remember anything right now, but I have reasons for not wanting to go there.”

“Reasons that have been null and void for a while now.”

“Shut up, Dick,” he snaps, shooting him a glare before returning his attention to Tim. “Besides, I have…work and stuff. That makes it hard to commute.”

Jay shifts, obviously uncomfortable beneath Tim’s beseeching gaze. He can see almost the exact moment he relents.

“Fine,” Jay sighs. “I’ll come to visit you, okay? How’s that sound? I mean, you’re gonna be sleeping most of the time anyway. So I’ll go do my thing while you’re asleep and then be there when you wake up. That sound good?”

It doesn’t sound great, to be honest, but Tim can tell it’s a concession and the best he’s getting.

He blinks once.

“Besides, we haven’t outfitted your apartment yet, Timmy,” Dick says brightly. “Jay’s probably going to want to see to that himself.”

The two men exchange looks Tim can’t interpret, and then Jay nods slowly.

“Sure,” he says, his expression curiously blank.

And that’s that.

The same day, the family load Tim into the back of a sleek black van—for security purposes, they say—and transported to a sprawling manor. Though the word ‘manor’ seems inadequate; it looks more like a castle than someone’s house. He’s relieved to see Jay looks as uneasy as he feels as he helps push his wheelchair to an elevator.

(This place has an elevator?!)

He’s brought to a room that they say belonged to him before, one filled with medical equipment and medications. His bed is almost identical to what he had in the hospital. It has remote control movability functions and an adjustable lifting bar overhead so that when he’s able to, he can move himself if needed. There are rails and bars fixed along the walls, for when he starts walking again.

He wonders if he’ll ever get there.

Beyond that, the room feels like a stranger’s, even as it gives him some clues as to who he was before. Photographs cover the walls, most of them candid shots and landscapes. There’s one beside his bed of three teenagers—one large and broad-shouldered and wearing a black shirt with Superman’s logo on it. Another boy is slim and a redhead with freckles. In the middle, a dark-haired boy with blue eyes, pale skin and a sharp smile.

He knows that’s him because most of his family has been showing him cellphone pictures of himself. (Except Jay. He shrugged in discomfort and mumbled about not owning a cellphone.) The face staring up at him means nothing to him, the same way it meant nothing when he saw those shared images.

Posters plaster what parts of the walls not covered by photographs, and there are shelves with colorful action figurines and what looks like circuits and computer chips.

“You’re a bit of a tech nerd,” Dick tells him as he’s getting settled. Jay enters the room like he’s expecting someone to jump out and attack him.

“A bit?” he asks, gazing around the room like he’s never been here before. It’s possible he hasn’t, given his tension with everyone else. “It’s like Revenge of the Nerds threw up in here.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“None of this makes sense,” Jay grumbles, bending over to squint at the books on one of the shelves.

Tim finds himself admiring the view quite before he knows what he’s doing. His cheeks warm when Jay stands up and glances at him, a sudden irrational fear that his soulmate can read his mind.

But Jay just sits heavily in the swiveling computer chair, a battered copy of The Lord of the Rings in hand, and starts to read silently. He barely even glances Tim’s way.

He wonders if Jay is mad at him.

It becomes a new routine.

Tim wakes up during the day and has his needs seen to by whichever member of the family is around. It tends to be Alfred, who Tim has learned is the family butler, albeit an unconventional one.

In the hospital, the nurses saw to bathing and grooming Tim. He’s thankful he didn’t have to suffer the use of a bedpan due to his catheter, but it’s still a situation that embarrasses him. At the house—the manor—Alfred has direct responsibility for his care. He does it with such an unblushing efficiency that makes Tim wonder just what his regular duties are.

Under normal circumstances people hire a nurse for such an intensive recovery period—the Sato woman tried to cite that as a reason Tim couldn’t return to the manor. But it turns out, everyone in the family has certification for long-term care, except for Damian and Duke.

“I’m in the process,” the latter says with a shrug when Tim gives him a curious look.

(though he said his certification is in the process).

That doesn’t seem…normal to Tim, but it means he doesn’t have to learn anyone else’s name, which is a relief. And Alfred all sorts of amazing.

He has the uncanny ability to interpret Tim’s expressions and silence, to the point where he can keep a conversation going as he performs his daily toilette. It’s almost as if they are speaking aloud, despite Tim’s responses being non-verbal and limited to blinking or wordless grunts.

When Alfred isn’t there, Dick is, telling him stories about growing up in a circus and about being a cop in Blüdhaven. Tim knows that whoever he was before knew all of this, but it’s the first time he remembers it, and it all sounds amazing. If only Dick didn’t keep looking so sad whenever he thinks Tim isn’t looking.

Just as he did in the hospital, Bruce is always there in the mornings when Tim wakes, looking haggard and sometimes rather bruised for some reason, but always there. While he sips coffee—which smells so mouth-wateringly good to Tim he almost wants to cry because he can’t have any—Bruce fills in crossword puzzles and Sudoku games in the paper. When he notices Tim watching him one morning, he shuffles over with them and lets him watch.

When he leaves in the afternoon, Stephanie comes by but always leaves before Alfred comes in to give Tim his dinner. She laughs and jokes with him, shows him funny YouTube videos and paints his nails. It seems brain injuries don’t excuse someone from looking ‘fabulous’. He doesn’t know if he used to let her do this before, but for a while it’s the most fun he has during the day. She tells him they used to date, before she and Cassandra found each other, and that he’s still one of her best friends.

Damian enters Tim’s room only on rare occasions, preferring to pause and glare from the doorway, and then stalk off. He’s often followed around by a very large, ferocious looking dog and a tiny black and white cat. The latter decides after about a day or so that Tim is a suitably warm and captive heater and takes to curling up beside him. The glaring from Damian intensifies when he notices this, but he doesn’t remove the cat.

“Cats have a tendency to detect illness and infirmity,” he informs Tim, looking down his nose at him. “It’s only natural he has gravitated to you here.”

And then he leaves.

Which…Tim thinks is him showing he cares?

The others shuffle in and out of his room at varying times of day, and sometimes even at night. Duke fiddles around with what Tim supposes is his Xbox and loads games for him to watch play. (Never any shooting games. According to Duke, Bruce banned those from the house even before Tim got shot). He’s sure he’s seen Cassandra sitting in the chair beside his bed one night when his radio clock informed him it was two in the morning. He’s so medicated around then, though, that it could be a hallucination.

Throughout all of this, Tim does spend a lot of his time sleeping, but always is awake when Jay arrives in the evening.

His soulmate sometimes says a few words to him, but more often he won’t. Inevitably he sits down with his book and reads. Every now and then he glances up at Tim like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to get the words.

That might be something they have in common there, at least.

A physical therapist comes in three times a week to help Tim work on re-learning movement. Dick doesn’t like the man, but he explains that it’s because the social worker from the hospital raised a fuss. She wanted someone to work with Tim that wasn’t reliant on Wayne family money. Bruce is going along with it, trying to show he’s cooperative, but the situation isn’t to anyone’s liking.

They never leave Tim alone with the man. Someone from the family always sitting nearby to keep an eye out as the guy stretches and positions Tim’s body to ensure his muscles don’t atrophy.

(Apparently, his reflexes are still rather impressive.)

One evening early on, it’s Jay sitting in the corner watching, and the PT calls him over.

“You should learn how to do some of this with him,” he tells him. “Soulmates have an inherent level of trust. It helps with the process. And if you end up as his primary caregiver, it’s important to know how.”

Jay’s expression is unreadable, but he nods and comes over. He seems absorbed in listening to the therapist’s instructions on how to move his joints and ease the tightness from the muscles. His hand is large and warm against Tim’s even through his clothes.

It’s the safest Tim ever feels.

On days when Jay is there to help, Tim can’t help wanting to smile the whole time. However, whenever Jay notices, there’s something dark and guilty in his gaze that makes Tim stop himself.

Maybe it hurts Jay to have Tim smile at him when he knows he doesn’t remember him. He makes a mental note to try not to do that anymore. He doesn’t want to hurt Jay.

A week after Tim returns home, Dr. Thompkins arrives to check up on him. She brings with her a colleague of hers, Dr. Thrussell, who is a certified brain injury specialist and music therapist.

“Music therapy?” Jay scoffs. “The kid’s tone-deaf.” Tim shoots him an incredulous stare Bruce and Dick echoes. “Cass showed me the videos. Whoever let him do karaoke should be in Arkham.”

Dick sniggers at that, and Tim’s brows draw into an annoyed glare, even if he knows it’s teasing.

“The injury damaged the language pathways of Tim’s brain, if they didn’t ruin them altogether,” Dr. Thompkins explains. “What do you do when you’re driving somewhere and can’t get there the usual way?”

“Take a detour.”

“Right,” Dr. Thrussell says. “This is what we call neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to reroute neural pathways. It’s how you can relearn to speak, Timothy. It goes without saying this won’t be easy, but it’s possible. Sort of like an adult learning to play piano after the age of 65.”

“The brain is like a series of roads on a map,” Thompkins continues. “The ones you use most often are the easiest to travel. Like highways. But that doesn’t mean the backroads stop existing just because they fall into disrepair.”

“So, you’re saying he has to backroad it until those paths become the Interstate,” Jay suggests.

“Exactly.”

And that…makes sense.

Tim still has the words there in his head. His thoughts have been remarkably coherent, barring the first few days when he couldn’t quite get them to stick together. He’s aware of everything going on around him, it’s just expressing that is the problem.

And so start the daily, intensive one-hour sessions re-learning to speak. At first, Tim had wanted to focus on that all day, but he didn’t account for how mentally draining it would be. Each session is exhausting and leaves him frustrated because it doesn’t seem to be making any difference. His mouth still won’t form properly around words.

After three weeks, he’s still only able to communicate by thumbs up or down.

“I understand this is frustrating, Timothy, but remember,” Dr. Thrussell tells him one day when his anger causes him to hyperventilate almost to the point of passing out. “Your inability to speak is no reflection of your intelligence. Even if you never learn to speak, from what I’ve heard about you, you’re an ingenious young man. You’ll figure it out.”

The words are surprisingly calming, and so he renews his efforts.

⁂

It’s Dick’s 26th birthday, which Tim only knows because he awoke to a loud ruckus this morning.

(“Damian, I don’t care what Jon told you, birthday beats do not mean you get a free opportunity to concuss me.”

“Twenty-six opportunities, Richard. Now stay still.)

Later that day, Dick wheels Tim into the family room to sit with everyone while Alfred puts the finishing touches on the celebratory meal. Most of the time he hates this, but Dick’s wife, Barbara, is there in her own wheelchair. It helps him feel less scrutinized with her there.

She smiles at him. “You’re looking better every time I see you, Tim.”

“Then you need to get your prescription checked,” Damian pipes up from the corner.

Without even looking, Barbara points a finger at him and says, “I will set all your devices to play Piero Umiliani songs on repeat. The Muppets version.”

Damian’s expression becomes something akin to horror. Tim works his mouth into an approximation of a smirk.

He’s unsure why Damian hates him, but he suspects a lot of it is the boy being spoiled. Dick told him that Damian is Bruce’s only biological child, and it’s given him a bit of a complex.

“We’re working on it, though,” he promised him. “You guys love each other. Uh. Deep, deep down.”

Tim’s not buying it, but he has a limited amount of energy every day. He doesn’t intend to waste it on the ‘demon brat’ as Jay calls him.

(Though that’s said in a more affectionate than insulting manner.)

Speaking of Jay…

Tim’s eyes keep darting to the clock over the mantle, counting down the minutes until his soulmate shows up.

Jay comes over between six o’clock and ten o’clock, which seems to be the only time he doesn’t work. Tim wonders what kind of job he works both night and day—perhaps he has more than the one? He’s not sure why he has to work. He’s heard Bruce ask him to stay here again and again, that he could cover everything for him, but Jay always refuses.

Perhaps because Bruce always sounds like he’s in pain when he makes the request.

Tim wonders if that’s the reason for the tension between them. Because it’s clear the Waynes have money. Perhaps Jay doesn’t, and that causes issues?

Is that why he’s distant with Tim? Does he resent the fact his soulmate comes from money? Or…when he had all his memories, did Tim perhaps make a big deal about their economic differences?

It’s another possibility in an ever-growing list of possibilities for why Tim’s relationship with his soulmate isn’t typical.

By now, Dick has queued up his favorite show while they wait for dinner. Tim watches it with him sometimes when it’s the older man’s shift to take care of him. It’s called Arranged, and Dick says it’s sort of like the Tudors; Tim doesn’t think he’s seen either show even before he lost his memory.

Damian and Duke both complain about the choice.

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want,” Dick retorts while Stephanie and Cassandra scoot closer to the television with matching grins.

“I would rather help Pennyworth,” Damian announces.

“Good luck with that,” Barbara says. “You know how he is about the kitchen.”

“You? Help?” Duke asks, looking at the boy with suspicion. “Were you replaced with a clone or something?”

Damian scowls at him. “You’d be able to tell. None of my clones resemble me.”

He stalks away, leaving a confused Duke. “I…don’t know how to respond to that.”

“Well, you know, Damian’s got a weird sense of humor,” Dick gives a nervous laugh, eyes flicking to Tim and back.

“No kidding…”

“So this is where you losers holed up.” Everyone looks over as Jay strides into the room, habitual frown in place and hands in his pockets. “What the hell are you watching?”

Tim beams at him, though he hasn’t looked at him yet; he’s staring at the television screen with a disgusted face.

“Arranged,” Dick tells him.

“You like that crap?”

“Tim likes it.”

“Tim’s basically a hostage, he has no choice,” Jay shoots back. His eyes flick over him in appraisal, and perhaps Tim imagines it, but it seems like they soften a bit. “How you doing, Timbers?

Tim gives him a thumbs up, wishing it was enough to convey how he’s feeling and how glad he is that Jay’s here now.

“Do you need a rescue? Stay sitting for ‘yes’, jump around the room for ‘no’.”

Tim snorts, but it’s lost in Dick’s whining. “Jay, come on, this is family bonding time. Not ‘run off to some shadowy corner with Timmy and just read a book in silence time’. Tim needs interaction.”

It occurs to Tim that he dislikes being called ‘Timmy’.

“Watching TV isn’t interaction.”

“It is the way we do it,” Steph pipes up without looking at him. “I mean, the amount of yelling that goes on when the writers mess up…”

Jay rolls his eyes. “This show is so trashy though.”

“Have you ever? Sat down to watch?” Cass challenges.

“As if I have time for that.”

“Just shut up and watch, it’s starting,” Dick orders.

And by some miracle, Jay gives a long-suffering sigh and drops into the couch seat right beside Tim’s wheelchair. He scowls at the screen as if it’s done something personal to offend him.

As usual, Tim senses Jay’s extreme discomfort being in the manor. It fills him with both guilt and immense gratitude that he still comes here for his sake..

They all settle in and watch as Cordelia de Vere, a young socialite in the 18th century falls in love with her stable boy, Gerald Seymour. Who, it turns out, is also her soulmate.

“Obviously,” Jay snarks.

Gerald asks Cordelia to marry him and she says yes. Naturally, her parents refuse to approve the match. They believe the stable boy to be far beneath their daughter in terms of status and express concern he won’t be able to provide for her in proper fashion. Also, think of what people will say?

“Even more obvious.”

“Shut up, Little Wing!”

Tim tilts his head to one side in curiosity at Dick’s words. He’s clearly talking to Jay. A new nickname? No, Jay knows who he’s talking to. An old one. Jay has problems with Bruce but apparently is close enough to his children to have earned a nickname.

Just how long has everyone known each other?

Cordelia’s parents point out to their heartbroken daughter that there have been many successful matches between people who aren’t soulmates. When she still refuses to agree to their wishes, they reveal they’ve dismissed Gerald and sent him away.

In the next episode, they introduce the defiant Cordelia to the handsome (and rich) Prince Bertram of Montmorency, who is just as resentful of the potential match as Cordelia. Not because they aren’t soulmates, but because it means he has to stop seeing his own servant paramour, the groomsman Maurice.

By now Jay is now arguing with Dick about who the better match is (Steph and Dick come down on the side of Gerald, Jay argues for Bertram; Cass and Duke seem to be thumb-wrestling). No one except Tim takes notice of Alfred in the doorway.

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” he announces, “if you might wrest yourselves from the trials and tribulations of the Georgian upper class? Wash up if you haven’t already.”

There are several groans and protests, but everyone does as asked. Jay wheels Tim toward the elevator, and when the door closes, he says, “I bet we can make a run for it from here.”

He meets Tim’s gaze in the door mirror like he’s proposing something in all seriousness. Tim considers him for a moment. Under normal circumstance, he would give anything to go anywhere with Jay, but it is Dick’s birthday. It would upset him.

And in the past weeks, Tim has learned that upset Dick is a pain in the ass.

Careful, Tim sticks his hand out—thumbs down.

“Verso pollice,” Jay sighs. “Figured you were gonna say that…”

The doors spring open and they head for the kitchen.

Bruce is there this evening, which is rare.

Tim can count on two hands the number of times he’s seen Bruce at mealtime since Tim arrived at the manor. Alfred told him it’s because the life of a billionaire is busier than most people imagine, but Tim suspects it has more to do with Jay being around.

He wishes he knew what they were fighting about.

Dinner seems to cheer Jay up, though; Tim thinks that’s down to Alfred’s food.

He can’t even argue with that, because the man makes everything taste good. And Tim can taste or smell much right now (Dr. Thompkins says that may or may not return, it’s too soon to tell). But anything is better than the formula he was getting through the nasal tube for the first month of his recovery.

There’s laughing and joking, and rapid conversation Tim doesn’t follow. Then Alfred leaves for a moment and returns with a gooey looking chocolate cake.

Steph starts a horrible rendition of Happy Birthday, and Barbara joins in the singing. A disapproving frown from Alfred has the guys joining in soon after.

Tim wants to roll his eyes because it’s such an irritating little tune. Something that gets stuck in your head too easily and takes forever to get out again. Before he’s even aware of it, he’s caught up humming along with it.

He can’t get the words, but the pitch and intonation are manageable.

It’s several seconds before he realizes the singing has stopped around him, and everyone is staring.

Dick looks like he’s about to cry. He gets up, arms held wide like he wants to hug Tim, only for Jay to intercept him. “No, none of that until he can defend himself.”

“Aw, is that jealousy, Little Wing?”

“The fuck would I get jealous of?”

“Jay,” Bruce says in a warning tone.

Jay rolls his eyes, but doesn’t apologize.

“Oh, well, fine,” Dick huffs. “Though…since you are soulmates, you do have that bond.” He makes a show of musing, and then grins. “I guess you’ll just have to be his proxy.”

“His—what?! No! Dick, if you touch me, I will kick your ass!”

“Language!” Alfred reminds, not glancing up from cutting the cake.

“Sorry, Alf—no, Dick, I swear to—ugh!”

Dick has himself wrapped around Jay’s shoulders with the tenacity of an octopus, and despite being much more muscular, Jay is having trouble dislodging him. The hangdog expression on his face is hilarious. Steph snaps a photo with her phone, while Cass giggles. Dick and Damian smirk at Jay, no doubt happy they’re not the one in Dick’s clutches.

A soft laugh breaks through the din, and once again everyone is staring at Tim.

It takes a moment to realize: it’s the first time he’s laughed since he woke up in the hospital.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

This blog isn’t my primary, so my reblogs don’t show up very well. As such, please reblog the fic, otherwise not a lot of people are going to see it :)

<3 Violet

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what-even-is-thiss · 6 years

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I wrote a creative essay about my least favorite aunt. Yeet.

Read it if you’d like. I’m just happy to finally get the damage she caused me mostly dealt with to the point where I feel comfortable writing about it.

Language Barrier

Whenever I speak in German my expressions and hand gestures suddenly become ridiculously animated, like I’m trying to make up for my lack of vocabulary with a sign language that hasn’t been invented yet. One that only I know the meaning of. I flap my hands around like a maniac and point to things I don’t know the words for and make broken sentences that sound like a caveman made them as I misgender inanimate objects left and right.

Das. Das. That. That. This. This.

I can physically feel my brain rewiring itself. I speak like fool. Wrong order spoken are words. Sometimes anxiety make cry me. Social kind.

However, I speak much more German than my uncle’s mother and stepfather speak of English so I’m forced to use what I can and hope they can understand my thick American accent as we stay with them in Southern Germany. Everyone keeps trying to reassure me that my German is very good, but I can’t stop out of order speaking.

Kann ich habe Brot mehr bitte? Can I having bread more please?

I want to crawl into a hole and die.

My grandmother warned me that a person can grow tired of the amount of bread that Germans eat and according to that Bible thing that we both read man cannot live by bread alone. I’m starting to understand both of those things, eating bread and jam for breakfast yet again because I don’t like butter with marmalade and there’s no cheese left.

The weather, unlike my breakfast or Deutsche Grammatik, is perfect. Slightly cold, sunny and overcast at the same time. The neighborhood that my uncle’s parents live in is beautiful, suburban, on the edge of Schwartzwald, known in English as the Black Forest. I can’t remember the name of the town but I do know that we tried to get a brewery tour and my aunt, her twins, and I waited in the van as my uncle talked loudly at somebody in a local dialect until he got out of them that they don’t do tours anymore.

We went to a rope climbing course instead. My uncle, tall and skinny, balding, fit, took the twins, boy and girl, skinny like their dad, not taking after their mother, my mother’s sister, and went rope climbing in Schwartzwald.

I’m stuck talking with my aunt as we stand below the ropes course and I’m tired of speaking in German so we both take time to find comfort in each other’s distinctly Californian manner of speaking.

My aunt is a character. That’s a polite way to describe her if you don’t want to speak ill of someone that’s not in the room. She wears no makeup except for when she’s getting her picture taken or going somewhere important and she always looks stressed and tired with her eyes just a little too wide open. She’s maybe four inches shorter than me but she has the ability to make me feel like I only come up to her waist. In my mind she’s always wearing a knee length beige skirt and a green t-shirt even though she owns other articles of clothing than that, including more than 20 pairs of shoes. Her eyes are wide and her hands move in an animated fashion even when she speaks English. When she speaks German she becomes an exaggerated version of herself, perhaps to make up for her thick American accent and occasionally sketchy grammar. She has lived in Switzerland since the 90s and spoken German since the 80s. I once asked her how to tell what a noun’s grammatical gender is. She told me that she had no idea.

I didn’t know my mother for very long before she died but my grandmother tells me that when my mom was young, to describe her sister, she quoted a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The one about the little girl with the little curl who when she was good she was very good and when she was bad she was horrid.

My aunt’s hair is straight, but other than that the poem describes her very well. Today would be a day she was horrid.

I don’t claim to be a perfect human being. I can be a bitch sometimes just like anybody else. The thing is though, my aunt never let me know when I was doing something bitchy like a normal person would. Instead she let me keep on doing it until she was ready to explode. And then she exploded.

Or, no. Not exactly being bitchy. Just doing something that she didn’t understand or like. She’s a very animated person and her voice goes like

And

Up.

Down.

All the time.

She’s very expressive. I, on the other hand, am not that excitable. I smile, yes, I cry, yes, but I try to be stoic. I like being stoic. It feels natural. I don’t want to express to everyone around me every time I am excited or upset. In my opinion it’s none of their business. I also tend to express gratitude through actions and gift giving rather than hurting my face and voice smiling and screaming all of the time.

I had thought bringing gifts from America, delivering onto my aunt’s family the ever elusive box of grits and Bakersfield candy and trinkets from Disneyland Anaheim would show gratitude. I was under the impression that helping to cook dinner, pack the van, refill the ice trays, take care of the twins, carry the groceries, clean the house, would show how much I loved her. I learned though, in a firestorm under the canopy of dark trees and children riding on zip lines that our love languages didn’t translate properly and she thought that my lack of expressiveness meant that I hated her. She was hysterical about it. I then expressed myself by changing into a lovely shade of red and producing saltwater from my eyes.

Climbing hills is a thing you get used to when you spend time in Central Europe. Walking for three or four kilometers isn’t such a feat in a valley, where the ground is flat and rarely changes, but in hilly terrain you quickly learn just how long that distance is and how much walking can hurt. Locals take no pity on you because they expect that everyone has those muscles built up in their legs when you’ve never had to use your legs like that for long stretches of time before.

Navigating emotion and expectations at home is easy. There is one language being spoken and everyone uses it to tell each other what’s wrong. When staying with my aunt for long periods of time, however, you start to understand emotional exhaustion. Something that would take half a minute to communicate takes up ten minutes of screaming because she expected you to know everything. A flat crowded city turns into a hilly countryside with no help for miles. You quickly learn how to swear in German because she pushes her husband to screaming as well.

Scheiße.

Eventually my uncle finished with the ropes course and pulled me away from her. He gently explained to me in English what we were going to be doing for the next few days. I stopped leaking water from my eyes and tried to remember what had prompted her to start yelling at me but I couldn’t figure it out. Another talent she has. Distracting you from linear events.

While I was in Germany there was a terrorist attack in Münich. Brexit was fresh in everyone’s minds. My first presidential election would be happening in November. I only understood about half of what was said on the news. My little cousins and their dad took turns translating for me. I had the feeling that I still wasn’t getting the whole story.

My aunt and uncle have twins. Test Tube Babies. The girl is the older twin but strangely enough doesn’t hold it over her brother’s head, which would fit perfectly with her personality. The boy takes after his mother in some respects, namely her loud voice.

When we went to Prague we stayed in a campground because that’s a lot cheaper than a hotel and that family affords a second house because they’re stingy. Almost every morning it was a struggle to get the boy out of bed. He and his sister were almost ten and he screamed and refused to move. He cried. He was loud. No amount of discipline worked. His sister stood around quietly going about her business, as did I. We did the same thing when her parents got into screaming matches.

Prague is an old city. A busy city. I loved it, even with all of the pay toilets and Czech bluntness. Even when an angry Czech lady smoking a cigarette yelled at me in broken English for not knowing that I had to pay for the restroom. The old castles and cathedrals and statues and just the right amount of dirtiness in the subway more than made up for it.

My aunt payed for me to go look at a museum that she didn’t want to look at. She told me to take all the time I wanted as the rest of the family waited outside. I didn’t sense any passive aggressiveness that time, so I did. It was a complex that was part of the Prague art museum, a system spread out around the city. The section I walked through by myself was a collection of medieval Roman Catholic art. Stained glass windows, paintings, tapestries. I’m a Lutheran that lives with atheists, so my experience with Catholic art is mostly non existent. Atheists don’t have religious figures to draw and Lutherans are extremely stingy with their images, worried about crossing into the realm of idolatry.

One thing I noticed was that Mary appeared everywhere, even in stories I thought she didn’t belong. In some images she stood equal with Jesus, reminding me of a female God. She seemed mature, different from the outcasted teenage mother I had told children about in Sunday School classes. Different from the refugee that had been painted for me in sermons. I wondered what kind of mother this Mary was. I wondered what her Hebrew sounded like. Or, maybe this Mary spoke Czech and the Mary in Germany spoke German and the Mary in the Vatican spoke Latin and the Mary my Catholic friends at home looked to spoke Spanish. Maybe if I prayed to Mary she would speak English. Maybe she would turn out to speak German and would look down at the frantic dancing of my hands, trying to find meaning in it.

But I don’t pray to Mary, and neither do my aunt or uncle. I report to them what I saw and my observations about Mary. Namely that she seems to be everywhere. My aunt doesn’t quite pick up on the fact that I simply find it interesting and takes it as an invitation to rant about Catholics. I squint at her as we walk back to the subway. I’m trying to figure out if I’d somehow been speaking another language. She certainly seems to be. Maybe it’s a generational gap. Maybe it’s just her, but I try to turn the conversation back to a tone of tolerance rather than complaint. A battle I quickly lose.

Later, in a public park in that busy city, my aunt yelled at me and cried because I had been calling her by her first name rather than Aunt. I nearly start leaking again. I shake. I think she’s speaking English but I don’t understand it. I physically step away from her as she accuses me of not seeing her as family. At the bottom of the hill we’re standing on a dog plays fetch with his owner. Neither of them take notice of the screaming middle aged American woman throwing accusations her deceased sister’s child as her own children zone out and wait for it to be over. No help comes. Nobody translates for me and Google Translate doesn’t have a setting for this.

Twenty minutes later she jokes with me as we find a rare but welcome burrito shop. I buy a mango soda imported from Mexico and it softens my homesickness. We eat on the steps of a light rail station. I laugh. The twins laugh and bounce around, talking to each other in a mixture of English, Swiss-German, and high German. The boy takes a bite out of my burrito and thinks the fact I can eat something that spicy makes me the coolest person in the world. My aunt laughs with me. We make plans for when we go to Southern Germany and visit her husband's parents. That’s where his dentist is. He needs a bit of work done. We’ll have fun, she promises. We had a good time in Prague. I put the bad times in a shoebox for later and then agree with her.

After she yells at me in Schwartzwald for not showing emotion I go quiet. I put more things in the shoebox I’ve made in my mind to deal with later. I learn that all of them have been eavesdropping on the phone calls I’ve been making to my dad and friends back home. My aunt approaches me about how I complained about the yelling. I’m suddenly paranoid and wonder if she read some of the postcards I sent out. I watch my words now and put the ones that might set off her fuse in the box. The little house outside of Zurich has started to feel like home when I return to it and I’m slightly disgusted at that realization. The flowers all make my eyes water and I’m not given nearly enough allergy pills. I still don’t understand what language she’s speaking. Her words are in English or German, as are mine, but we still don’t understand each other.

Currants, especially the red ones, are beautiful fruit. Not easy to find in stores, even in Europe, so you’ve gotta pick them yourself. My aunt and uncle have a small city of currant bushes living in their backyard that hugs the bank of the stream that runs through the neighborhood. They’re beautiful and inviting, asking you to eat them please, but when you do your face scrunches up at the tartness. I never did care for sour tastes, so I found my own way to make the currants sweet by baking them into scones. At first my aunt was sceptical of my scones but after some reassurance from her kids that they didn’t taste like cinnamon she tried them and agreed that I did a good job. They were sweet and went really well with milk or tea. We all enjoyed them very much. Nobody had to translate anything.

Every member of that family gives excellent hugs when you can get them. They share drinks and food with each other, a concept that shocked me at first, but I quickly fell into the rhythm of it with them. They bought me my first beer and took me to Worms, Germany. I loved that place. I got to see one of the first print versions of Luther’s German translation of the bible. I ate pastries and tea with them at an outdoor cafe. It was cold and wet in the middle of the summer and the cobblestones made it even gloomier. The moving feet on the sidewalk seemed to have a language of its own and the new architecture standing by the old had no words to be translated but told a story nonetheless.

My experience in Europe was like Europe itself. Americans expect it to be shiny and beautiful, and it is, but you also have to pay to use the restroom which leads people to piss in the street. You will also find cigarette machines on almost every corner. There is one right outside my aunt and uncle’s second house. The packages of cigarettes have pictures of black lungs and diseased gums on them. The people smoke anyways. Europeans are people. They have drama, they worry about money, they cry, they abuse, they kick, they scream, they love. All the problems you had in America won’t disappear over there, and in fact you might find some new problems you didn’t expect. Like not finding salsa or not knowing how to deal with carnival rides that have no line and are boarded like a much more violent version of musical chairs. And don’t expect to practice your target language there either. The people will hear your accent and excitedly try and use you to practice English. And even if you do speak the language, don’t expect to understand with everyone. Hand gestures can only go so far.

When I got home I left the German language behind me for the most part. I also slowly cut off most contact with my aunt’s family. Six weeks spent putting things in a shoebox and not speaking whatever language my aunt was speaking with English and German words was enough for me. By the time I opened my shoebox a few months later it was rotten, smelly, and leaking. It took over a year to clean it out and it’s still warped and stained, containing whispers of my own desperate language that would never penetrate my aunt’s skull or jump over the barrier we had built together.

My rotten shoebox is revolting to look at, and while I was cleaning it parts of the mess got onto the happy memories but thankfully they’re still there. The cathedrals, the warm hugs, the new foods, and comforting rain are all there. Late nights and early mornings, potato pancakes and beer, museums and trees and the times I could honestly say; Ja, ich bin glücklich. Yes, I am happy. And thankfully that sentence is easy to translate.

#roman wrote a thing #religion mention #roman said a thing

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unfortunate-stranger-losers · 5 years

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Six Baudelaires AU, Part Three {AO3} {Masterlist} {Part One} {Part Two}

Chapter Thirteen → in which I bang my head against a table because I have to pay attention to Widdershins

Nick flinched back and grabbed even harder onto Klaus’s arm, enough that he let out a cry.

“Shiver me timbers!” Sunny said, giggling.

“The Sugar Bowl?” Klaus asked.

“Aye! The Sugar Bowl!” Widdershins bellowed. “Do you think the Queequeg made its difficult way up the Stricken Stream just for fun? Aye? Do you think I would risk such terrible danger just for my own amusement?” Fiona raised an eyebrow there and shot Lilac a disgruntled look, which made Lilac blush harder. “Do you think it was a crazy coincidence you ran into our periscope? Aye?”

“You were… looking for us?” Nick asked quietly, not looking very pleased.

“For you! Aye! For the Sugar Bowl! Aye! For justice! Aye! And liberty! Aye! For an opportunity to make the world quiet! Aye! And safe! Aye! And we may only have until Thursday! Aye! We’re in terrible danger! Aye! So get to work!”

“Bamboozle.” Sunny said, eyes wide.

“My sister is confused, and so are we.” Violet said. “If we could just stop for a moment-”

“Stop for a moment? I’ve just explained our desperate circumstances, and you’re asking me to hesitate! My dear girl, he who hesitates is lost! Now let’s get moving!”

Nick and Violet both inhaled sharply, sharing identical looks of frustration, while Klaus took a deep breath, Solitude hmmphed and stomped her foot, and Sunny groaned. Lilac, meanwhile, was still staring at Fiona, who sighed. “Stepfather, why don’t you start up the engines, and I’ll show the Baudelaires where the spare uniforms are?”

“I’m the captain!” the captain announced. “Aye! I’ll give the orders around here! Aye! I will start up the engines, aye!” He walked towards a small rope ladder and hoisted himself into the ceiling.

“You must be overwhelmed, Baudelaires.” Phil said. “Why, I remember my first day in the Queequeg! It sure made Lucky Smells seem quiet!”

Fiona waited until her stepfather disappeared, and then she burst into a grin. “Phil, you go get the Baudelaires some soda while I bring them to the spare room and get the uniforms!”

“The soda’s for special occasions.” Phil said.

“It is a special occasion! We have six new volunteers!” Fiona was practically bouncing.

Nick flinched. “I’m not a volunteer.” he said quickly.

“It’s alright, we’ll deal with formalities later.” Fiona said. “What soda you prefer?”

“Anything but parsley.” Violet said. Then she glanced at Lilac and said, “Though, if you have coffee, Lilac is gonna need that, she hasn’t had her fix in days.”

“I don’t think we have coffee.” Phil said.

“No, no, we do!” Fiona looked ecstatic, and Lilac let out a squeal as Fiona grabbed her hands. “One of our previous crewmembers, the one who later turned out to be stealing information on VFD headquarters, she stockpiled a shitton- oh, sorry, I mean a lot of coffee.”

“No, no, you’re fine.” Klaus said. “We swear all the fucking time.”

“Thank fuck.” Fiona sighed. “Stepfather thinks it’s unladylike.”

“Fuck that.” Solitude nodded, then she held out her hand, and Babbitt wriggled onto her palm. “This is Babbitt, my frog!”

“Very fascinating.” Fiona knelt down. “That’s a rare species. Where did you get them? Wait, don’t tell me, from Dr Montgomery.” Solitude nodded. “You should be proud. This frog looks well taken care of, even though you’ve been on the run for so long.” She stood back up and said, “Well, like I was saying, I found a bunch of coffee stuff under her old bed, and while there’s not a lot of it left, there should be enough at least for today.”

“Oh…” Lilac’s eyes widened. “If- if there’s not a lot-”

“No, no! I’ll make you some coffee!” Fiona cheered. “This is a huge celebration! Come along, you can rest a bit while Stepfather’s not looking.”

“I’ll get the rest of the drinks, then.” Phil said. He turned and started limping away.

Klaus flinched. “I’m sorry about your leg, Phil.”

“What?” Phil glanced down. “Oh, that wasn’t from the lumbermill. I was bitten by a shark last week! It was really painful, but most people don’t get the opportunity to see such a deadly animal up close!”

He limped back through the kitchen door, and Fiona said, “Was he always this optimistic?”

“Yes.” Violet said.

“Honestly, I find it a bit tiresome.” Fiona shrugged. “Come along, Baudelaires. I’ll see if I can answer your questions as we walk - Lilac, come on.”

The other Baudelaires had started following her down the corridor, but Lilac just stood and stared after her. Fiona sighed and grabbed her hand, which made Lilac look about ready to pass out.

“Now, I’m sure you have lots of questions.” Fiona said as they walked.

“Definitely.” Nick said. “Number one, how d-”

“How did you know so much about us?” Klaus interrupted.

Fiona smiled. “Your exploits aren’t exactly secret, Baudelaires. Nearly every day there’s been a story about you in the newspapers. Of course, those aren’t very trustworthy, but sometimes we can get the truth from them. We knew you’d been at the Village of Fowl Devotees, and at the Heimlich Hospital and Caligari Carnival, and that you must have figured out the secret message on the map that would lead you to Headquarters. I assumed you’d be heading down the mountain once you realized it was destroyed, so I set a course for the Stricken Stream.”

Violet blinked at her. “You came all this way just to find us?”

Fiona looked down. “Well, no. You weren’t the only thing at VFD Headquarters. One of our Volunteer Factual Dispatches- coded telegrams- told us that the Sugar Bowl was there was well.”

Lilac finally spoke up, very quietly, as they maneuvered around a pipe. “We, um, didn’t see it in the ruins.”

“It got thrown out the window when the fire began.” Fiona answered. “If they threw it from the kitchen, it would have landed in the Stricken Stream and been carried by the water cycle all the way down the mountains. We were seeing if it was at the bottom of the stream when we happened upon you.”

“The stream probably carried it much further than this.” Klaus said thoughtfully.

“I think so, too,” Fiona said, “And I’m hoping you can help me read my stepfather’s tidal charts. I can’t make head or tail of them.”

“Nick and I can show you how to read them, it’s not difficult.”

“That’s what worries me. If those charts aren’t difficult to read, then Count Olaf might have a chance of finding the Sugar Bowl before us. My stepfather says that if the Sugar Bowl falls into his hands, then all of the efforts of all the volunteers will be for naught.”

They stopped at a small door, and Fiona said, “This is our supply room. You should be able to find enough uniforms for all of you. We have one that shrunk when stepfather tried to wash it that might be able to fit Solitude, though I’m afraid we might not have anything that would fit Sunny.”

“Pinstripe.” Sunny said.

Fiona let go of Lilac’s hand in order to open the door, and Lilac blushed again and translated, “What my sister means is that she’s used to ill-fitting clothing.”

“Don’t worry, I know what she means.” Fiona smiled over at Lilac. “I used to speak similarly, and I remember a bit of it. You’ll also need diving helmets, in case this submarine springs a leak.” She sighed. “This submarine used to be in wonderful shape, but without a mechanic, it’s not quite up to its former glory.”

“Well,” Violet said, smirking, “Good thing Lilac’s here. She’s great at fixing things.”

“Violet.” Lilac muttered, trying to get her to stop talking.

“Fiona?” Nick said quietly, looking over at her.

His siblings gave him a worried glance, and Fiona said, “Yes?”

“If… if you and your stepfather have been following our progress- or lack thereof-” he stared at her, a soft accusation in his eyes. “Why didn’t you help us?”

Violet and Klaus flinched; Klaus subtly squeezed his hand tighter, and Lilac and Violet stepped a bit towards him, remembering how furious he got the last time he encountered someone who could have helped them. He simply stared at Fiona, who looked very, very sad.

“I wanted to.” she said. “Especially after we found out that you… nobody should be under the control of the firestarters. But my stepfather said we couldn’t do anything about it. That your troubles were too enormous.”

Nick kept staring at her. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t, either.” she assured him, glancing down at Solitude, who had moved to hug her brother’s leg, and Sunny, who was curiously blinking up at her. “My stepfather said that the amount of treachery in this world is enormous, and that the best we could do was one small noble thing. That’s why we’re looking for the Sugar Bowl. You’d think accomplishing such a small task would be easy, but we’ve been looking for ages and still haven’t found it.”

“What’s so important about the Sugar Bowl?” Solitude asked.

Fiona sighed again, looking even more sad. “I don’t know.” she whispered. “He won’t tell me.”

“Whyno?” Sunny asked.

“He said it was better I don’t know. There are some secrets in the world too terrible for young people to know.”

“If you’re risking your life for this thing,” Nick said, “You should know why.”

Fiona swung the door open. “I think so, too. But I can’t do anything about it, can I?” She gestured for the Baudelaires to step inside the room and find their uniforms. “Your rooms are to the left, down the hall. You can share, or there’s two you can split.”

They didn’t move for a second. Then Lilac reached forwards and grabbed Fiona’s hands in a comforting gesture, as Nick said, “You deserve better.”

Fiona sighed, pulled away from Lilac, and left them alone.

“So. Lilac.” Violet said, smiling as she rolled up the sleeves on her uniform, “What do you think of Fiona?”

They had moved into the room with the most bunk beds, and Lilac had thrown up a curtain to give them some privacy while they changed. Solitude and Sunny were behind it now, with Soli helping her little sister get into her large uniform, as Lilac and Violet rolled back their sleeves- which were a bit too big- and Klaus adjusted his boots. Nick was still in his sweater, sitting on a lower bunk and hugging his knees.

Lilac blushed and glared at Violet. “What do you mean?”

Violet and Klaus shared an excited look. “She’s real pretty, isn’t she?”

“Stop it.”

“You like her.”

“Stop it!”

“Thought we were too young to date.” Klaus giggled, sliding his commonplace book into a waterproof pocket.

“No, no, dear brother,” Nick said, actually smiling a little. “That’s just us. Lilac’s fifteen, that’s practically an old maid.”

“Shut up.”

“Are you gonna marry her? Is she gonna be our new big sister?” Violet asked.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“It’s karma.” Klaus giggled.

“Also,” Nick added, “We’re your baby siblings, it’s our job.”

“I will kill you.” Lilac huffed, sitting beside Nick in order to start braiding her hair back.

“Good luck trying.” Violet sat on another bunk bed, fiddling with her ribbon.

“Done!” Solitude called, pulling back the curtain as Sunny toddled through. “We just rolled up the pants a bit!”

“Looks great, Sunny.” Lilac smiled. “Nick, you head back.”

Nick flinched. “Actually, um, I… I kinda want to stay. In the sweater.”

They all gave him sad looks, knowing why. “Well…” Lilac said. “You do need a suit. I… I can grab one a size bigger. You can probably put it over your clothes. It might be a bit loose-”

Nick bit his lip. “I… um…” He shut his eyes and sighed. “Nevermind, it’s fine.”

“Nick, really-”

“I’ll just take this one. I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“But-”

“It’s fine.” Nick reached into his pockets, pulling out everything he had there- the handmirror, a box of Verdant Flammable Devices, and a small photo.

Lilac eyed the picture as he put it on the table, next to the other items his siblings taken out of their pockets. “You still have that?”

“You never asked for it back after the carnival.” he shrugged. “You can take it, it’s your baby picture.”

“It’s… fine.”

“It’s honestly a miracle it’s not wet.” Nick laughed slightly. “We were in that stream forever. Anyway, I’ll… I’ll just put my clothes under a bunk somewhere. Klaus, don’t leave that spyglass on the desk, we could need it. Might make a useful weapon if we have to make a quick getaway.”

“Why?” Sunny asked.

Nick didn’t answer. He just took his suit and stepped behind the curtain.

#asoue #asoue movie #asoue netflix #a series of unfortunate events #six baudelaires au #the grim grotto #six baudelaires official fic #mine #my fanfic

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weekendwarriorblog · 4 years

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The Weekend Warrior November 6, 2020 – LET HIM GO, JUNGLELAND, KINDRED, PROXIMA, THE INFORMER and More!

It’s November, which under normal circumstances, would be the holiday season, the thick of awards season, the beginning of the end to the Oscars, but this year? Not so much. Instead, we’re suffering the after-effects of a hugely close and contentious election, although thankfully, there’s quite a few decent movies to check out as we still wait for the whole COVID pandemic to settle down with no end in sight. (And as promised, I got this down to six reviews this week. I wouldn’t expect that next week.)

The biggest wide release this weekend (into 2,200 theaters plus) is Thomas (The Family Stone) Bezucha’s thriller LET HIM GO (Focus Features) starring Kevin Costner and Diane Lane as Montana ranchers George and Margaret Blackledge, who after losing their son James, must try to rescue their young grandson Jimmy, who has been taken to North Dakota to live with his stepfather’s dangerous family, led by matriarch Blanche Weboy (played by Lesley Manville).

I wasn’t really sure what to expect from this movie. The commercials I’ve seen sell it like a straight-up revenge thriller ala the recent Honest Thief, which also isn’t necessarily a straight-up genre film. (Odd coincidence is that this one also has Jeffrey Donovan playing a jerk – I hope it’s not type-casting.) The movie was adapted by Bezucha from a novel by Larry Watson, and it puts Costner into another role where he’s able to ride horses. If you’re a fan of Costner, that might be enough to watch the film, but he gives also gives a typically strong performance as does Lane, as Bezucha reunites Ma and Pa Kent from Zack Snyder’s Man of Steel.

At first, this is more of a family drama where we don’t learn too much about their son before he’s killed – nor do we ever find out who actually killed him. Instead, this is about caring grandparents who worry about how their young grandson might be raised by his new stepfather and his family. It’s particularly suspect when Jimmy’s stepfather leaves for North Dakota in the middle of the night, taking his new wife and stepson with him. It’s enough to make anyone suspicious.

It starts fairly slowly as things are set-up but it leads to more than a few crazy and violent moments including the last act where things really come to a head. Oddly, it isn’t Costner acting like the “tough guy” so much trying to get back Jimmy, despite his background as a sheriff. Instead it’s Lane who impresses with her ability to act super-sweet one moment in order to get results but then fully throwing herself into the film’s violent climax. Oddly, I wasn’t that into Manville’s performance as a malevolent matriarch, and that really surprised me. I do have to call special attention to the amazing Booboo Stewart who plays a Native American lad who helps the couple, this being his second great role/performance of the year after The Grizzlies.

Despite Costner’s presence, Let Him Go feels much more like some of the recent Clint Eastwood movies, and while it has a few issues in terms of tone and pacing, Lane and Costner are more than enough to make this quite enjoyable for what it is.

Even so, that isn’t this week’s “Featured Flicks”…

No, that would be Max (Ceremony) Winkler’s JUNGLELAND (Paramount), an amazing drama starring Charlie Hunnam and Jack O’Connell as brothers Stan and Walter “Lion” Kaminski, the latter who is a brilliant bare knuckle boxers who is constantly dealing with his older brother Stan getting them into trouble with his gambling debts that have left them near to poverty. When Stan gets further into debt with the loan shark Pepper (Jonathan Majors), he agrees to go on a road trip to a big underground no-holds-barred boxing match in San Francisco, but along for the ride is a young woman named Sky (Jessica Barden) who the brothers need to drop off in Reno to the despicable man from whom she ran away in the first place.

This ended up being a far more complex and emotional movie than I expected, although as a huge fan of the movie Warrior, I was interested in seeing how this one diverged from what was one of my favorite movies the year it was released. Well, Winkler does not disappoint, as he finds a way to create a “boxing movie” that’s unlike any other due to a number of elements. We’ve certainly had a few “brother fighters” movies, but what separates Jungleland is that it’s the younger brother played by O’Connell who does all the fighting, his brother acting more as a domineering manager who makes all the decisions for them. You can really feel the love between these brothers and the interesting dynamic that Barden’s Sky brings to the mix.

Maybe you can figure out that there will be some sort of romance between Lion and Sky, but they’re such unique individuals due to the performances by always great O’Connell and an actress who I’m not as familiar with but insures that Sky is not just introduced merely as “love interest.” Sky is bratty and sassy, and she isn’t going to just do what Stanley says even though he always acts like he’s the smartest of the trio, and it’s that attitude that brings so much to the dynamics between the three of them.

There’s a lot of tension leading up to the final fight, as well as a lot of emotion, all enhanced by a gorgeous score from Lorne Balfe that bolsters the performances rather than overpowers them. The way Winkler uses Bruce Springsteen’s cover of Suicide’s “Dream Baby Dream” is the perfect punctuation to a film that keeps you enthralled from beginning to end.

This is just a wonderful film from Winkler, one that really shows his tremendous growth as a filmmaker, and it’s very much the kind of movie that I absolutely love, especially because it’s always going in different directions from the typical boxing movie.

Another nice surprise this weekend was Joe Marcantonio’s psychological thriller KINDRED (IFC Midnight), starring Tamara Lawrence as Charlotte Wilde, who discovers that she’s pregnant by her boyfriend Ben, but when he dies suddenly, Charlotte finds herself trapped in the large estate of Ben’s mother Margaret (Fiona Shaw) and Ben’s creepy half-brother Thomas (Jack Lowden). She soon realizes that Margaret plans on keeping her trapped there in order to keep control of her son’s baby.

I went into this British thriller not really knowing much about it other than its small cast including the generally decent Shaw and Lowden. I wasn’t familiar with Tamara Lawrence at all, but she does a pretty amazing job carrying the film as a woman trying to deal with some sort of pre-natal depression on top of mourning for her ex while also feeling trapped, probably rightfully so. The dynamics between the three people – this is very much a three-hander – is what keeps Kindred so interesting, because Margaret probably blames Charlotte for her son’s death, but Thomas seems to have more lecherous intentions. The whole time, Charlotte has dreams and visions, sometimes horrifying ones, about birds.

Over the course of the film we learn more about Charlotte’s background and her own mother’s issues dealing with “perinatal psychosis,” which could be a big clue to what is happening with Charlotte. Lawrence is absolutely amazing at giving the film a strong heroine who works hard to try to outsmart her captors, and it’s a film that never really goes far into the most expected realms. Marcantonio’s direction works well at maintaining a steady pace, and the musical choices greatly add to the tension even the few times it’s using overused stock classical musical themes.

Kindred works quite effectively as a tense psychological thriller in the vein of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? I expect we have not seen the last of either Lawrence or director Marcantonio.

Eva Green stars in Alice Winocour’s PROXIMA (Vertical) as Sarah Loreau, an engineer and astronaut who has gotten the plum assignment to spend a year aboard the International Space Station. Unfortunately, that would mean being apart from her young daughter Stella for a year, and the film deals with Sara’s tough battle to get through the training necessary while dealing with her emotions over being separated from her daughter.

For some reason, I had lost track of Winocour since her amazing breakthrough film Mustangs, and though it’s odd that this would premiere at the same TIFF as Natalie Portman’s Lucy in the Sky, it’s quite a different movie despite a few similarities, mostly that they’re both about women astronauts. Oddly, Lucy in the Sky is based on a true story, although Proxima feels far more grounded, both literally and figuratively. Much of that is because we only see Sara’s journey before getting on the rocket into space.

In many ways, Proxima means to show how tough training for a space mission is on women, particularly having to leave their children behind, and Green does an amazing job in the many demands of the role. Part of Sara’s issue is that she’s dealing within a very heavily competitive male-dominated environment, as typified Matt Dillon’s Texan astronaut Mike, but there’s also the aspect of her not wanting to show any signs of weakness. (It’s a rarity for women, particularly a French one, to have this opportunity.)

Much of what’s keeping Sarah from giving up is because she wants to be a great role model for her daughter, and honestly the scenes between Green and young Zélie Boulant are so wonderful they almost make the movie in themselves. It’s to Winocour’s credit that she continually shows how well she does at casting younger and newer actresses. I’d be neglect if I didn’t mention the gorgeous score by Ryuichi Sakamoto, who seems like such a great get for Winocour, being that he hasn’t scored as many movies in recent years.

Winocour has created another beautiful film, one that really sticks with you because she and Eva Green manage to convey the story of a woman we rarely get to see in movies in such a truly authentic and emotional way. Sadly, Proxima isn’t getting a theatrical release, but it will be on digital and VOD this Friday.

Bryan Bertino, director of The Strangers, returns with THE DARK AND THE WICKED (RLJEfilms/Shudder), an eerie horror thriller mostly set on a farm where sister and brother Louise and Michael (played by Marin Ireland and Michael Abbott Jr.) return to see their dying father only to find their mother (Julie Oliver-Touchstone) behaving erratically. They soon learn that there’s something dark and wicked (hence the title) holding sway over anyone who enters the place.

I was pretty excited to see this movie, because while I wasn’t the biggest fan of The Stranger, I could see from his debt that Bertino definitely had talent as a director in terms of creating a mood and tone that can keep an audience on edge. While I haven’t seen his other two films since then, The Dark and the Wicked proves that my earlier instincts were correct. With a fairly simple premise, location and relatively small cast that’s usually one or both of the two main actors, Bertino has created an enigmatic and eerier horror-thriller that does both the two elements that makes for good horror – create interesting characters with depth and then proceed to totally fuck with them in any way possible.

In this case, the set-up might seem slow to match its Southern setting, but this is one of those rare cases where slow isn’t necessarily bad. Ti West’s The Innkeepers and House of the Devil is a pretty gauge for whether this is your kind of horror. If you liked those, you’ll probably like this.

Once the gory and quite disturbing stuff starts happening, Bertino rarely lets up. Although some of the imagery isn’t as original – a woman chopping off her fingers for the third time this year! – there’s just a lot of things that are done in such clever and unique ways. There’s little question that Bertino knows how to creep viewers out and put them on on edge, but it’s all greatly helped by the two main actors who really sell the scares. I won’t get too into what the evil is that’s causing people who enter the house to savagely mutilate themselves, but it is of a demonic nature

While at first, this might seem to be in the vein of the recent Relic, of which I wasn’t too big a fan, it also delves into territory ala The Witch (without the historical setting), and that might in fact be the best barometer to decide whether Bertino’s latest is for you. Be warned that like this year’s The Lodge, The Dark and Wicked lives up to its title because you witness a lot of truly awful things, and you should not expect it to end cheerfully. (I also want to give credit to Bertino’s DP, since I’ve watched so many horror movies this year that are so dark, you cannot make out what’s going on, which isn’t the case here.)

A movie that was supposed to be released way back in March by Aviron Pictures is finally coming back via Vertical, Noriva as Andrea Di Stefano’s THE INFORMER finally sees the light of day in the U.S. after being released all over the world. It stars Joel Kinnaman as Peter/Piotr Koslow, a Polish assassin and mercenary, who has been working as an undercover FBI inside man to help them bust criminals. Rosamund Pike plays his handler, Agent Wilcox, while Clive Owen is her immediate supervisor. After a drug bust that gets an undercover cop killed, Piotr finds himself being investigated by a local detective, played by Common.

The Informer starts as as a fairly typical crime-thriller that seems to be inspired a little too much by Breaking Bad, but in fact, it was adapted from a Swedish crime thriller called 3 Seconds, written by Anders Roslund and Borge Hellström. What’s interesting is that it transforms itself from being a passable but bland entry in one of the most overused movie genres ever into something halfway interesting when Peter is sent back to jail to get closer to the drug kingpin known as The General.

If you’re a fan of Joel Kinnaman, then maybe you’ll enjoy this, but I don’t think Kinnaman has very much charisma as an actor and that really hurts the first half of the movie where he’s required to do a lot of heavy-lifting, especially opposite Pike. But it takes a while to adjust to the fact that everyone in this movie, other than Common – showing less range than usual – has taken on some sort of accent. It’s certainly a decision, though I’m not sure it’s the best one.

I have to admit that I didn’t fully understand the dynamics between the characters, and it didn’t get much easier once Peter goes back to prison, but in general, I felt like there was a lot of talent wasted here, particularly Ana de Armas as Peter’s wife. It also is a little devoid of thrills, but again, that’s mostly through when the movie turns into a prison drama, which is where it gets quite a bit better. That said, I’m still not sure if Common is supposed to be one of the good or bad guys…

The Informer may not be the most inspired crime-thriller, and Kinnaman’s typically stiff performance doesn’t help, but there’s some good moments towards the end that makes it not feel like wasted time to watch it.

Opening in 200 theaters this Friday is True to the Game 2 (Imani Media Group), which as you might guess is the sequel to movie called True to the Game, which I have not seen. It’s a street level gangster crime thriller that begins with a lot of black people shooting at each other, which seems rather ill-timed for the current situation in the country (and New York in particular). The movie stars Erica Peeples as Gina, the love interest of Quadir Richards, a drug dealer murdered in the first movie, who decides to leave Philly to recreate herself as a New York journalist. While in L.A. on an important assignment, her past in Philly follows her as Quadir’s killer Jerell (Andra Fuller) wants revenge for a hit against his crew in revenge for them getting revenge for Quadir. Oh, the movie also stars Vivica A. Fox as a woman named “Shoog.” I’m not going to review this, partially because I don’t think I’ll have much to say without having seen the first movie, but this is also not my kind of thing nor am I the target audience for it, so writing a review might just be a waste of all of our time. (Hint: It isn’t a good movie.)

Jeff Roda’s 18 to Party (Giant Pictures) is set in a small town in 1984, as it deals with a group of 8th graders who have been dealing with UFO sightings, missing parents and recent suicides as they try to get into a club despite being underage. Boy, does this have a lot of ‘80s references, so it should really be my thing. Sadly, it’s very talkie and not particularly well-written while being derivative of so many other things like Stand By Me and the It movies as filtered through Richard Linklater. Roda does get some points for his choice in music that includes Big Audio Dynamite and one of my own ‘80s favorites, The Alarm. (And yes, U2 DID steal much of its sound and schtick from the Alarm, so kudos for the movie acknowledging it.) Unfortunately, it’s used as awkwardly as most of the interactions between the kids, and yet, I still didn’t hate this. 18 to Party will open via virtual cinemas on Friday through the Laemmle in L.A. in Alamo on Demand (New York and other cities) but then will get a VOD release in North America on December 1.

From Sweden – running the gauntlet of almost every single genre festival since its release overseas in the summer of 2019 -- comes the dark fantasy-horror Koko-Di Koko-Da (Dark Star Pictures) from filmmaker Johannes Nyholm, about a couple terrorized by a sideshow artist and his entourage in the woods. I honestly didn’t get too far into the movie, because like many Swedish movies, this one is so dark and grim that it starts with the couple losing their 8-year-old daughter in the first ten minutes and when the horror element shows up, I just couldn’t get too far. Maybe I’ll give this another chance when I’m in a better head.

Similarly, I saw but don’t have much to say about Alastair Orr’s Triggered (Samuel Goldwyn Films). It’s a stylized horror-thriller in the Saw vein where a group of nine friends are out camping and partying in the woods when they wake up to find suicide bombs strapped to their chests with different countdown clocks, but in order to survive, they need to kill their friends to get more time on their clocks. It’s another high-concept thriller ala the recent No Escape and considering how much I hated that movie, I knew this wouldn’t be my thing either. I’m a little surprised that it’s being released by Samuel Goldwyn since they normally focus on more arty films and not C-level genre fare.

At my beloved local theater, the Metrograph, which I miss deeply, they’re continuing their “Robert Kramer Retrospective,” now showing Milestones from 1975, while Jessie Jeffrey Dunn Rovinelli’s So Pretty will run through Thursday night. This Friday, the terrific doc Decade of Fire, directed by Gretchen Hildebran and Vivian Vazquez Irizarry, will debut as part of Metrograph’s Live Screening series, and I have to say tht this is quite a fantastic doc about the series of building fires that decimated the Bronx in the ‘70s. Monday will see the debut of the 1974 doc Frame-Up! The Imprisonment of Martin Sostre, directed by Steven Fischler, Joel Sucher and Howar Blatt, and I remind again that the Live Screening series can be accessed with an annual Metrograph membership, which is still just $50 a year or $5 month-to-month, and you cannot get a better deal right now within the world of Virtual Cinema with the number of movies being offered for that price.

Metrograph has also begun a “Ticketed Screening” series where you can pay per film, and the second one in that series is the 1965 French anthology Six in Paris (Icarus Films), that has the likes of Chabrol, Godard, Pollet and Rohmer telling short cinematic stories set in Paris, which is a must-see for fans of the French New Wave of the ‘60s. That’s available for $8 for members and $12 for non-members, so being a member is STILL a pretty good deal.

Film Forum’s Virtual Cinema continues King Hu’s Rain in the Mountain, Frederick Wiseman’s City Hall and more, joined by a double feature of Fellini’s Toby Dammit (1969) and Chris Marker’s La Jetée (1962) (the basis for Terry Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys) starting Friday.

Also, just want to throw a quick shoutout to my much-missed neighbors uptown at Film at Lincoln Center, who also have a fairly hearty Virtual Cinema going with new and repertory offerings.

Also, if you read this week’s column and have bothered to read this far down, feel free to drop me some thoughts at Edward dot Douglas at Gmail dot Com or drop me a note or tweet on Twitter. I love hearing from readers … honest!

#TheWeekendWarrior #Movies #Reviews #LetHimGo #TheInformer #Proxima #Kindred #the dark and the wicked #Jungleland

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randomnotesofmyown · 4 years

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Psycho Pass (5-6)

Episode 5 - Nobody knows your face Tsunemori assumed the avatar of Lemonade Candy and apologized to Spooky Boogie. Spooky Boogie rejected the apology and, after making clear that she would act as an agent for the police again, she booted Lemonade Candy out of her chat room.

Back into the real world of her office, Tsunemori still hadn't the faintest idea who was behind Spooky Boogie.

Kogami asked Karanomori the IT technician if the conversation was recorded.

Masaoka said he did not understand stuff like avatar and virtual worlds.

Tsunemori replied with a long answer, "Isn't using the net just like using knives for cooking or using paper to write things down? It has nothing to do with good or bad. It's like, it's there so we accept it and use it."

Masaoka commended Tsunemori was good at explaining things like a teacher. The he asked the young agent if she knew about Rousseau and his work, A Discourse of Inequality.

Tsunemori wanted to look it up, Masaoka replied that it was not necessary. He memorized it. And then, he gave an example: "Suppose there are two hunters in a forest, should they hunt for rabbits separately? Or, should they work together and go after bigger prey?" "The latter of course. That's the basics of game theory. You work together to catch bigger prey." Replied Tsunemori. "That's right. Humans are social by nature. Languages, letters, currencies, telephones, all the communication tools that exist in the world are there in order to strengthen that social nature. Do you think the net has the same effect, missy?" Tsunemori hesitantly replied yes. Kogami spotted the difference in the choice of words Spooky Boogie used to refer to the police. In the past, she rarely used the word police, but that morning when she rejected Tsunemori's apology, she used it. Kogami concluded that the Spooky Boogie Tsunemori talked to in the morning was a different person. The agents tracked the access route and found the location where the culprit was operating Talisman. They went to the apartment and found themselves in a trap.

The only person injured from the explosion was Ginoza. As they waited outside while firefighters dealt with the fire after the explosion, Ginoza got a call from Kogami, and was told that another victim was found. Sugawara Shoko, 20, the actual person behind Spooky Boogie was killed in the same way as Hayama. Estimated time of death was before dawn.

"Did you use Spooky Boogie, Sugawara Shoko, as a decoy?" "No." "Did you force her to cooperate?" "No." "Did you leak information on her to the enemy?" "No."

"Then what exactly is your fault?" "That's...But she actually got..." "Yeah, if we had caught the culprit last night, Sugawara Shoko wouldn't have died. The responsibility for that lies with all of us. For now, just think about fulfilling your responsibilities. Let's catch this guy."

Karanomori found another suspicious avatar, Rainy Blue. The actual person behind it was a 14 year old who died six months ago. But the avatar remained active after his death. Tsunemori noted the exceptional acting abilities of the culprit as he was operating three avatars simultaneously. "Not only are these hijacked avatars not incurring suspicion, they're more popular than when their real owners operated them." "Why is it that tens of thousands of users don't notice they're fake?" asked Ginoza. Kogami, "Because it's not a matter of real or fake. These avatars are idols on the net. In other words, icons. Icons cannot exist solely through their own will. Neither Hayama nor Sugawara established their status on their own. They were able to become Talisman and Spooky Boogie because their fans idolized them based on their own distorted perceptions. The idols' true feelings and their true colors are not the same as the ideals their character represents. It's not surprising that a fan could do a better job then the real owners in playing the idol fans expect to see." The agents narrowed down to one person by analyzing the activity pattern of zealous fans who stopped visiting the respective communfields of the three avatars when their real owners died.

The agents split into two teams. Kogami's team came face to face with the suspect.

Mido escaped despite being badly wounded. He got home and vowed to the three avatars that he would protect them at any cost. However, those avatars, controlled by Makishima, made an announcement.

"You can play any character, and yet, in the end, it turned out that you yourself are nobody. Your core personality is null. It's empty. You don't have a face of your own. Since you lacked a face, you were simply able to wear any kind of mask. It's about time to say goodbye, Mido Masatake. The hunting dogs that bring death have arrived. "

Mido was killed right at the scene.

Ginoza praised Tsunemori for her performance and sent her a personnel file of his former partner, an inspector who got demoted to an enforcer.

"28 years old. Former inspector."

End of episode 5

Episode 6 - Return of the Psychotic Prince

Flashback of what happened before Kogami's psycho pass went haywire. Enforcer Sasayama got butchered.

Ginoza discussed with Bureau chief about inspector Tsunemori.

The subject shifted to Ginoza. The chief commented, "A causal relationship between genes and crime coefficients still hasn't been scientifically proven. However, that also means that it hasn't been scientifically disproven."

Tsunemori asked Kagari about what happened that got Kogami demoted. He mentioned that an enforcer who worked under Kogami got killed in the same gruesome manner as the other victims. Tsunemori then asked other agents about that case.

Karanomori said in that specimen case, plastination (a process used to create biological specimens) was used to commit grotesque murder.

Tsunemori met with her friends, briefly talked about her work and that troublemaker colleague. One of her friends asked as a thought

A call from Ginoza, Tsunemori left for work.

Cut to a boarding girls' school, a student named Kuzuhara Satsuki had been missing for some time. Two students were discussing it, and one of the girls was about to say something about a teacher when a immensely popular student Ouryou Rikako appeared.

"I'm a little afraid of her. Her eyes...are sometimes blank. It seems as if they're staring into a different dimension."

Ouryou greeted the two girls and invited them to join her art club. Before walking off, Ouryou added that she might be absorbed in thought at times, "but it's not like I'm looking into a different dimension. I'm not an alien, you know."

Ouryou was drawing a picture when another student entered.

Ouryou asked that student, Yoshika, about her stepfather.

Cut to the Public Safety, Ginoza was interrogating Kanehara. He asked Kanehara where he obtained the memory card that turned drones into killing machines.

Back in the office, Ginoza told his colleagues his deduction

But what puzzled him was how the sender knew Kanehara would kill in the first place. Kogami, "Pops figured out Kanehara just by checking the records of the staff's periodic checkups. There was someone else who could do the same thing. That periodic checkup record wasn't confidential, either. It was Kanehara and Mido who had the motive. That must have been enough reason for him." "Kogami?" "The intent and means to kill...creating a crime by bringing those two otherwise separate things together. That's his goal."

At a park, workers of the Public Cleaning Bureau found something strange about a fountain and made a phone call request that the fountain hologram be turned off for inspection.

Ouryou was drawing another picture.

Makishima sat and watched behind her.

The two talked about the death of Lavinia in Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus.

End of episode 6

Comment Episode five discussed the social nature of humans and the role the internet plays to strengthen or maybe weaken that trait as well as the things that make net celebrities popular. Mido, a lonesome man who seek fame, managed to play three avatars better than their respective original owners. By the end of the episode, however, Makishima determined that Mido was a hollow man without his own face and voice. Bored with Mido, Makishima discarded him like he was worthless.

Episode six explored whether genes have control over a person's characteristics or traits; and it depicted Makishima as a person who liked gruesome stuffs, entrenched in a negative worldview and could exert huge influence on anyone he found interesting.

Makishima reminded me of Johan. They were both very intelligent, with a deep understanding of humans, very focused on the inevitable end of life, and manipulative. In other word, Makishima was a monster, like Johan.

#psycho pass

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aleatoryalarmalligator · 7 years

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my life story continued..

In the winter of 1999, our hot water heater broke, and we had to heat water in a bucket on the wood stove. Which was also our only means of heat, so we all got bunk beds – except him and we all slept around the wood stove in our bunk beds. When my mother left, she also took every one of the antique toys I played with growing up and cherished, and also all my antique golden books that are worth hundreds, my specialty 80's toys, my goosebumps collection and she had my uncle Rusty who owns a successful second-hand store in Kellogg Idaho, pawn them for her so she could take the money and spend it on meth. So from then on until I was about fourteen, I didn't have many things. I ended up just keeping every piece of homework I got back from the teachers, and I collected rocks at the creek. Those were my things. My friends would come in my room sometimes, and they would be absolutely baffled because unlike them, I didn't have things. I just had boring rocks and sticks on my shelves. My father bought me a learners guitar that Christmas, but I made the mistake of taking it to my mother's house where her boyfriend went and traded it for something and I never saw it again.

So when I wasn't at my mom's horrible place, I was freezing to death at home, or suffering from anxiety death in school. This kind of pressure was probably good for me, but I will never know because I've only done it once and do not care to do it again.

Mrs. Brammer, my 4th grade teacher, probably getting the let-in from my 3rd grade teacher, that I was an exceptionally 'stupid' child decided that I was a slow learner. So in fourth grade, they got me started on reading Dr. Seuss books. It was kind of made known to me that I would never evolve past children's books. It didn't help that my nose was constantly bleeding out of nowhere or that my hair was super frizzy. Sometimes in class I would push my eyes as hard as I could till I saw really great colors. I would do this for most of classes sometimes, just to avoid having to be where I was, or be who I was.

My reading score was atrociously low, I will admit that. I am not sure why that was. Years later when I went to college for a brief time, they skipped me past English I to English II because I when they gave me my aptitude test I tested perfectly. Anyway, I am in a sense not sorry I appeared so unintelligent, because I ended up reading all the Shel Silverstein books, and I read The Lorax, which is such a progressive book, it probably taught me more than three years in class at my dumb elementary did.

That winter I had the misfortune of permanently fucking up my knee pretty good. I didn't break it or anything, but I had a real crash with my bike that fall. Then when it just started to heal, I fell down a flight of stairs, which reopened the scab and made it even worse and infected. And just when I thought I was done with the misfortune, I ended up slipping as I walked down the hill to go home after school, and I fell knee first into hard cement that was graciously sprinkled with monstrous hard little pieces of spiky basalt, and there was a strange burning tickling sensation like no other, and when that knee finally healed, the skin looked pretty awful and to this day it's kind of shimmery.

Because I talked to myself a lot, I guess someone reported me to the counselor. So for a short period of time I saw a counselor named Mrs. Friedburger? Something like that. Doesn't seem right but that's what I remember her name being. She came from Arkansas for some reason, just to be a counselor in this tiny little elementary school in north Idaho for some reason that I will never know the reason for, and she had a very thick accent. She was actually a really nice lady. But sometimes she would ask me these amazingly frustrating questions that nobody could answer, especially a 4th grader. She would ask me how I felt, and I would tell her. And then she would ask me what I felt underneath that. And I didn't know what on earth she meant. I was not aware that there were two or more feelings going on at the same time. I tried to explain to her that I didn't have any other feelings, but she persisted till I gave her what she wanted to hear. But then she would ask me for another feeling underneath that, which, if the second one had any grain of truth to it, the third feeling was a complete and total fabrication. I was not sure what she wanted.

She ended up assembling me, and two other girls in my age group, a girl named Nicole, who would end up having a reputation as being a pretty loose girl who was always drunk – even in school and now lives in a camper in a North Dakota oil field, and a girl named Casey, who always seemed frightened and always dated druggy rednecks who treated her rudely even though she seemed very nice herself, though a bit dull. She now is a waitress, and if for some silly reason you ever want to go visit the small pointless town of Kendrick Idaho, you can surely be guaranteed to be served by her if you so fancy.

Mrs. Friedburger called this group The Children Of Divorce. We played this board game based on divorce. Which was like bingo and candy land mixed together kind of. Then we would go around the room and we were forced to answer questions and open up about our feelings about our parents divorcing. Listening to these other girls talk, I really got the sense that, as bad as my life was, I felt like I had something else within myself I could turn to. These girls were very much like sponges. They just openly figured they would do exactly what their mothers did. They had no opinions, and their lives actually seemed rougher than mine. Both of them had rotten stepfathers for instance. They had to worry about these stepfathers in a way that I didn't have to worry at home. And I didn't even have it good at home.

I got the feeling that this wasn't really helping me at all. It probably wasn't. I got frustrated too, because Mrs. Friedburger really wanted to believe that the source of my instability and eccentricity was due to the sorrows of my parents divorce. I tried to explain to her that I just didn't like going to my mother's house, but my parent's separation was a huge relief. She just didn't buy it. In her mind, I think she really believed that all children react the same way, which they do not.

My father wasn't all that great to me though after awhile. Still didn't compare to what these girls had to go home to, but it wasn't good either. My father is incredibly talkative. He often times will talk to someone for three straight hours. Many people have said it is somewhat abrasive. He doesn't really like listening. He gets this openly annoyed look on his face if you pipe in at all. So, him going through a divorce and whathaveyou, he had a lot to say about my mother and about life in general, and I was there to hear the whole thing, but I never learned how to have an actual real conversation from him. He would talk to me until I was exhausted. I was happy to be getting so much of my father's focus, but there was a large element of this that simply wasn't fair. I had no voice, and he was making up in his mind who he thought I was. I don't think my dad can help this, but if something isn't all about something he can be doing, he really doesn't seem to genuinely understand it. I mean, he's a smart guy, and curious.

He listens to people more now that he is older, and he reads a lot and I think in his way tries very hard to understand other people. But he fails in many regards. He really just doesn't get anyone he has ever known, never had a single friend who stuck, girlfriend, and he rarely talks to his family, and this is partially because he's a total sucker. And partially because he talks and talks to people and doesn't really empathize with them. He means well most of the time. He's capable of empathy, but this empathy has to be spelled out so clearly in the sky, being broadcast from speakers repetitively, that it made him a very difficult parent for someone like me to have. He also has something kind of off about his memory. Every single day, he will kind of repeat what he said yesterday, or even a few hours ago. Growing up with it, I got used to it. But when I got older, I realized there was something kind of weird going on.

Anyway, once a month too, he flies into a rage and has to take it out on someone aggressively and with complete hatred. It's something you can mostly always count on. And that someone was generally always me. He would randomly be very cruel to me. I became extremely mistrustful of him. Because he would be very nice to me, and very focused, and then he would yell at me, call me stupid, demand things from me, scare me, shame me. And when he had me to the point where I was crying and could barely breath and didn't know up from down, he would get in my face and mock me till I felt like I was nothing. This must have made him feel better. For the life of me, I don't know what he did this for, but it had to have served some kind of purpose. After crying myself to sleep, my face stung from the salt of tears, I would go to school, be treated like nothing by my friends and teachers, go to my mother's for the weekend, be treated like nothing, and then by the next week, my father, my one and only friend would have mysteriously lost his anger and be very chipper and want to talk to me. And I think my younger siblings would watch these fights happen, and they in a way would grow to look down at me at times, internalizing the concept that I was somehow a polarizing human being. Because they were very little and did not understand what I had done wrong, but they knew it was bad.

I remember one time he repeated to me over and over that I was stupid just like my mother. And I was ugly. I was having some troubles with spelling. Which is funny because my father can't spell

apple' and I actually nearly won the spelling bee twice. He ended up throwing the spelling book at me and told me he couldn't stand looking at me anymore.

Everything is moving towards it's end, and to a new beginning, kind of. At school, I just could not keep following ten feet behind Samantha and Sarah Mae as they pretended to be Spice Girls on the playground anymore. I wrote a letter telling Samantha that I didn't want to be friends with them anymore and that neither one of them cared about me. Of course this became GIRLFIGHT! And Sarah and Samantha would gossip and look over at me. I was told that I didn't do enough to hang out with them, and I was actually the one that was isolating myself by being such a weirdo, returned in a letter under more fourth grade girl terms. Then Catherine, who I had never liked, but who was also being left out by them decided to jump on my bandwagon and separate from them as well. She then decided that I would be her new best friend.

I was sitting by myself under the shade in the corner of the playground, when Catherine started throwing rocks at me. This was always the kind of thing that I didn't like about her. She demanded that she would not stop until I became her best friend. So, I meekly agreed to be her best friend eventually. Which I hated saying. I didn't want to be her friend, but it was kind of hard for me to feel comfortable sitting in the lunch room by myself, so I took her up on terms of convenience. She then told the school counselor, Mrs. Friedburger, who was happy to see I had made a new friend and we were both sent to the counselor's room to tell her what good friends we were. But it felt like I was getting married with someone I could barely stand. I wanted her to go away, but she wouldn't.

Then, in the midst of this whole thing, Mrs. Brammer randomly assigned everyone in the class with a planet, and we had to be randomly teamed up with another student. And low and behold, they teamed me up with precious Sarah-Mae. We had never really formally hung out. She was always either hanging out with Catherine, or Samantha even though we were in the same group. It was pretty awkward to be teamed up with her while I was hashing it out with Samantha, and having an involuntary marriage to Catherine. I was great at not doing homework, but I wasn't so good at throwing other people under the bus if I could help it.

Then, that same week, my father met Sarah-Mae's mom at the store, Carol. Carol had been my dad's first serious girlfriend. He dated her when he was in the rock band for three years. Then he cheated on her, twice. And it broke her heart, and then she moved to Hawaii and New York City and Seattle where she had really interesting jobs, and she got a few degrees in college that she had trouble ever applying, and eventually she had Sarah-Mae, but then Sarah-Mae's dad went crazy, and they moved to Kendrick, which was where of course I lived. Sarah and I had actually met once before, in Zany Graze when we were three years old. I have no memory of it. But she had randomly came over and sat next to me, which was unlike her since she was a shy child.

So my father found out I had this project, and as he saw Carol as someone he could talk and talk and talk and talk at, he decided to bring me over so she and I could work on it. There was no way for me to avoid her, much as I wanted to. We were destined to be friends.

It turned out that Sarah-Mae and I had a lot in common. We were both really invested in drawing. We liked the same shows. I thought Sarah's room was really neat. She had a fish tank in her room. Her mother had built her a giant dollhouse for her barbies. She had a dog named Bear Dog and a cat named Precious, who hissed at me when she saw me in the house. Carol made us popcorn, and she listened to the radio. I thought she was definitely a cool mom. Their home was cluttered, but in a neat orderly way. Like, the fridge was covered in magnets and there was a lot of antique things and plants about, but everything was where it should be just the same. Sarah had a lot of knick knacks. She liked to skateboard, and play super Nintendo.

I will admit, we didn't hit it off as well as Rachelle and I did. Rachelle and I had been almost too good of friends. We just sort of became the same person after awhile. We were inseparable and we tended to cause damage and chaos everywhere we went. She had the same inner wildness as me, only Rachelle could actually show it, where as I have always been a secretly wild person who has trouble finding outlets. Sarah and my friendship has always been different because even while we are close and very similar, there is always a distance and a strong sense that she is she and I am me. It's not a bad thing, it actually kind of fosters an appreciation you might not be able to have if you were to not have boundaries, but it makes for a completely different kind of friendship. There were rules with Sarah-Mae that you had to kind of go by. Which made me feel awkward because I didn't have any rules at all. She was a much more existential friend than Rachelle had been.

She didn't have rules to be mean most of the time, it was just part of her nature. She had stomach issues so she could not eat certain things or she would become horribly nauseated. She had to carry around crackers all the time in case she would get sick. This was I think something that burdened her life so much it actually became part of her personality. Till well into junior high, she rarely ever went to her friend's house, with a few exceptions. We all had to visit her. Part of it early on was that she was so attached to her mother that she felt bad if she stayed the night somewhere else. This always baffled me. I was always looking for an excuse to get away from those lunatics at home. But even so, after her mom wasn't the reason anymore, that's just kind of how she is most of the time. You have to kind of work around her a bit. It's something you get used to. She has to gauge everything cautiously before she jumps. And I have occasionally had to push her out of her comfort zone I think.

Her room had to stay in a certain order. When you stayed the night, you had to make sure your feet were clean, I have always felt weird if I overate in front of Sarah too, even though I am sure she doesn't actually care – especially now. In a way, for me at least, I always kind of wanted to make her a Rachelle. There is something a little bit lonely at times about being Sarah's friend. But we really just love each other a lot. Sarah was actually a very nice person at home. She was always a fantastic listener. She didn't have the same taste in destruction that I did. So I learned to kind of suppress my inner anguish and delightful need for chaos at least a little bit, though she seemed to appreciate, at least in theory that I was that way. I wouldn't say that Sarah isn't that way herself. It's just different somehow. She is a very pleasant gentle person who harmonizes with people, and studies them in a way that is very pleasant to be around. There is a level of thought to things she does that most people put no thought into whatsoever. I think that being around her probably offset a lot of traits I would have otherwise picked up from my family that I would have been a lot worse off for having.

So after learning that doing the Venus project wasn't so bad after all, we just started hanging out everyday we could. It became almost a daily routine. We would get off after school, go to her house, share a bag of popcorn, watch Pokemon, and then we would both draw alien girls together. We bonded over this. Sarah for the first few years lied and said that somehow she had come up with alien girls first, though she later admitted to me that this wasn't true. She just was envious of them and wanted to draw them without feeling like she was copying me.

This made my life a lot better overall. Catherine was not too happy about it. There was this big fight over who get's to have 'The Renee' in the playground. Sarah grabbed one of my arms and Catherine grabbed the other. I remember both of them were tugging on me. I felt pretty annoyed. I had told Catherine to go away. She was crying, and saying I broke my promise. And she's right, I did. I had forged a friendship with Sarah-Mae, which made me an in-disposable member of 'the group' again. Catherine was kind of mean. I know she was just a little girl who's family was messed up. And she's grown up to be a pretty nice person from what I can tell. She avoids most of her family. She's married to this guy who I actually work with. They are both kind of dullards by my standards. But they seem to really love each other and they have some kids. So I am glad that Catherine went on to have a somewhat good life.

By the end of the school year, I still had a lot of issues. But I was sort of adjusting to Rachelle not being around anymore.

Then I had another really horrible worst day of my life – at least to me back then. We were going to have picture day at school, and my father, in a rare moment of empathetic realization thought that perhaps I might like something to wear for picture day that year.. He talked to Carol – who had already grown weary of him (and probably still didn't like him from the times he cheated on her when they were young), and she was going to take Sarah-Mae down to the really atrociously horrible clothing store that was in Kendrick. Basically, it was a store that had overpriced 80's clothes in it, before it was realized in the 2010's that 80's was actually fucking awesome and we had forgotten. So Sarah and I went together to this dumb store, where years ago my sister Maria had the cops called for shoplifting.

Sarah and I both struggled to find something acceptable for school, but we eventually both wanted the same shirt. I was a lot heavier than Sarah. The shirt fit me, but not spectacularly well. It fit Sarah very well. I remember going into their changing area, which was basically part of the room, and for some reason I will never understand, Carol started talking about how much prettier and more petite her own daughter was than me with the snotty woman in the store. I had up to that point, not really compared myself to Sarah in that way. But it became obvious to me that in that moment when most people saw us hanging out in town, they probably just saw a cute skinny girl hanging out with a fat scraggly girl who's clothes didn't fit.

It really was too much. Me now – I would have said something snarky and made everyone uncomfortable. Or I just might not care. I have an extremely exquisite sense of aesthetic. I also don't value life in this way. But to have an adult ultimately talking about how fat I was, was really hard for me to take. To be fair, I think the store lady was the one who really was emphasizing my weight per say, but Carol was using it as a launching pad to talk about how lovely her daughter was compared to other girls. I was too afraid to come out of the dressing room at that point because my entire body was shaking and I was weeping silently. Eventually I found the strength and held it in and came out. Sarah looked extremely guilty. I don't think she really liked what they were saying about me, but didn't know what to say. She was trying to pretend it didn't happen. She certainly wasn't going to go against her mother. Carol then superseded my decision to get the shirt that I wanted, and instead I ended up buying nothing and I felt totally horrible. Sarah got the shirt, and she wore it for picture day. Looking back at the pictures, I wasn't all that fat at all. It was just that Sarah was still 70 lbs. I was probably 105 lbs. And I was pudgy. I was at that stage where you have to stop shopping in the kids section, but I didn't know it yet. And actually, that shirt sucked. The shirt I ended up having to wear was way cooler.

I held my breakdown in somehow for the rest of the evening, even though it felt like a golf ball was jammed in my throat. When my father picked me up after work later that evening, even though it's a bad idea to cry in front of him, I did so anyway. I lost control and started wailing. I couldn't hold it in anymore. I think the outburst shocked him to at first have sympathy. He tried to comfort me. But then I think the notion that other adults saw me as less started making him feel insecure as well. Like, in his dumb little head it was like I had lost him an award. I could not stop crying. Eventually after twenty minutes of this at home. He began screaming at me. He told me I was fat and ugly and that everything Carol said about me was true. I wasn’t like other girls. I was an ugly freak. He told me to shut up. He told me to shut up a lot growing up.

I cried until three in the morning or so. Before finally mercifully passing out from exhaustion.

In case you want to read the first parts of my personal tale here are the links to the first, second, third and fourth parts.

PART 4

http://aleatoryalarmalligator.tumblr.com/post/160729982054/being-10-in-1999

PART 3

http://aleatoryalarmalligator.tumblr.com/post/160399693214/about-me-the-third-part-i-did-it-after-all

PART 2

http://aleatoryalarmalligator.tumblr.com/post/160333575899/life-story-part-2

PART 1

http://aleatoryalarmalligator.tumblr.com/post/160186590059/about-me-life-story-part-1

#text

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zombieplaguedoc · 4 years

Text

OC Profile: Madeline

Name: Madeline Bailey "Maddie" Kroffman Age: 25 Gender: Female Species: Human Date of birth: September 3 Eye color: Brown Hair color: Dark brown Normal attire: Black jeans, a white Motley Crue t-shirt, a black slightly damaged leather jacket, black boots, black fingerless gloves, and a pink hair bow that belonged to her little sister. Sexuality: Haven't entirely decided. Either bisexual or asexual bi-demiromantic Fandom: None. I guess whatever I decide to put her in. Relationships: Michael Kroffman (deceased father), Johnathan Reed (stepfather), Jennifer Kroffman-Reed (mother), Bianca Taylor Kroffman (deceased little sister) Bio: Madeline was born to Michael Kroffman and his girlfriend, Jennifer, as a result of him not wearing a condom, and her forgetting to take her birth control. Jennifer wanted to have an abortion, since they were both teenagers at the time, but Michael didn’t want to, and insisted they keep the baby, so they did. Michael loved his daughter very much, but unfortunately, her mother didn’t, and she showed it. She firmly believed that Madeline had ruined her life by taking it away, since she had to stay at home with her and could no longer go out, while Michael searched for a job that was better than the one he currently had; because of this, Jennifer called Madeline all sorts of names, threatened her that if she didn’t stop crying things would turn ugly at times, and hit her once she started to grow a little older. Michael didn’t know about this until one day Maddie told him that her mother hit her. Michael was shocked, and desperately wanted to divorce Jennifer so Maddie wouldn’t get hurt, but he knew that if they took this to court, Jennifer would get full custody of Maddie, so there was no way out of it until Madeline turned 18. As she grew, Madeline became more boyish, which her father didn’t mind, unlike her mother, who hated it and ridiculed Madeline for acting like a boy. As if that wasn’t enough, she was picked on by the other girls at school for being too “boyish.” Then, when Madeline was nine, her mother gave birth to another child, a girl named Bianca. Michael and Maddie were thrilled at having a new member of the family, but, of course, Jennifer wasn’t. Now that there were two kids in the family, Michael had to get two jobs to support them. Because of this, Maddie had to be the one to look after Bianca, since their mother would just get angry when she cried. But one thing this family noticed about Bianca, as she grew, was that she was much differently than the other kids; she stopped talking when she was three, flapped her hands and spun around for no reason, wouldn’t eat certain foods or do certain things, and would have meltdowns for seemingly no reason. Jennifer was outraged, and Madeline and Michael were worried. Later on, when Bianca was six and Madeline was twelve, a doctor diagnosed Bianca with autism, and that her behavior was normal for autistic children, with the hand flapping and spinning being a process called “Stimming” and the meltdowns being caused by sensory overload or other factors. This meant Bianca had to go to Special Education since she didn’t learn like the other kids, and often had to be brought inside to prevent meltdowns. Jennifer was angered by this, because both of her daughters were not “perfect” and took it out on both of them. Michael tried to reason with Jennifer, and they fought a lot, but Jennifer wouldn’t let up. At school, things got worse for Bianca; she was hit a lot for being “weird” and the bullies that usually picked on Maddie instead picked on Bianca, including boys, and dunked her head into the toilets at school so she couldn’t breathe, pushed her around a lot, etc. Maddie did everything she could to protect Bianca, even if it mean taking punches or kicks for her. Then, one day, when Bianca was eight and Maddie was fourteen, their dad, Michael, got into a car accident while they were at home, and died. As soon as his funeral was over, Jennifer threw both her daughters out into the street, and they were left to fend their own. They were eventually taken into a Christian orphanage, which did not turn out so well. For one thing, neither the pastor nor the kids liked Madeline’s boyish behavior, or Bianca’s autism, so they were sent to time out a lot. Bianca was yelled at by the pastor a lot, which didn't help her, and when Madeline tried to defend her, she just got hit. Finally, when Maddie was sixteen and Bianca was ten, the younger sister was killed. What happened was, Bianca had refused to talk or play with the other kids and finally the pastor got angry and took her outside into the parking lot, told her to stand still, got in his car, and ran her over. Madeline took her to the hospital as soon as his back was turned, but it was too late. Madeline was torn and was forced to bury her sister without a funeral, since she was poor at the time. Luckily, the pastor was arrested, but Madeline was still angry at the church for not doing anything about him. She then took Bianca’s pink hair ribbon, which she had been wearing ever since a kind math teacher gave it to her when she was four, stuck it in her own hair, and ran away from the orphanage. She continued to go to school since it was required, but she had no home, was poor, and struggled a lot; in fact, if it weren't for the tutoring programs offered there, she never would've graduated. Once she graduated, however, she started applying for jobs to provide for herself and get herself a decent home. At nineteen, she decided she wanted to join the S.W.A.T. Team, and has been saving up for college to do so, and training for it ever since. ((I'm sorry it's long, but it's what I thought of for her from the moment she was created)) Personality: Maddie was once a cheerful little girl, but a life of very little love has changed that, so now she is a cold, serious young woman who rarely smiles. She has bad trust issues, but if you give her time, she will open up to you and reveal the other side of her personality-the nicer, more loving side of her. Yes, she actually is still somewhat loving, because she had to exercise that love towards her father and her sister when no one showed her any affection. Though she supports neurodiversity, Maddie has a big soft spot for Autistic people and children, since her sister was Autistic, and will not tolerate any bullying towards them. While she is still capable of feeling romantic attraction, it is very hard for her to do so due to her trust issues. When she gets to know someone a little better, she will often act as a parental figure towards them, especially if they’re younger, and will try to protect them however she can, though sometimes that person has to remind her when her protection is not needed. However, she can often be very blunt or judgemental, so she can also hurt people. So while she may come off initially as cold and hostile, give her some time, and once you do, she will be very loving and protective of you. Facts: I created her freshman year of college. She started out as a Drawing I homework assignment ((I had to go to this website whose name I forgot where they provide you with prompts based on what you select, and I had to choose three prompts and draw those)), but in the end I liked her design so she became an OC. I didn't finish developing her backstory until now, but even then it's still in the works. She likes glam metal, hair metal, thrash metal, and heavy metal. She got all her clothes either from Goodwill or from different charities except for her leather jacket. She found that in a Lost And Found Bin at a laundromat. When she got out of high school she was so poor that she couldn't even afford a monthly bus pass. She is from Mesa Arizona. Depending on the AU or RP or story, she will have a motorcycle, but canonly she does not. Not right now at least. She wanted to be a police officer when she was younger. She enjoys looking after children, having gained experience from looking after Bianca. If she were alive today, her little sister Bianca would've been nineteen and would've graduated high school and possibly entered college. She inherited her dark brown hair from their mom while Bianca inherited her blond hair from their dad. She hasn't seen her mother in a while, and would rather not. She likes exercising because it helps calm her down. Her favorite food is tacos. She has shaky feelings towards religious institutions for obvious reasons. She does not tolerate bullying towards Autistic people whatsoever, and especially hates when someone uses Autism as an insult. She is disgusted by the whole Autigender bullshit because she knows that, at some point in her life, Bianca would not approve. She's horrible at math. She recently applied for Vocational Rehab to achieve her dream of joining the S.W.A.T. Team.

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pabluesman · 7 years

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The latest rant:

A common picture of the Republican Party is that of a cabal of big-money plutocrats, rubbing their hands gleefully as they kick starving children into the cold and knock retirees over for the Social Security benefits while lighting cigars with $100 bills. And while this is useful as agitprop, it creates a divide in the discussion of serious issues. Granted, there are some on both sides of the aisle who are craven and corrupt, and unfortunately they also make the most noise. It also doesn't help that the top figures in the party -- trump and his staff (Spicer, Conway, et al), Ryan, and McConnell -- further this perception with their words and actions, but such is a topic for another day ... The thing is, though, almost all Republicans are working with the best of intentions. They honestly believe that their proposals and actions are in the best interest of the American people. So why is there such a gulf between Republican and Democrat, liberal and conservative, trump and normal people? My opinion? It comes down to a fundamental difference in how progress is measured. The Republican Party measures everything in terms of dollars and cents. This is fine as far as it goes -- it is a completely objective measure, with no wiggle room for interpretation. Something costs what it costs, and revenue is revenue, and the numbers are going to be the numbers whether you like them or not. As a result, for many things this is fine ... but there are aspects of the things the government does that do not translate well into currency. Things like quality of life for a family that can no longer afford health coverage. Or environmental quality. Or lives lost fighting bullshit wars on false pretenses. The modern Republican Party is, on paper, dedicated to the idea of fiscal responsibility. They believe that deficit spending is fundamentally bad, that social welfare programs impede individual initiative, and (at least, on the far right) that many of the problems faced by marginalized populations -- the poor, people of color, and so on -- are the result of moral failings at the individual level. Proposals presented by the Republicans are centered around the idea of "if ya ain't got the dough, don't spend it." Nowhere is this demonstrated more clearly than in the following statement made by Rep. Mo Brooks on May 1:

“My understanding is that it will allow insurance companies to require people who have higher health care costs to contribute more to the insurance pool. That helps offset all these costs, thereby reducing the cost to those people who lead good lives, they’re healthy, they’ve done the things to keep their bodies healthy. And right now those are the people—who’ve done things the right way—that are seeing their costs skyrocketing.”

On the surface, this seems like a pretty cruel, heartless stance. After all, what Rep. Brooks appears to be saying here is that if someone gets breast cancer, say, then it's their own damned fault for not living a clean life and they deserve to pay more for insurance as a result. Now, everybody knows this is bullshit, and it's a pretty safe bet that's not what Rep. Brooks meant. My guess is that he was speaking more to the apparent fairness of premium amounts, taking a position that people who need more health care should be paying higher premiums. And while this does seem like a reasonable proposition, it misses the point entirely on how insurance is supposed to work (the people who need less subsidize the people who need more, thus spreading the cost more or less evenly ... but diving into the intricacies of health insurance actuary is way beyond the scope of this article). This illustrates a higher point, though. Whether it stems from ideology, or the need to maintain viewership across the basic cable spectrum, or just pure salaciousness, we have been trapped in a cycle of "gotchas" for the past several decades. Barack Obama says "So it's not surprising then that they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion ..." as a statement on small-town America's reaction to steady job losses over the prior twenty years, which is clearly evident when the entire quote is used:

"Our challenge is to get people persuaded that we can make progress when there's not evidence of that in their daily lives. You go into some of these small towns in Pennsylvania, and like a lot of small towns in the Midwest, the jobs have been gone now for 25 years and nothing's replaced them. And they fell through the Clinton administration, and the Bush administration, and each successive administration has said that somehow these communities are gonna regenerate and they have not. So it's not surprising then that they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations."

However, the right-wing shriek factory chose to highlight a specific phrase in a manner designed to generate the most outrage, furthering the narrative of Obama as a Kenyan Muslim terrorist atheist communist dictator, hellbent on taking away everyone's guns and forcing them to adhere to Sharia law (which, let's be fair, almost none of the target audience knew anything about except what they had heard from the right-wing shriek factory in the first place ... and not for nothing, but it is impossible to be a Muslim and an atheist. Just sayin'.). To be fair, this sort of nonsense happens on the left as well, but again ... a topic for another article ... The thing is, there are actually very few Republicans who hew strictly to this line. The vast majority of them do not agree with ideological purity at all costs; instead they adopt a stance of "Okay, I have my ideology, you have yours, and there has to be some agreeable middle ground." For example, as you may have guessed, I am a liberal. Very liberal. Not quite to the anarchist extreme of some, but definitely more than most. One of my best friends is a hard-core conservative Republican. We argue about politics all the time, and rare is the occasion when one of us makes a solid enough argument to change the other's position. Despite this obvious mental deficiency on his part (kidding, and he knows it), he is a wonderful stepfather, a good and decent person, and regularly kicks my ass at pool. And this is the fundamental point. Republicans are not, by nature, evil. They are not the sort of cartoonish, sinister villains portrayed in the media, any more than liberals are all a bunch of skinny, stoned, granola-munching whiners with acoustic guitars militantly guarding against trigger words. Republicans just have a different viewpoint from Democrats. That's all. They are both still Americans, they both still love this country, they both still respect the Constitution. Go to any firehouse, police station, military barracks, elementary school, restaurant, grocery store, auto shop. Unless there is only one person there, chances are pretty good that there will be a roughly even split between conservatives and liberals. And I guarantee that the EMT who is driving the ambulance taking you to the hospital doesn't give a hairy rodent's posterior about your political affiliation, the only concern is getting you to the goddam hospital. This is what we, as a society, are losing sight of lately. It is incumbent upon all of us -- right or left, Democrat or Republican, conservative or liberal -- to always remember this, and to accept the fundamental humanity of those with differing views, and to allow the respect that is born from this acceptance to be shown. And it has to start with a decision on which media outlet to frequent. Yes, there are no purely objective sources. Every media outlet has some sort of political leaning. It's only natural, considering they are all people. Where the differences lie is in how this slant is addressed. Some, like Breitbart and the Daily Wire on the right or Occupy Democrats and the Palmer Report on the left, make no bones about their political leanings. Which is fine, as long as people understand that their content is all opinion, not fact. Others, like the New York Times and the Washington Post on the left and the Wall Street Journal and Forbes on the right, acknowledge their political stance but strive to keep it from coloring their reporting. Yes, sometimes they are better at it than others, but they all have one common characteristic: when a mistake is made, they cop to it. Publicly. They issue retractions and correct the erroneous information. If there are enough retractions credited to a specific reporter ... well, that reporter is then out of a job. So I urge everyone reading this -- both of you -- to ask the following questions when considering a news source (not including articles clearly labeled as opinion pieces):

Does this news source use objective language, or are there subjective terms (excluding quotes) used to attempt to sway the reader to a particular way of thinking about an issue? For example, the Daily Wire recently published a story about funding being pulled from a Shakespeare in the Park production of "Julius Caesar" because it depicts the assassination of donald trump. While the story may be true, and it is not at all uncommon for theater companies to adapt Shakespeare to modern settings, the Daily Wire uses language like "objectively despicable contents of this production" to describe the play. Rather than just reporting on the "who, what, where, when" of the issue, the Daily Wire attempts to apply a value judgement to the play, thus robbing the reader of that opportunity.

Can the story be verified by multiple reliable sources? For example, if you see a story in the New York Times, or Forbes, or the BBC, or even the Daily Caller, can you also find reporting on that same topic from another source? This excludes the latest practice in which someone creates content that may or may not be factual and distributes it to like-thinking outlets, who then publish it blindly (basically, what happens here is that the article appears in multiple outlets, with identical or near-identical language).

In the case of erroneous reporting, does the source acknowledge it and issue a retraction? This only applies to factual errors. For example, an article about Ivanka Trump's clothing line that reports on a pair of shoes costing $2,500 when they are actually $250 deserves a correction. An opinion piece stating that they are the butt-ugliest things to come down the pike since the Pontiac Aztek does not.

It is vitally important that we all -- Republican and Democrat alike -- do our due diligence when consuming media. It is only once we emerge from the shriek factories on both the left and right and into the light of day that we can start to find common ground on the issues facing this nation today. Please like and share my page at http://ift.tt/2rkD9UV for more.

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