#*uncheats your cheated*

[itsonlypolite]

Out of curiosity, what would Cheated’s clipped wing look like after all the feathers grow back? (and what did he look like before Razor said ‘it’s Razing time’ and Razored all over the place?)

The way I almost laughed out loud during a work phone call when I read this - anyways, huzzah! Wild!Cheated

[swanpyart]

The idea of the Voices having full control in their interactions with the Princess is genuinely still fascinating to me, especially if you follow the idea that the Player’s actions reflect what the Voice’s own thoughts and opinions are before they reach their chapter two.

So an Uncheated Cheated, or a Chapter 1 Cheated, would be similar to Cold, in that he is perfectly confident that he could kill the Princess. But while Cold would have the will to not even acknowledge her with a conversation, Cheated would be a little afraid of her, or a little less confident in his ability to slay her.

You can get Razor by two options; Questioning to the Narrator whether she’s armed, or successfully killing her but checking her body. Both of these require some degree of hesitancy in your skills: you question the possibility that maybe the Princess has a trick up her sleeve, or that you actually can’t kill her.

So a Cheated Chapter 1 would require Cheated to waver in his ability to kill her successfully and fail because of it.

i was thinking about how the game would go if the voices each had full control but then i realized some of them, like Broken and Cheated, are entirely reactionary. What the FUCK would cheated do, or even be, if he wasn't cheated in the past?

i need answers what is an uncheated cheated. what is an unbroken broken?

[chapter-17]

Doom Eternal has fucking AMAZING single player, it’s so good that the Battlemode is trying to be a multiplayer flavored extension of it... but this just makes me wonder why the current methods of getting Event XP without playing a shit ton of Battlemode matches are so lackluster.

For some reason, the only levels that give you Event XP when played through with Mission Select are the very first and very last levels. You get this XP regardless of whether or not cheats are on. The optimal Event XP grind, therefore, is to repeatedly play level 1 with permanent overdrive, sentinel armor, and infinite ammo cheats enabled, spamming BFG shots the entire time to finish the level in about four minutes or so. Over and over. For hours.

Your other, less mind numbing option is to start a new save file and play through the game since you get a sizable chunk of Event XP for finishing levels for the first time... which isn’t ideal either because that means having to give up everything you unlocked in your main save file.

Oddly enough, you get no Event XP AT ALL for playing through a Master Level, where you’d get to fully employ your full arsenal to beat a harder challenge. You are given more reward for cheating your way through the first level of the game than you are given for beating what is supposed to be the HARDEST VERSION of any given level. What?!

If the whole idea of Event XP was JUST to entice people into playing Battlemode, why bother giving Event XP out in anything else? If that wasn’t the intent, and it was to reward people for playing the game however they want to play it, why does the best method for single player XP grinding feel less like playing Doom and more like playing Warframe?

If you’re going to make an XP grind, which is not something I’m intrinsically against because I would LOVE a good progression system paired with Doom Eternal’s sublime gameplay, you might do well to look to other games that are all about them XP grinds and copy their homework. Weekly challenges are good, but what about a couple daily challenges? How about a button that tosses you into a random level and gives bonus XP a few times a day? What about more UNcheats like famine, giving players the option to turn on handicaps for better XP gain if they beat the level? How about a new game plus that turns every level into a master level and gives appropriately boosted XP so you can rip and tear through the campaign again with your full arsenal put to the test? There are SO MANY options here! 

[erintoknow]

one by one

Spiraling - A Fallen Hero: Rebirth Fan-fiction

Nights drinking with Dr. Mortum have become equal parts business and pleasure. You never know where you’ll find a new lead. [Fake]

[Read on AO3]

“Jane…?” Dr. Mortum’s voice is quiet compared to the noise of the bar. Busy night at Joes again.

“Mm?” Jane blinks, jerking her head up. “Sorry, sorry. I was a million miles away.” You need to stop thinking about Ortega. This is getting dangerous.

“Penny for your thoughts, mon amie?”

“Oh, uh…” She scans the floor, looking for something to sidetrack the conversation. “What do you make of that modded woman over there?” Jane nods her head in the direction of the game tables. A heavily scarred Latina woman with mods down the back of her head is in a heated argument with an Asian man with a crisp pressed suit. South-east Asian maybe? “Does she have any sense of self-preservation? That’s not the kind of guy I’d want to cross, personally.”

“Not the kind of person you would cross?” Mortum laughs, “What makes you say that?”

“Look at him.” Jane gestures in their direction, a quick motion. Hopefully not noticed by anyone but the doctor. “That suit? In this dive? Guy’s some kind of made-man.” She shakes her head. “Just asking for trouble.”

“You are not wrong.” Mortum nods her head in agreement. “I do believe that is one of Hollow Ground’s men.”

“Hollow Ground?” Jane frowns, drumming her fingers on the table. “Huh.”

Now that you think about it, you’ve seen him around here once or twice. Hollow Ground has a finger in just about every criminal enterprise in Los Diablos, so it’s to be expected, really.

“Do you think Hollow Ground is a real person, or is he like… some sort of shadow cabal?”

Mortum shrugs, suddenly interested in her drink. “I find it does not pay to ask that kind of question, mon amie.”

“Hrmmm…” Sooner or later, you’re going to end up crossing paths with Hollow Ground, whatever they are. In another life, you’d listen to Ortega talk about her theories, try to help her track down likely clues. Not once did either of you turn up anything material. Who or whatever they are, their grip was rock solid. Anyone that wanted to talk had a habit of catching a case of sudden death.

Ortega was convinced there was a singular person behind it. Someone that had murdered her mentor, Marshal Hood.

It was never your favorite subject. Something about the whole thing just… seemed off.

Funny to think you might stand a better chance of finding out the truth now, when you could never tell Ortega. “What are the odds you think it’ll escalate into a fight?”

Mortum doesn’t even look up. “Seventy-six precent.”

“Did you just make that up?”

“Of course, mon amie.” She winks at Jane. “Did you expect me to say something like, ‘somewhat likely’ like some kind of hack?”

“Ugh. Scientists.” Jane rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder how much of your stuff is just bullshit.”

“Madam, you wound me.”

Jane doesn’t offer a retort, watching the argument slowly escalate in volume. Maybe you can get a sense of this guy’s abilities. Two-to-one he’s some kind of Enhanced. Rosie approaches the modded Latina, trying to talk her down.

To little success.

With a sigh, Jane pushes herself up from her seat. “Alright, I’m gonna go pull Rosie’s ass out of the fire.”

“I would have thought she could handle herself, but suit yourself mon amie.” Mortum eyes the scene, then flickers back to Jane with barely concealed curiosity.

“You know me.” Jane winks, a smile on her face.

Sauntering over to the table, Jane keeps her hands on hips as she surveys the scene. It’s a quantum roulette table. Numbers generated using quantum uncertainty to make an ‘uncheatable’ game. The wide variety of different boost abilities out there have forced gambling to take a few extra steps in order for casinos to stay on top.

The scarred Latina has left her seat to come around and prod Hollow Ground’s guy, who has in turn gotten out of his seat and is staring down at the shorter woman with an air of bored amusement.

Hrm. Doesn’t look like she had much money left. Good sign.

Rosie tries to reach for her friend’s shoulder, pull her back. “Mecha… please. Don’t start anything.”

“I don’t care! I’m sick of this cheater!”

Jane siddles up next to Rosie. No one else looks about to interview. The Croupier watches with a blank expression, as if expecting things to resolve themselves. The other players look to be quietly collecting their winnings. “Hey, Rosie.”

“–Jane?” Rosie glances to the side, face brightening up once catching sight of her friend. “Oh, hey Janey.”

“How’s the luck running?”

“Not bad – well, not as bad as…” Rosie makes a face, nodding towards Mecha.

“I heard. Along with the rest of the bar.” Jane eyes Mecha, who has not once stopped ranting at her supposed ‘cheater.’ “What’s the problem here anyway?”

Rosie drops her voice into a whisper, guarding her mouth with a hand. “Mecha thinks Jake here is cheating.” ‘Jake’ huh?

“Seriously?” Jane raises her voice. “She’s really going to accuse Joes of running a crooked game?”

That gets Mecha to turn, snarling. “No I’m not.” She jabs a finger at Jake’s chest. “I’m saying he is cheating!”

To your relief, Jake brushes the finger off, his expression unchanging.

“So… let me get this straight,” Jane frowns. “You’re saying–”

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business!”

“You’re loud enough to make it my business.”

Rosie winces, “She’s not wrong.”

“Look.” You sigh, shoot a glance at Jake. “You really want to say someone that works for Hollow Ground has to stoop to cheating? Really?”

“I…” Mecha grinds her teeth, balling her hands into fists and then letting go. “I see your point.” Oh good, so she’s not suicidal. That’s nice. Mecha spares one last glance at Jake. “But…”

“It was a bad losing streak.” Rosie cuts in. “Legendary.”

“I… guess.” Mecha groans.

Jake shrugs, “Bad luck. It happens.”

“Whatever.” Mecha throws up her hands, stepping away from the table. “I’m out of here.” She doesn’t even stop to collect her meager winnings.

Rosie watches her leave with a sigh. “Well, that could have gone better.”

“Hey,” Jane winks. “It could have gone a lot worse too.”

Jake sits back down at the table, taking stock of his large pile of tokens. “You gonna play then?”

Would it be weirder to say yes or no? Jane glances at Rosie who shrugs, unhelpful. “Alright, well. There’s a free seat, so why not?” With a smile she takes the open seat and sits down. Guess maybe a round or two won’t hurt right?

It’s a weird sensation as Jane sits down. Like this has all happened before. Someone laughs as a new song comes on the radio. The numbers finish cycling, landing on red twelve.

Okay.

That was unsettling.

The croupier looks at Jane, blank faced. “Place your bet miss.”

Jane pulls a few bills out of her purse. As she does, someone laughs in the background, a new song cycling onto the radio. Okay. That’s weird.

A moment of hesitation and then –

Jane puts the fifty dollar bill on the table. “Put in on red twelve.” You did this before, didn’t you? Or were going to? Or was always going to have done? It doesn’t quite feel real.

“Jesus.” Rosie groans behind Jane, watching over her shoulder. “You don’t put that much on a single number, Janey.”

“Beginner’s luck.” Jane can’t stop the grin as she watches the numbers cycle. It’s all for show. The actual randomization takes an instant. But what is gambling without pagenty?

Hrm. No wonder so many villains gamble.

The croupier does not sound surprised as he speaks, but he looks in Jane’s direction, curious. “Red twelve, Miss Jane wins.”

Behind her, Rosie gasps, slaps Jane on the back. “Hot damn! I can’t believe it.”

“...neither can I.” Jane watches the small fortune shoved her way, wide-eyed. “I was just… the beginner’s luck thing was bravado.”

“Hey, guess drinks on you tonight, huh Janey?”

“...sure.” Sitting across from her, Jake watches Jane intently. He’s not the only one. Might have outstayed your welcome sooner than you expected. Robotically, she splits off a handful of bills and presses them into Rosie’s hands as she gets up from the table. “Have ten of them.”

“See, this is why we’re friends.”

“Uh-huh.” Swallow hard, throat dry. What the fuck was that?

Dr. Mortum is still waiting when Jane returns. Face a little more ashen then when she left. Purse significantly fuller.

Mortum raises her glass in greeting. “Still in one piece, I see?”

Jane’s smile as she sits back down is more brittle than you’d planned. “Disappointed?”

“Of course not, mon amie!” Dr. Mortum looks genuine enough as she says it. “I was mostly… curious what you were up to.”

“Worried?”

“More…” She takes a drink to stall for time. “Wondering why, I suppose.”

Jane shrugs. Would prefer to move on from this topic sooner rather than later. “I guess I wasn’t eager to see a friend of Rosie’s get put in an early grave.”

“Is that so?” Mortum raises eyebrows, not buying it. “That is a noble goal.”

“Probably futile, if we’re honest.”

“I was not going to say anything.”

Jane shrugs, keeps her back turned on the roulette table. Could swear you feel Jake’s eyes digging into Jane’s back. Without your telepathy, you can’t actually know that if that’s true or if you’re just being paranoid.

You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer.

“Do I really need a goal?” What Jane needs is a new drink. “It was fun, I guess. Nothing more to it.”

“Fun?” Dr. Mortum winks. “Perhaps you are in the wrong line of work, mon amie.”

“Oh don’t start with that again.” Jane scowls, “I felt like doing it, so I did.”

“Fair enough.” Mortum leans back in her chair. “I suppose that’s just life. Chaos and impulse until it all goes black.”

“Bleak.”

“But true.”

“I don’t know about that.” Jane’s smile is grim. “Nothing’s truly random.”

What was up with that table? How did you know that? Come to think of it, haven’t you felt that before? In the past. It was always easy to brush off before.

“There’s always a pattern,” Jane presses on. “Someone pulling the strings. If you know where to look.”

“And you do, mon amie?” Mortum smiles back.

It’s an open question how much the doctor knows. Enough, at least. More than you’d like, almost certainly. Concerns for the future. As long as her friendship with Jane keeps her on your side, you’ll make use of her skills. And there’s always a call for that. Each new day offers new opportunities. New strings to pull.

[ibroughtthisonmyselfpixels]

In some - the cheating and uncheating fae, the corrupted souls, the children of the once-newly-engaged - the change is immediate.

Lilith: “--cast Pyrpolí̱so̱ on you!”

Azazel: “Hah! Your cunning trick won’t save you in this mock duel! Let’s see if you can withstand aaaa Dea-Fhortún, Lilith Butler!”

Lilith: “Azazel, you just cast it on--” *exasperation turns into alarm as something flares within her* “w- WHAT?!” 

Azazel: “D- did you just explode?!”

Lilith: “No! I don’t think so - light just came out of my chest!”

Lidon: “...light?”

Lilith: “Oh god, Dad, am I gonna be okay?” 

Lidon: “I -” *hoarsely* “Lilith, quickly, how do you feel?”

Lilith: “I dunno! I don’t feel like I’m dying... I feel... lucky, I guess?”

Azazel: “...”

Lidon: “Hippikaloric.”

[maugustyniuk]

The “Uncheat-able” Turns: How to Master Pirouettes From Fifth

While pirouettes from fifth position are not the flashiest turns in the ballet toolbox (we see you, fouettés), they are still one of the most technical. Turning from a tighter base—fifth position as opposed to fourth—makes it challenging to access and maintain momentum in the step, especially when the coordination is off. But when all the synapses are firing and the turns are done correctly, "it feels like floating," says Ashley Thursby, a company artist with Louisville Ballet whose colleagues marvel at her seemingly effortless double pirouettes from fifth.

To find that same free and easy feeling in your turns, remember these tips.

Lock In Your Position

"Pirouettes from fifth are hard because you can't really cheat," says Laura Byram, an adjunct professor of dance at Butler University and the department's ballet pedagogy instructor. Because the step has a very direct path from the prep to the position, you need to be precise about where you're going before you take off.

"Make sure that your toes hit retiré and your fingertips—whether you're turning with port de bra in first or fifth—quickly reach the peak of the position," says Thursby. "It's important to keep your shoulders over your hips to keep your ribs from flaring, as well."

Byram cautions dancers to keep the retiré position from getting sloppy in the turns. By engaging the hamstring under the working leg, the knee stays lifted and the hips stay level. She also warns dancers to watch out for sickled feet in passé. "It's a mistake I see even in professionals," she says.

Put Your Back Into It

Many dancers struggle to access and activate the muscles in the back, yet the sides of the back and the obliques are key to getting fully around in the tight spiral of a pirouette from fifth. In order to fire up those muscles, Thursby recommends engaging the arm in second position. "Whichever side I'm turning away from, I think of that arm in second position reaching toward something. That really connects me to my back."

Go Down to Go Up

A physical awareness of the deepest point in your plié and the most lifted feeling at the height of the turn are also needed for successful pirouettes from fifth. In the prep for the turn, "you feel as if you're a wind-up toy and you get to that very last click of your deepest plié before you let it go," says Thursby.

The feeling at the depth of the plié is like a rubber band that's being pulled tight. The moment of pushing off is like releasing the rubber band, causing you to fly upward into a vertical spiral. "It's a bit abstract, but I like to think of a column of energy that's happening above the pirouette," says Thursby. "There's a continuous feeling of ascension and spiral upwards."

In order to achieve that vertical lift and spiral, be sure to push off from both feet evenly. It's a common mistake to pull the weight off the front foot preemptively, or to let that foot escape from fifth position. Keep the weight centered between both feet through the deepest point in the plié and into the push-off.

When All Else Fails, Balance!

No matter what level you're at or how naturally turning comes to you, we all have good turning days and bad turning days. On those bad days when the turns aren't coming, "go back to basics, set up retiré at the barre, and balance, balance, balance," says Byram. "Without that balance, nothing is going to happen."

After establishing the balance at the barre, she recommends breaking the turn down into quarters and then halves, and sustaining the balance at the finish of each partial rotation. "I often like to hold dancers' hands and get them in a retiré position," adds Byram. "I have them use their turnout muscles and their backs to pull the knee back and feel what it's like to make the turn happen with just their balance."

Once you achieve that strong, lifted balance, be careful not to anticipate the floor at the end of the turn. Particularly in continuous pirouettes from fifth, this can cause the foot to flex on the way down into fifth. "I never think about landing, because that always kills it for me," says Thursby. "I only come down when gravity makes me."

from Dance Spirit https://ift.tt/3znpxYW

[jessicakehoe]

Ian Williams’s “I Want It All. I Want It Now.” Chapter 2: The Other Girl

Below you’ll find the second chapter of Ian Williams’s fictional story, “I Want It All. I Want It Now,” from our Summer 2019 issue. To read from the beginning, click here.

Interior

Two-Faced

You followed him to her house? Ella whispered.

I didn’t follow him. I saw him get on his bike and ride off. Somewhere.

Right, so how do you know he went to her house?

Granted. There were a few holes in my story.

My father entered. I abruptly changed the subject.

Regular volume. You’ve got enough makeup here for a year!

Working reception while he and his assistant were giving shots to kittens in the back, I ran my hand through her bag of cosmetics, picking out the new Soul on Fire palette from Watier x FASHION.

Oh, there’s more in the car. Ella put on her vocal fry voice. It was guaranteed to drive my father away like garlic on a vampire. I’m gonna turn you into a rocker chick. Like Kate Moss meets Courtney Love meets Pink meets Pink meets—

Do me now.

Duh. Listen to this girl. You can’t wear heroin chic to the office. That’s crazy talk.

My father left. We went back to whispering.

Where else would he go? I said.

I don’t know if he’s cheating or not. Ella smelled like Gucci Bloom. No, it was Paris-Riviera from Chanel. She continued, All’s I know is that he has a history.

She held a tube of dark lipstick to her nose, then mine.

You are not doing this to impress him? she asked.

Of course not.

Why are you, then?

My father came in. I raised the volume.

Your edges are on fleek. I touched Ella’s temples. Her father is from Barbados. You’re like Meghan Markle meets Rihanna meets Cardi B meets—

Stop it. You’re embarrassing me, Ella said, but she beckoned for more.

FKA Twigs meets Radhika Nair meets Amal Clooney. I made a big circle around her face with my open palm. You’re like the love child of all that fierceness.

My father shook his head and left. He called these “estrogen conversations.” But as far as I could tell, he and his girlfriend spent a lot of time talking about my 25-year-old uterus.

Ella and I went back to whispering.

I said, Even if he is cheating, I want him to uncheat.

You want him back.

Sort of.

My father called me from the other side of the door. Ella and I looked toward his voice.

You need to work—

I need to work on my feminism—I know, I know.

Photography by Agustin Fest/Eyeem

Hound

Grover was a 12-year-old basset hound with arthritis so severe his owners had to carry him everywhere, even around the house. That made him obese.

He lifted his eyes toward me. I brushed the top of his head. My father filled the syringe.

Grover, I said sweetly. I held a dog treat to his mouth.

As he was chewing, my father injected him. He tensed, then heaved a big floppy sigh, and I took him down to the freezer.

Road Trip

Right on schedule, a few days before the festival, Hudson informed me that we would not be driving together. He was going to ride with the band.

Do you even want me there? I asked.

Of course I want you there. But it’d be weird to have you in the van with the guys. He shook his head. That Yoko Ono vibe has killed many a band. We’ll hang out in Rock Creek.

I wanted (it all and I wanted it now) to cancel my trip, but that’s exactly what he wanted so he could be with his side piece. I didn’t want to be the dramatic, insecure girlfriend, but I couldn’t understand what was so bad about wanting to have a road trip with me instead of his friends. Given the same situation, I’d choose to be with him over 90—over 80, over 75—per cent of my friends. Male friendships mystified me. Guys would never wash each other’s hair. What did they talk about? Sick beats, squats, draft picks, girls they’d bang, bro, brah, bro. Hudson knew very little about the people he called his friends.

Hudson pulled me right to him, nose to nose.

Plus, Doug just broke up with his girlfriend. He’s pretty raw. He doesn’t need to see us all lovey-dovey.

Lovey-dovey. I was being manipulated. I knew it. We had not been lovey-dovey in a while. A few days before Christmas, we went shopping and he got down on one knee and proposed to me in H&M. I clapped my hand over my mouth. People clapped. We kissed theatrically. Then we kept doing it all evening. Knee, mouth, clap, kiss. Knee, mouth, clap, kiss. Exactly eight times across Vancouver, we did it. Now, he still smelled like Christmas—Santal 33. I would sometimes sneak a little from his bottle and put it on the bone of my wrist.

We need to catcall women freely, Hudson said.

I bet.

You could ride up with Ella. Bring Ella.

He liked seeing us together. Every time I told him that I had spent the night at Ella’s place, he went away to his fantasy place for a second, delaying his ability to respond, before coming back with, Oh yeah? or She good?

According to Google Maps, the festival was five hours, eight minutes from Vancouver. Ella and I took turns driving.

While I drove, she read to me from Taffy Brodesser-Akner’s new book, Fleishman Is in Trouble. While she drove, I read to her from the summer issue of FASHION. There was a story in there about a cheating boyfriend. We sang along to Kacey Musgraves  on Spotify and listened to some Caliphate podcasts. We posted selfies of our hair blowing. We took pee breaks and ate SunChips and grapes and, all glory to Alison Bechdel, we didn’t talk about men at all.

Photography by Michael Hauptman/Trunk Archive

Music Fest

Hudson’s band, The Mountains, was playing on the B-stage. The lead singer strutted onstage, ignoring the crowd; then Hudson clicked his drumsticks together four times and a wall of sound hit us. The world smelled like pine.

During the set, Ella and I leaned back on our elbows with our shirts tied in a knot around our midsection. Wearing beads. I wove a garland for her hair. She was surprised that I knew the name of the flowers—not a useful skill, I thought. I didn’t have the social justice, activist language that she did. She always knew the right side of an issue to be on, and I could front it, I could fake it, I could follow her lead.

Hudson was a good-looking man. Shaggy, long hair, sometimes partially tied up, shaved sides, a few strands falling into his face when he leaned over the drum set. Not quite the MacBook-wielding guy from Risk Management. Even then, Ella could see traces of a rock star. He sat with his legs open wide, a habit from playing drums, jeans ripped at the knees, thick thighs. He let her paint his nails one time. On the surface, Ella was testing his openness (he passed), but when I did it, I was really trying to make him less desirable to other women before a gig. He said he would let me paint his nails as long as he could choose the colour. He chose black. For another out-of-town gig, I put eyeliner and mascara on him and said he looked hot—bought him a black Queen T-shirt and silver metal chains. He went to the show like he was in a Good Charlotte cover band.

Apparently there was a famous person at the festival. Everyone was being polite-vigilant in case they happened to be talking to the famous person and didn’t know it. It’s Dolly, Ella said. Nicki’s doing folk music now, I said.

Hudson liked to introduce me as his girlfriend the model if he was talking to a guy or a woman he wasn’t interested in. If he was talking to another hot girl while I was around (always approach the hottest girl in the room first), he avoided an introduction and eventually said, simply, This is Odile.

After he came offstage, I went to see him. He was sweaty, crushing a bottle of water into his mouth. His shirt was stuffed into his back pocket. I could see the band of his underwear over his jeans—the belt I bought for him. There was a woman talking to him. Not Dolly from the grocery store, but she was exuding availability—slinky, gyrating ever so slightly to the music in the background.

The techie-cum-bouncer wouldn’t let me through.

He said, Expensive equipment, stuff gets stolen and turns up on Craigslist. We’re tight with security this year. I could tell him you’re looking for him. What’s your name?

He’s right there. I pointed. Hudson was walking away with the woman.

What’s your name?

He’s literally standing in front of us.

Rules are rules. What’s your name?

His girlfriend, I said.

The sound tech cleared his throat. He turned his attention to Ella. Have we met? Did we hook up last year?

Trust me, Ella said. You’d remember if we did.

He stepped toward her. I put a hand on his chest.

You shot your shot, bro. Security’s tight this year.

Glamour

There was an impromptu party that night. I showed up, took a puff of someone’s joint, danced for a bit, but I wasn’t feeling it. I hadn’t seen Hudson since the THOT.

I left Ella at the party and walked back to the car. I wanted to remove my makeup and go to sleep.

I checked my phone. No messages. I had a very early high school feeling. Abandonment meet FOMO.

I wasn’t always hot. I was cute as a kid, then pretty as a girl, then downgraded to OK in middle school, then fell off the attractive graph during the first part of high school. Never beautiful, never elegant. Then, in the summer between grades 10 and 11, I spiked from being OK to being hot. At the end of Grade 10, I was headline gossip because a boy who felt me up said my nipples were flat and weird like an amoeba. So that summer, as part of a revenge strategy, I gave myself a thorough beauty education with the same dedication I would give to a science fair project. I travelled around with my mom for Fashion Television, got fit, made skinny friends—Americans, Italians—posted envy on Facebook, filtered myself into oblivion. In September, I subbed for a model in a New York runway show. Later that month, I showed up for Grade 11 with long dirty-blond hair under a trucker hat—thigh gap, pronounced pelvic bones over my low-rise skinny jeans—and became unmistakably the hottest girl in Grade 11. The amoeboob scandal had messed me up until this year. I wish I could say that I came to love myself, that I had the confidence of Angelina Jolie, that I told Hudson and he kissed the amoebas. But no, I got the irregularities patched with a nipple tattoo in the same place where Ella got laser hair removal. Best money I ever spent. (Well, except for Jimmy Choos on sale in London.)

My phone vibrated.

Back in my car, I reclined the seat and tried to go to sleep. It was sweltering, but if I put the windows down, mosquitoes would come in. Mosquitoes or a killer.

I checked my phone again. One text.

Just the one text from Ella. That was all.

Late in the night, a man banged on my window. In that long, alarming second, I reached around myself for a weapon, tried to cover myself, felt around for my phone. I couldn’t see his face at first because he was shining a cellphone flashlight in my face. Odile, he said.

Hudson?

He knocked on the glass again. Opening the door was easier than lowering the window.

Why are you sleeping here? He was drunk. I have a bed for us back at artists’ hospitality.

He could have texted that easily. I didn’t know what to make of his thoughtlessness, but at least he had staggered through the night to find me. I didn’t want to sleep in the car, and I didn’t want to be with him. I didn’t want to be driving through the South on a tour bus with him and his band, but I didn’t want to be alone on a rainy night while he called me from a pay phone in Nashville either, even if he was calling to say I love you, darlin’. I want it all and I— You can’t always get what you wa-ant.

I should stay here, I said. In case Ella gets back.

Hudson turned the display of his phone toward me. It was 3:48.

Sorry to break it to you, but your girlfriend’s getting laid. He pulled me out of the car and locked the door with the remote. No girlfriend of mine is going to spend the night in a car in the middle of the forest.

Photography by TAPhotography

So he took me to a “teepee.” Inside, there were hay bales and guys passed out on sleeping bags. He pulled me down on his sleeping bag and curled up, pressed his toes up against my hips, exactly like the image of John Lennon and Yoko Ono on Rolling Stone. He wrapped his arm around my head. Then he baby talked me: You thought I was going to leave you all alone, such a silly, hiding from me, all night I’ve been going crazy, wondering, only the best for my girl.

He reached under my dress.

Too many people here, I said.

It’s OK. It’s all good. He rolled a leg on me. We can start an orgy.

He kissed me.

They’ll catch on.

He smelled boozy and weedy and sweaty—but also like his place, like the window was open and it was late fall and there were no other women in the world. And we didn’t need to check who liked our posts or followed us back, so long as we were peeling avocados together, flossing our bottom teeth together, squirting contact solution into our cases together. It’s not his kind of music, but one night he sang me an acoustic cover of Rihanna’s “Only Girl (in the World).” Slowly. Quietly. Switched up the lyrics into a promise.

Tonight, he was so drunk I could easily push him off. He was so drunk that he might have thought we had sex because he flopped onto his back contentedly and I could hear him breathing deeply within minutes. I looked at the top cone of the teepee. It looked like the inside of a breast.

Photography by Amanda Marsalis/Trunk Archive

What girl?

I woke up after Hudson. I saw him outside the flap of the teepee—in his cowboy boots, shirt off, little arch of back like Iggy Pop—talking to the vocalist from another band.

I crawled toward them. Vocals was in the middle of a story that involved donkey-punching an imaginary girl, and Hudson was karate-chopping the air like he was giving a massage.

When Hudson saw me, he stopped the conversation with a loud, There she is. He took me under one arm and kissed the top of my head. Lovey, meet dovey.

What’s going on? I asked.

Nothing.

But Vocals spilled: Some girl OD’d last night.

Wow. I yawned. Public relations nightmare, the M.B.A. in me said.

They looked at each other.

I didn’t think to ask who until that moment when I saw them exchange looks.

Wait, I said. Is it Ella?

I crawled back into the teepee for my phone.

They’re not saying who it is, Vocals said.

It’s not Ella, Hudson said.

I patted down the bags and blankets for my phone. No messages from her.

That tech guy, what’s his number?

They’ve got sausages at breakfast. Hudson tried to take the phone out of my hand. It’s not her, Odile. She’s probably back at your car.

She would’ve texted.

Maybe her battery died, he said.

Let’s go, I said.

He didn’t move.

Hudson!

A bandmate said, We’re meeting the others in 10 minutes, bro.

Why don’t you check the car? Hudson said. And I’ll go to the clinic, find out who it is.

Sure, I said. You’re totally gonna do that, Prince Charming.

Ella was not in, near or under the car.

I ran back toward the clinic, among raised roots and rocks. Through the trees, a female voice in the speakers, obscured by the weather, sang, “In the arms of the angels, far away from here.”

I found Ella on a cot in the medic cabin. Unattended. A single fan was blowing on her. The IV that should have been in her veins was lying on the floor next to a bedpan.

I got her into the back seat of my car, drove her to a proper emergency room, then all the way back to Vancouver, without sending or replying to Hudson’s texts.

Odile’s story isn’t over yet. Can her relationship with Hudson recover and how will Odile cope when work takes her to far-off places? See how it all pans out in Chapter Three and follow @the.real.odile on Instagram for real-time updates.

The post Ian Williams’s “I Want It All. I Want It Now.” Chapter 2: The Other Girl appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

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