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heartsofbeskar · 4 years ago

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the red wolf

chapter one: two swords

oberyn martell x fem!reader

WARNINGS: mentions and descriptions of violence (GOT canon typical), talk of death, language

WORDS: 3.5K

EXCERPT: Sunlight streamed through the window, the painted glass covering the two of you in an array of colours. When you had arrived in King’s Landing, you were sure it was the most beautiful place you had ever been. How could Winterfell compare to this sunlight and sea and splendor? But the longer you stayed, the more you saw that the beauty was but a thin layer, covering the stench of violence and greed.

A/N: this is in second person, but the reader insert character belongs to a canon house which of course implies physical characteristics, including her being white! (ik this is a problem for some reader inserts being coded white so i wanted to address it here)

masterlist

Your hands trembled as they threaded through the soft, red locks. You used to do this when she was younger, you recalled, when she couldn’t sleep or was feeling ill or had a frightful dream.

It wasn’t just a dream this time.

Her shaky breath was warm against your neck, and you pulled her head closer in against you. Tears fell down the front of your bodice and you swallowed thickly, as you felt a familiar burn behind your own eyes. You willed the tears not to fall.

“It isn’t fair,” came her voice, impossibly small, against your bare skin. Her hands gripped tightly into the dense fabric of your skirts. “He wasn’t a traitor.”

You shushed her gently, your free hand ghosting up and down her back. You longed for the days when she was small enough for you to collect her in your lap, hold her close to your breast, as your mother had done for you both.

Another sob wracked her body, and you squeezed your eyes painfully shut at the sound. You hated it, you hated this. How you couldn’t protect her, or your father, or your brothers, or anyone.

“Sansa,” you whispered, taking her face in your hands, tilting it up to look into yours. Your heart shattered again at the sight of her, skin glistening with her tears, eyes and lips swollen and flushed from crying. You rested your forehead against hers, thumbs stroking her over delicate features. “You cannot say those things outside of this room. Tell me you know this, please.”

Your voice broke on the last word, emotion clawing its way up your throat. You loathed to ask this of her, to harden her once trusting and open spirit even further, but you needed her to know it. You wouldn’t give the Lannisters any excuse to hurt her, too.

“I do,” she choked out, fresh tears spilling over. You pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, pulling her back into your arms.

Sunlight streamed through the window, the painted glass covering the two of you in an array of colours. When you had arrived in King’s Landing, you were sure it was the most beautiful place you had ever been. How could Winterfell compare to this sunlight and sea and splendor? But the longer you stayed, the more you saw that the beauty was but a thin layer, covering the stench of violence and greed.

“We are Starks, my sweet sister.” You resumed combing through Sansa’s long hair; you weren’t sure if it was a comfort to her or to you. “We will not yield.”

—

The great walls of Winterfell rose behind you, as your feet carried you through the tall grass that grew uncontrolled just outside the keep’s gates. Small creatures darted to and fro under its cover. A gentle wind blew across your face, pushing your hair to the side. You heard the call of a wild raven overhead.

Winter bounded past you, the direwolf’s strong limbs carrying him far ahead of you with ease, though his grey speckled coat made him easy to find against the late summer colours of the grass. He turned back to look at you, mouth wide open in a pant, then gave an impatient bark. You laughed, shaking your head.

“You know I cannot keep up!” You called out to him, as if he could understand your reply. But ever since Winter had been a small pup, brought to Winterfell by your brothers with the rest of the litter, it had felt like he could. All the time you had trained him, he had tilted his head at your affirmations and musings, and had burrowed into your side when you were upset. It was an inexplicable connection between the two of you.

He waited patiently for you now, tail wagging and legs bouncing in excitement. He always loved these excursions outside the walls, and it provided a convenient excuse for you. As much as you loved to blame Winter and his need to get out for air, the same desire always burned within you as well.

Your bow and arrow shifted across your back as you increased your pace. The tips of your fingers grazed across the flowers that periodically sprung up from the dense grass. You made a note to pick some on your way back, for Sansa and little Rickon. You knew they’d enjoy them.

The treeline seemed to swallow the sun overhead as you passed beneath it, relishing in the coolness of the air here. Of course, the air had become cooler and cooler with every day that passed now. Winter is coming, your father harped on. And he was right, as usual. The arrival of your first winter sent a trickle of excitement through your entire body whenever you dwelt on it. Mother and father and Uncle Benjen had told you stories of winter, of the endless white and sparkling ice which could drip from the overhangs in the courtyard.

Winter ran excited circles around you as you set your quiver against the ground. You signalled to him with your hand, a communication in the language only the two of you spoke, and he settled promptly down to the ground, back end still wiggling with excitement. But he knew the best was yet to come if he waited.

Pointing the bow at the ground, you pulled an arrow from the quiver, resting it and nocking it against the string. Hooking two of your fingers around the end of the arrow, you scanned your eyes across the shadowed forest floor.

Before long, a movement caught your eye. A small rabbit sat, just a few yards ahead of you, chewing on some of the greenery there. You brought the arrow slowly, silently, up to your eye level, barely daring to breathe, lest you scare timid the creature away. You gripped the bow tightly in your opposite hand. Bringing the string straight backwards to sit next to your face, you tried to envision the path once you released it. Taking one last deep breath, you snapped your fingers off the string.

The arrow flew, fast and long through the air, and finally — fell a few feet left of the rabbit, spooking it into running deeper into the woods.

“Shit,” you cursed, collecting the wayward projectile from where it had sunk into the earth.

“Now, I don’t think your mother would appreciate that language.” A deep voice emerged from behind you, exciting Winter to stand and jump once around again.

“Father!” You gasped, whirling around. “I am so sorry, I know I shouldn’t speak that way, I would never—”

He held up a hand to cut off your babble, a small smile settling on his time weathered face. “It’s alright. I have cursed too many times to reprimand it from any of my children.”

You mirrored his smile, moving to stand beside him. You looked down at your bow a little sheepishly. “I was just trying to practice a bit. You know how Jon and Robb like to tease.”

“I do.” He placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “But you shouldn’t be out here alone, sweet.”

“I have Winter with me.”

He laughed at that, moving his hand now to scratch behind the ears of the direwolf still pacing eagerly between the two of you. Winter yipped in excitement, pushing up against his hand.

“Winter is about as ferocious as a newborn babe,” he teased. “The opposite of Greywind, might I add. Anyone but Robb approaches, and that wolf is on alert.”

“Winter just has a gentle heart, is all.” You drop to one knee, letting the direwolf nuzzle into your chest, stroking his soft ears.

“It’s not unlike the differences between you and Robb, truth be told. Strange, how you can share a womb with another living being, and yet grow to be so distinct.” He had a far away expression on his face when you looked up. You stood again, allowing him to grasp your hands in his.

“You’re not here just to chastise me for going beyond the walls.” You knew, too well, the expression on Ned Stark’s face when he had to speak of things he didn’t want to.

He nodded. “Sweet child … you know I have nothing but respect for you and your choices. But, I am afraid it has become an unavoidable truth. Your mother and I have discussed this, and we have decided that once we arrive in King’s Landing, we need to decide on a man for you to marry.”

Your face was impassive as you considered his words. You knew in any other family, in any other man’s house, you would have been wed as soon as you’d bled for the first time. But your father had allowed you to grow and mature past that, and you cherished those years, holding them close to your heart. You squeezed his hands.

“I know, Father. And I am happy to do my duty as the eldest daughter of the house. You needn't feel guilty — I know you won’t marry me to a monster.” Your lips quirked upwards. And it was true; you had the utmost trust in your father that he would choose someone kind, someone level headed. That he would make a match considering your wishes, too, and it would be a life you could grow to love a man in.

He sighed, shoulders sagging in relief. You wondered if the prospect of marrying his first daughter, his first child, was more difficult for him than it was for you. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re a good daughter. But still a mediocre marksman; come, let me show you where you went wrong,” he said, picking up your discarded bow and quiver.

—

You longed to be in those woods now, with your wolf and your father and your bow. In your home. All the beauty and splendor and opulence of King’s Landing could never erase the horrors you’d endured here.

You glanced behind you, where Tyrion and her handmaiden were trying their best to implore Sansa to eat something. There was an impressive array of foods strewn about the small table, though your younger sister touched none of them.

As you watched, her handmaiden — whom you suspected was no handmaiden at all, given her incompetence at her job — rose from the table, shooting a glare at Lord Tyrion.

“She needs to eat,” she quipped, looking up at you briefly before she left, her light skirts swaying gently as she retreated down the garden path.

You turned and sat slowly in her vacated seat, saying nothing. Sansa didn’t spare you a glance, her eyes vacant as she continued to look at the table in front of her, not really seeing it.

“I can’t let you starve,” Tyrion implored. You bit back the remark on the edge of your tongue. How amusing it was to think of a Lannister caring for a Stark’s wellbeing. Even if it was the Stark he’d been wed to. “I swore to protect you. My lady, I am your husband. Let me help you.”

“How can you help me?”

“I don’t know, but I can try.”

“I lie awake all night staring at the canopy, thinking about how they died.” This you knew to be true, as those past nights you had curled yourself around her, in her marital bed, unable to sleep, but equally unable to leave her alone in this place. Sansa continued.

“Do you know what they did to my brother? How they sewed his direwolf’s head onto his body?” You shut your eyes tightly, images of Robb coming unbidden to the back of your eyelids. His gentle smile, his awful jokes, his tenderness as you’d raised that very direwolf alongside your own. “And my mother. They cut her throat to the bone and threw her body in the—”

“Sansa, please,” you choked out. You could not take any more, or surely the tears you had so desperately supressed for days would finally emerge. She sent a cool glance your way, but stopped.

Tyrion cast his eyes down; you could tell he was carefully considering his next words. Ever the silver tongue. “What happened to your family was a terrible crime. I didn’t know your brother. He seemed like a good man, but I didn’t know him. Your mother, I admired her. She wanted to have me executed, but I admired her. She was a strong woman. And she was fierce when it came to protecting her children. Sansa … your mother would want you to carry on. Both of you. You know it’s true.”

Sansa didn’t make any indication she had heard his valiant speech. Good, you thought to yourself. She stood, hands lightly falling onto the edge of the table. “Will you pardon me, my Lord? I’d like to visit the godswood.”

“Of course,” Tyrion nodded enthusiastically, brows drawn together. The scar you knew he’d gotten during the Battle of Blackwater Bay was deep set above one eye. “Prayer can be helpful, I hear.”

“I don’t pray any more,” she said quietly, as she began walking away. “It’s the only place I go where people don’t talk to me.”

You watched her form as she walked away, knowing she wouldn’t want you to follow. Your heart felt like it was being crushed inside your chest at the sight of it, at the knowledge that you could do nothing for her pain. Nothing for your own pain, even.

Tyrion appeared conflicted, eyes looking between where his wife had now left, and you where you remained seated. You took a deep breath, straightening your back.

“You needn’t stay and pretend to care for me as well,” she quipped, jaw tense. “... my Lord.”

Another Lord, another Lannister even, would have struck you. But perhaps marrying your child sister had curbed that edge in Tyrion, for he said nothing else before taking his leave from you.

As he turned the corner in the path, you sighed, dropping your shoulders. You stood from the table, returning to your previous spot, overlooking the sea. You let out a shaking breath as you leaned against the short garden wall.

The sea churned beneath you, it's great waves smashing ferociously on the rocks below. It smelled of salt and wind and you tried desperately to fill your lungs with it, to wash away every other feeling inside of you.

“A wolf of winter in the summer gardens; a strange sight indeed.” A lilting, accented voice came up behind you. Turning, you saw a tall man adorned in mustard robes, accents of fine jewelry hanging from his neck, on his hands, wrists, everywhere you could see. His skin was tan, golden, in a way you had never seen before, and the top of his robe exposed the start of a golden chest. His neatly trimmed beard and hair were dark, but not as dark as his eyes, which bore into you now.

You noticed the red suns stitched into the fabric of his robes — House Martell. Your father would never forgive you if you forgot all those long lessons on the great families of Westeros.

“My Lord,” you inclined your head politely in his direction, willing your body into the proper posture. “You’ve arrived from Dorne, for the wedding I presume?”

The man raised an eyebrow at you, stepping closer, until he stood directly in front of you. One step forward and you would be in direct contact with the expanse of his chest.

“You paid attention to your schooling on Houses,” he said lightly. He reached down to grab one of your hands that hung by your side, bringing it slowly up to his lips. “I am Prince Oberyn, indeed of Dorne. Forgive my manners, but I do not believe I need an introduction to you, Lady Stark.”

His dark eyes held yours, as he leaned in further. You could feel his breath on your face. It was pleasantly warm, and smelled of … oranges? “I heard of the tragic events that befell your family, at the hands of your benefactors.” He spit the last word.

“I do not know what you mean,” you breathed out. You pleaded with him with your eyes, please don’t do this; don’t make me speak it where they can hear. “The Lannisters have been most kind and generous to me and my sister, more than we deserve even. My family …” You swallowed thickly; your skin felt hot despite the shade. “My family betrayed the crown, and has paid their price.”

Oberyn’s brows drew together in a worried expression as he studied your face. You didn’t look away from his gaze, holding him there, trying not to show a crack in the facade. He ran a light hand up your arm, and though he barely touched you, a shiver ran across your skin. It came to rest on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing small circles over the fabric there.

“Little wolf, I assure you that the Lannisters are no friends of mine.” Something dark flashed in his eyes, for only a moment, so fleeting you weren’t even sure it had been there. “They have ripped apart my family with their teeth, also.”

You felt that particular burn in your eyes, and you pressed your nails into the palms of your hands, willing it away. You eyed the man’s hand where it still sat on your shoulder.

“Yet you break bread with them, do you not?” Your eyes were glued onto his as they cast downwards. “You come peacefully to King’s Landing, you bring wedding gifts for King Joffrey, and you drink from their cups.”

Your breathing was heavy now, emotion you had pushed into the deepest parts of yourself leaking out. You shut your eyes, shaking your head. This was a Prince.

“I … I am sorry, Prince Oberyn, I should not have—” He cut you off, gently pressing a hand to the side of your face. The skin of his fingers was rough, calloused, no doubt from years of fighting.

“You do not need to apologize, little wolf.”

“You shouldn’t call me that here.”

The side of his mouth quirked upwards at that, one delicate brow arching. It transformed the planes of his face, and you found yourself transfixed on the shapes and textures set into his tanned skin.

“I do believe we are alone here, little wolf.” Teasing now, he used the nickname with purpose. You liked the shape of it on his lips, though you still fought the overwhelming urge to peer over your shoulder at whoever may be watching.

“You don’t understand, my Lord.” You shook your head again, and his hand fell from your cheek. “King’s Landing is a pit of snakes. And they are always — always — listening. You are a Prince of Dorne and I…” You didn’t finish. I am nothing but a stupid girl who waited too long to marry, is too old for the King, is tainted and stained with the stench of my family’s rebellion. I am doused in their blood, being made to drown in it.

Your palm felt wet, drawing your attention down. Opening it, you saw blood welling from the four small crescent shaped tears that now appeared in the delicate skin there. Oberyn’s eyes followed yours, and they softened at the sight, cupping your hand in both of his. They were so large around yours, and steady.

“I am a Prince of Dorne,” he said, his voice quiet, not looking at your face. He pulled a handkerchief from the inside of his robe, next to his chest. Gently, he wrapped it around the palm of your hand, seemingly unbothered by the blood which immediately began to blot onto it. Many moons had taught you that blood never came off. Tying it secure under your knuckles, he met your eyes, lifting your head with a finger under your chin. “And if this is indeed a pit of snakes, it is a good thing you are in the company of the Viper. Your words — all of your words — are safe with me, little wolf.”

You wanted so badly to believe him, to think that there was someone in this wretched place you could trust, outside of your sister. That a man was really looking upon you with kind, genuine eyes, for the first time since they’d taken your father’s head from his shoulders.

The sea crashed particularly forcefully below, startling you. He leaned back now, pulling his hands away from you, and you immediately missed their warmth. As if he had carried the Dornish sun within his very body, all the way to King’s Landing. He kissed your unwrapped hand again, briefly, and he sent you another smile before beginning to retreat, hands clasped behind his back.

At the mouth of the garden entrance, he turned halfway, face playful now. “I should like to make strolling in these gardens a daily habit whilst I’m here; there is so much to see. Would you care to join me in that?”

You nodded, smiling; a small one, but the first smile you remembered giving genuinely to someone in a long time.

A/N: aaah this was so fun to do that i ended up finishing it waaay sooner than i thought i would! so excited to see what people think!! also it will probably end up being oberyn x ellaria x reader bc... i love her and i love bisexuals

taglist: @asta-lily @pedrostories

#game of thrones #oberyn martell #oberyn x reader #oberyn martell x reader #game of thrones fanfiction #oberyn martell fanfiction #mywriting #the red wolf

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mysterioushogwartsrequests · 4 years ago

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Hey i wanted to ask if you could write a reader x fred fic where they learn about the mirror of erised in class and then the reader has to step in front of it to say what they see and they say smth like "fred could you step aside" or "could you get out of the frame, you are in the way" and it turns out he wasn't even close to being in the mirrors view and so they just announced that their deepest desire is fred, ik it's very specific but please🥺❤

I’ve actually been thinking about writing something like this so I am very glad you sent this in!!! And, honestly, really specific requests are always welcome because I know exactly what you all want! I love any request you send my way :).

Title: The Desired Slip-Up

ϟ ϟ ϟ

Fred and George’s Sixth Year at Hogwarts had already started off with a bang. The announcement of the Tri-Wizard Tournament had everyone in high spirits, and they all waited impatiently for the Winter holiday celebrations. Sure, they were dealing with an unpleasant scammer by the name of Ludo Bagman, but the Twins were certain they would get their way eventually.

Like any other year, Fred continued his usual school-yard scheming with his brother, occasionally stopping to view the petrifying tasks of the Tri-Wizard Tournament where Harry Potter managed to avoid the clutches of an irritated Hungarian Horntail. Despite having excellent marks, the Twins often found themselves bored with the courses at Hogwarts and were often discussing ways to avoid attending them. However, the possibility of their mother finding out about their misbehavior urged Fred and George, despite their grievances, to attend their classes.

Professor Moody currently held the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and often introduced unorthodox items in his teachings. Well, what could really be considered unorthodox at a school for Magic?

On a particularly cold Novembers’ day, Fred sauntered into the classroom, tailed by his brother, and at once caught sight of the ornate mirror at the front of the room. The students were gathered around each other’s desks, exchanging whispers as to what the mirror could do. Waiting for his students to settle, Professor Moody rapped his fingers against his desk, his blue eye ardently scanning the room as two more girls trailed in.

Fred and George took their usual seats at the center, roughly setting down his belongings behind Angelina Johnson, who turned to face the noise with a hint of annoyance.

“Making sure everyone hears you arrive?” She asked teasingly, swinging her legs over the empty space beside her.

“You know us, Angelina-” replied George with a thumbs up

“Always putting on a show” finished Fred, shooting his friend a wink before acknowledging the empty seat, “And (Y/N)?” asked Fred, earning a shrug from Angelina. However, before Fred could ask anything else, Mad-Eye Moody rose from his seat and tapped the edge of the mirror with his wand, effectively silencing the class.

“Now, I’ve prepared a very special lesson for you lot and I expect your undivided attention” Moody declared, his good eye trained on Fred Weasley, who was doodling product designs on a spare bit of parchment. George, noticing Mad-Eye’s intense stare, jabbed Fred’s side and gestured for him to look forward.

Begrudgingly setting his quill down, Fred rested his cheek against his palm as Mad-Eye cleared the first row of desks nearest to the mirror. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in Mad-Eye’s teachings, Fred just found it rather difficult to concentrate when he was plagued by thoughts of (Y/N)’s absence. Although (Y/N) (L/N) was quite the prankster herself, she was not one to miss classes, especially if the Professor was known for dealing out harsh punishments if he caught you.

“I want a nice, clean line facing the mirror” Mad-eye announced, gesturing towards the empty space he had cleared, “This isn’t your ordinary, everyday mirror so don’t let me catch you fixing your hair and makeup in front of it” He warned, eyeing the group of giggling girls lining up beside him. With a sigh, Fred pushed himself off his seat and followed George and Angelina towards the front of the class, gaze trained out the window as he wondered what it would feel like to fly through the cold-wind at this very moment.

Paying no attention to the lesson, Fred narrowed his eyes at the shape whizzing meters from the window. “Is that a person? Flying towards the castle?” he thought, subtly inching towards the glass to get a better glimpse of the robed figure, but they had already vanished. Scratching his head, Fred directed his attention towards Mad-Eye Moody, who was pointing at the calligraphy above the mirror which read:

“Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi” or “I show not your face, but your heart’s desire” as Mad-Eye translated.

“When you look into this mirror,” Mad-Eye began, stepping in front of the line so the students could only see his reflection, “You will see what your heart most desperately desires, but be careful” He added with a wicked grin, his eyes trained on his reflection, “Some of you may go mad if you stare for too long…”

Fred eyed Moody suspiciously, it seemed like he himself was transfixed with what he currently viewed in the mirror, only stepping away after giving his head vigorous shake. Bearing the same wicked smile, Professor Moody gestured towards the mirror, “Any volunteers?” he asked nonchalantly, but the prospect of going mad spooked the usual eagerness to participate out of his students. The Sixth years looked around at each other, trying to see who would be brave enough to face the Mirror of Erised.

At that moment, the door to the classroom slammed open and the sound of running footsteps filled the room. Gasping for air, (Y/N) (L/N) looked up at Professor Moody with disheveled robes and a broomstick gripped in her right hand, her satchel hanging loosely over her shoulder as she set her broom against the wall.

“Professor, I am so sorry. I lost track of time while at the Quidditch Pitch and—” but Professor Moody cut off her rambling excuses with a swift raise of his hand.

“As a result of your tardiness,” Moody growled, his good eye trained on (Y/N) as the other whizzed from her broom and back to her, “And flying around the grounds without permission” he added and (Y/N) bowed her head in shame, setting her satchel down beside Angelina’s before walking towards the front of the classroom.

“You will be the first to demonstrate the effects of the Mirror of Erised,” Moody finished, his eyes glinting with anticipation as he urged her in front of the mirror, “I’ve already explained what the mirror does, but unfortunately, you were late so you will find out on your own” he explained, looking back at the group of students behind him, “And none of you runts will tell her, got it?”As he snapped, a couple of frightened Ravenclaw girls nodded intensely causing Fred to roll his eyes for the third time in the hour.

Feeling increasingly nervous, (Y/N) looked towards Angelina with a sheepish smile, then towards the Weasley Twins. George shot her encouraging thumbs-up, but Fred only grinned at her, urging her forwards while mouthing, “This is your punishment.” She and Fred had not always been great friends, she actually despised him during their second year when a balloon full of ink fell on top of her head, spilling its contents all over her new robes. Despite being increasingly furious that day, (Y/N) found herself laughing at the prank after Professor Flitwick removed the stains of her clothes and Professor McGonagall scolded the Twins in the middle of the Courtyard. After seeing the embarrassed looks on their faces, (Y/N) went up to them and declared the beginning of a prank-war, therefore igniting the first flames of the friendship.

At the end of their second year, (Y/N) was crowned Prank Champion, complete with a parchment crown and colorful ribbon Lee Jordan had prepared for the winner. The summer after that, the Twins invited (Y/N) over to The Burrow where they spent the hot months of July playing Quidditch in a clearing and enjoying Mrs. Weasley’s delightful cooking. It was not until the 1994 Quidditch World Cup that (Y/N) realized her feelings towards Fred were more than friendship. She often recalled the late-night talks they would share in the Astronomy Tower, neglecting the homework they promised they would do that evening. But she really couldn’t help it, Fred was so easy-going that it was no arduous task to get lost in conversation with him. Now, they were in their Sixth year and she had collected an assortment of sweaters gifted to her by Molly Weasley, as well as many joke-shop prototypes from Fred and George.

With the announcement of the Yule Ball, (Y/N) immediately imagined herself in a beautiful gown, circling a ballroom with Fred Weasley at her side. As she stepped up to the mirror, she took a deep breath with her eyes closed, the image of Fred’s infectious smile fresh in her memory as she opened her eyes.

Well, it was not difficult for her to imagine Fred’s wide grin because it was staring right back at her, standing beside her with a singular rose extended towards her. Blinking rapidly, (Y/N) leered at the mirror, stepping towards it with her eyebrows furrowed, frustrated by Fred’s overconfident grin shooting towards her.

As the minutes passed, her annoyance only grew. Not only did she not know what the mirror was supposed to show, but she also had Fred’s playful gaze trained onto her. With a large huff, (Y/N) crossed her arms over her chest and moved towards the right, trying to cover Fred’s presence in the mirror.

“Something the matter?” coughed Mad-Eye, whipping the droplets of his drink away from his face and stuffing his flask into his robe pocket, “Tell us what you see.”

Without taking her eyes off the mirror, (Y/N) clicked her tongue in frustration, “I really can’t see anything with Fred in the way,” she admitted, “Can you get out the way? You’ve been grinning at me like a mad man”

Fred registered George’s snort of laughter beside him, his ears flushing red as he replayed (Y/N)’s words in his head, “(Y/N), sweetheart” he spoke up, raising his hand up in the air to show how far back in the line he was, “I’m over here, love. How could I possibly be blocking your view?” teased Fred, stepping out of the line as (Y/N) whipped around to face him.

With her mouth agape, she locked eyes with Fred and realization dawned on her, it was impossible, Fred was too far away, and he was the only one the mirror was reflecting... She should’ve at least seen the rest of the class or even Mad-Eye!

Turning back towards the mirror, (Y/N) noticed Fred’s smiling face again, but also noticed the green dress robes he was wearing and how she was wearing the most magnificent purple gown she had ever laid eyes on, “I don’t understand” (Y/N) uttered out, turning her head towards Mad-Eye, “I- only see Fred and I… going to the Yule Ball together…” she admitted, lowering her voice as she did so.

“Well, Mrs. (L/N),” Moody began, “The Mirror of Erised shows your heart’s most desperate desire and it seems yours is to be Mr. Weasley’s date,” he said matter-of-factly. (Y/N) blushed furiously at his words, her eyes darting towards the real Fred, who bore the same smile as his reflection. She could verbalize the relief that washed over her when the bell, signaling the end of class, rang and immediately taking the opportunity to bolt out of the classroom, leaving her broomstick in her wake. The rest of the students exchanged whispers as Fred and George exited the classroom, making jokes about what they thought they would see in the mirror.

“Would you like some alone time?” asked George mischievously, handing Fred (Y/N)’s forgotten broom, “I’m sure there’s plenty the two of you should talk about” George then waved his brother off and ran down the corridor to join Angelina.

Fred looked down at the broomstick in his hand, his thumb trailing over the initials she had carved into the wood. A small smile appeared on his face as he caught sight of his own initials in her broomstick, the ones he had carved during the summer after (Y/N) lost the bet at the World Cup. With a newfound sense of courage, Fred strode down the corridor in search of (Y/N), determined to find her before she could hide in her common room.

ϟ ϟ ϟ

(Y/N) halted once she reached the Training Grounds, her hands placed over her knees as she took deep breaths, the crisp, frigid air filling her lungs, “Way to go!” she exclaimed angrily, stomping her heel against the ground out of pure embarrassment. Sinking down onto the snow, (Y/N) covered her face with her hands as she racked her brain for any sort of excuse she could give to Fred, but ultimately came up empty.

“You know,” called a familiar voice behind her, “If you wanted to go to the ball with me, all you had to do was ask…” stated Fred, stepping towards her curled up frame. Jumping at Fred’s words, (Y/N) pushed herself off the ground, wiping the snow off her robes before pointing a finger towards her crush. “Listen here, Fred” she stated defensively, “I-I have a perfectly clear explanation for this…” (Y/N) tried to explain, her voice wavering as he stepped closer to her, the scent of his cologne mixing with the chilly air, effectively weakening her resolve.

“I’m all ears, love” He added, a playful smirk playing at his lips as he stuck out her broomstick, “You forgot this on your way out, it’s nice to see my initials are still there” Fred winked, letting his hand rest above hers as she attempted to retrieve her broom.

“W-Well, I did lose the bet after all” muttered (Y/N), the blush returning to her cheeks as their fingers brushed together.

“And I’m sure you’ll lose this one too” added Fred casually and (Y/N) raised an eyebrow at him, “What do you mean by that?” she asked cautiously as he laughed.

“Well, I bet that you want to go to the ball with little old me, but you’re too afraid to ask” Fred stated confidently, smiling at the look of shock on (Y/N)’s face. He was not surprised by her reaction, not at all, it was what he had expected to see, to him, she was so easy to read. Fred understood what it meant when she scrunched up her nose during their late-night study sessions, how her leg would bounce underneath the desk when she was itching to go play Quidditch or the cute frown she bore when something did not go her way. It was not difficult to understand that this expression of shock meant he had been right on the mark.

“Am I wrong?” He asked, his hand snaking around her waist, pulling her closer to his taller frame. Closing her mouth, (Y/N) looked down at their closeness and then up at Fred, “You’re not.” she admitted, swallowing her pride for once in her life.

“Then, allow me,” whispered Fred, stepping back, and pulling out his wand before uttering the word, “Orchideous.” At that moment, a large bouquet of roses popped out of the tip of his wand, which Fred then took and dramatically brought himself down to one knee.

Clearing his throat, he raised the flowers up and said, “(Y/N) (L/N), would you do me the utmost honor of accompanying me, Frederic Weasley, to the Yule Ball?” he asked, his grin growing wider than she ever thought possible.

She would be lying if she said she had not imagined this moment playing out in her head, but never thought about it actually happening. However, there was no denying that the real thing felt better than her usual daydreams...

With her heart beating against her rib cage, (Y/N) delicately wrapped her fingers around the bouquet and brought them up to her nose, the intoxicating smell of roses easing her nerves, “I would be delighted to accompany you to the ball, Mr. Weasley” she replied with a grin, slipping her hand into his extended one as he stood up.

“Brilliant,” He whispered, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, “But you know, you did lose a bet…” Fred muttered, his thumb trailing over her cheek as a faint tinge of red appeared over them once again.

“Yes, that is true,” (Y/N) admitted with a nod of the head, “I suppose there is something you want me to do?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” added Fred, stepping closer to her, and placing his other hand on her cheek, “I think the winner deserves something sweet” He stated huskily, his face dipping closer to hers, “Don’t you agree?”

(Y/N) nodded, their proximity sucking the air out of her lungs and her blush darkening as their lips brushed against each other, “I do, why don’t you show me then?” she asked teasingly, a smile appearing on her lips as the smirk on Fred’s face grew.

“Alrighty, then” With that, Fred closed the distance between them, one hand cupping her face as the other pulled her towards him by the waist. This, too, was better than anything Fred could’ve daydreamed, and he wondered why it had taken him so long to finally kiss her. He recalled the many occasions he could have kissed her, but never committed to it, afraid she might turn him down to preserve their friendship. But after the altercation in Mad-Eye Moody’s class, he knew there was nothing left to lose.

Fred Weasley had always loved (Y/N) (L/N), but it took a magic mirror for him to realize that… Not that he was complaining, better late than never.

Pulling away from their first kiss, Fred tapped his finger against his chin, “You know, I don’t think just one was enough” he admitted, sliding his arm behind (Y/N)’s knees and scooping her up into his grip, “Wouldst the fair lady grant me one more?” He asked, wagging his eyebrows at her, making her burst out laughing.

“As many as you want, My Lord,” giggled (Y/N), placing her hands on his cheeks and pulling him in for another passionate kiss.

As the snow began to fall around them, Fred carried (Y/N) out of the training grounds, both bursting with excitement for the upcoming Yule Ball and the new memories they would make together.

#fred weasley #Fred and George #Fred and George Weasley #Fred Weasley x reader #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you #yule ball imagine #harry potter imagines #hogwarts mystery imagine #hogwarts fanfic #hogwarts imagine #Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

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pigeoncoffee · 4 years ago

Note

what do you love about each of your friends islands?

oh gosh idk who to mention i have so many good buddies in this community. i’m just guna mention a couple of em but shout out 2 the animal crossing elders discord group i love u all v much.

@fateside: amys island is looking so good!!! my favourite part of her island is her entrance. her island is like an abandoned island that people have started inhabiting again n right by the entrance is some old train tracks which is such a good idea!! (shes also my favourite part of her island xoxox)

@sprinket cassies island is SO COOL sometimes it makes me wana dump this whole cottage core forest island vibe n just do something colourful and creative instead. her island reminds me of the film wall-e and its like everybody just abandoned her island and now shes there collecting trash (i gift her junk every time i see her) she has some really cool junk yard areas in her island!

@mayorbrewster ellie is like the queen of cottage core. every time i see one of her screen shots im like “pls let me move into your island” her island just gives off those cosy vibes. i can’t think of a particular fave spot bc i haven’t visited in a while n ik she’s redoing some stuff but her whole island is just like *chefs kiss*

@spiritpiece mia’s island is so pretty and she recently released her dream address so you should definitely go visit. i had a sneak peek at her dream address the other day and the area around her home was so pretty!

@iltacat ilta is another queen of cottagecore (tho she also has a second island which is based off of some of the older games) her island mossyrock is one of my fave islands and she recently released the dream address for it. i cant remember if i’ve visited ilta’s island in person or if i’ve just convinced myself that i have after watching haley tour her island but i’ll definitely be touring her DA soon!

@pigeoncreamer ik haleys currently in the early stages of landscaping her new island but she’s one of my favourite um island designers??? is that what were called idk??? but her landscaping is just *chefs kiss*

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blue20152019-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Destini Ellison

Nightheart: His name is straight-forward. He was born during the deep hours (the ‘heart’) of a Mid-summer night.

Rin [pronounced Rynn]: Nightheart’s mother, BMYR adviser, combatant medic and surgeon. Once native to Apex Haven.

Ikem [Ike-come]: Nightheart’s father. BMYR co-founder and rebel fighter.

Arrow: BMYR’S leader. Infamously known as ‘Black Shepherd’ by their enemy, the B.C.I facility.

Dr. Kirasato: B.C. I’s Co-founder and Assistant director, Rin’s biological father, Nightheart’s grandfather. The latest enemy of Apex Haven; Once a minority native/resident of Apex Haven. Now a ‘Green-eyed Judas’ of the Apex Haven Novel Sequel.

Dr. Auveir [pronounced Ah-vair]: B.C.I double agent. Minority native to Apex Haven, Combatant Medic, scientist, and Leader of the Downfall Taskforce team sent from Apex Haven.

Doctor’s Tsubari and Julia: Friends to Auveir. Minority natives of Apex Haven.

Apex Haven- Prequel to [my] BMYR novel. A post-industrial & post-colonized, horticultural and hunter-gatherer hidden middle-earth/lost world consisting of (were)wolf-shifting 1st nation brown and Eurasian people and minority white foreigners…who surprisingly retain holdovers of modern health care instruments and knowledge.

Biological Bestowment: Nightheart. Pt. 1

In an orange flickering examination room, 8-year-old Nightheart wiggled desperately under the table’s restraints. While lying on the Supine position (backside down) with arm abduction, (table head part made with rotating arm rest and wrist straps) the leather straps were left with some wiggle space due to his grandfather’s hasty response to the orange-flickering room lights. The wrist, ankle, and waist belt made a soft, heavy, rubbing sound as the boy’s bare feet hit the grey-titled floor. *Thud* There was no ear-splitting alarm sound, just the peculiar flashes of hazard lights.

The emergency lights basked the room in an incandescent orange checkered flash. From the cracked room door, he saw little spotlights spin around like a spiral. Confused but very grateful for the doctor’s sudden absence, Nightheart quickly slipped on the foamy lab slippers, peep cautiously from the door’s crack opening, and bolted out into the empty corridor.

Metal rolling carts, storage closets, cabinets and drawers lined the glassy white walls as Nightheart’s paced-crept down toward the hallway’s opening. A rounded- spacing with 3 doors meet Nightheart’s eyes. The left door across was opened. Nightheart stiffened his posture then hunched down noticing the B.C.I staff congregating in it. Nightheart tightens his pale-stricken lips when he caught side-view of the cruel doctor amongst the black vested figures. The men hounded the surveillance room—watching with silent dread as their men were being slaughtered and pushed back by some BMYR rebels. The way the room was, had the adults facing about-face behind the jumbo tv screens. With a big breath, Nightheart proceeded to hug the wall and tip-toe towards the right closed door. Right as Nightheart reached the knob, he heard his mom’s distant radio voice from the surveillance room. Although a few yards from the room, he detected her muffled belligerent yelling. A flash of pained longing twisted his hurt-puppy dog eyes. Mommy’s really angry.

He never ever heard his mom sound like that. Wailing like an enraged banshee. While uncomfortable hearing this, he was slightly grateful to know help was rolling in. Unknowingly quiet viciously at that. When he turned the knob, a small ID scanner came from the wall panel.

“Um,” he whispered softly. Nightheart never seen an ID grid panel before, its outline glowed with square outlines and across the black plaster was finger print outliner. Cluelessly, he poked at the scree with his index finger. Orange brimmed across the square outline and ‘try again’ text appeared.

*BOOM*

The shock waves from an explosive medium rumbled beneath the boy’s feet. The previous orange lights above flashed red and an army of voices whirled around the surveillance room.

“Was that a grenade?!” “More like dynamite or a RD-Keg bomb!”

“Where did they get those things from?!”

“DAMN THOSE PUNKS! Guys, take some flash drive copies before using the exits!” Kirasato commanded. A frantic train on men pushed eachother through the doors and made their way towards the back of the lab’s spacious south-wing to various hidden exist. Nightheart hunched over to make him smaller while eying the frantic clads of white trying to find a way slip along with them without being grabbed at. When he thought there was opening, he paced forward as close as he could to the line before noticing a pair of black-panted legs turned toward him. Kirasato caught his grandson standing a few feet from him and tried moving forward to reached down to secure him, however, the herd of scientist pushed past him unceremoniously and indifferent to the child near them. Seizing the moment, Nightheart ran between the men, maneuvering left and right through the pillars of legs so he wouldn’t get pushed down or grabbed at.

“Get back here!” Dr. Kirasato commanded, glaring blindly ahead of him.

The man couldn’t reach him due to the wave of fellow scientist pacing by in hurried fashion to secret back-way exists. Now separated by a moving wall of lab-coats, tecs, and black-vested men, Nightheart stepped away backwards ignored; remembering the stores his parents told him about their presence. He wished his grandfather, no, that cruel madman, would flee with the other human cockroaches. Thankful to the adult’s indifference, the boy darted back to the room he was in. He hated the idea of going back there, but the room was divided up into compartments. A potential of comb hiding spots for him to duck and dive for. One of the divided areas was barren. No medical instruments anywhere. It was spare office-type room with a mini foyer.

An odd paneled floor rested in the middle towards the back wall. To Nightheart, it looked like a metallic door thatch or crawlspace doorway.

The sliding metallic sheets clicked under the boy’s feet. The thin line in the middle of the square title pulled apart. Black bangs flared up as the boy lost ground. The small fingers scrapped at the edge of the cookie-cutter floor. Nightheart’s Heterochromia eyes---the right hazelnut brown and left cool grey---mirrored his grandfather’s alarmed eyes. Before the light above vanished, Kirasato attempted to seize the boy’s hand or shirt collar, but the arm was a palm-length shy. Tumbling down the grey rocky concrete left the boy’s soft frame scrapped up in scratches and cuts, then the 5feet drop came to a cold, heavy end.

All was still in the underground lab. The furious commotion from the [1] B.C.I’S [1] Facility’s surface level had gone mute, the air stiller than the artificial ambiance that murmured from some hidden area. The only organic noise was the soft beating of 8-year-old’s Nightheart’s heart against the floor. The wooden floor boards and shingles---once part of Dr. Kirasato's passage to his hidden lab bunker--- lay broken and sprawled around the stunned child. Nightheart was on his stomach. His legs tucked, one arm stretched out under him, the other bent towards his chest. His t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts ripped and scuffed up from the rough, slide-in fall. His body stamped with scratches, cuts and skimmed knees and palms. Strands of his sable-black hair fell into his eyelids, tickling him awake. [2] Proprioception told him his limbs were intact and unbroken. He pushed himself up, then sat back on his legs. He couldn't hear his mom, Rin, nor his dad, Ikem, [I-come] and the other [3] BMYR teammates fight against the guards. He looked up from where he landed. A gray void stared down at him. Splintered planks from the void’s outline looked like angular fish teeth. How far did I fall? LED bulbs fixed into the steel-blue concrete ceiling were like mini spotlights in an overall shadow foyer-type opening.

The floor, a glassy blue plaster, was smooth and cold under his bare legs. While the boy was getting his surroundings in, the heavy *tap tap* of footsteps—heeled black boots---came towards him. Nightheart’s heart fluttered like butterfly wings as the silhouetted outline drew closer. Quiet. Predatory. Unbothered.

That doesn't look like dad or Arrow. He lifted himself up on wobbly knees. A sharp sensation spiraled in his right knee. Ouch! A ring of blood welled around the fleshy site.

“Mr. Auvier?” Nightheart’s voice peeped.

“Not the best of slides. Or falls. But don’t worry grandpa is here.” Dr. Kirasato cooed at the 8-year-old. Nightheart’s pupils dilated into pinpricks. Nightheart wanted nothing to do with the white-coated monster. Without hesitation, he turned to dart away from the man---the figure of unprovoked cruelty---whom had caused him physical and emotional distress since last year.

A year and a half prior, Nightheart was forced to go with his grandfather. He never knew he had a grandfather until that wretched day. His mother had never mentioned him for good reason. A BCI affiliation link, a lowman, from the [2]Pedestal Grounds leaked info to the [3]Skyline Plats. This led the doctor and B.C.I Trackers to intercept the escort task of delivering Nightheart to one BMYR safe zone post.

The escort was supposed to be a countermeasure against the recent swarm of BCI lowmen sweeping through Nalidago’s [Pronounced either Nal-lee-daw-go or Naw-lee-dah-go] Northwestern region. The BMYR Townhome base is situated in Nalidago’s Southwestern woodsy hill region. Nightheart had been worried when nobody came to the overnight hut; which was in route to the safe zone post. He had left the camouflage shack with his plushy jet-black stallion in his arms to search for the rebels; whom were swiftly neutralized and displaced with Kirasato’s involvement. The boy’s sheltered life and puppy-innocence led him to leave with the infamous BCI Co-director of the Bio black market organization. The name dropping of his mother erased all doubt he had. The easy talk. The smiles. The kindness. He had thought at the time he would be in good hands. Little did he know his backpack possessions his mother packed for him would be his centered, obsessive support in a week of hell. The “check-ups”, the nerve-wrecking body fluid extractions, and dubious vitamin supplements. All a vicious factor in a taboo ploy of tampering with a mysterious, dormant, matrilineal “lore” gene passed on from Apex Haven. The week in the facility had been a surreal slow burn, as spent his free-time curled into a fetal position either hiccupping or hyperventilating himself with his plush stallion to weary sleep during those bleak nights. After his 1st miraculous rescue—with his mother finding him first no less--used her herbal, medical and Medical Chi treatment plan to get her baby boy to recover from spontaneous intervals of intense fevers, muscle constrictions, and unbalanced stomach PH levels. The child didn't get far. In a minute the bastard scientist held him by the helm of his shirt collar.

“LET GO!” The boy flailed about like a mouse under cat claws. Why didn’t he leave with the others!? The boy thought. Dr. Kirasato ignored his demand, taking a moment to yawn and look the boy over.

“Does anything hurt?” Kirasato questioned. Nightheart was too preoccupied trying to free himself from the man’s grip. There was nothing to say to this cruel madman. Nightheart twisted around and managed to elbow the man’s thigh. The impact was weak and rolled off the doctor like a bouncy ball. Dr. Kirasato rolled his eyes indifferent. With the man's grip still on the child’s shirt collar, Kirasato sat on the floor with Nightheart’s back towards his torso and pinned him to floor with one knee over the child’s right side. Essentially, he was firmly, not roughly, half-kneeing on the panicked boy’s left side. To an outsider, this would look like unprofessional and criminal, child abuse almost. Almost. But not. As a former combatant medic, once trained in aggressive martial arts and defensive martial arts, manhandling and grabbling people for neutralization, restraining fussy or aggressive patients or emotionally unstable allies and friends during territorial or eco-political battles was an engrained holdover of his do-go active days as a Apex Haven Combat medic and homestay doctor.

He frowned with displeasure when he noticed Nightheart’s swollen right knee as the boy swung his legs back and forth.

“MOMMY!”

“Enough!” Kirasato snarled, catching the boy’s flustered attention. “Nightheart your parents are down here.”

“I’ll find them! You won’t keep me here you cold-madman!” Nightheart proclaimed, wiggling around his left side. Dr. Kirasato smirked for a moment at his grandson festiveness, then faltered.

To induce a clean 7LifeLine bestow he had to injury free. Tears rose on the horizon of his Heterochromatic eyes.

“GET OFF ME! MOMMY! SOMEONE! HELP ME!” Kirasato rolled his eyes.

The man had no shred of sympathy left. No moral agency. All he had was a logical, calculated mind and a goal to complete. The lab bunker would give some time to complete his goal and contain the brunt of any explosive-type device from penetrating this area. Kirasato was well aware Nightheart looked upon him like a monster. A living boogeyman to fear and hate at all cost. The scientist pressed down on the swollen, red tissue. This caused electrical twinges to race up and down Nightheart’s leg. A brown shard poked out of his bleeding hole like a wooden tapeworm.

“Ow! What’re you doing?!” The boy’s soft, puppy features bristled with indignation. Kirasato ignored him focusing on the callous-protrusion. Prodding the surrounding tissue made the bloody site pulsate in glassy waves. A stream of blood rolled down his knee and onto Kirasato’s lap. The child felt the blood tickle his flesh and saw it drip off. Anger swelled in Nightheart.

“STOP HURTING ME YOU STUPID MADMAN!” Nightheart’s right eye glaring into rectangular lenses. The white glare from the ceiling lights lenses from the man's glasses swayed into a different color. The scientist’s mossy green eyes became bioluminescent, activated by his irises enzymes as a thick, vaporous energy-wave materialized into existence from off his hands. Every skin cell on his hand opened, secreting a cool steam. His fingertips wafted like self-fueling, endothermic-kinetic heat wave. The energy steam's interior comprised of little stringy electric neurons webbing through the wave.

There’s some pus outside the patella with a lodged wooden splinter. It looks about 3 inches…the kid didn't even realize, its situated across the intramuscular nerve. Kirasato thought of the proper medicine to use, which triggered his spit enzymes to secrete an antibiotic ointment. The saliva watery and clear as it seeped down his chin. Nightheart stared in baffled disgust. A slight gape parted his mouth.

He’s slobbering on himself!? Nightheart thought visibly puzzled. The scientist raised an index finger to let the spit roll down it. The specialized spit rolled down like droplets off a car window.

This can’t be real!

Kirasato eyed the boy and Nightheart could tell he wanted to say something, but as he dawdled out a few seconds, as the orange code lights flashed again.

“Your face is raw with questions, fear, disgust. See this brown stub?” He tapped the tip of it making the boy wince.

A splinter? It shouldn't hurt this much its skinny and flat. Why does it hurt so much?

“Keep still if you want this painless.”

“Don’t mess with it!” Snapped Nightheart, balling his tiny fist.

“You prefer I cut off your leg?” Kirasato taunted. Nightheart’s hot anger flushed. His eyes widen with alarm.

“If I don’t take this out, your leg will become gangrenous, I’ll chop it off if that’s what you prefer.”

Nightheart stared in alarm. He wouldn't. He thought. As if to answer the boy’s unspoken question, Kirasato added.

“I would. I’m sure your poor mother would be horrified if you had to live with a stump for the rest of your life.” A snake-ish smile on the man’s still glowing eyes. Nightheart went into a 1,000-yard stare. This indirect cue got Kirasato to start. He cut the boy’s olive-beige skin, above the swollen site, and a few centimeters back from the tip. He achieved this by using his index finger-claw as a razor. Hot tears rose forth and hung out the corner of the boy’s eyes. He gritted his teeth and pressed his head into the floor. Nightheart needed comfort. He needed his mom. But strange enough, Nightheart was still. He lapsed into a near-despondent state. He thought that if he could go back to that happy place when he under distress, his mom would be by his side like she had been before. With the flesh split open a few centimeters from the protruding tip, the scientist dug his claw in, using it as a flat hook. The spit on his finger acted as antibiotic and killed off any germs from the splint. When the spit touched the tissue, it foamed up like peroxide. Shifting the splinter up like a lever, the scientist pulled it out with care. Under the white bulb’s light, the wood looked like a bloody sewing needle. Kirasato threw it away from them and poked his finger-claw in the former splinter’s site. It stung like hell for a moment then went numb. Watching the puss drain satisfied Kirasato, but grossed-out Nightheart. The scientist watched it ooze out and dry before putting a band-aid over the frail scar tissue. His lifted his weight off the boy’s torso. Nightheart took notice and raised his head.

“Was that so bad?” A fake, reassuring smile momentarily masked his face.

“YES! You stuck your spit-soaked finger needle in my knee!” Kirasato chuckled amused. Nightheart’s eyebrow raised. What is wrong this man?? “Not funny! I thought you were gonna take out my knee bone!” He pouted flexing his bandaged knee. Kirasato stood up, freeing his hold on Nightheart. Just that second of freedom was enough to get Nightheart’s blood churning again. The kid rolled left and jumped to his feet. As soon as his weight was on his legs Kirasato had his hand on his shirt collar again.

“Lively little scamp huh?” Kirasato said. Nightheart whirled around and pounded and scratched his fist on Kirasato’s forearm. It didn't hurt. Again, his blows rolled off like bouncy balls. But Nightheart was trying desperately to make the man loosen his grip. With one full sweep, Kirasato held Nightheart from under his armpits, then proceeded carrying him left into his private operation theater. At the start of this moment, all surface drama and fear from earlier dissipated like a fragrance in a sauna room. Nightheart’s heart tap danced on eggshells as the funk of dread hit like a tornado touching down. His body shivered violently. His memory of Kirasato's transgressions so vivid his palms became clammy with dew drops. His ability to protest gone mute in his throat, preventing any kind of audible words.

Inside the room rested a locked gurney with a sterilized, fitted sheet and mattress. A silver instrument cart was at the foot of the bed, and a cabinet hanging on the wall to the right of the gurney. The harsh light of the table's fixture added fuel Nightheart’s raging blood pressure. Nightheart fearfully tucked his legs back under his thighs. Dr. Kirasato briskly recounted all the procedural items needed. Moving the boy to his right arm, holding him like a suitcase, Kirasato turned on the oxygen tank.

NO NO NO NO NO! With newfound adrenalin, Nightheart thrashed his weight around in hysteria. Kicking his legs wildly before the bastard scientist could pin him to the cold white bed.

“Stop.” The doctor commanded while readjusting his hold on him.

“YOU STOP!” Don’t make me sick again! His Heterochromia eyes wide with tears.

“I’m not making you ‘sick’—again---I’m giving you a gift.” Nightheart didn’t hear his reasons. He did NOT forget what uncomfortable procedures that would have happen earlier if not for the lab alarm system telling him that help was on the way. Kirasato straighten his posture, letting Nightheart tire himself out. The man’s white-sleeved arms shake, he cursed under his breath for having to the restraints behind. The approaching, surreal procedure required no-obstructions to his torso, but at least he could tie down is ankles and IV arm. The adrenalin surge shifted into aggression.

On instinct Nightheart managed to chump down hard on Kirasato’s forearm. This stunt caught the man off-guard and flinched. He weakened his underarm hold just enough to let Nightheart awkwardly fall from his side. His feet hit the floor, and to hell with his protesting knee pain, he bolted out the rotating double doors and into the weird foyer-like area he was in before. Recovered from the bite, Kirasato ran after his grandson. Praising his good fortune for being a good runner, Nightheart easily put some feet behind his irritated grandfather. Nightheart was moving so fast that the surroundings’ storage items and other lab miscellaneous objects were a blur. In and out his figure bathed in the rapid succession of the white light flickering orange in their morass code. Kirasato had closed in minutes later, ready to grab the boy’s shirt collar again. But this is what Nightheart wanted, at the last moment and made sharp, rabbit-like turn to the right. Kirasato unceremoniously buckled and staggered his legs.

“What!?” Genuine surprise in his voice. The scientist clumsily crashed into some empty metal carts and stacks of various boxing materials. That delicate chance led Nightheart to flee into a less-lit area of the underground lab.

The floor went from cold, glassy blue to a titled white floor as he entered a dark corridor of the one office-lab wing. This section of the lab wasn't in use as dust and cobwebs collected on shelves and sharp corners of the floor. There was a room filled with storage cabinets situated in a ‘L’ shape. situated between a tall filing cabinet and metal table. Nightheart crawled though and scuttled into the cold, bumpy, maw until he bonked his forehead against its abrupt end. He turned around and flattened himself against the cabinet's back wall. He panted like a tired puppy. The length was no more than 2 feet long and just big enough for him to turn and scrunch his limbs to his chest. Nightheart wiped tears away from his fear-stricken face and whined softly to himself.

Why did this happen again? Why does he like hurting me? I never did anything to him!” Nightheart’s whines turned into stifled sobs Why aren't they here yet? What’s taking so long? Did they get captured by the Bleach-coats too? Did…. they kill my family…. Oh god don’t tell me I’m alone now. At the possibility of this idea, more tears salted his young face, his wavy-sable-black hair hung over his creased eyebrows. He cried for a few minutes in the oppressive title-patterned area. Then a gut feeling stirred within his despairing resignation. It was a warm and springy feeling that rose up his chest like smoke fire. It was inexplicable to Nightheart, but he realized that what he thought was false. Someone will find this place and rescue him. This momentary comfort dashed away when he heard the same footsteps near.

Kirasato sniffed at his bite mark. Nightheart managed to tear through the doubled sleeved arm and red indents stared back at him. He admitted to himself that it smarted a little and wasn't expecting that kind of response from adorable, puppy-like Nightheart. Kirasato stopped and looked around. It was achingly still around him and somewhere off into the front opening, orange lights flickered off and on again. He then heard sniffles coming from the old cabinet counters and smirked. He had a feeling the boy would try to hide himself in floor cabinets. The counters above them were ‘L’ shaped rows and the white cabinets coated with dust and darkness. *Tap tap* Kirasato’s footsteps came to the middle of the room. He had to flush him out carefully. Otherwise the boy could slip away into the little storage room and hide himself under junk or behind discarded packing boxes.

I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared Nightheart buried his chin into his arm. Kirasato titled his head attentively, as if he could pinpoint an aura of dread from one of the sliding cabinets. His eyes creepy orbs of mossy-mist. He turned to lean against the smooth counter-top. The man face’s looked reflective but had nothing intimate to reminisce over. What Kirasato barter for, in exchange for global scientific fame of introducing---exploiting---the enigmatic, Apex Haven Canis lupus CRISPR bloodright, had ironically became an underground operation for a scientific dystopian dynasty. Ever since Kirasato disbanded from Apex Haven, breaching the continent’s foundation laws and personal ethics, he unwittingly trashed any chances for him to return to his former life. This applies both physically and mentally. When he breached the secret entrance for the second and final time, with kidnapped Haven youths and the Impers descendants, (‘em-pure’, short for Imperialist), the physiological deterioration of “Estranged Amnesia” was activated in his brain’s hippocampus. Within a month his both Semantic & retrospective memory gone through a white-slate re-wiring

“Grandson I’m very sorry for hurting you. I know you don’t care why I upset you, but I don’t like hurting you for fun because I’m a cruel madman.” His tone soft and dry. “You have every right to hate me, fear me, for what I've done to you. Your mom has the right to hate me with all the hellfire and try killing me with espionage attacks. But there are things she doesn't know, things that aren't the whole truth neither me nor her. My curiosity led me to replicate this surreal phenomenon and I want nothing more than to give this gift to you, little one. But I need one last “check-up” done then I’ll let you go…” The under lab was quiet. Tension wavering off the two souls in a stale mate. Nightheart had his fist clenched in effort to quail his terror. “I promise it won’t hurt, quite the opposite actually,” he added with a soft tone scrapping his finger-claws against the cabinet doors. Nightheart stilled his breath. Nightheart’s ears hone-in to the soft scraping sound coming from his left. Pupils dilated. Kirasato opened one cabinet. The one that was close to the door threshold.

“It’ll be scary but fruitful, I know it will. The gift works in theory as well as in clinical application. The gift is indefinite and you’ll love it when you get older.” He opened the second cabinet and third. Nightheart was in the 5th sliding cabinet out of 10 total and he heard the doors close and open. His palms sweating his pulse throbbed again. “Nightheart, mommy is just on the top floor. I know where she’s at, but she’ll never find you down here. You don’t want her to stress, do you? The longer we stay down here the sadder she gets. You don’t like seeing your mommy crying right, you hate when she cries right?” Kirasato hit a nerve. An intimate one.

Nightheart flashback to that day, last year, when his mother barged in the pathetic excuse for a nursery room. Rounded eyes of agony meet his dull and weary ones. He’d never seen such an expression on her strong and warm persona. So much heartache and regret blurred into one physical mess. The warmth from her chest and the fiery pulse in her neck was the 1st stimulant he recognized on that day of salvation. He weakly nuzzled his face into her embrace to let her know he was conscious and waited for her. The pangs---impulses of desperation and yearning crept itself to his fear-hate mindset. One last test to end off pain, right? A dry whimper rolled off his throat. Kirasato picked up on the slight noise and centered both hands on the 5th cabinet.

“Come Nightheart.” The door to his cabinet started to swing open. Nightheart braced himself. He bucked his legs forward and jabbed Kirasato’s fingers in the process. “Yow!”

Kirasato recoiled and Nightheart bolted out. His feet thrummed heavily against the title floor as he rounded the corridor. Kirasato’s anger bubbled up and in a mad sprint he snatched Nightheart’s up with his finger-claws. The tips of his claws pierced the boy’s flesh. He yelped out which made Kirasato realize what he was doing. The man didn't say sorry, instead he gingerly brushed the little red spots away and took a heavy, disappointed sigh and hoisted the poor boy up.

In moments they were back in the room. Nightheart was hyperventilating. Screwing his eye tight to blind himself from an unknown cruelty. His distress blatant but ignored by Kirasato as he was thrown unto the gurney and had his limbs fasten to the 4-point restraints. Kirasato shook off his loose lab coat, then removed his white shirt. Surgical pen marks were retained by non-smear covering wrap he ripped from his torso.

Yes, each sharpie outline mimicked the outline of his internal organs like a fleshy complete puzzle board. Kirasato’s focus was in the moment, the rehearsed steps and equations he memorized hundreds of time prior. The IV line was ready, a full mixed bag of hydrating fluids and general pain-receptor inhibitors. On the metal cart placed at the foot of the bed was a (euthanization) syringe and its vial contents (liquid propofol), a scalpel, a white timer, and defibrillators with defib gel lined up in a neat row.

Not bothering with numbing cream or a cold swab, the doctor gingerly inserted the IV into Nightheart’s right arm bend and adjusted the bag’s liquid contents. The prick was sharp and cold in his vein but executed flawlessly by his versed grandfather. Nightheart’s face was crinkled like balled up paper. Kirasato plucked the single syringe and filled it with the vial’s contents. He held the syringe up and peered down at Nightheart whose face braced with defeated fear. With his right hand, Kirasato palmed the right side of Nightheart’s head, turning his head left, exposing his soft, goose-bump riddled neck. Specifically, the right external jugular vein. Nightheart gasps reeked in dread, sniffles ratting the cold and calculated atmosphere. The child waited for the soul-sucking pain. The misery. The nauseous effects of the medicine to make his stomach lurch and flop about like a fish on land. Strange enough, none of what he anticipated came to fruition. The sensation on the neck site glazed over like frostbite. It had light-weighted, hypotension sensation which iced over his entire body in a rippling fashion. To the child’s relief it was the opposite, then the relief turned into regret for believing for a second his bastard grandfather’s words. Indescribable numbness and drowsiness kayaked throughout each major systems of his body until it penetrated his circulatory system. Dr. Kirasato had placed the expelled syringe in the edge of the gurney.

What is this feeling? What is it? I hear the ocean waves singing me to sleep. It… It feels like I’m being carried by sea waves. Like that…like that brave baby jellyfish in my picture book mom read to me. Slowly, with lead curtains closing in on him, Nightheart turned his head straight to look at the ceiling. With bleary vision and anchored-weighted eyelids, he thought about his nursery room’s ceiling. His playroom was dotted with glow in the dark stars, wall banners of mosaic blankets, a glass moonroof, and all 4 walls painted with abstract shapes and spirals of color. Nightheart thought about his time frolicking through the townhouses’ inclined fields throughout the seasons; kicking up daffodils in spring, chasing and catching orange and neon green fireflies during summer evenings and picking pastel flowers from flower bushes to give to his mom or put into ponds like lily pads. He thought about the nights he had cream popsicles or honey biscuits for dessert as a reward for eating his veggies. He thought about the times his mom reading him stories to put him to sleep, held him close when he had a bad dream or when thundery nights spooked him. The boy wanted to think happy thoughts until the end, however the underlining moment of this reality made his heart ache under the loneliness of death, the absence of his mother and father, and the drowning weight of the euthanasia effects. Kirasato loomed over him, keen attention in his mossy- green gaze. Kirasato had his Medical Chi-glowing hand over the boy’s chest. Apex Haveners of the medical type, with this manifested biological power, could detect the speed, rhythm and electric current of a patient heart. (Basically, an organic Cardiac Monitor) The steady beat gradually became fainter. Erratic. slower as he entered a cardiac crash. Kirasato rolled up his t-shirt to rest over the span of the boy’s collar bones. His thoughts were the pillars that stood strong even against his shutting down body. Kirasato reached to the foot of the bed for the little white timer. He placed it to his left and had his index finger on the red start button.

Next, he grabbed the scalpel and encased it with his Chi as well. Young, stress-filled Heterochromatic eyes diluted into blank euphoria---the right, a bright brown hazelnut iris, dulled, and the left grey irises tuned into a pale storm. Nightheart’s mouth hung slightly ajar. In an instant Kirasato pushed the ‘start’ button on the timer. He had it pre-set to 5 minutes and the numbers counted down. Simultaneously as he pushed the button with one hand the other that held the scalpel plunged into his ink-marked chest. Kirasato made a 4 in incision over his Superior Vena Cava. It was a double-vision-y like an agonizing sensation as the downward flow immediately caused the doctor’s bright blood well up and flow down his upper chest region. However, due to his self-healing somatic cells and hypercreative pain-blocking receptors on overdrive from directly absorbing his Medical-Chi, Kirasato didn’t pass out or experience any of brunt of symptoms that come with major blood lose. Blood did flow from his lips like someone indulging on fresh, gooey honey. The red and foggy-green scalpel was then plunged into Nightheart’s Superior Vena Cava also. Bright red blood pooled up and spilt onto the table and across his neck like syrup. Dr. Kirasato used his Minds’ Eye to monitor the internal procession.

1 minute 20 seconds…..No response to exterior stimuli. Clinical death in process.

1 minute 45 seconds…Oxygen withheld from the brain has ceased it reserve circulation.

2 minutes 14 seconds……Pigment flushed from the boy’s face, leaving a post-mortem appearance.

2minutes 22 seconds…..Half of the Medical Chi absorption and circulation is complete. Sign of involuntary electrical impulses are visibly.

2 minutes 48 seconds….lungs and heart functions are being electrically recharge with chemical and hormonal activity. Receiving oxygen stimulant.

3 minutes…Vital organs are taking their time to chemically ingest the Medical Chi. The brain has oxygen again.

3 minutes 15 seconds. The chest compressors are used twice. Eye reflexes have returned but are slow and uncoordinated. The pale blue light that glimmered from his emotionless pupils, mouth, ears, and nostrils retreat inside. His mouth is twitching as his healthy skin color came back. Self-sustaining respiration is dominant and automatic over his organs, albeit slow and deep soundless breaths coaxes the body out of clinical death. With that done, Kirasato pressed ‘stop’ on the timer. He kneeled over the side of the bed. His self-inflicted cut to his chest was healing on the cellular level, but the blood clotting had turned the single red gush into a steady and drying iron flow.

There was a slit, a puncture slash mark in Nightheart’s chest as it started self-healing from the inside out, pushing out exposed blood, damaged tissue and skin and became covered with a fragile, red scarring tissue. Although sealed the bizarre, biological anomaly will be sensitive to rigorous movement.

BANG!

A bullet with a 4-inch nail encased in its shell struck Kirasato in his right collar bone. He staggers back, utterly surprised. Speechless and visibly vulnerable. A quaternary group of young adults--- Nightheart’s mother in the lead harboring a belligerent and blood-thirsty scowl, greets her off-guarded, uncollected father---and angry voices stampede into the room as just as Nightheart’s eyes glisten with life. The boy couldn’t hear what the BMYR rebels nor what his mother were shouting. Let alone see what was going on even when Rin loomed over his limp frame.

“NIGHT, MOMMY’S HERE! YOU’RE SAFE SWEETIE.” What Nightheart saw as a blurry visage with fuzzy green eyes burn its pained-stricken holes though his foggy focus. His vision hadn’t stabilized yet. Rin’s fern-green eyes were glistening saucers as he hurriedly undid the limb restraints and slid off the IV line. Rin’s words were submerged in water to Nightheart’s understanding as he remained despondent. With a rehearsed eye, she realized spotted the problem and immediately started CPR. Nightheart’s body and gurney shook in urgency under her firm compressions. But, blind to her desperation, and unknown to her knowledge, she was hurting him with this extra respiration boost.

“C’mon baby boy, C’mon baby boy I’m right here! Sweetie, Mommy’s right here! Tell me what he did to you?” Her voice demanding but acheful at once. Her fern-green irises glowed with Medical Chi and she critically studied his chest cavity with her hyper-specialized eyes. Rin noticed the fragile scar tissue but had to apply force over it because it was the quickest way, medically speaking, to his heart. Nightheart felt the wound become hot and the blood on his skin become thin. He wanted to say to ‘I’m okay mommy! You’re hurting me.” His dull pupils bore into hers, yet his mother’s detailed-orientated eye was just as blinding as his foggy vision. But his body was in an odd sensation off numbness and paralysis.

Dr. Auveir, an ally to the BMYR and double-spy of the B.C.I, subdued Kirasato the moment Arrow’s bullet had stunned and disorientated the green-eyed judas of Apex Haven. The two combat medics scuffled for a moment before Kirasato succumbed to his already weaken state despite his chest wound now healed over in scar tissue. Arrow, the BMYR leader and Ikem, Nightheart’s father, joined in on the short-lived beat down. Arrow stopped but Ikem’s vengeance had just peaked. Ikem was savoring the high blows to the bastard’s skull and shoulder blades and back as Auvier had wrestled him to the floor a few seconds earlier and bound his hands behind his back, belly-down.

“Rin he’s alive! Stop CPR.” Dr. Auvier’s hand on her shoulder. Nightheart recognized the good doctor’s voice and whined with joy internally. Mr. Auvier, you’re here…is my dad with you?

“No! He’s not breathing steadily!” She snapped blinking away tear drops. Auvier tried coaxing her backwards with both hands on her shoulders.

“Rin stop! Lis-“

“He has stress-induced asthma (S.I.A) also!” She barked clinging her palms to her son’s pale chest under her. Dr. Auvier grasped her biceps and pulled her further from the table.

“Let go!” She angrily began twisting herself away.

“Why are you stopping her!?” Ikem demanded pacing over to Dr. Auvier and grabbing his shoulder with a tight grip. Behind the three rescuers, Arrow’s notorious ‘feral glare’ perked up with accusation at their ‘ally’s’ weird stunt whilst aiming his hand-held gun at Kirasato’s right temple.

“Stop already! You’ll hurt him! Leave your child be!” He pleaded desperately.

“Nightheart has been given the 7lifeline condition, he WILL be fine I swear!” Auvier had turned her around to calm her and meet her wild, pain-stricken eyes. Nightheart’s mother was about to horse-kick the man’s knees inward but he anticipated something like this and stretched his legs away. Dr. Auvier then quickly notice something to get Rin to calm herself. “Rin! Look, look…” He urged calmly Auvier used one hand to emit his Medical Chi and touched Nightheart’s forehead. It was risky to do so because Rin, like her leader Arrow, hadn’t fully accepted Dr. Auvier or his team into their lives, for all the good doctor knows, she could’ve used a pressure point attack or strike at him like she did those BCI guards on the top level of the facility; but, it was worth it.

As if answered by God or some high power, Nightheart’s chest took big, smooth gulps of air before starting his coughing fits to ventilate his dry, parched throat. The child's pupil’s reflected pearls of pale blue light which dissipated from visibly view and settled within Nightheart’s Central neurological system. Auvier did a quick peripheral finger test and Nightheart followed the finger with late/delayed but coordinated glances. Witnessing his deliberate responsiveness, Rin placed a hand on her son’s right cheek.

“Don’t heal him, okay?” Auvier commanded softly. His Amber-brown eyes gentle behind the clear-eyed lenses of his Biopunk Grey Wolf mask. “I promise nothing will go wrong.” He patted her back to soothe her.

Rin moved slow as she lifted her son up from the gurney, cradling him in her blood-stained arms from the earlier lab infiltration fight. She slumped to the floor crisscrossed and placed him on her lap. She rested her chin over his soft but disheveled, wavy black hair and closed her eyes. She felt the strength of his neck pulse with one, soft hand as she counted the beats silently. Nightheart couldn’t image all the mental anguish his mom was going through.

Oh my boy, my sweetheart, you’re safe now….I’m so sorry baby boy, it’s my fault…The mash of relief and sorrow was as palatable as it was pungent being in the midst of his mom’s embrace.

It’s okay mommy. I’m here, I see you, but can’t move. Nightheart tried talking but his vocal apparatus wasn’t ready for an emotional spill out of pain and terror relived and untold. The boy just began blinking his eyes to re-stabilize his visual senses and coordination……

Now that it was silent in the room, long enough for the feverish tension to simmer, Dr. Auvier turned back to Kirasato---a bitter sight for vengeful eyes--- had look of good grief and silent satisfaction at his biggest, elusive experiment—on his kin--- successful.

“Kirasato…,” Auvier tone low and heavy before rising. “What. The. ACTUAL HELL where you thinking?! Auvier’s hands trembled under his heavy fist. The knuckle bones highlighted by the room’s white light. Auvier loomed over him. Posture tight and stern expression practically glowing from his slanted eyes.

“It was the greatest gift I could give. I wish my dear daughter---!”

Ikem’s arms tighten again and he appropriately gave a downward hit over Kirasato’s skull. Making the scientist bash his chin and bite his tongue.

“You have NO right to call her your DAUGHTER!” Ikem snarled with wide-eyed rage.

Rin heard her wretched father but didn’t respond. The young woman was still visibly distressed and confused at the man’s response.

Dr. Auvier threw his head up and pursed his lips in an ‘o’ shape. A loud, short, whistle that reverberated from under his mask and traveled out the examination room. The way his head was cocked up and titled with his Biopunk Japanese Ookami (wolf) mask made him look like a metallic howling wolf. Tsubari and Julia, friends of Dr. Auvier, found their location minutes later, followed by BMYR teammates Ayame and Tawn.

“Do it.” Dr. Auvier commanded to Tsubari. Dr. Auvier signaled for Arrow to get away from Kirasato. The BMYR Leader went to kneel by Rin’s side sympathetically.

Tsubari pulled out a sedative and stuck Kirasato in his Outer Jugular Vein. Kirasato flinched at the roughness before succumbing to the sedative. Then Tsubari and Julia hoisted him and took him dragged him away while Dr. Auvier focused back on Rin.

“Rin, may I look at him? Please?” His soft stare bore into her irises. She straightens her posture, revealing an unresponsive Nightheart. But mentally, the boy was alert. His dull gaze strained to focus on the good doctor’s face. He was looking slightly much better than the minutes before. Yet he was still under a partial, paralyzing dextral function movement, much liked Locked-In syndrome. Auvier raised his back and closed his eyes. Then with one breath, spoke fluently.

“Nightheart has been bestowed an Apex Haven condition. It’s called the7 Lifelines condition. In our land it’s both a supernatural and biological phenomenon that can be quite literary bestowed, given, through two ways. ‘Natural’ inductions or by Scientific induction. The Scientific induction involves euthanization.” He gestured to where the used syringe was along with the defibrillator paddles. “For the condition to work through this method, he had to be humanely killed and brought back by the 7LL carrier’s Medical, or Life Chi that is emitted and produced on the somatic (*organ and skin cells not involved with gamete formation or production*) cellular level. Since the procedure was done properly, your son now has ‘short-term’, or in scientific terminology Biological immortality.” (*Biological Immortality is a real bio-phenomena*) Dr. Auvier finished.

END OF PART ONE

[1] B.C.I--Stands for BioClinical Innovations. The name of the underworld Black-market Bio facility. The organization has pharmaceutical façade in the industrial society called Skyline Platforms.

2 Proprioception-Perception or awareness of the position and movement of the body.

3 BMYR- Group of ex-B.C.I test subjects, who engage in cat and mouse guerrilla warfare against the organization that abducted them from their home Apex Haven 10 years ago.

[2] Pedestal Grounds/Lands: The naturalistic outskirts of the Skyrise plats. They are like elaborate and extensive Underpasses to the Skyline Plats in the BMYR Universe. Composed of countryside’s, wildlife reserves, botanic gardens, clinics, Ports, Market Town-plazas, Flea markets, and ghost-towns. Some of the Pedestal Grounds are used as sanctioned off industrial waste dumping grounds, landfills, Ghost-towns and junkyards. The rest is huge spatial areas where true wildlands, flora, fauna, and air quality remain high and cleaner than the man-made urban nature constricts inside the Skyline Platforms. The ivy-vines, grape vines, thorns and saplings that wrap around the enormous pillars give the bases.

[3] Skyline Platforms (Plats): High-tech cities built upon expansive, steel, concrete and fiber glass foundation platforms above the common ground, renamed the Pedestal Grounds. Think of them as elaborate highway overpassing networks composed of residential, recreational, and sectioned cities. High-class services from top star to mediocre services. Metropolis city lines and suburban neighborhoods are compacted inside circular or rectangular zone. Designed in Architectural, giant stained-glass domes.

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davidhesseauthor-blog · 6 years ago

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Cowboy Up

Sometimes there are two rodeos, one inside the arena and one outside. No buckles are awarded for the one outside.

When the sun goes down the west Texas heat lets up a bit making it tolerable to sit outside at night and enjoy the quiet of the evening.

Beanie Franklin and Ike Stovall were sittin’ on the rail watching the stock eat the hay they had just thrown out. Ike watched Beanie as he took his time filling a blanket. He twisted both ends and licked the entire stick with his tongue before placing it in the corner of his mouth. He struck a match against his leather chaps, lighting the freshly rolled cigarette. He squinted as the smoke rolled out of the side of his mouth and drifted up into his eyes.

“That little one is fine as cream gravy,” Beanie said, as he exhaled a stream of blue smoke.

“Yep, but you don’t want to get by that boy's ears,” Ike replied. “That gray one over there the horse you rode today?” Ike asked, pointing in the direction of a dapple gray gelding.

“Yep, he just didn’t seem to have it. He is just plum fagged out. Four years ago he bucked me off and hung me up and dragged me for a few trips around the arena before I learned saddle broncs and I don’t mix too well. Then I went bareback. That was ‘bout three years ago. He’s been around a long time. These damn small rodeos ain’t got the cash to bring in good stock like they should.”

“How’d that bareback work out for ya’?”

“Not much better. I got jerked down in the well and stomped on a few times. Now I do a little roping’ and ride pick up whenever I can land a gig. When you’re younger you live like the road goes on forever and the party never ends. But it ain’t long before you begin to see the bend in the road and you begin to fear what’s around that bend, the unknown.”

They both sat and let the quiet of the evening settle in while listening to the stock quietly chomp on the hay.

“Well,” Beanie said while standing and slapping his thighs, “if that sun don’t come up tomorrow, you’ll know I at least had a good ride. You hungry?”

“Yeah, how’s the food at that joint, the Crystal Cactus?”

“Purty good and so are the drinks. It’s a right nice place. They even give you eaten’ irons but it’s the afterclaps you gotta look out for. I was on the shitter all night the last time I ate there.”

They heard a gunshot, then another before the telltale crash of panels and a cry, “Get the horses saddled.” It was the night watchman, Felix Dunn.

“Who fired them shots, Felix?”

“A couple of ol’ drunks came ridin’ through here yellin’ and a cussin’ and firing their dadgum pistols."

They looked up and watched as a corral full of bulls came running past, led by none other than Dirty Sam, one of the meanest bulls neither of them never rode and never wanted to.

“Did you see that? It was Dirty Sam. He lit out of town like his dick was on fire.”

“Well, let’s go git him.”

They grabbed their saddles and tacked up their horses and took off after a half dozen crazy-ass bulls as they left the fairgrounds toward the stockyards that ran parallel to the tracks of the Santa Fe Railroad.

Beanie and Ike were just about to catch up with the rest of the cowboys when someone yelled out, “There they are,” pointing in the direction of the levee road that snakes its way east toward Pumpkin Vine Creek.

They all turned and headed out at full gallop, the steel shoes of the horses throwing sparks off the asphalt as they rode in pursuit of the bulls.

As they got closer, one cowboy tossed his rope around Dirty Sam’s big old horns and proceeded to dally it around the saddle horn when Dirty Sam busted free, taking the rope with him while he headed back for the train tracks and a platform loaded with boxes with the rest of the bulls following him. As they passed the startled cowboys one of the horses reared, tossing its rider in the tall grass lining the road. The riderless horse took off in the direction of the bulls with the rest of the Cowboys in close pursuit.

When they arrived at the platform, Dirty Sam proceeded to hook the boxes and toss them all over the yard while the other bulls stomped on the contents that spilled out on the ground.

A train whistle and the clanging of metal on metal startled old Dirty Sam and he turned and ran off across the tracks and dropped down. His left front leg got stuck under the rail and was broken and twisted grotesquely in an oblique and unnatural angle to the rest of his body. He was snorting and bellowing in obvious pain while the rest of the bulls, not knowing what to do or where to go, just stood there milling around.

“Well, one of us has gotta fix his flint," Beanie said. "You been know’d to always carry an equalizer, Ike. You got a rifle in that scabbard?”

“Ya, I got one. Damn!”

“Just put it between his eyes and git it over with.”

“I can’t do it Beanie.”

Dirty Sam let out a deep moan and whipped his head back and forth slinging snot over Beanie and Ike’s legs and both their horses. His eyes were red and still filled with hate.

“Aw hell,” Beanie said, dismounting from his horse. “Gimmie your gun.”

The crack of the rifle echoed in the night. Ol’ Beanie’s eyes filled with tears.

“It ain’t right, Beanie. Dirty Sam shouldn’t have ta go this way. He was one of the best there ever was.”

About this time a couple of railroad dicks drove up in a white pickup truck with blue lights flashing on the top of the cab.

They saw the carnage and what was left of Dirty Sam and asked, “What in the cornbread hell is goin’ on?” the bigger of the two dicks asked.

“A little rodeo,” Ike replied.

“Well, who’s going to clean up this mess?”

“I reckon you should call the owner of the fairgrounds back there. We’ll take the rest of these bulls back and put ‘em away. They played enough for one day.”

“That’s it boys, the monkey’s dead and the shows over. Let’s throw a rope around Dirty Sam and get him off the track and get the rest of these boys back so we can go eat.”

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se-housman · 4 years ago

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Chapter 79 available to read now!

The Greil Mercenaries spend a little summer vacation in Gallia, watching, waiting, and training while Begnion narrowly avoids a civil war and the Senate seizes complete control. Zelgius and the Central Army marches north, passes through Daein, and then turns west through Crimea, intent on attacking Gallia from the north and east simultaneously.

And so, the war is back on.

Soren, Ike, the Greil Mercenaries, and the Laguz Alliance march north as well, intent on stopping Central Army in Crimea.

That is, unless Queen Elincia has something to say about it.

Wattpad | Ao3 | Quotev | MediaMiner

An excerpt (because Elincia rocks):

Although Zelgius must have known the direction and speed of their approach, Soren was surprised he hadn’t picked a more advantageous battleground or taken the time to establish fortifications. For a man who claimed to dislike pointless bloodshed, he wasn’t doing anything to prevent it. This lack of good judgement almost made him doubt Zelgius was truly in charge, but numerous scouts had confirmed it.

Then again, those same scouts had also reported that a senator was traveling with the army. It was quite possible the overeager politician had forced Zelgius to choose this battlefield. If so, the senator could prove to be a vulnerability in the general’s defense, like at the Ribahn River. Soren just didn’t know how to exploit it yet.

And he didn’t have much time to figure it out. The two armies were face to face now. Zelgius had positioned longbowmen on the hill to the north, so Tibarn stopped the Laguz Alliance army such that the front line was just a hairsbreadth beyond their range. For now, no one moved, but that could change at any second. To settle their nerves, the soldiers on both sides started yelling at each other.

“Insects of Begnion!” roared a Gallian soldier. “We’ll show you the power of the beast tribe!”

“Beorc scum!” cried one of the few Phoenician soldiers in Tibarn’s personal guard, “For the razing of our homes, we’ll make you wish you’d never been born!”

“Filthy subhumans!” returned a Begnion halberdier at the base of the hill. “This war ends now. Prepare yourselves!”

The shouting and jeering continued until Soren couldn’t tease apart the overlapping voices. The seconds ticked by, but Tibarn didn’t give the order to attack. Soren knew why—the second they were within range of Begnion’s archers, they would be at a disadvantage. However, neither was Zelgius ordering his troops to charge. At this rate, the battle would begin when either the laguz or beorc soldiers on the frontlines finally lost their patience and ran first.

But just then, Soren noticed movement in the west. Something massive was cresting the hill: another army. For a moment, the worst-case scenario leapt into Soren’s mind and he feared they were being broadsided by a secret force. But if that were the case, this third army had aimed their attack all wrong. They were heading straight for the intersection of the two armies, not for the Laguz Alliance’s western flank.

By now, everyone was shouting about the new arrivals instead of at each other. “A beorc army is approaching from the hill to the left!” cried a Gallian soldier. “That flag… It’s the Crimean Army!”

“Crimea has sided with the empire after all!” despaired another.

Tibarn gestured that the Laguz Alliance should move back a few yards but stay on guard, and a cat laguz with a drum repeated the order for everyone to hear. “Elincia,” Ike muttered under his breath, while the entire army shuffled backward. “What are you doing…”

Even while he said it, Elincia’s pegasus leapt into the sky, and the young queen came gliding down the aisle between the two armies—entirely alone. She stopped in the middle and dismounted. “I am Queen Elincia of Crimea!” she declared, moving her neck so she could project her voice to both sides. “I have a message for the commanders of both armies!”

Tibarn flew to the front, where he landed and strode up to her with his hands on his hips. His Phoenician guards (including Janaff and Ulki) stayed behind. Meanwhile, commotion arose within Begnion’s ranks as a nobleman with curly brown hair moved to the frontlines while encased in a wall of his personal guards. In fact, the man’s hair was all Soren could see past the red-armored knights.

When he was within earshot, Elincia continued her announcement. “I am here to declare the will of Crimea and its people!” she said, looking from Tibarn to the senator. “Crimea has been ruled under the ideals of peace and equality since the reign of my father, King Ramon. As such, I cannot and will not allow you to spill blood upon our land! Therefore… I demand that both the Laguz Alliance and the Imperial Army leave Crimea at once!” She cast out both of her arms, indicating which direction she would like them each to go.

“Withdraw our troops?” repeated the senator in a high, reedy voice. “You foolish girl! We will not be ordered about by the proclamations of a peasant like you! Puppet rulers such as yourself should stay inside their pretty castles and play dress-up. Begnion’s patience has worn out. After we finish slaughtering the subhumans, we’ll be coming for you in Melior.” He seemed worn out by his own tirade, and his voice lapsed into an angry wheeze.

Elincia had listened to him speak with a calm, patient expression. Now that he was finished, she turned to Tibarn. “Commander of the Laguz Alliance, how do you respond?”

Tibarn crossed his arms and leaned back as if assessing Elincia. “You have some serious guts, jumping into the middle of a battlefield all by yourself,” he said with grudging respect. “But your high-and-mighty beliefs don’t change the fact that Begnion must answer for its crimes. Step aside.”

Elincia’s face was as untouched by his judgment as it had been by the senator’s threatening. “…Very well,” she declared, “I have heard from both commanders. In that case-” She drew her sword—the holy blade Amiti, if Soren remembered correctly. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she chucked the sword carelessly into the field. It sailed gracefully, and where it landed, the long grass swallowed it whole. “This is Crimea’s answer!” she declared, holding out her arms as if to display her empty palms. “We will not sway from our ideals. My countrymen stand united. We will not use force. But we are willing to do whatever it takes to end this here and now.”

“What!” squeaked the senator. “Have you lost your mind?”

Tibarn, on the other hand, starting laughing. Moving his hands to his stomach, he leaned over, his entire body shaking with the guffaws. Then, righting himself, he twisted to look straight at Ike. “Ike!” he called, “I thought you were the craziest beorc I’d ever met, but you have some serious competition! Queen Crimea is one tough gal!” Wiping his eyes, he turned back to her. “Your Majesty, I like your style,” he declared with a nod. Then he raised his hand and turned to look at Skrimir this time. “Skrimir! I can’t let such a brave woman down. Let’s get out of here.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “The beast tribe will not use our claws against unarmed beorc. Soldiers, back to the forest!” At his urging, the vast majority of the troops retreated. But Tibarn hadn’t moved, which meant Reyson, Janaff, Ulki, and the rest of his guards were lingering too. Ranulf had elected to stay as well, so his entourage (including Kyza, Lyre, Lethe, and Mordecai) hadn’t budged either. Ike gestured for the mercenaries to standby—not that they were about to go anywhere if he wasn’t.

“Thank you, King Tibarn,” Elincia said when she must have judged Skrimir and the army were far enough away that this wasn’t a trick.

“This is only temporary,” Tibarn warned. He raised a finger as if to show he was serious, but it only made him look like an old man trying to reprimand a young woman. “The war between the Laguz Alliance and Begnion isn’t finished yet.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Elincia admitted, but her proud bearing didn’t waver. “Even so, I want you all to know where Crimea stands in this.”

“Well, maybe you and I can get together and chat sometime soon,” Tibarn offered. “I’ll be seeing you again.”

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chlostertalks · 7 years ago

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About Last Night....

Had to go to work this morning, but here’s my final thoughts of the game.

Tua proved me wrong.

Business Insider.

I thought it was going to be a similar showing to Garrett Gilbert in the 2010 BCS Game. Sure, Colt McCoy got hurt, but true frosh Gilbert wasn’t ready for an environment like that. My friend Ronald said Tua could throw the ball, and they flashed his high school stats on the screen, but I thought inexperience would get the best of him at the national championship.

But Tua is a great example of how this staff prepares and trusts their men when the timing is right. He led a comeback for the ages in the Dawgs’ backyard.

Alabama is a tough SYSTEM to beat.

One day, it will be called Nick Saban Field at Bryant-Denny Stadium. SI.com.

Both head coaches touched on the preparation, nutrition, strength training, etc. needed in order to have a successful team, but Alabama embodies a complete system. This is why Nick Saban calls his program “an organization.” For Bama to come in as a 4-seed, with all the injuries, with Hurts not having pocket awareness, and for Saban and his staff to know his players down to a science and make the necessary adjustments and trust a true freshman QB on THIS STAGE to win all the marbles…stunning. Absolutely stunning.

Saban has plenty of disciples that are head coaches at FBS schools. Jimbo is the only one to win a title thus far. But none have beaten Saban in matchups. NONE. Kirby came the closest, but his DB was burned on 2nd and 26.

I was so focused on what would happen on 3rd down. Tua, who, like Fromm, was just at prom last spring, was calm and had the awareness to throw 41 yards to an open man instead of waiting for the next down.

Playing Nick Saban is like playing a computer in chess. A computer with an arsenal of weapons. I now understand why he stays up at night worrying if his players are ready for the challenge. He’s not just worried about the starters; he’s worried about times like this, where the second unit has to take the reigns in a tight game to win a title.

Kirby Smart and his staff messed up down the stretch.

Afraid of being too predictable, Georgia didn’t play to its offensive strengths. The defense held Bama as much as it could, but the offense didn’t capitalize on its lead after going up 20-7. If you’re going to beat Alabama, you always have to have an answer, as Ohio State did in 2015 and Clemson last year. Alabama is ALWAYS one play away from making this a game.

Where Smart and friends really messed up is in the 4th quarter. Sony Michel, one of UGA’s top performers of the night, had one touch. In the final three drives of the game, Michel and Nick Chubb were not in. Chubb did not play well much of the night, but I would trust my seniors, the Thunder and Lightning, to win the game for me. Smart instead trusted his own recruits in Fromm, Swift, and Ridley. Should that trust in his own recruits and not Mark Richt’s be the ironic reason why the last three drives occurred, it would be a very selfish motive that caused Smart’s squad to pay the ultimate price.

Put some respeck on Riley Ridley’s name, though.

Where Wims did not shine, Ridley did. He and other Georgia receivers stepped up while Wims played with a hurt shoulder. I’m glad he and his older brother Calvin swapped jerseys and hugged it out after the game.

How Oklahoma fell apart in the Rose Bowl is how Georgia fell apart last night.

Like the Sooners, the Bulldogs were off to a hot start, creating a double-digit lead at the half. However, the offenses grew stale, allowing the opponents to come back and force overtime. With last night, however, Georgia had momentum on their side after Bama missed the field goal; in the Rose Bowl’s overtime, Oklahoma lost all the momentum they had built at the half. Regardless, the offenses in both games needed a touchdown, and both came up short.

The similarities between last night and the 2012 BCS National Championship Game:

Alabama beats an SEC Champion to win the title. The 2012 Game between Bama and LSU was a huge factor in the creation of the Playoff. This way, we would avoid seeing two teams from the same conference (and same division, at that) playing for the crown again. But here we are again, folks.

SEC Champion had home field advantage, in a sense. New Orleans is 45 minutes from Baton Rouge. Atlanta is about an hour from Athens.

Nick Saban’s résumé and PR skills/the Alabama name helped immensely. Because Bama didn’t win the SEC title, they needed something else to prove to each committee that they deserved a chance at the playoff. In 2011, Saban used press conferences to his advantage to have the committee downplay Oklahoma State. In 2017, Saban appeared on College Gameday at the ACC Championship, crimson suit and all, to give one lasting impression of what the Playoff could potentially miss. If there’s one thing PR can teach people, it’s that visual presence and impressions matter.

Another storybook ending for the 30 for 30. Cannot wait for that documentary.

#alabama crimson tide #georgia bulldogs #2018 national championship #bowl season 2017 #written work

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itbeajen · 7 years ago

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Just be You | Ike (Fire Emblem) | Modern!AU

This is a continuation of this post here. You can probably expect more, because... well.. I’m in an Ike phase. A forbidden door was opened and this was birthed. I have like all these wips for other characters cries. soon my children, soon.

"So neither of you are working today?" "Yup," Mist nodded as she ate her cereal, "[F/N]'s giving the whole office a two day break." "Can you guys afford to do that?" "Well, we're not the only vets around, so yes," Mist grumbled and mumbled, "I wonder what [F/N]'s doing." Ike shrugged, about to comment when there was the sudden noise of barking coming from your house. The siblings make eye contact and Mist laughed, "Maybe you should go check that out."

The older of the two takes a glance out of the window, but the barking has yet to cease, and there was no sign of you either. Of course, Ike's gotten used to the occasional rampant ball of fluff or feathers, and occasionally scales, running about the front lawn of yours or his yard. But he was not expecting to be mowed down by not one, but two dogs. "Wha-" All that's heard is a thud, and Mist gets up from her chair in surprise upon hearing the laughter from her brother. "H-Hey, s-stop that. It tickles. Hey!" Ike struggled as he tried pushing moving the massive and small fluffy dogs, but they all were relentless. They licked, they barked, and they cuddled up against the rather muscular male. But they only stopped when they heard your voice, "C'mere boys!" Their heads perked up, glancing here and there for your voice. Once they spotted you, they immediately dashed over to you, where you were attempting to dangle a bag of treats above you. But curse your shorter stature as the bigger dog began to attempt to stand on their hind legs to reach the treats. But before you're completely toppled over by the dogs, a hand is placed on your shoulder and another takes the bag of treats out of your hands and lifts it higher. "Hey, calm down, you'll all get your treats," Ike's voice was close, much closer than you expected. And of course, the best way to find out was through physical contact, so when the large white Akita dog placed both of its fore paws onto you, the additional weight of the dog caused you to stumble slightly backward right into Ike. "Woah, you okay?" he glances down at you and you give him a slow nod, only to flinch slightly when the dog barks directly into your face. You look forward, a sly grin settles on your lips as gently place your hands around the dog's face. Carefully squishing its cheeks you cooed, "Okay, you troublemaker, calm down, and sit." With that last command, the dog is back on all four, its fluffy tail wagging back and forth as the other circled around you and Ike before settling down patiently staring above your head. You glanced up and you laughed, "Thanks for the save." "Well, not the first time I've seen someone struggle with animals," he chuckled and then softly placed the treats on your head, "Here you go." "You wanna do it?" you asked, you give the dogs a quick glance and you sighed, "I think I might get mobbed again if I try." "Sure," he hands you the bag anyways though. You hold onto it as he opens the bag. He waves the treat with his arm, clearly amused by the way the dogs follow his hand intently. You laughed, "You can probably have them do tricks, they're trained." "Really?" There was child-like amazement in his eyes and you nodded, "It's mostly simple stuff like sit and roll over, I think that Pomeranian knows hand and play dead though." Ike didn't seem to know where to start and you closed the bag of treats with one hand and with the other dragged Ike away from the dogs and you turned back to them, "Stay!" They all twitched slightly before staying and Ike murmured, "That's cool." "Right?" you laughed and then you took one treat out and you laughed, "Okay, let's see what they can do!"

Mist yawned as she glanced up at the clock. You and Ike have been playing with the dogs for hours now. She glanced out the window, and called out, "Hey, you two dog lovers, don't you think you guys should take a break?" Both you and Ike turn around from where you're sitting on the lawn side by side, after exchanging a glance, you laughed, "Why, Mist? You hungry?" She laughed, "Maybe." "I can make you guys dinner," you offered. Ike got up first, offering a hand to help you up, which you gratefully accepted. The two fluffy dogs trotted over to you before nuzzling your leg and you chuckled, "These two goofballs probably need food too." "We can't impose on you anymore then we already have though," Ike responded. You laugh it off and wave away his comment, "Oh come on, you helped me take care of these two dogs the whole day, it's the least I can do." "I'll take you up on your offer of dinner if my brother doesn't!" Mist eagerly responded. There's a bright smile on her face and Ike sighed, "Are you sure?" "Ike, please, I would not have been able to take care of these two, let alone catch them before they ran off, if it weren't for your save." "Well," Ike paused and Mist ran up to you two hooking her arms around both of you, "I say we go!"

"It smells so good," Mist sighed in contentment. Ike nodded in agreement and he asked, "Are you sure you don't need help?" "I'm sure," you laughed as you finished making the simple tomato-based pasta for the sirloin steak dinner. Mist pops another piece of fried shrimp into her mouth and smiled, "You have to teach me." "Please do," Ike agreed. There was a playful smirk on his face, but he's distracted by the bark of the dogs that were circling the dinner table and he reaches down, petting one of them while scratching behind its ears just lightly. "I'm surprised you took the two dogs home though, [F/N]," Mist commented as the pomeranian pawed at her leg to be placed onto her lap. She lifted it onto her lap, where it curled up into a ball and you smiled, "Their owners are coming by later today, so I'm watching over them until they come over." "Ooh," Mist was petting the small pup and she asked, "Would you ever want a pet of your own?" You hum in consideration and said, "Maybe a cat or a bunny." "Not a dog?" "Ah well," you laughed, "I like all animals, I just want all of them. They're so cute, you know?" Ike nods, but doesn't respond as he's amusing himself by teasing the large Akita by dangling a piece of shrimp in the air. You glanced over and said, "Ike, don't." "I won't," he responds as he eats the fried shrimp for himself. The large Akita barks in protest, immediately jumping at Ike, pushing his chair back slightly. The male chuckles and you sighed, "I said don't." But there's a fond smile on your lips as you noticed the two siblings playing with the dogs and you shook your head before announcing, "Dinner's ready!" Immediately, the Akita and the Pomeranian make their way towards you even though the food you made was clearly not for them. You neatly plated the steak with some potato wedges, the pasta, and broccoli, and you smiled, "Here you two go." You clap your hands and called, "Okay you two, come here." You grabbed the bag of dog food that was seated on your counter, shaking it to catch their attention. The two scampered over to you, barking and whining the entire time while waiting for you to pour the food in. "Okay, okay, don't fight. Sit," you waited, and you smiled, "Good boys." Once you finished pouring the food and you took a step back, you laughed, "Go ahead." You washed up before sitting down, only to be surprised that neither of the two have touched their food yet. "We waited," Mist smiled and you chuckled, "Here I was thinking you didn't like my cooking." "No way! Your cooking is the best!" "Well then, go ahead and dig in you two." And dig in they did. You watched as both of them ate with unrestrained contentment sparkling in their eyes. You giggled at just how happy they were before you started eating, and you laughed, "Glad to know you guys like it." Ike looks up from the food, glances over to Mist before to you and he praised, "I can see why Mist always says your cooking is great." "It's amazing," Mist corrects him. And you laughed, "Thanks." Ike notices the way you're not really eating and he asked, "What's wrong?" "Hm?" "You're not eating." "Oh," you laughed, and then leaned back in your chair, "Whenever I see people enjoy the food I make, I just get really happy." Ike pauses and glances around the house. For a single family unit home, living alone must have felt lonely at some point in time. But he doesn't say anything, not when he sees just how content and pleased you are with feeding the two siblings. A small smile is seen on his lips, and Mist barely catches a glimpse of it before he resumed eating his dinner. Her gaze goes back to you, and you're finally eating now. She glances around, and then to you. "Hey [F/N]," the way she called your name softly automatically made you look at her. She gives you a really bright smile, "If you ever want, you can always feed my brother and I." Ike almost chokes, and looks at Mist as though she's gone insane. Your eyes widened at the idea and then laughter tumbles out, causing you to tear up from the implication. "Mist," Ike sighed, but the fond smile on your lips dissuades his worries that you may be offended. You wipe away at the tears that gathered at the corners of your eyes. "The idea's not bad," you admitted, and then looked between the two siblings, "After meeting you two, I have to admit my life isn't so dull anymore." Mist exchanges a glance with Ike, and both of them hesitate. But Ike breaks it and there's a smile on his face when he says it, "Guess we gotta thank Ranulf's cat." "You're right," you laughed and then sighed, "I'm really glad I got to meet you." There was a pause, and Mist pouted, "Hey, meet who? Me? Or Ike?" "Oh, uhm." "[F/N]?!" she whined, and you quickly stuttered, "N-No, I'm really glad I met you too, Mist. It's just, you know!" You looked away, and mumbled, "I was assuming we were talking about, well, the more... recent events." Mist watched with amusement as your normally confident and energetic composure slightly broke into nerves and dare she say, embarrassment. A sly grin grows on Mist's face, one that Ike quickly catches and he sighed, "Mist." She stops, a pout quickly taking over the smile, and you weakly laughed, "I enjoy both of your companies." "But mostly Ike's?" "Mist, I work with you," you deadpanned. Ike snorted in laughter and Mist immediately slaps his arm, "Hey!" "But, you know, I love your energy, Mist. You always bring a smile to my face." "Glad to know she's not causing disasters." "Excuse you, I'm perfectly capable of working hard and doing well!" Mist countered. Giggles spill from your lips and Ike said, "Glad I got to meet you too, neighbor." "Yup, and as you said, with Mist around, I'd definitely see you around more," you laughed. Ike smiled and Mist pouted, "Okay, but it's not a bad thing, now is it?" "No, not at all," you smiled and got up, taking their empty plates, but immediately Ike gets up, taking them from you. He gives you a small smile, "It's okay." "But-" "Yeah! You cooked, we'll wash-" "No, not you, Mist," Ike chuckled, "I don't want you breaking her plates." "Hey!" You laughed, and you gently steer the girl towards the dogs, "You can keep those two occupied, I'll go help clean." Mist pouted, and she sighed, "Fine."

Mist went out to walk the dogs in the backyard while you and Ike shared the small kitchen sink to clean all the plates and utensils. You shook your head fondly as you looked out the kitchen window, watching her play with the dogs. "Does she normally play with them at the office?" Ike asked. You glanced up and shook your head, "No, she'll pet them at most, since I always have her running around the office." Ike glances down at you, and then you asked, "Why?" "Oh, uhm," Ike's gaze shifts towards the plates, as though he's making sure he's rinsing them off properly, "Was just curious. Both of us are so busy, haven't really had the opportunity to spend time with her." "Mm, you two live on your own out here huh?" "Ah, well... parents passed away." There was silence, but you gently nudged him with your shoulder. He glances down, his bright blue hues filled with confusion when he meets your gentle gaze, "I'm sorry." He chuckled, "Don't worry about it. You didn't know. I'm glad she's doing well at her workplace though." His voice drifted into a murmur and he mumbled, "It was nice seeing you take care of her." "She's like a younger sister I always wanted," you admitted. Ike shook his head, "She's a handful." The laughter that tumbles out of your lips has him stunned, and you looked up at him, "What?" "No, I-" he paused, and he admitted, "Was never good at talking to people." There was a moment of silence, and Ike internally sighs. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that. But when he looks over to see your reaction, your shoulders are trembling and his eyes widened, "[F/N]? Are you-" "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't be laughing at you," you burst into laughter and leaned forward, resting your forehead on your forearm that was supporting your weight over the counter. "I'm so sorry, Ike. It's just-" You paused, taking in a deep breath before standing up straight. With a gentle bump with your smaller figure, you laughed, "You're fine, Ike. "I don't need you to be able to hold a conversation with me the entire time. I'm already comfortable with you the way you are, silly. Mist warned me about it, but I really don't think it's anything bad," you reassured him. After washing the last dish and relieving yourself from the gloves and gently patting his back, "Just be yourself, just like how Mist is herself." You glanced out the window, and laughed, "And speaking of your sister, maybe I should go save her from getting trampled by the dogs." Ike watched as you walked out, and he mumbled, "'Just be yourself,' huh?" A smile grows on his lips and he chuckled. The longer he knew you, the more interesting you became.

#jenbean writes #fire emblem ike #ike fire emblem #modern au #zoo keeper au #vet au #ike and floofs #ike floof au

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beautymouth72-blog · 5 years ago

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How Crenshaw became black LA’s main street

Crenshaw Boulevard starts in the middle of bustling, concrete Los Angeles at Wilshire Boulevard and ends in the untamed, unearthly natural beauty of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, a little more than 23 miles away. In between, the heartbeat of historically black Los Angeles pulses at such landmarks as Dulan’s Soul Food, the Los Angeles Sentinel, West Angeles Church, Leimert Park, Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza, and the Paul R. Williams-designed Angelus Funeral Home, where the bodies of director John Singleton and rapper and activist Nipsey Hussle were recently prepared.

At Crenshaw and 50th is the epic Great Wall of Crenshaw, a series of murals depicting black Americans’ contributions to history, created by the street art collective Rocking the Nation in 2000.

“Crenshaw Boulevard is the main street of black LA. Has been, still is, and hopefully always will be,” says Nina Revoyr, activist and author of the acclaimed 2003 novel Southland. “It is a boulevard of both aspiration and disappointments.”

The first section of Crenshaw Boulevard sprang out of the calculated aspirations of Missouri-born developer George L. Crenshaw. In the early 1900s, he began to develop the grand neighborhood of Lafayette Square in the Mid-City section of Los Angeles, then undeveloped ranch land. He decided to name one of the main streets running alongside the development after himself. “In those days, you just went down to City Hall and signed a little slip and that was it,” his grandson Charles Crenshaw told the Los Angeles Times in 2003.

In 1918, a new dirt street, Angeles Mesa Drive, was finished, linking up to Crenshaw Boulevard:

Angeles Mesa Drive, the new short cut route between southwest Los Angeles and the city-to-sea boulevards, is now open to the motoring public from Slauson Avenue to West Adams Street. The new highway shortens by miles the traveling distance between Hyde Park Inglewood, and Redondo districts to the south and southwest of Los Angeles and the west beaches, Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley.

During the building boom of the 1920s, Angeles Mesa Drive gained in importance, as it became the suburban site of new sprawling planned communities. “The paving of Angeles Mesa Drive, is part of a comprehensive plan for the creation of another north-and-south artery beginning at Wilshire Blvd. and extending to the paved county highway a mile south of Adams Street,” the Los Angeles Times reported in 1924. “First steps for the widening of Crenshaw Blvd, of which the Angeles Mesa Drive is a southerly continuance have already been taken.”

In 1925, the Los Angeles Investment Company opened tracts for the upper-class neighborhood of View Park, on the slopes of Baldwin Hills alongside Angeles Mesa Drive. In 1927, the Walter H. Leimert Company hired the pedigreed firm of Olmsted and Olmsted to lay out its planned self-sustaining “community of tomorrow” on 600 acres skirting the boulevard.

Called Leimert Park, this idyllic community featured tree lined streets of elegant homes and apartments designed by architects including Richard Neutra and Sumner Spaulding. In 1932, the Stiles O. Clements-designed Leimert Theater opened in the community’s commercial center. In 1929, Crenshaw Boulevard and Angeles Mesa Drive were finally coalesced into one megastreet.

The Angelus Funeral Home is one stand-out building on Crenshaw, and it was designed by architect Paul R. Williams. It’s also where the bodies of Nipsey Hussle and John Singleton were served.

Due to redlining and racially restrictive housing covenants that kept non-whites from living in all but a few areas in LA, the neighborhoods and businesses along what came to be known as “the ’Shaw” were predominantly populated by middle and upper-class white residents. But after the U.S. Supreme Court struck down the racist covenants in 1948, large numbers of successful Japanese Americans began to move into the neighborhoods along Crenshaw. Soon many more black families bought homes in the area as well.

This was an era of great promise for black Angelenos, says longtime Leimert Park resident Lynetta McElroy. “When you talk to some of the older people who came from different areas they said something about Los Angeles blacks was different than anywhere else,” McElroy says. “They had this look. They had fine cars, fine clothes, they had their own clubs. Black culture was rich.”

The addition of these two rich cultures would usher in a golden age of multicultural community on Crenshaw Boulevard. McElroy, who is of African American and Jewish descent, recalls her mother taking her to the annual Japanese-American celebration of Nisei Week in Crenshaw Square. “You would have Japanese dancing and music, food and a carnival,” she says. “You had all the cultures just right here. The ladies were in kimonos, and they were dancing and singing, and they invited the onlookers to learn the dances and sing along.”

McElroy and her African American and Japanese American friends at Crenshaw High also frequented the legendary Holiday Bowl. Perhaps no establishment exemplified the Crenshaw District’s diversity more than this bowling alley and coffee shop at the intersection of 37th and Crenshaw. Designed in the Googie Style by the architect Helen Liu Fong for the firm Armet and Davis, the bowl was opened in 1948 by four Japanese investors. (It was demolished in 2003.) According to KCET’s Ryan Reft:

Early on many of the bowling teams consisted of local Japanese farmers, grocers, and merchants, all of whom competed in divisions that suited their profession: the Gardener’s League, the Produce League, and the Floral League, to name a few. When the area began absorbing greater numbers of African Americans… the teams changed as well. “[M]y team has one black, one Italian, another Japanese, and Korean Sponsor,” Floral League member Dorothy Tanabe told the Los Angeles Times.

Throughout the decades, the Holiday Bowl would continue to be what one longtime employee referred to as a “United Nations.” A high school aged McElroy and her girlfriends spent an intense six weeks at the hangout learning to bowl, determined to earn a letter for their Crenshaw High jackets (she earned it—and still has it today). During the 1970s and ’80s, “that was the go to spot,” says Gina Fields, who grew up all along Crenshaw and lives today in Leimert Park. “It was definitely a cultural hub.”

Revoyr, who is of Japanese American descent, remembers her very first trip to the bowl. “Seeing African American and Japanese American folks of my grandparents age all hanging out together in a coffee shop in such a way that it became clear that these were friendships that existed for decades. That was so beautiful to me,” she says. “Going into the Holiday Bowl and seeing Japanese food and Southern food on the same menu, I just loved that.”

The “Great Wall of Crenshaw” is an important mural that spans 800 feet and incorporates images and icons from black history across the ages.

So important was the Holiday Bowl to the community that during the LA Uprising in the summer of 1992, Rodney King joined with other locals to protect the business from looters, telling potential troublemakers that the bowl was “our place.”

“When I think about Crenshaw—in particular, when I think about a place like the Holiday Bowl, and that whole strip right there, it represents the best version of a polyglot LA—people who are both very, very clear and very proud of who they are as individuals and families, but also who can feel part of a larger collective whole in a way that’s cross racial,” Revoyr says.

The Japanese American influence can still be seen in the bonsai trees and plantings in the yards of the small Mediterranean and Spanish style homes off Crenshaw. However, by the late 1960s, many of the communities surrounding Crenshaw Boulevard, from wealthy View Park, Lafayette Square, and Baldwin Hills to working-class Inglewood, had become mainly associated with black Angelenos.

Black-owned businesses flourished, while farther down the ’Shaw in Hawthorne, aerospace companies offered good employment for many local residents. Glass-plated, modernist car dealerships opened up and down Crenshaw Bouelvard, providing more employment for South LA residents.

Every year, the Martin Luther King Day Parade would travel down Crenshaw Boulevard (it now goes through King Boulevard), and the community would come out to watch. “I remember playing my flute in the band as the Audubon Elementry School band walked down Crenshaw Boulevard,” Fields says. “Later I became a naval cadet and marched with the Youth Naval Cadet when I was 15, and we got all dressed up in our dress uniforms, and it was just such a proud feeling to be able to march... down Crenshaw Boulevard with the crowd cheering.”

Leimert Park became an artistic mecca for artists, artisans, and venues, such as the famed blues club Babe’s & Ricky’s Inn. Its small village green just off Crenshaw Boulevard became a community gathering place for festivals, jazz concerts, and press conferences. At the hip cave-like musical venue Maverick’s Flat, acts like the Ike and Tina Turner Review, The Temptations, Billy Preston, and Parliament-Funkadelic played packed shows while locals and celebrities like Marlon Brando, Sonny Liston, Steve McQueen, and Muhammad Ali danced along.

Many fly dancers at Maverick’s Flat would appear on Soul Train, which debuted in 1970, and transported South LA cool across the country. Host Don Cornelius would also source telegenic and talented dancers from local Crenshaw area high schools. Musician Patrice Rushen recalled in the LA Times hanging out at a local park only to be approached by none other than Cornelius himself. “Anybody who wants to go, we’ll have buses and take you to the TV studio,” he told the high schoolers. “All you’ve got to do is come on the show and dance.”

Young men talk to three young women in their car at the usual gathering spot along Crenshaw Blvd on a Sunday afternoon in 1996.

Photo by Gary Friedman/Los Angeles Times via Getty Images

It was also during this same period, while the Soul Train bus picked up dancers on the ’Shaw, that young men and women began cruising Crenshaw Boulevard on Sunday nights, showing off their tricked lowriders and speaker systems. By the 1980s, cruising had become a weekly ritual on the ’Shaw. “I would come home from Berkeley for the summer and Crenshaw Boulevard was just lively!” Fields says. “You’d see all these low riders, decked out cars, parked in front of the Wienerschnitzel. And we’d hang out. And my mom was like ‘You know you’re not over there hanging out on Crenshaw!’ ‘No Mom.’ And my sister and I were out there—hanging out with all the lowrider cars. It was just such a fun neighborhood.”

Cruising reached its peak in the early 1990s, when more than a thousand cars would jam Crenshaw Boulevard, from Jefferson Boulevard to Florence Avenue. Faced with mounting pressure by frustrated Crenshaw Boulevard business owners and civic leaders, in 1994 the LAPD began to barricade 3.5 miles of Crenshaw, from Adams to 78th street, every Sunday night. But this and other deterrents had little effect, with cruisers simply going farther south on Crenshaw or taking side streets. In April 1995, a popular Banning High football player named Dupree Taye was shot and killed in a random act of violence when the red Ford Thunderbird he was cruising in got a flat tire.

Violence would become an epidemic during the late 1980s and early ’90s, as gangs and drugs and social, educational, and economic inequities wreaked havoc on many communities in South Los Angeles.

During this time period, Crenshaw Boulevard would become legendary in popular culture, with films such as Singleton’s Boyz in the Hood, and artists from the area including Eazy-E, Ice-T, Ice Cube, and Dr. Dre rapping about the hard realities that faced many South LA youth. There also more lighthearted homegrown acts like Skee-Lo, who penned an ode to Sunday night cruising on the 1995 track “Crenshaw”:

Who me I’m Skee, I rap and produce

Pull over I wanna know you and my crew wants to know your crew

Now how them cheeks fit in the seat of that Jeep

See this is type of freak that could be cool for me

I like her style she like my style I make her smile she think I’m funny

Won’t front it be pump rollin Crenshaw on Sunday

After the LA Uprising, some middle class black Angelenos left South LA for safer areas in the city. Throughout the ’90s and 2000s, Latinos began to arrive in greater numbers, and some of the boulevard’s historically black-owned businesses began to close. Years of disinvestment in resources and infrastructure by the city and state also took their toll.

The “Great Wall of Crenshaw” is an important mural that spans 800 feet and incorporates images and icons from black history across the ages.

In 2008, the construction of the 8.5-mile Crenshaw/LAX light rail line was announced by Metro. Although a fight to add a stop at Leimert Park, called by Singleton “the black Greenwich Village,” was successful, the plan deeply polarized communities along Crenshaw Boulevard. This and the encroaching gentrification of areas like Leimert Park led to the formation of Destination Crenshaw, a planned 1.3-mile cultural district spanning Crenshaw Boulevard from 48 to 60th streets.

“Destination Crenshaw came about as a result of conversations related to the building of the Crenshaw/LAX Metro line and the controversy in the community that remains to this day about the portion between Hyde Park and Leimert Park being built at grade,” says Los Angeles City Councilmember Marqueece Harris-Dawson, who grew up visiting his grandfather at his real estate operations on Crenshaw Boulevard. “Folks were very, very upset. Folks were like, ‘this is the African American community’s major street.’ In no other major street in Southern California does Metro build rail at grade.”

Building at grade would cause major disruption on the street, splitting it in two and making it less a walkable main street and more like a drive-though thoroughfare. Community and civic leaders decided to turn what they saw as an insult into an opportunity. “Folks came up with the idea of an open-air people’s museum,” Harris-Dawson says. “The African American history of Los Angeles is extremely rich—as rich as any city in the country. And that there ought to be a place, like we have Chinatown, like we have the Fairfax district, like we have Little Tokyo, like we have San Pedro... that calls out the contributions of African Americans building this region.”

Targeted to be completed in spring 2020, Destination Crenshaw will include 100 permanent art installations extolling the history and culture of black Angelenos. The Leimert Theater is being fully restored and modernized, and there are plans for a public amphitheater and 10 new parks and miniparks.

The architecture firm of Perkins and Will will oversee the design and construction. Landscape design will be provided by Studio-MLA. “What we hope is that we build a cultural hub and that people can actually consume African American culture in these locations,” Harris-Dawson says. New housing is being built along the under-construction Crenshaw/LAX line, and efforts to spruce up the boulevard can be seen all around, including in the planned restoration of the Great Wall of Crenshaw.

“With Destination Crenshaw, our working tagline was ‘unapologetically black,’” says Ron Finley, an artist and community activist known as the Gangsta Gardener. “There’s nothing in Los Angeles that celebrates black Los Angeles. Destination Crenshaw is going to be just that. It is going to be proudly, historically black—it’s going to be super black.”

Another community partner involved in Destination Crenshaw was the rapper, philanthropist, and civic leader Nipsey Hussle. On March 31, Hussle was murdered outside his Marathon Clothing Store on Slauson Avenue, just off Crenshaw. His death devastated both the old and young in South LA.

Mural of Nipsey Hussle on the corner of Crenshaw and Slauson.

“He was a guy who saw beauty in a place that other people just dismissed as unworthy and desolate and as less than,” Revoyr says. “And I think that in elevating the Crenshaw area with his obvious love and respect, he made the young people who live there feel that they were respected.”

But those leading Destination Crenshaw are determined Hussle’s innovative work and ideas will live on. “He had this project and this program called ‘All Money In,’” Harris-Dawson says. “Our community creates value, especially in the realm of culture. Except the community doesn’t benefit from the creation of that value, and so if young people in South LA make a sneaker popular or a t-shirt popular, you then have to go to Melrose to buy the t-shirt!”

Through Destination Crenshaw and other programs, the councilmember aims to bring money and foot traffic onto Crenshaw Boulevard, creating value that stays within South Los Angeles. “I think that there’s great potential with the Metro line,” Revoyr says. “More people are going to be coming through Crenshaw hopefully with the line opening… and the Destination Crenshaw project should be a draw.”

But there are concerns. “There is understandably a lot of anxiety about what that’s going to do to property in terms of affordability,” Revoyr says. There is also still much work to be done on other parts of Crenshaw Boulevard. “As you go farther south... the disinvestment of public resources becomes more and more evident.”

Longtime residents like Fields and McElroy also worry that the rail line, along with gentrification and development in single-family neighborhoods, will obliterate their close-knit feel and its rich heritage.

“We all know each other. We all watch out for each other. I recognize every neighbor on my street... Despite the fact that it’s in the middle of a big city smack dab in the middle of a very large city, [Leimert Park] is this cute small little neighborhood that’s fun to just walk around and wander around and just meet people,” Fields says.” I hope that with all the progress that’s being proposed and all the developments that are coming that we’re able to maintain the uniqueness of the neighborhood.”

Along with these vibrant patches of community and culture, there are stretches of the boulevard almost like ghost towns, where boarded up businesses are the norm. For Revoyr, Crenshaw Boulevard remains a street of contradictions. “You see these buildings and these places of great beauty and great promise and then you have at Crenshaw and Slauson Nipsey Hussle murdered in front of his store,” she says. The ’Shaw is a street rich in history, art, commerce and culture, but it has the potential to be so much more.

Source: https://la.curbed.com/2019/5/17/18563304/crenshaw-blvd-los-angeles-nipsey-hussle-history

#read more #see more #check it out #interesting #learn more

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newstfionline · 7 years ago

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Storm With ‘No Boundaries’ Took Aim at Rich and Poor Alike

By Julie Turkewitz and Audra D.S. Burch, NY Times, Aug. 31, 2017

HOUSTON--Antonio Armenta paid $45,000 for the little white house with the arched kitchen doorway by the train tracks in northeast Houston, where he is raising his children on construction-worker sweat in the blue-collar neighborhood of El Dorado-Oates Prairie. When the flood hit, he was $400 away from owning it outright.

Viet Nguyen, a doctor specializing in family medicine, is raising his three children in a two-story brick traditional in the Southdale neighborhood of Bellaire, with its stately houses on tree-lined streets full of comfortable professionals and where the average house in 2015 was valued at $700,000.

Now they are united in soggy duress, figuring out what they can rescue from flooded homes. It is a common experience in the waterlogged sprawl that is Houston and its suburbs.

A wide swath of New Orleans was flooded after Hurricane Katrina, with some of the worst of it occurring in the white, middle-class Lakeview neighborhood. But many of the iconic images of the storm captured a divide of class and race--the desperation of the poor stranded at the Superdome and the devastated, largely black, low-income neighborhoods like the Lower Ninth Ward, which were among the ones most likely to suffer catastrophic flooding and the last ones to recover.

Tropical Storm Harvey, on the other hand, wreaked havoc across Houston, battering poor and rich with similar ferocity. Piney Point Village, a city of 3,125 people in west Houston described as the richest in Texas, flooded. So did Houston’s historically black and poor Fifth Ward, two miles northeast of downtown.

The Rev. Kirbyjon Caldwell, a native of Houston who is one of the city’s most influential pastors, said the widespread nature of the destruction was unfathomable.

“I have never seen anything--and this goes back to Hurricane Carla in 1961--remotely, remotely similar,” he said. He added: “North, south, east, west, the paralysis knows no boundaries.”

Of course, as residents begin to recover, there are huge differences between the options open to the poor and to the well-to-do. Mr. Armenta, who specializes in sheetrock finishing, has no insurance and no savings to rely on for rebuilding. Dr. Nguyen has savings for an emergency, and flood insurance. The Nguyens can live on their second floor. The Armentas do not have one. But what is clear is the devastation is connecting people of disparate means in one common experience: loss.

On Tuesday, with the storm not yet over, Mr. Armenta stood in a yellow raincoat in the moat around his house, next to a nephew wielding a machete meant to fend off alligators and snakes. “It’s the work of a whole life,” Mr. Armenta said, his head hung low. “So much sacrifice, just to lose it all in a moment.”

Mr. Armenta lives in an industrial patch of the city where the median home value is $82,000. It is home to mechanic shops and dump sites and is a place where working-class immigrants like him can afford to buy. His neighbors are tree-trimmers and house painters. Sixty-five percent own their homes. Mr. Armenta, a legal immigrant from Mexico, lives with his wife, Maria, and his three children: Leonela, Luis and Isaac.

For much of the week, El Dorado’s streets and modest yards were mostly under water. The entire neighborhood reeked of gasoline. On Tuesday, the crossing signal on the nearby train route rang for hours, filling the place with an ominous clang, clang, clang. At Mr. Armenta’s house, his nephew David, 34, waded through the water and plucked a ruined work boot from the muck.

Inside, it smelled like rot. The flood had ripped up the floorboards; the leather couches were soaked in water, oil and mud. And the detritus of family life lay about: soaked diaper boxes, scattered roller skates, tiny cowboy boots and a baby doll floating face down.

Mr. Armenta showed a reporter the now-dark bedroom he shared with his wife. “It’s sad. It’s sad,” he said. “Please don’t make me cry.”

Mr. Armenta came to the United States about a dozen years ago. He makes $19 an hour. But work is sporadic, he said. He had tried to buy flood insurance, but the house was in such bad shape when he purchased it that no one would insure him.

Since then, he has fixed up the bathroom, laid the wood floors, and painted the living room walls. He is staying with Maria and their children at the nephew’s house down the street. The loss is likely in the tens of thousands of dollars.

Of course he will pay the last $400 on the house, he said. And of course they will rebuild here: “What choice do I have?”

By Thursday, the water had drained and the neighbors had become a cleanup crew, spilling the now-soggy contents of their lives into the street--carpets, cabinets, drawers, all soaked.

Inside Antonio’s reeking home, the Armentas took a sledgehammer to the walls, kicking them out a foot or two above the water line. Members of his church came by with ham, juice, bread and water. And after some back and forth with the Federal Emergency Management Agency, Mr. Armenta believed his family would get a month’s assistance to stay at a hotel.

“It’s a huge, mass cleaning effort,” said David, his nephew.

Dr. Nguyen and his family lived through a similar trauma. He knew something about rain and hurricanes, about the loud, disorderly chaos of storms. He had been through Hurricanes Alicia and Ike, and the floods of last spring had made a sodden mess of his yard.

But before the sun rose on Sunday, the rain was deceptively quiet. At 5 a.m., Dr. Nguyen peeked out the first-floor den windows. Steadily, the water was inching past the oak tree--where it had stopped in previous floods--toward the front door. By midmorning, the water was inside and rising.

“You didn’t hear the wind howling, or what you might think of with a storm or hurricane,” Dr. Nguyen said. “No, you didn’t hear anything, and just like that, the house was flooded.”

Dr. Nguyen, his wife, Ngoc, a registered nurse and graduate student, and their three children, Emily, Mason and Brayden, gathered their most precious household items, including photos of the children and a wedding photo from 17 years ago. They brought everything they could tote upstairs--soon the smallest pieces of furniture would be floating--and Dr. Nguyen made a trip to the garage to retrieve five life jackets and a raft, just in case.

Dr. Nguyen said he spent Sunday in various stages of acceptance. His neighborhood now looked more to him like a bayou. It is a tight community, home to many medical professionals, where neighbors don’t just wave, but form friendships. “Old-fashioned” were the first words that Dr. Nguyen used to describe it.

Now, the home they bought in 2014 had been flooded, ruining everything on the first floor, along with a car and a sport utility vehicle. The water marks measured 31 inches.

“This has been traumatic. But I try to be practical about it, and remember what we still have,” Dr. Nguyen, 47, said above the roar of workers using industrial vacuums to suck the water out of his home.

On Wednesday, the front yards of Southdale were lined with heaping piles of furniture, linens, art--the stuff that makes a home, home. Much of the contents of Dr. Nguyen’s four-bedroom house were on the lawn under the old oak tree--leather sofas, flat-screen televisions, closet doors and a mountain of wood flooring and molding. Parts of the kitchen were now in the backyard, including stainless steel appliances, custom cabinetry and a wide granite counter. The kitchen had been remodeled in 2015.

The Nguyens’ perspective is built upon their Roman Catholic faith and family histories. Both Vietnamese immigrants, they came to the United States after the Vietnam War. Ms. Nguyen and her family lived in a Philippine refugee camp six months before a relative sponsored them in Houston; Dr. Nguyen and his family--he is one of 11 siblings--were sponsored by an Ohio church.

“We have seen so much more poverty back home, bad living conditions,” said Ms. Nguyen, 40.

Dr. Nguyen nodded. “Our parents were hard-working, what some might consider poor,” he said. “So I just think, yes, this is difficult, but everything can be replaced and there are people out there who have lost so much more than us and will have a harder time recovering.”

#Hurricane Harvey #Houston flooding

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deactivated4179291 · 7 years ago

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The Cure - Part 7 (H.S AU)-

Maverie’s POV

Silence. Just that one word could sum up my entire experience with Harry within the next day before we reached our newest destination. An old two-story home with a wine cellar in the basement - only about six or seven miles closer to our designated goal – we stopped closer than we normally traveled in a day because Addilyn wasn’t feeling well. She was incredibly nauseous and had more than once emptied the contents of her stomach.

As we crept inside, and the others completed the sweep to check the building, I too felt my stomach turn, but not for sickness – for the fact that Harry was now silently approaching me with a blank expression. His large cross-tattooed hand dug into his back pocket and slid out with the keys to the handcuffs in his grasp. He looked directly at me in a manner that seemed vaguely regretful, as he grasped one of my wrists where the hung in front of my waistline, pulling my pair of hands towards him. He slid the key through its hole and gazed down upon it as he twisted the small gadget, clicking the cuffs unlocked one by one, before opening them up and sliding them from my sore flesh.

Without another word, his eyes flicked back up to mine, before his face formed a frown as he turned and walked away. I stood rubbing the aching spots on my arms tenderly, as the “all clear” signal was performed by the group. Within moments, Mason was at my side on the couch in the living room, the maps Harry had somehow been convinced to let him look at in hand. The fireplace had been lit, as Harry apparently was making dinner tonight – mostly cans of beans and fruits/vegetables that we had scavenged in our travels. He sat crouched in front of the fire, poking it to the point where it was perfect to heat up our meal with.

As Mason explained to me our next move and all the places we would look for resources. My mind seemed to dance around what Mitch had told me earlier – that caring about people in this world gets people killed. It’s selfish, but I can’t seem to let go of my friendship with Mason, no matter how seemingly dangerous it could be. He was the only person that made me actually want to live – not just survive. And I need that because I only have months left – probably about 5 or 6 to be exact. I’ll take whatever time I can have with him because he’s the only real companion I’ve had apart from who I considered my family.

“Maves?” speak of the Devil…I turn my attention back to Mason as he tries to regain my focus, “you zoned out again,” he snickers.

“Sorry,” I mumble sheepishly, turning towards him and looking him in the eye so he knows I am now back down to earth, rather than floating in the land of my thoughts.

“Anyways, as I was saying…I think something’s wrong with my mom…” he trails off, ominously making me shift as I stare at his weary face.

“What do you mean?” I dig deeper into his brain.

“I mean, think about it,” he begins to whisper as his mother re-enters the room, dropping down onto one of the other chairs, with a tired huff as she closes her eyes and tilts her head back to rest, “she’s been sick all day, yet physically she’s perfectly fine…she’s got no fever, no sweats, she’s just been throwing up…the only other thing that’s wrong with her is she seems more tired lately…” He pauses, watching the gears shift in my head as I try to connect the dots with his point.

Like a tidal wave, it hits me square in the mind. I take a glimpse around the room, to make sure no eyes are trained on me, and find that only Mason is looking my way. I turn back to him and lean closer, whispering to him as I speak. “You don’t think she could be…you know,” I shrug with a inquiring stare.

“Pregnant?” he asks quietly, and his eyes fill with the slight troublesome feeling that visibly overcomes his features, “I mean, she could be… we lost my dad almost two months ago, so now would be about the time that it would start to make itself known.”

“What should we do?” I ask shaking my head as the lost feeling overcomes me. “There’s nothing we can do,” he replies in a tone that is slightly firm, indicating that he doesn’t want me to bring this up. I nod at him knowingly, promising him silently that I will keep my mouth shut, before he continues. “right now, all we can do is wait… we’ll know sooner or later.” I nod again, and rest my head on his shoulder as we turn to face Harry in front of us by the fire. My aching muscles combined with my lack of a good nights rest pull me into my sleep, as my eyelids flutter shut.

Waking to find myself in Mason’s arms wasn’t too surprising considering the last memory I had was of last night just before I fell into my unconscious state. What was surprising, was the close proximity in which he held me – as if he was scared to let me go, and the thought sent warmth through me all the way to my core where it burned through my beating heart. However, the most surprising part of my awakening was the gentle shaking of my shoulder that was used to pull me back to my alert mentality. My eyes trailed from the hand on my shoulder all the way up to Addilyn’s anxious stare. Confusedly, I slipped myself from Mason’s grasp doing my best not to wake him as I stood to Addilyn’s height.

“I need your help,” she sighed, nodding her head in the direction of the front door of the family home we currently reside in. I nodded as if to say ‘of course.’ Though I had known her such a short time, Addilyn treated me as if I was one of her own in the short half of a week we had been familiar with one another. I followed closely as she silently shuffled out the front door, and we stopped in the front yard.

“I didn’t know who else to go to,” she begins to tear up as her words grow frantic. I do my best to comfort her, placing my small hand on her shoulder as she crosses her arms, trying to pull herself together. “Harry can’t kn-kno about this...not yet, at least,” she cries, “I need you to come with me to get something…” she says, “I’ll explain everything later I j-just, I need you to come with me, please Maverie, please come with me, I can’t do this by myself.” I nod quickly and pull her in for a gentle hug to assure her I am here for her. I am starting to think more and more that Mason’s theory could be correct, as we pull apart and she hands me my usual gun before we make our way towards the nearest old supermarket.

The only noise within miles is our boots against the raggedy old paved road, as we travel about a mile down the road until we’re met with an old ‘open’ sign that hands from the see-through walls of the small gas station shop. We came to the agreement that Addilyn was to enter the small storage space as I kept watch, and I would allow her to retrieve what she needed, without disturbing her unless she gave me the signal that meant she needed my backup.

I stood cautiously at the front door clicking the safety off of my firearm, as I waited patiently with my feet shoulder-length apart. If anyone was to try and ambush us whilst she tooled around for whatever it was she needed (though I was almost certain by now it was a pregnancy test) I would be ready. The chiming of the door’s bell rang quietly as Addilyn took her place next to me, nodding solemnly before we began to walk back. Her dread reminded me that I was the only one who truly knew of her fearful mind as we made our way back to what I was convinced by now would be a room of prying curious eyes as they wondered where we had ventured. I just hoped that Addilyn had the strength to tell them.

A/N - kind of short, IK but the next part is gonna be lit.

Also, this is dedicated to @cherreigh bc she always shows this story so much love <3

#I'll deal with the tags later

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hudsonespie · 4 years ago

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The USCG's First Superstorm: The Great Galveston Hurricane

In early September of 1900, a hurricane of massive force struck the Gulf Coast west of Galveston, Texas. The Great Galveston Hurricane would prove far deadlier than any man-made, environmental or weather-related disaster in U.S. history, with approximately 8,000 killed in Galveston and roughly 2,000 more lost in other parts of the Gulf Coast. This death toll is greater than the combined casualty figure for the 1941 Pearl Harbor attack, Hurricane Katrina, the 9/11 terrorist attacks as well as Hurricane Ike, which struck Galveston in 2008.

In the afternoon of Saturday, September 8th, the storm closed in and floodwaters rushed into the Galveston with wind speeds reaching gale force. By 3:00 p.m., the storm surge had flooded lower portions of the city to a depth of five feet. For many in the city’s East Side there was nowhere to turn and, by 3:30 p.m., reports of death and destruction began to reach the Revenue Cutter Galveston moored in the harbor. The cutter already held 50 refugees and the captain decided to deploy a smallboat to assist the city’s storm victims.

At 4:00 p.m., a volunteer rescue party led by Galveston’s Assistant Engineer Charles Root set-off dragging Galveston’s whaleboat over railroad tracks and launching it into the city’s flooded streets. The high winds rendered oars useless, so the men warped the boat through city streets using a rope system. One man swam through the streets with a line, tied it to a fixed object and the crew hauled it in. Using this arduous process, Galveston’s boat crew rescued numerous victims out of the roiling waters in the city.

At nearby Bolivar Point, the storm surge flooded the low-lying peninsula and waves broke against the base of Bolivar Point Lighthouse. Approximately 125 locals sought refuge from the storm in the lighthouse tower while the water began rising around it. That afternoon, the floodwaters had halted a passenger train approaching the Bolivar Point Ferry Terminal to meet the ferry for Galveston. Of the nearly 100 riders and crew on board the train, only nine braved waist-deep water to seek the safety of Bolivar Light’s tower. Soon after, the rising water surrounded the train, trapped riders and crew in the passenger cars and drowned them all.

In the evening, the storm unleashed Category Four winds on the city. At around 6:15 p.m., the Galveston Weather Bureau anemometer registered over 100 miles per hour (mph) before a wind gust tore it off the building. Bureau officials estimated that by 8:00 p.m., sustained winds blew at 120 mph. By this time, Assistant Engineer Root and his crew returned to the Galveston having filled their whaleboat with over a dozen survivors. Heavy winds were taking an awful toll on the ship, stripping off rigging and blowing away the launch, while wind-driven projectiles shattered windows and skylights.

At the nearby Fort Point Lifesaving Station, Keeper Edward Haines realized his situation was dire and told his crew they should find a way to save themselves. As the floodwaters crept up the station walls, the surfmen believed they could survive in the upper floor of the building, so three of them climbed to the top and passed down ropes for the others. Up to this time, Haines and his wife had remained in the station’s lifeboat, but the waters by now were breaking over them, with the boat tossing on its beam-ends. The keeper lifted Mrs. Haines to the upper story by tying rope around her body and hoisting her to the surfmen above.

A view of Fort Point Lighthouse, a screw-pile lighthouse that barely survived the Great Galveston Hurricane. (U.S. Coast Guard Photo)

After hoisting his wife to safety of the station top, the gallery under Haines collapsed and he was swept into the lifeboat. The storm blew the boat into open water and Haines shouted to the surfmen to protect his wife. Shortly thereafter, he realized two of his men were clinging to the lifeboat and pulled them into the boat.

That night, the storm’s wind and seas began to reach their climax. At 7:30 p.m., Weather Bureau officials recorded an instantaneous four-foot rise in water level while the wind speed reached 150 mph with gusts up to 200. The wind sent men sailing through the air and toppled horses to the ground while the flooding reached its peak at over 15 feet above sea level. The storm surge raised cutter Galveston over its dock pilings, but the piling tops failed to puncture the cutter’s hull plates.

By 8:00 p.m., Assistant Engineer Root was ready to return to the dark flooded streets. He called for volunteers and the same men stepped forward that had served in the first mission. The hurricane still made use of oars impossible, so the crew waded and swam as water depth allowed, warping the boat from pillar to post. Meanwhile, buildings toppled over and the wind filled the air with shrapnel-like slate roof tiles. Root’s men managed to rescue 21 victims, housed them in a structurally sound building and found food for them in an abandoned store. The cuttermen then moored the boat in the lee of a building and sheltered from the flying debris.

Bolivar Point Lighthouse tower sheltered 125 victims during the hurricane and received relatively little damage. (U.S. Coast Guard Photo)

In Galveston Bay, lighthouses marked the waters for shipping. Located about seven miles north of Galveston, the Halfmoon Shoal Lighthouse sat over a shallow area in the middle of Galveston Bay. Unmoored by storm-driven ships in Galveston Harbor, the steamer Kendal Castle broke loose from its moorings and began drifting around the Bay. The ship mowed down the Halfmoon Shoal Light, obliterating the screw-pile lighthouse and Keeper Charles Bowen, whose body was never found. As one witness recounted, “we passed within a few hundred yards of where the Halfmoon Lighthouse once stood, but could see no evidence of the lighthouse, it being completely washed away.” If this were not bad enough, the hurricane wiped out three generations of Bowen’s family with his father, wife and daughter all perishing on shore.

Redfish Bar Cut Lighthouse managed to survive the storm, but just barely. Newly commissioned in March, the lighthouse marked a channel through a shallow bar bisecting Galveston Bay. It must have seemed surreal to the keeper when a darkened vessel barreled down on the lighthouse, pushed by Category Four winds. Just as it seemed the ghost ship would crush the beacon, the vessel veered slightly and passed silently a few feet from the lighthouse.

The Fort Point Life-Saving Station probably looked similar to this vintage photo before the storm. (U.S. Coast Guard Photo)

At Fort Point Lighthouse, Keeper Charles Anderson watched the storm surge carry off equipment on the screw-pile lighthouse’s lower deck, including a lifeboat and storage tanks for fresh water and kerosene fuel. The wind grew so intense that it peeled off the lighthouse’s heavy slate roof tiles. Some of the stone tiles shattered the lantern room glass and the winds blew out the light. With Fort Point Lighthouse’s lowest level flooded, the lamplight extinguished, no means of escape, and Keeper Anderson suffering from serious facial wounds, he and his faithful wife made their way to the parlor and to meet their fate.

Hurricanes had blown Galveston Lightship LV-28 off station many times before, but none compared to the 1900 Hurricane. The wooden lightship relied on sails for motive power and was at the mercy of the storm. The hurricane tore the vessel from its moorings and parted its anchor chain. The lightship’s windlass and whaleboat were ripped away and the winds collapsed one of the ship’s two masts. The storm drove the vessel several miles up Galveston Bay before the crew dropped the spare anchor, which held fast. Fortunately, no crewmembers were lost.

By 11:00 p.m., the wind began to moderate allowing Root and his men to return safe, but exhausted, to Cutter Galveston by 12:30 a.m. on Sunday. At about 1:00 a.m., Fort Point Station keeper Edward Haines’s surfboat found bottom and the winds died down to only 20 miles per hour. The cloud cover cleared and the moon illuminated the surroundings for Haines and his two surfmen. They had washed ashore a mile-and-a-half beyond Galveston Bay’s normal shoreline about nine miles by water from the station.

At Bolivar Light, Keeper Harry Claiborne did his best to care for his flock. The hundreds of weary men, women and children rode out the stormy night seated on the spiraling steps leading up to the lantern room. The next morning, the survivors left the safety of the tower to find a scene resembling a massacre. As the floodwater subsided, it deposited the corpses of those who tried and failed to gain the safety of the lighthouse. Meanwhile, Keeper Claiborne’s storm victims had consumed all the provisions stockpiled in the tower and, when he returned to the keeper’s quarters, he found the storm surge had wiped out his worldly possessions.

At Fort Point Light, Keeper Anderson and his wife survived what seemed certain death to see another day. At daybreak, they climbed the stairs to the lighthouse gallery and emerged arm-in-arm to witness the carnage left in the wake of the storm. The receding floodwaters carried away dozens of human and animal carcasses in a silently watery funeral procession from Galveston Bay to the Gulf of Mexico.

Meanwhile, Life-Saving Service Keeper Haines and his two surfmen began searching the beach for survivors and found three more of his surfmen who were blown across Galveston Bay on flotsam. The three men recounted how the lifesaving station collapsed just after Haines’ lifeboat was swept away, throwing the surfmen and Haines’s wife into the roiling seas. Later, Haines located temporary graves containing Mrs. Haines and the missing surfman. Haines and the crew rowed out to the graves with a casket and retrieved her body for re-burial. It is not known whether the surfman’s remains were ever exhumed.

For the next two weeks, Keeper Haines and his crew worked for the Galveston Relief Committee locating hundreds of corpses. In the rush to clear away the dead, most of the bodies were never identified and either buried at sea, buried in hastily-dug graves, or just burned where they lay. Meanwhile, Cutter Galveston’s crew towed countless human and animal remains out to open water. The tide returned many of them to the harbor, so the crew had to tow them to the nearby mud flats and burn them. Galveston’s burial detail burned so many corpses that it finally ran out of fuel oil to set the bodies on fire.

In the Great Galveston Hurricane of 1900, members of the Coast Guard’s predecessor services performed heroically. Keeper Edward Haines and the Galveston Life-Saving Station crew struggled mightily against the forces of nature at Fort Point. The men of the Lighthouse Service and Revenue Cutter Service demonstrated the same devotion to duty by manning the lights and saving hundreds of lives. The Great Galveston Hurricane would be the first of countless hurricane response efforts performed by the Coast Guard and its ancestor agencies.

William Thiesen is the Coast Guard Atlantic Area historian. This article appears courtesy of Coast Guard Compass and may be found in its original form here.

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