#1920's train

[vox-anglosphere]

The Age of Steam

[new-york-central-official]

Information-dense booklet about our electrification projects made in 1929. By then we had already electrified most of our trackage around New York City with the exception of the now-defunct Putnam Line. Check out the inside, with photographs of our infrastructure and some diagrams of our state-of-the-art electric locomotives, the S and T motors.

[sometimesanalice]

Bedside Manner

Summary: You were expecting the perfect summer afternoon with the Daggers, but when a game of dogfight football takes a turn for the worse, you’re left with a bleeding head and an aching heart. And it’s up to Bradley to show you his bedside manner.

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 8K

Warnings: A little angst, a little pining, and two idiots in love.

It’s a perfect summer afternoon. Well, almost.

The sun is high in the sky and the steady salt kissed ocean breeze keeps it from being too uncomfortably hot. The coolers are filled with beers and sodas and a few pink cans of rosé that Coyote had brought. And the beach blankets were littered with open half-eaten family sized bags of chips and cubes of bright pink watermelon and containers of various dips and ziplocs with sun warmed and mostly melted chocolate chip cookies.

“You guys, really, I’m fine,” you state as adamantly as you can given the circumstances.

Sure, you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your throbbing, bleeding head. Sure, you are a little afraid to put your full weight on your left ankle and already dreading the long walk back to your car.

But it’s fine, you’re fine. Everything is…peachy. Or it will be as soon as they all stop looking at you like you’re about to crumple to the ground like some 1920’s silent film starlet from on the silver screen.

Nat has that deep pinch between her sharp brown eyes. Jake’s lips are pressed together in a firm white line. The rest of the team stands hovering around you in a misshapen semicircle, all sandy and sweaty, and wearing the concern painted across their faces.

All except for Rooster, who can’t seem to look at you at all.

“Clearly, you’re not,” Phoenix says flatly, clearly unamused by your attempts to minimize the situation. And you wish that just this once she could have let this go and follow your lead. But then she wouldn’t be Natasha Trace.

Your best friend since middle school had always been the most capable and sharpest person in the room and you loved that about her.

Normally.

But not so much when her keen assessment of you keeps you from being able to slink away quietly without fuss. 

“No, seriously. It’s just a little scratch. It’s not a big deal.” It sounds feeble even to your own ears. Trying to hold back a wince when the way you shake your head makes starbursts bloom behind your eyes.

You could have dealt with the pounding in your head if it weren’t for the relentless burning of your ankle that was only making things worse. One or the other would have been easier to manage, but both vying for your attention as the pain pulses with every heartbeat was miserable.

The sun was too hot, the kids frolicking the ocean were too loud, the sunscreen on your skin felt too greasy. All you wanted was a shower and your bed and to forget this whole day even happened.

You look around the group trying to gauge how successful your efforts are, but it’s clear that no one seems to be buying your brand of poorly performed bullshit. You wanted to crawl into yourself like a hermit crab, protected by your own shell, as six pairs of eyes all looked on at you sympathetically, while the pretty brown ones you wanted to see the most were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses and trained down at the ground.

It was supposed to be a fun day.

You’d woken up that morning absolutely giddy about trading spreadsheets for sand and sunburns and sea salt tangled hair. Your cheery, new swimsuit already laid out and waiting for you from the night before.

There was something thrilling about hooky on a Friday with all of your favorite people that made you feel all kinds of young and free. Well, hooky for you. They’d been given the day off after a month of intensive training and testing of some new defensive software. They all deserved the break and you were more than happy to tag along.

You were always the good kid in school, never skipping, never missing a class. You’d felt like a rebellious teen as you crafted your ‘out of office’ email, a smug grin on your face like you were getting away with something. Even though you’d earned the right to use that PTO whichever way you wanted.

The anticipation of a snow day from your childhood school days had nothing on the intoxicating promise of a beach day on a golden summer Friday.

The team must have felt the same way too because the group chat the night before had been chaotically amusing. The excitement was palpable enough that you’d almost think you all lived in some landlocked state rather than San Diego, where it felt like all roads led to the beach whether you wanted them to or not.

Somewhere between the string of all capitalized sentences and exclamation points with a few well-chosen emojis scattered throughout, Natasha had managed to wrangle everyone in enough into sorting out who was responsible for bringing what. There wouldn’t be another veggie platter incident, not on her watch.

You’d felt bright and effervescent as you’d pulled into the parking lot, your eyes reflexively seeking out a blue Bronco that hadn’t arrived yet. With a beach chair over one shoulder and a beach bag over the other and a packed cooler bag in your hand, you’d made towards the multicolored sprawl of blankets and the striped peaks of the umbrellas, where you were met with the smiling faces of shiny happy people.

Some of the boys had rushed over to help you carry your things and added your offerings to the communal pile of snacks and sunscreen and bottles of water. It had been easy to fall into conversation with everyone as you set up your own little patch of paradise and shimmied out of your frayed cut-offs. Natasha had given you a wolf whistle and you’d laughed as you give her the finger.

And hour and a half later with an easy grin on his face, carrying a case of beer and two big Ziploc bags stuffed with what you learned later were homemade cookies balanced on top, was Rooster.

You’ve had plenty of beach days with them but every time you saw him in those damn denim shorts he always seemed determined to wear, regardless of how impractical they were, your mind still went a little fizzy as you took in just how well they clung to his thighs.

He’d taken the ribbing from his squad in stride as he unboxed the beers and added them to the collection already chilling in Bob’s bright yellow cooler. You were trying- and failing- to read your worn paperback book when he’d surprised you by plopping his things next to yours on your oversized towel and stole a chunk of juicy watermelon off of the plate balanced on your lap.

“Hey, book worm,” he grinned as he popped it into his mouth, “How’s my favorite girl doing?” That smile of his getting bigger when you rolled your eyes at him.

“Hi, Rooster,” you’d said looking at him from over the top of your sunglasses with an amused smirk.

And if your cheeks felt warm, it was from the sun and not the teasing tone of his raspy voice.

When he’d shrugged off his shirt to apply the sunscreen you’d brought with him in mind, the wink he’d shot you went straight to your head like champagne. The sun highlighting his impressive abs and sculpted shoulders didn’t help either as he took great efforts to cover his chest and stomach with the lotion. He had to be doing it on purpose, because he’d kept rubbing it in well past when the white hue faded. But who were you to complain? Melanoma was no joke.

“You wanna help me out?” he’d asked turning his back to you, looking over his shoulder. You’re pretty sure that he’d been flexing because he’d looked impossibly broad, every defined muscle standing out for eyes to map out and explore.

You’d been at war with yourself, because while your eager hands were desperate to touch him, you also knew that once you ran your hands along his solid frame that you’d never want to stop. That you wouldn’t be content until your fingertips had traced every inch of him.

You had been blessedly and devastatingly spared the choice.

“I got you, Rooster. My hands are already all sunscreen-y,” chimed in Bob, who had just finished rubbing his own freshly applied layer. “Wouldn’t want it to get on her book.”

You were only half relieved to be off the hook, while Bradley on the other hand was still looking at you expectantly, almost hopefully, still with the white and yellow bottle of sunscreen partly extended towards you.

“That’s so sweet of you, Bob-” you’d started.

“Yeah, so sweet-” Bradley grumbled under his breath.

“I appreciate you sparing my pages the sunscreen grease,” you’d said shooting Bob a smile, choosing to ignore Bradley’s comment completely. “Plus, your hands are bigger than mine. You’ll have him covered in no time.”  

Bradley looked between you and Bob before he passed the bottle to the other man, shaking his head a little in defeat. You’d giggled to yourself as you wiggled your book at an openly brooding Bradley, and then leaned back on your elbows to observe the way the attentive WSO made sure to carefully and thoroughly cover Bradley’s entire back.

Respectfully, of course.

Behind your sunglasses you’d admired all of Bradley’s bulk compared to Bob’s lithe grace. But in your defense, they were standing right in front of you and you’d already reread your book at least five times in the past, so it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the scene in front of you had been.

“You look awfully comfortable over there,” Rooster called out with a raised eyebrow.

“Just taking in the view,” you’d teased back.

“Yeah, I bet you are,” he huffed as Bob finished up, giving him a thanks, man before tossing you back the bottle of sunscreen. He’d nudged his sunglasses down his nose and pinned you with his gaze, “Let me know if you want me to get your back. My hands are just as capable as his.” Even in the high heat of summer, the way he’d looked at you sent chills running along your arms.

You felt the way his keen eyes traveled from your face, down the deep-v of your swimsuit and along the swells of your breasts, and down your legs to your freshly painted toes. His mouth had ticked up in the corner then left you reeling and your heart pounding away in your chest as he’d strut off to go join Fanboy and Coyote by the mountain of snacks.

And that was the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. You never knew if he was just flirt-y or flirt-ing.

You hadn’t had a crush in ages, but when Nat had introduced you to her team five months ago, the man with the sunkissed curls and surprisingly attractive mustache had immediately caught your eye.

And as you’d gotten to know him, it had only gotten worse.

Not only was he very nice to look at and could make you laugh until your sides ached, but he also he had depth about him in a way that most men your age didn’t. You liked talking to him and listening to his stories. You liked learning his perspective on things. You liked being around him.

He made you feel interesting and special and funny and seen. You’ve never felt as comfortable in your own skin as you did when you were around him.

Rooster would send you flirty winks, give you less than subtle once overs, and could flash you such devastating slow grins that they’d have you trying to catch the butterflies they released in your stomach for hours after you went home.

But he’s never made a move.

If only he wouldn’t play hide and seek with his true intentions.

You felt like you were still waiting on some small clue whether he was serious or not. You didn’t know if he was just having fun with you or if he was into you and it was more than just friendly banter. It would be so much easier if he’d straight up tell you one way or another.

Needless to say, you’d let Nat be the one to help you with your sunscreen a little bit later. The idea of Bradley’s big hands on you, gliding along your sun-warmed skin and under the crisscross straps of your swimsuit, was too much for your hummingbird heart.

The sun climbed higher into the sky as the butter yellow midmorning transformed into a Midas-touched golden afternoon.

The squad had been able to reserve a fire pit and the plan had been to stay until the sunset. An endless summer day stretching out before them like a cat. They had nothing but time.

Clusters of people came together and split apart like a kaleidoscope as some went to take a dip in the ocean or raid the cooler and snack spread or go for a walk along the shore. Changing and shifting with the direction of the wind, going where the mood took them.

And for a peaceful moment, it had been you with your book and a napping Bradley sprawled out next to you on your towel with his arm flung over his eyes. Close enough that you could feel his warmth, almost but not quite touching. The sound of his soft breaths and the waves their own kind of lullaby as you contentedly read your book, turning your pages quietly to not disturb the man next to you, as the droplets of the Pacific dried on your skin.  

You still don’t know how you got roped into playing a round of dogfight football with the Navy’s best and brightest. You were more of a corn hole or ladder toss kind of girl, but Coyote had all but thrown you over his shoulder and dragged you out before you’d agreed to participate, conceding your defeat.

You were on a team with Hangman, Coyote, Fanboy against Nat, Rooster, Payback, and Bob. A few plays in and you had been getting the hang of it. They’d all been making sure to take care to go easy on you even in the chaos of two teams playing offensively and defensively at the same time. You were more than a little out of breath, but you were having fun.

Before the next snap, Mickey gave the most impassioned pep talk you’d ever heard, “Fuck luck, we don’t need luck. We gotta fucking win.” You had been about to laugh, but then you’d seen the looks on Jake and Javy’s faces and decided against it. Curious about the other team, you’d glanced over only to see Rooster looking back at you.

The calls had been made, the blur of plays in motion as people whirled and dodged and sprinted.

You’d just lobbed the ball to Javy before darting around Nat when a big, solid body collided with you. Hard. You’d felt the twinge of your ankle twisting in the sand right before the force sent you flying in the opposite direction you’d been headed.

The impact had been jarring. The air knocked from your lungs.

Where you should have been met with a mouthful of gritty sand, instead your head had connected with the rough surface of a partially buried rock. The low, thick thud reverberating throughout your whole body.

You’d been so stunned that you didn’t even register you were even on the ground until you heard the chorus of oh fucks and holy shits and goddamns and jesus christs over the ringing in your ears.

The game coming to an immediate and conclusive end.

For how many empty bottles and cans were sitting collected in a trash bag off to the side of your beach set up, they had been surprisingly quick to act as you blinked blankly, trying to clear the spots from your vision.

It was a silent ballet of efficiency as they instinctively fell into their roles, much like you imagined they did the sky. Everyone stepping up and then stepping back as they did their part, like the ebb and flow of waves.

Nat had carefully poured some fresh water from a bottle on your face to remove the sand that clung to the sweat and sunscreen on your skin. Then Jake had wordlessly passed her his clean spare shirt he’d jogged of to get to help stop the bleeding after Javy checked on your pupils to make sure they were the same size. While Bob stood off to the side holding your warped sunglasses in his hands, as if he was hopeful they could still be salvaged. Mickey and Reuben had been waiting in the wings giving you space, ready to help if they were needed, but not wanting to not crowd in.

And from the corner of your eye, you’d caught Rooster standing a couple feet away with his hands in his hair looking absolutely wrecked.

“Bradley?” you’d tried, even though his name stuck to your teeth. But he’d just shook his head at you before turning away slightly, like he couldn’t look at you, which made your heart sting as well.

They only allowed you to move to sit up after they were content with the answer to their questions- What day is it? Friday. Where are you? San Diego. What else hurts? My ankle and my pride.

It wasn’t until someone hauled you up from underneath your armpits that the throbbing and stinging and aching settled over you. The pain seeping and spreading through muscle and bone like an inky oil spill.

It’s still an almost perfect summer afternoon except for the fact you hate everything about this.

You hate the way they’re gathered around you with too many pairs of assessing eyes pinned on you. You hate that you’re the reason the game of dogfight football came to a definitive and abrupt end. You hate that you’re the reason their carefree and fun afternoon off has turned into this.

There’s a pressure building behind your eyes, the hot tears of hurt and frustration and embarrassment are clamoring to be released. You have to bite your lower lip to keep it from trembling.

And it doesn’t help that you’re the type who’d rather lick your wounds in peace.

You just need to get back to your car and you can figure things out on your own from there. You just need a moment to yourself.

As you open your mouth to argue your case again, Jake puts his hand up and stops you before you’ve even had a chance to start, “I hate to break it to you, sugar, but you’re not fooling any of us.” He says it gently, but gives you a pointed look at the way you’re leaning heavily on your right leg to keep the pressure off of your left ankle.

“That head wound is not a little scratch. Just like your ankle isn’t just a little puffy, when it’s twice the size it should be. You need to go to the Emergency Room,” Nat says, final and resolute. A lifetime of friendship has taught you not to argue when she has that look in her eyes, the one that says try me, I dare you.

They all talk over you as they figure out who is the most sober of the group after your suggestion to call yourself an Uber is immediately shot down. Drinks are being counted on fingers, and memories are searched to make sure every sip and bottle and can is accounted for.

Your eyes drift over to the man who is still actively avoiding looking at you, even as he talks to everyone else on the team. You aren’t paying too close attention to what he is saying, but you can hear the short, clipped staccato of his words.

Bradley’s shoulders are tinged a little pink even though you know for a fact that you had purposely passed him the 65 SPF. His eyes are hidden behind his dark green tinted sunglasses, but you don’t need to see them when you can read his body language better than any book.

His arms are crossed firmly over his chest, the tendons in his forearms flexing and shifting, like he is squeezing and releasing his fists from where they’re tucked under his biceps. Everything in his body looks coiled tight and strained, so at odds with the easy going and loose-limbed man you know him to be.

You don’t realize just how much you’ve zoned out until Natasha has to say your name a couple time before you pull your gaze away from Bradley and back to her.

“Ok, it’s settled,” Nat informs you, “Rooster’s going to take you.” You barely nod your head in acknowledgement when she tells you, because it feels like you’ve been punched in the stomach now too.

“It’s the least he can do,” Jake drawls.

“That’s not fair-” you start, defensively.

“Fuck off, Bagman-” Rooster snaps.

The rage in his voice shocks you, you’ve never heard that much heat from him before. There’s none of the teasing tone that usually underscores their banter. Jake puts both of his hands up placatingly like my bad, folks and Javy just shakes his head and sighs.

And this time when you look at Bradley, he is finally looking back at you with a deep furrow in his brow. His jaw is clenched tight, that muscle ticking and jumping, as he takes in the way you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your forehead.

Not exactly the way you’d hoped he’d be looking at you when you put on your new blue and white striped swimsuit this morning.

The one you’d bought because you wanted to make him look.

Just not like this.

With everything sorted the rest of the team trickles away a smattering of take cares and get better soons and let us know if you need anythings. But not before Mickey hands Rooster his stuff and passes Nat your bag and sandals. He gives you the gentlest of squeezes on your shoulder before he leaves to join everyone else back on little part of the beach you all had claimed before things went to shit.

Your group of eight now downsized to a trio.

Bradley is quick to roughly pull on his tank and shirt, and Nat fishes out your car keys from your bag as she waits for him to slip his shoes on. When he’s ready she passes it to him and he silently slides it over his arm.

Nat bends down to help gingerly glide your feet into your sandals, “I’ll grab the rest your things and drop them off at your place and then one of the boys will drop off your car later. We’ve got it all covered, ok?”

“Thanks, Nat,” you say quietly, trying to hold back a wince as she slips the left one on, your ankle pulsing in tempo with your heartbeat.

“Best friends don’t say thank you, they just do,” she says matter-of-factly as she stands. It’s the same thing you’d told her after you’d dumped a carton of strawberry milk on Carly Radke for outing Natasha your freshman year in high school. It was only time you’d ever gotten detention, but it had been worth it.

“They just do,” you repeat with a small smile.

You’re so grateful that your friendship with her is one that has spanned years. That you’ve been able seen one another grow and change and come into their own, but that you haven’t outgrown each other. She’s the person you want by your side and having your back. There is no one quite like Natasha Trace.

She turns to Bradley and you watch him stand a little taller under her sharp eyes, your straw tote still dangling from his forearm.

“You good?” Nat asks him with a look in her eye that you can’t place. And you’re reminded that even though she’s your best friend, that he has also earned a spot as one of her closest friends. Their relationship built over years and experiences that you could never fully understand. Different, but just as deep.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got her. I’ll take care of her,” Rooster promises with a stiff nod, as he gives her his word. It might have made your heart beat a little faster if you didn’t feel like such a burden. That it’s simply a twist of fate and three less drinks than everyone else for the reason that he’s the one to look after you. That he’s the one stuck with you.

“I know you will,” she says softer now, patting his shoulder, “Keep me posted.” Nat presses a kiss to your cheek and gives you an encouraging smile then heads off to go rejoin everyone else.

You watch her go with longing. The cheerful beach set up with its colorful blankets and umbrellas looks more like a desert mirage now. The sweet coconut scented potential of what the day could have been now forever out of reach.

And then it’s just you and Bradley and the sound of the waves and cries of seagulls.

The two of you silent and motionless.

You feel one wrong move and the fragile attempt of the stiff upper lip you’ve cocooned yourself in will crack open and all the soft parts of you will seep out into the sand beneath your feet.

His expression is shuttered closed as he bends a bit like he is going to pick you up.

“Woah, buddy, what are you doing?” You’re squinting into the sun as you look at him. You’d step into his shadow to block it, since you’re now in need of a new pair of sunglasses, but that would mean moving to the left which isn’t an option with your ankle.

“Buddy,” he grunts under his breath, slipping off his sunglasses and carefully putting them on your face, being mindful of stinging scrapes and wad of soft cotton you’re holding to your head. “They’re definitely going to have to run concussion protocol on you,” he mutters more to himself than to you, “I’m taking you to the Bronco and then we’re going the ER, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, Rooster,” you grit out, even rolling your eyes hurts, “But I don’t need you to carry me.”

Everything about this was excruciating and embarrassing enough without him being the Clark Gable to your Vivian Leigh. Maybe you could lean on him and hop over to his car? Like a six-foot-one pair of crutches with good hair.

“Take a step without wincing and I’ll think about it,” he says firmly, pointedly calling your bluff. There’s an expectant look of go on then, whenever you’re ready on his face. Because he knows he’s right, and you do too.

You don’t even bother to make a move, but the way your lower lips wobbles speaks volumes.

“That’s what I thought,” he says quietly, almost like pains him to be right.

He bends a little to hook his arms around your knees and back to lift you up, and this time you let him. Your free arm automatically wrapping around the back of his neck. And he starts off towards the winking windshields of the parking lot.

You’ve thought about what it would be like to be wrapped up in Bradley’s arms, how good it would feel to be pressed closed against him. And now you are and it’s nothing like you’ve imagined, because there isn’t anything sweet or swoon-worthy about how you ended up in them. You’re his duty, you’re not his desire.

All your sandcastle hopes have been washed away by the tide.

You’re so frustrated. You’re frustrated by the day, by yourself, by him.

This time you can’t blink back the tears that well up in your eyes. They flood through your tear ducts carving hot trails down your sun-tinged cheeks.

You want the Bradley from earlier. 

The one who stole your watermelon with warmth in his eyes.

The one who dozed next to you in the sun like a cat, his features soft free of the tension he now holds in his shoulders.

You want your Bradley.

The one who’d whispered cheeky comments in your ear whenever the team got into lighthearted tequila fueled arguments about things like whether a hot dog was a sandwich.

The one who’d always go up to the bar with you on busy nights at the Hard Deck and make sure you didn’t get bumped into on the way back to your friends with your freshly refilled drinks.

You’re aching, aching. Everywhere.

For a brief moment, as you swipe at your tears, you’re happy for the throbbing in your head and ankle, so that way you don’t have to think about the stinging in your heart.

“I know, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know you’re hurting,” Rooster says gentle and low as you sniffle, but you can hear the thickness of the words in his throat. The term of endearment is the sweetest of nothings, making your tears come faster. Where it should ease the heartache, all it does is make you angry at yourself for giving your emotions away. “We’re almost to the Bronco. It’s ok, we’re gonna get you taken care of, I promise.”

We.

You wanted that with him.

You want to press both of your hands to his cheeks to make him look you in the eyes to ask him is it going to be you and me together?  You’ve been a fool for love before, but you didn’t know if could take another hit-and-run with your heart.

The salt of your tears makes your cheeks feel tight and itchy as the summer breeze dries them on your skin.

Bradley carries you like you weigh nothing, but cradles you like you’re the most precious things he’s ever held. He’s mindful of any dips in the sand and gives wide berth around the college kids playing volleyball close to the entry back to the parking lot.

When he reaches the Bronco, he sets you down gently, making sure both of your feet are planted on the asphalt before letting go of you to unlock his car. He tells you to wait a moment when you move to open the passenger side door.

“I never know when I might get called up for an emergency deployment, so I like to have some extra clothes just in case,” he explains as he digs around in the backseat, pulling out a pair of gray athletic shorts.

“Oh.” And you realize you’re still just clad in your striped swimsuit. “Thank you for sparing me from the hospital germs,” you say lightly, an attempt at a joke to break the ice. One that doesn’t land, since instead of cracking a grin he just presses his lips together in a firm line and nods.

Bradley crouches low in front of you and you put a hand on his shoulder for balance as you lean against the Bronco, still trying to keep as much pressure off your left ankle as possible as you step into them. He’s looking up at you and even through his sunglasses perched on your nose, you swear his brown eyes get a shade darker as he eases the shorts up your legs. You’re touched by the effort as he ties the strings in a lopsided bow, even if things are feeling tense between the two of you.

“Think this’ll be easier,” he mumbles shrugging off his light blue button up. You’ve always liked this one, with its soft pastel pink and minty green watercolor prints of net fishermen and hula girls and palm trees.

He holds it open for you, helping you thread your arm through it, and then takes over holding Jake’s now ruined shirt to your head so that you can get your other arm past the sleeve. It smells like him, citrus and amber. Your fingers brush against each other when you reclaim the makeshift bandage, and he adjusts his shirt so that it hangs over your shoulders just right.

It’s an awkward kind silent as Rooster helps lift you into the Bronco with his strong hands around your hips. He is all smooth efficiency as he buckles you in with a click. You pass him back his sunglasses the same moment he hands you your tote bag, and it almost feels like a hostage exchange.

He says nothing as he hauls himself into the driver’s side. The car rumbles to life when he turns the key in the ignition and a cheery song from the 80’s station on the radio comes on. Bradley quick to turn the volume down low. His thumb brushing your shoulder as he sets his hand on the back of your seat to look behind him as he carefully backs out of the spot.

It’s never felt this strained with him before.

It’s so painfully obvious that the two of you are walking on eggshells around each other. You can almost feel the wall that’s gone up around him. The white noise of the radio drowned out by the hum of the road as he drives in near silence.

Your day has been most effectively ruined by a chunk of sedimentary rock, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still recoup what’s left of it.

He could still have the perfect summer afternoon.

He could still go back to your friends and their perfect beach set up and laugh with them as Coyote keeps accidentally setting marshmallows on fire. He could still catch the bold oranges and soft pinks of the sunset with all the satisfied contentment he deserved to experience.

“You can leave me and go back, you know. I’ll be ok if you just want drop me off and then head back to the beach,” you say looking down at your fingers as you trace the stitching of his leather seats.

When he doesn’t answer right away, you glance over at him. The vein in his neck is standing out boldly against the column of his throat.

“Do I seem like the kind of guy who would leave someone at the ER alone?” he asks, his voice rougher than sandpaper.

“No. No, of course not,” you say emphatically, “That’s why I’m giving you permission.”

“Permission?” he scoffs with a shake of his head.

“Yes, permission,” you say, clipped.

You’re giving him an out, why doesn’t he get that?

He heaves a big sigh and grunts. “Is it… Would you rather have Bob- with his big hands- here instead?” Bradley asks, frustration leaking out around the edges of his words.

“Bob with his big hands?” you repeat baffled, “What does Bob have to do with anything about this?”

“That’s what you said earlier, sweetheart. I’m just citing the source. Or I can call Phoenix? Or…” he pauses glancing at the t-shirt pressed to your head, “Or even Seresin. Once we get you checked in I can call any of them an Uber or something, and they can be there with you, if you don’t want me.”

“No, Rooster, I don’t want anyone else.” You wince at the implication and hope it doesn’t read into it further than the current situation to two of you are wading through like quick sand.

“Ok, good,” he grumbles.

“Great,” you lob back.

His hand tightens on the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white, “Then where is this even coming from?” The action makes his thick forearm flex in this most delicious of ways that you’d appreciate more if you didn’t feel the anger simmering low in your stomach.

“It’s pretty damn clear that you’d rather be back there, Rooster. Or literally anywhere else right now.” You flip down the sun visor with more force than it deserves, regretting that you gave him his sunglasses back when the bright California sun in your eyes turns your headache into a full-blown migraine.

“Of course, I’d rather be anywhere else!” he says hotly, tossing his sunglasses back in your lap, “Do you think I like that you’re hurt and that we’re on our way to the hospital?” You shove them on your face with an angry huff.

A car speeds by blaring their horn as they pass by.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck off,” he grunts but speed of the Bronco doesn’t change, “Asshole.”

Bradley’s driving five miles under the posted limit, and you know for a fact he religiously drives at least ten miles over. And his turns have been smoother than butter, as if he is trying not to jostle you anymore than you’d already been today.

You are so tired of this hot and cold thing that he’s doing. His words and his deeds weren’t going hand in hand. He keeps giving you the cold shoulder, but is also so in tune with your every movement and need.

Gingerly, you angle yourself in your seat to look at him better, resting your tired left arm on the back of your seat and taking in his strong profile.

“Why are you being like this?” you demand, waving your free hand in a vaguely in his general direction.

“Like what? I’m not being like anything,” he retorts, making the same vague hand gesture as you did a moment earlier.

And oh, if that doesn’t fill your chest with hot indignation. That low simmering anger has turned into a full roiling boil as you shift in your seat trying to get your ankle in a position where it doesn’t hurt.

“Seriously, Rooster? I can feel tension rolling off of you in waves. You’ve been like this since everything turned to complete shit on the beach. I didn’t mean to ruin your day, I’m just trying to figure out how to make things better,” you bite out unable to keep things bottled up anymore.

He sucks in a sharp breath, “Are you kidding me right now? You think you ruined my day?” He glances from the road to you and back again, his brown eyes wide and searching.

“Yes?” Or so you’d thought until you’d seen the shock written all over his face, but now you weren’t so sure. It’s like you’ve dumped ice water on him instead of simply calling him out. “I feel like you’re taking it out on me and I don’t know why.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rooster swears under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m so damn sorry, sweetheart. I’m mad at myself, because I ruined your day.  I should have been more careful, I should have been looking out for you. It’s not like you’re hard to miss in that swimsuit.” Your cheeks heat up at the comment, but you choose to ignore it.

Misery drips from his words like spilled ink off a page. You knew he was upset, but you didn’t realize he was upset about that. That he’s shouldering this fluke of fate as if it is his burden to bear. Some of the anger you’ve been feeling leaves your body like the tide washing out back out to sea. You’re still upset at him for how he has been acting up until this point, but you’re not mad at him about that.

“Bradley, no. It was an accident.”

“Yeah, an accident I’m responsible for,” he says hoarsely, rubbing roughly at his forehead. “God, I can still hear the sound it made when you hit that rock and it makes me feel sick. I would give anything to undo that moment. I need you to know that.”

He is being so hard on himself and your heart squeezes, this time in sympathy rather than hurt. He didn’t place that rock in the sand, the both of you were victims of circumstance.

“It could have happened to anyone. It could have been anyone,” you press delicately, trying to get him to hear you, shifting in your seat again still uncomfortable.

The sunshine bounces off of his slumped shoulders as he sighs raggedly.

“But it happened to you and it’s my fault. You’re bleeding, you’re in pain, and you’ve been crying. And it’s because of me.” He reaches down with his right hand and lifts up your leg so that you can rest it on his thigh, some of the ache alleviating immediately. He asks quietly, “That better?”

“Yes, thank you,” you murmur. He looks so upset, and all you want to do is curl into his lap. You want to hold him and you want to be held by him. “You know I don’t blame you, right?”

You expect him to move his hand back to the steering wheel, but he keeps it on your leg. His thumb stroking your still slightly sandy shin. Your cheery toenail polish at odds with the color blooming around your ankle.

Bradley’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, “Yeah, I do. I know that. But I still blame myself.”

The Bronco rolls to a soft stop at the light. There’s enough traffic that you know you’ll be here for a bit, and so does he since he turns in his seat to look fully at you. You take his sunglasses off, tucking them into the pocket of his shirt that rests above your heart, so nothing stands between his brown eyes and yours.

“So, you’re going to keep beating yourself up over it and icing me out? Making me feel worse? For what, Bradley? Because you’re a glutton for punishment? That’s not fair to me or to you.”

“Shit,” he mutters, his left hand running through his curls. “You’re right and I’m so sorry. I’ve been in my head feeling so damn guilty that I’ve been such an asshole. Can you forgive me?”

You’re about to answer him that when a horn startles you, making you jump in the leather seat. You see the light is green, the car that had been in front of you is gliding through the intersection passing under a blue sign pointing the way to the hospital.

“Bradley, the light.”

The car behind the two of you honks their horn again.

“They can wait. This is important, you are important. Do you forgive me?” There’s an underscore of need that punctuates his question.

“Yes, of course,” you say easily and sincerely. There’s so much remorse in his eyes, you would have forgiven him with that look alone.

“Thank you,” he breathes out in relief. And then he smiles at you for the first time since the beach and that ache in your heart is completely soothed, bandaged by that soft way he is looking at you.

Atlas no longer, he can simply be Bradley.

He takes his foot off the brake and by some miracle he’s able to make it through the light before it turns red again. You can see the tall structure of the parking lot near the hospital poking out above the line of the treetops.

The destination is closer than ever, but there are still things on your mind.

“And you aren’t an asshole, Bradley. But your bedside manner could definitely use some work,” you tease with a smile of your own.

“Baby, I’ve been trying to show you my bedside manner, but you keep holding me at arm’s length,” he groans dramatically.

The idea of experiencing Bradley Bradshaw’s bedside manner makes you feel all kinds of weak in the knees, even as you’re seated in his Bronco with your leg propped up in his lap, his big hand skating up and down along your shin comfortingly.

“How can you even say that with a straight face? You’ve never made a move!” you exclaim incredulously, “I was even the one to ask for your phone number, if you remember.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I hit on you all the time,” he argues with your favorite brand of Bradshaw banter, “I’ve been waiting for you to give me the green light, sweetheart.”

“I thought you were supposed to be pretty and smart,” you smirk.

He barks a laugh and the last tendrils of all the tension and all the pressure that had been swirling around you like a marine layer evaporates.

“You saying I’ve had the green light this whole time?” He looks over at you with a boyish smile, you like the way you feel when he looks at you like this.

“What I’m saying, Bradley, is if you’d have actually asked me out I would have said yes.” You press your toes into the muscle of his thick thigh and immediately regret it, wincing as pain ripples around your ankle.

He makes a sympathetic sound deep in his chest, “Sounds like I’ve been an idiot.”

“A very pretty one,” you allow, leaning your aching head back against the back seat.

“At least there’s that,” he concedes good-naturedly as he pulls into the parking lot, turning on his blinker for a spot opening up near the entrance to the Emergency Room by some twist of fate, one that’s in your favor this time.

Bradley pulls into the empty spot and kills the engine turning to you. He gently eases your foot back down onto the sandy floormat of the Bronco and leans into unbuckle your seatbelt.

He’s so close now looking up at you from under his eyelashes, and your breath catches in your throat. He moves closer, you can see the bits of hazel that surround his pupils. Your eyes flutter close and you tilt your head up, lips parting at the anticipation of his kiss.

There’s no holding back the noise of dissatisfaction you make when his lips press a tender kiss to your cheek. You lean into him wanting to feel, wanting him to give you more. His warm breath coasts over your skin as he chuckles. You can feel the way his lips are pulled up into a smile.

“I’m a gentleman, sweetheart,” he says as he pulls away, his eyes lingering on your lips. “My mom raised me not to go for the kiss on the first date. Or ones with head wounds and potential concussions.”

“Some first date,” you lament jokingly, looking in at the fluorescent lights awaiting you inside the hospital. You’d rather skip over this part entirely, but you’re ready to be done with holding Jake’s shirt to your head. “Nothing like insurance cards and scrubs to really set the mood.”

“Mmm. How about this, after we’re done here, I’ll take you through whatever drive-thru you want-”

“In-N-Out,” you cut in without a second thought. The novelty of it still hasn’t worn off on you, even if the fries are terrible.

“Ok,” he grins, “I’ll take you through in In-N-Out and get you your number two combo with mustard and grilled onions with a vanilla shake.” He pauses waiting for your nod of approval, looking more than pleased with himself when you acknowledge he got your order right.

“I like the sound of this so far,” you hum.

“Well that’s good. Since it’ll be our first date, I want to set that bar high,” he says giving you a wink. And there are those butterflies again, this time you don’t try to catch them with a net. They’re free to flutter around as they wish.

“If you really want to impress me, you’ll also take me through the McDonald’s drive-thru for their fries,” you muse.

“Done.”

“I was kidding,” you laugh, shaking your head at him disbelievingly and thoroughly charmed.

“Well, I wasn’t. So after we get you fed, give or take some fries, I will bring you home. I’ll get you whatever you need, I want to make sure you’re comfortable. Think you might be on crutches for a bit, sweetheart,” he says softly, playing with the ends of your hair. “And then in the morning, if you’re up for it, I’ll take you out for breakfast. Or bring you breakfast. Whatever you want. We can call that date number two.”

“And then you’ll kiss me?”

“And then I’ll kiss you,” he promises, offering you a crooked pinky finger. You beam and you wrap your own around his.

He slips out of the driver’s seat leaving you to contemplate the terms of his offer as he rounds the front of the Bronco. The nurses are going to get an eyeful of him in only those snug jean shorts and thin white tank. You make a mental note to avoid looking at him if they have to connect you to a heart rate monitor, he doesn’t need to know the effect he has on you. Not yet anyways.

“I have counteroffer,” you announce turning your body towards him as he opens your door for you.

“Let’s hear it, baby,” he says with a grin that almost makes you forget how bad your head and ankle hurt, “Shoot.”

“We still go to In-N-Out, but then in the morning you make me breakfast in bed with some of those famous Bradshaw pancakes I’ve heard about,” you say, as he steps in between your legs, “Seems like a good way to work on that bedside manner of yours.”

“I think you’re going to like my bedside manner, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over your cheek.

You tilt your head at him, taking in the sunkissed strands in his hair and the affection in his eyes, “I guess we’ll have to find out.”

“Guess we will,” he rasps.

Rooster drops another sweet kiss to your cheek, whispering for you to stay put, and then he struts off towards the automatic doors of the Emergency Room. Leaving you alone with the butterflies in your stomach and the hope in your heart.

You dig your phone out of your straw tote and check the time, doing the math in your head.

There are a few messages from Nat and other people on the team already checking in, but you know you’ll have time to reply to them later as you wait with Bradley sitting by your side.

You look up and see he’s got a wheelchair now and is making his way back to you, wearing a soft smile on his face just for you.

Only seventeen more hours until you get to kiss Bradley Bradshaw and you can’t wait.

You’ve got that forever feeling about him.

Oh, oh, oh.

Thank you for reading! Rock on. Oh that joke was schist, I'll see myself out.

This was written as part of @roosterforme's Rocktober Playlist! You can check out all the other great submissions here!

The song that inspired this story was Paula Abdul's "Straight Up"

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[girlactionfigure]

Rabbi Reuven Israel Kott was a Torah prodigy whose cleverness and chutzpah saved thousands of Jews from annihilation by the Nazis.

Born in a Polish shtetl in 1897, Reuven was one of fifteen children. His family were Hasidic followers of the Ger Rebbe.

Reuven’s exceptional intellect was apparent at a young age. He was a gifted scholar of Talmud and Jewish scripture, so precocious that he was given rabbinic ordination when only 17 years old.

The Rebbe took a special liking to Reuven, and every Friday night Reuven sat next to the great man at his festive Sabbath gathering. Small in size - he stood only 5’1” - Reuven was known for his big brain, and big heart.

Reuven was selected by his community to represent them as the Jewish voice on the local provincial council. When the Polish president died in the 1920’s, young Reuven stood at the graveside with other clergy and delivered a eulogy on behalf of the Jews of Poland.

Although life seemed fairly good for Polish Jews at the time, the Ger Rebbe sensed that big trouble was coming. He urged his followers to get out of Poland and move to Eretz Yisrael (the Land of Israel), at that time British Mandate Palestine.

As the Rebbe’s right-hand man, Rabbi Reuven Kott threw himself into the mission of helping Jews leave Poland and return to their ancestral homeland.

The British had a quota system restricting the number of Jewish families they let in. Reuven took advantage of a bureaucratic loophole defining “family” as two parents and an undetermined number of offspring.

Reuven collected money and bribed Polish authorities to get blank birth certificates. He would then “create” new families, matching people up, changing names and identities as needed. Every “family" had at least a dozen children.

Reuven told those he helped that they must stick with their fake identity. Most people complied, but a few didn’t and were caught. Under threat of being sent back to Poland, somebody gave Reuven’s name to the authorities.

Reuven and his brother were on a train in Warsaw when three plain-clothes officers approached. After verifying his identity, they arrested Reuven for bribery and forgery and threw him in jail. As a pious Jew, Reuven couldn’t eat the non-kosher jail food, so every day his daughter brought him a kosher meal - a two hour journey each way.

After several long months, his brother finally got word that there was going to be a hearing in the case. He went to visit Reuven in jail, told him the news and asked which lawyer he wanted to hire.

Reuven scribbled something on a scrap of paper, folded it up and slipped it through the bars of his cell. Outside the jail, Reuven’s brother unfolded the note. He was shocked to read the contents: “Hire me the most anti-Semitic lawyer in Warsaw!“

Reuven’s family was baffled. With so many top-notch Jewish lawyers, why would he want an anti-Semite? Had his incarceration led to a mental breakdown? Reuven’s brother assured them that he was of sound mind, and he went to Warsaw and found an attorney notorious for his fierce hatred of Jews.

The day of the hearing arrived, and the courthouse was packed with hundreds of Hasids from Reuven’s community. Reuven was allowed only three minutes with his lawyer, and then the hearing began.

To everybody’s shock, Reuven’s lawyer stood up, made a brilliant argument, and got the case dismissed.

Back home in the shtetl, everybody wanted to know what Reuven had said to his lawyer in those three minutes. Reuven said his Talmud study had taught him that in a business deal, if you get three “Yes” answers, the deal will close.

He asked his lawyer three questions:

- You hate us Jews, don’t you?

- Do you want to see me rot and die in jail?

- Would you like all of us Jews gone from Poland?

The lawyer answered yes to all three questions. Reuven immediately shot back, “What good would it do if one measly Jew rots in jail? If you set me free, I can get all the Jews out of Poland!”

Reuven got what he wanted by blinding the lawyer with his own hate. He continued his work “creating” large families and helping them move to Palestine. The anti-Semitic attorney even helped him procure more blank birth certificates. People often asked Reuven when he would go to Eretz Yisrael. He said, “I’m like the captain of a sinking ship. It is my responsibility to get all the passengers out before I get in the lifeboat.”

Over the course of 20 years, Reuven helped tens of thousands of Jews escape Poland. Today, almost half a million descendants of those Polish Jews owe their lives to Rabbi Reuven Israel Kott.

Unfortunately, Reuven himself never made it to Israel. He was murdered at Auschwitz in 1942.

For proving that one small man in three short minutes can accomplish miracles beyond measure, we honor Rabbi Reuven Israel Kott as this week’s Thursday Hero at Accidental Talmudist.

This story was told to us by Reuven’s granddaughter, Ziporah Bank. She heard it from her mom - the daughter who brought kosher meals to Rabbi Kott in prison. 

Accidental Talmudist

[we-keep-odd-hours]

Book recs for anyone else upset that Near Dark is one 1.5 hour long movie with an almost unwatchable last ten minutes.

Below the cut, I've listed each title with an author and synopsis.

Please consider buying from your local independent bookseller. If you're not sure about any near you, or if you would like to support independent booksellers (and therefore authors!) by ordering online instead, you can search your area at https://www.indiebound.org/

I am not affiliated with IndieBound and don't get any money from sharing this link.

See more notes at the end of the list.

I Travel By Night by Robert McCammon. This is technically the sub-genre of "Weird Western" rather than horror; a Civil War soldier turned vampire wanders a strange west. Mysteries, ghosts, etc. Despite being from a major voice in speculative fiction, this is only available in digital.

The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones. A First Nations vampire revenge story. If you don't know the historical event it was based off of, I'd suggest going in blind but following up your read with non-fiction: this one is heavy.

In the Valley of the Sun by Andy Davidson. Pitch-black neo-noir Texas vampire novel. Takes place almost exactly in the same locales as Near Dark, only set a few years earlier. A killer is turned into a vampire, and hides out on property belonging to a young widow and her son. Gnarly and mean, the prose is rich without being flowery.

The Coffin Moon by Keith Rosson. RELEASE DATE: 9/9/25. Family tragedy, vampires, serial killers, and western vengeance set against a backdrop of the PNW and the Badlands in the 1970s.

Lost Souls by Poppy Z. Brite. Rice is the biggest name in late 20th century vampire literature, but Brite is right behind (note: he has gone by Billy Martin since the 00's, however still prefers the books to be under this name). These guys make the Lost Boys look like The Little Vampire. A punk and shock-goth classic, this southern gothic road trip is well worth the read.

Mongrels by Stephen Graham Jones. Yes, he's on here twice. A young boy travels from town to town with his aunt and uncle; they are werewolves, some of the last of their kind, trying to keep themselves safe and sane by any means necessary.

Blood Like Mine by Stuart Neville. A single mother on the run with her teenage daughter becomes a serial murder suspect as she tries to dodge cops, FBI agents, creeps, and keep her strange daughter fed. The word ''vampire'' is never mentioned, but if you're into vampires to be reading this list, this is not a spoiler.

You're Always Welcome at the Bloodridge Motel by J. Hunter Richardson. A small motel off of the highway plays host over decades to a strange family comprised of people who look like they're from different eras, don't seem to age.

The Bloody Red Barron by Kim Newman. This is #2 in the "Anno Dracula" series, and does heavily rely on knowledge of the first book. An alternate history where Dracula's arrival in England and attempt to take over Europe gets farther than he did in the novel, this one makes the list because Severen actually has a very small cameo on it.

Midwestern Gothic by Scott Thomas. Four midwestern horror novels; there's one specifically that I could see taking place in the same universe as Near Dark.

American Vampire by Scott Snyder. The first volume is told in two timelines: the closing days of the American West that Never Was, and the early days of Hollywood in the 1920s. Skinner Sweet, extremely un-glamorous outlaw, becomes the first American vampire after trying to rob the wrong train. He goes on a killing spree

The Orange Eats Creeps by Grace Krilonovich. Part Outsiders, part Clockwork Orange, and part Near Dark. Teenage ''vampires'' wreak havoc in the Pacific Northwest as they wander in their respective packs. The writing for this is unique and wild and the novel is worth it for that alone.

The Lesser Dead by Chris Buehlman. Another novel where the author went out of his way to make his vampires into monsters, crooks, killers, without the frills and melodrama of the more gothic-leaning stories. Set in NYC in the 1980s.

BONUS NON FICTION: Near Dark by Stacey Abbot. A revisit of the making of, structure, and final story of the film from a pop-culture film and television critic and historian. Part of the BFI Great Films series. Yes, it's more or less a 100 page essay about the film, but if you made it this far in the list, you'd probably enjoy it. The writing wavers between that of a nostalgia review and an actual academic dive into the film.

BONUS NON FICTION: Our Vampires, Ourselves by Nina Auerbach. VITAL reading for vampire fans, tracing the development of the vampire from the early 1800s through Near Dark (a WHOLE academic chapter on the latter!) as a mirror to our own cultural and social turmoils.

Honorable mention to The Morganville Vampires series by the late and great Rachel Caine: she managed to include an evil vampire patriarch, his significantly younger blonde girlfriend, and their leather-clad attack dog/body guard/friend. They're YA novels from the 00s and the writing reflects this, the books didn't age very well, and I'm not sure I'd really suggest them, but damn did she ever pull that off and in the process get an excuse shoved in there to refer to the head vampire as "daddy."

.......if you think I'm reaching on why I'm 99% sure the trio was meant to be the gang from Near Dark, the leader's name was Bishop, and Ms. Caine was a noted Aliens fan--her short story "Broken" actually managed to get a reference in Alien: Romulus.

ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMERS AND DISCLOSURES:

-Why these titles? Because I found a couple of them and realized that there's a hyper-specific genre of vampire novels of (mostly male) authors trying to avoid the cliches of the ''gothic'' vampire novel (at least aesthetically, if we're talking gothic as a mode of literature then nearly all of these are gothic or heavily feature gothic elements).

-I have NOT read all of these, however I DO own them all, so I cannot personally vouch for most of them. Some that I read I loved despite any flaws, others I didn't care for despite them being ''good'' and three I'm still in the middle of. Unless someone specifically asks for books that I have enjoyed, I try not to let personal opinion influence recs.

-These are all adult horror novels, please check trigger warnings first.

[parasolladyansy]

Demon Slayer: Mizumi

Originally from Sapporo, Hokkaido

Mizunoto rank - Water Breathing user 🌊

Tends to throw things to distract her opponents - excellent aim!

May or may not be from the future?

—

Not an AU - just for fun ^o^ To help me catch up with DxP REWRITE (making good progress!), I’m finally watching my way through Demon Slayer as I draw - I’ve often thought it had a very similar vibe to Legends Arceus, though it is set in the Taishou era (early 1910’s to mid 1920’s), which is after the supposed time period of PLA, the Meiji era (late 1860’s to early 1910’s).

Just got to the Mugen Train arc - really interesting seeing design elements of old Japanese train culture & how it ties to what I can guess was Gear Station’s history (since it’s more based on Japanese subways).

[tangledinink]

the 'putting my favs in 1920's-era fashion' train continues on <3

[ i'm sorry, teenage mutant what now? ] @tmntaucompetition

[tulliok]

can you tell us about your oc's you know the 1920's ones to be specific

Absolutely! They are from a very personal story I've been developing for almost 6 years now. The story is being heavily revamped, but I'll share a little piece of what I've been cooking up.

A tale of mystery, love, and a little pinch of horror~

The story is based in 1930s America- the setting is a small town with a bustling nightlife. It follows an aromantic wedding photographer named Connor (dark hair and big coat), who lives the life of a vagabond; a man without a family or home, carrying nothing but a suitcase and relying on the town's night trolley to move from place to place. One day, the news of a sudden passing accompanied by a will grant him ownership of a mysterious house on the outskirts of town. The few that have seen the estate see it as a blight in the community, attributing it to bad omens and even supernatural occurrences. However, Connor feels a strange warmth coming from the house's tattered walls—the creaks of the floorboards reverberate through the halls like comforting whispers, luring him come closer...

As for my supporting characters:

Wallace (red-haired tall man) is a socialite and the conductor of the night train. His relationship with Connor is a transactional one, allowing him to ride as a stowaway in exchange for gossip and information.

Cheryl (red-haired tiny lady) is a tailor, and Wallace's older sibling. Throughout the story, she grows closer to Connor as the two bond over their differing perspectives of being outcasts of their own community.

The story is heavily inspired by several things I love or have a deep interest in, such as classic horror and ghost stories, 1900s fashion, Old Hollywood culture, romantic art, and the abstract storytelling of theater. It also works as a very personal dive into my experiences with gender, relationships, and sexuality; a big reason for why the story is constantly changing.

At the moment, I'm pretty pleased with its current direction, and hopefully, I'll have more to share with you all this year. : )

[vikkirosko]

Since Hazbin Hotel first season is out, can I request alastor and his child umbra witch contractor spending time together with their mentor/student (student he's quite found of in a platonic way).

Like, Alastor teach her how to dance like in the 1920's, to sing, to always smile like him, to cook, sometimes invite her as a guest to his radio program.

He also brings her to Rosie's, so she can have a total relooking. Her clothing style matching Alastor's (free of charge, because Rosie said that if reader is the summoner of Alastor, she must be as classy as him).

And to finish, Alastor brings her with him to piss off Vox. Now Vox has a deer demon and a child witch against him.

thanks

📻 Alastor x child fem!Reader platonic headcanons His young ward 🎙

You were very surprised when Alastor suggested that you spend time together. You were his contractor and you spent most of your time training, but Alastor saw that the more you trained, the more tired you got, and he decided that you should relax. That's why he thought you should take a break. Alastor practically didn't accept your refusal

The first thing he started with was music and dancing. Alastor told you a little bit about what life was like in his time, introduced you to music and even gave you some dance lessons. Vaggie, who was watching this, even began to worry that Alastor decided to make a small copy of himself out of you, because after a couple of days you began to smile a lot, following Alastor's words that without a smile your outfit is not complete. The next step in Alastor's plan was to visit Rosie

You didn't know why you had to go to Rosie, but Alastor claimed it was very important. As it turned out, the reason for this was that Alastor decided that you needed to change your wardrobe. You tried to convince him that you were fine with your old clothes, but Rosie took you away, cooing that since you and Alastor had a contract, then you should look as great as Alastor. She wasn't even going to charge for it

When you returned to the hotel, Vaggie's anxiety increased. Your clothes matched Alastor's style. She didn't even have time to talk to you, because he took you to his radio studio, claiming that he wanted to show you how everything works there. He saw how curious your eyes lit up. You've never seen the inside of a radio studio and you were interested in everything. Alastor even suggested that you spend a little time with him, because he just wanted to spoil the mood of his old acquaintance a little

By the end of the day, there were rumors all over the city that Radio Demon had a partner on his radio show, little witch, and that just a few hours ago they were on the air together, thanks to which Vox lost his temper again. You didn't regret it for a second, especially after Alastor told you a little bit about Vox. You understood that he could only tell you what was beneficial to him, but you wanted to believe him. In Hell, Alastor was one of the people closest to you and you hoped he wouldn't lie to you. Besides, singing a duet with Alastor was really fun, even though your goal was to piss off Vox

[fatehbaz]

Originally I had attached these tags about British imperial forestry to a post about United States treatment of forests, Indigenous peoples, and land administration from 1900-ish to 1935-ish, during a transition period when clear-cutting logging was threatening profit so the US turned to a German- and British-influenced "sustained yield" forestry paradigm:

And in response, someone added:

In the midst of the first Empire Forestry Conference of scientists, academics, and administrators in 1920, the chairman of the Forestry Commission of Britain, Lord Lovat, said that forests were "grown for use and not for mere ornament ... Forests are national assets only so far as they supply the raw material for industrial development."

Rajan (in Modernizing Nature) directly quotes professor of forestry at Oxford, R.S. Troup, who had been influential in the Indian forest service; at the same forestry conference in 1920, Troup promoted sustained yield like this: "Conservation was a 'wise and necessary measure' but it was 'only a stage towards the problem of how best to utilise the forest resources of the empire'. The ultimate ideal was economic management [...], which regarded forests as capital assets, fixed annual yields in such a manner as to exploit 'to the full interest on this capital [...]' and aimed for equal annual yields so as to sustain the market and provide regular supplies of timber to industry."

One of the big - and easily accessible/readable - summaries of the shift to sustained yield and rise of US and British administrators embracing "economic management" of forests:

Modernizing Nature: Forestry and Imperial Economic Development, 1800-1950. S. Ravi Rajan. 2006.

Concise look at the trajectory from East India Company and Royal Navy timber reserves; to British foresters training in Germany and/or in German traditions (including sustained yield) before joining as officers in the powerful British-Indian land administration bureaucracy; to US scientists being trained by those British administrators; to 1920s/1930s Empire Forestry Conferences promoting industry while identifying forests as essential to power.

---

This has also been covered by:

Vinita Damodaran, Richard Grove, Jeyamalar Kathirithamby-Wells, Jonathan Saha, Gregory Barton, Rohan D'Souza.

More summaries of the situation (shorter length, accessible):

"Imperial Environmentalism or Environmental Imperialism? European Forestry, Colonial Forests and the Agenda of Forest Management in the British Empire, 1800-1900". S. Ravi Rajan, In: Nature and Orient: Essays on Environmental History of South and South East Asia, 1998.

"'Dominion over palm and pine': the British Empire forestry conferences, 1920-1947". J.M. Powell, Journal of Historical Geography, Volume 33, Issue 4, October 2007.

Elsewhere, Elizabeth DeLoughrey and George Handley described it like this: 'These forest reserves [...] did not necessarily represent "an atavistic interest in preserving the 'natural' [...]" but rather "a more manipulative and power-conscious interest in constructing new landscapes [...]."' While Sharae Deckard adds: '[T]he subversive potential of the "green" critique [...] was defused by the extent to which growing environmental sensibilities enabled imperialism to function more efficiently by appropriating botanical knowledge and indigenous conservation methods [...].'

---

And the book:

Commonwealth Forestry and Environmental History: Empire, Forests and Colonial Environments in Africa, the Caribbean, South Asia and New Zealand.

Edited by Damodaran and D'Souza, with work from conferences hosted by Grove, in 19 chapters including:

"Worlds Apart? The Scottish Forestry Tradition and the Development of Forestry in India" (K. Jan Ootheok); "Redeeming Wood by Destroying the Forest: Shola, Plantations and Colonial Conservancy on the Nilgiris in the Nineteenth Century" (Deborah Sutton); "Nature's Tea Bounty: Plant Colonialism and 'Garden' Capitalism in the British Empire" (Jayeeta Sharma); "Industrialized Rainforests: The Ecological Transformation of the Sri Lankan Highlands, 1815-1900"; "Forestry and Social Engineering in the Miombo Woodlands of South-Eastern Tanganyika" (Thaddeus Sunseri)

---

Rajan also points out (again in Modernizing Nature):

"[An] extremely important aspect to the repackaging [of forestry science and management] [...] [and] a critical principle that stands out here is that of sustained yield, or sustainability (Nachhaltigekeit). This concept was fundamental [...]. By the turn of the [twentieth] century a large pan-colonial [British-United States] scientific community was in existence, trained in the German and French tradition of forestry [...]. Following the revolt of 1857, the government of [British] India sought to pursue active interventionist policies [...]. Experts were deployed as 'scientific soldiers' [...]. Dietrich Brandis [...], considered the founder of Indian forestry [...] married Rachel Marshman, who was [...] also the sister of the wife of General Havelock, a close friend of Lord Dalhouse, the then governor-general of India. On Havelock's recommendation, Brandis was put in charge of the forests of [...] Burma [...] and was subsequently appointed inspector-general of forests of India. [...] He also trained prospective foresters of the forest department of the USA, including Gifford Pinchot. [...] Chancellor Bismarck gave the visiting British Prime Minister Gladstone an oak sapling [...]. Prussia prided itself on helping devise [...] modern forest management. [...] [T]he Forestry Commision [...], [or] [t]he Imperial Visionaries, as they became known, believed that an increase in primary production in the tropical dependent empire would result in the growth of the British economy. [...] They deemed their own job to be serving the imperial economy."

---

And also:

Empire Forestry and the Origins of Environmentalism. GA Barton, 2002.

"Colonialism and Green Science: History of Colonial Scientific Forestry in South India, 1820-1920". VM Ravikumar Vejendala, Indian Journal of History of Science, 47:2, pages 241-259, 2012.

"Imperialism, Intellectual Networks, and Environmental Change: Unearthing the Origins and Evolution of Global Environmental History." Vinitia Damodaran and Richard Grove, in Nature's End: History and the Environment, 2009.

"The Reconfiguration of Scientific Career Networks in the Late Colonial Period: The Case of Food and Agriculture Organization and the British Colonial Forestry Service" by Jennifer Gold, and "A Network Approach to the Origins of Forestry Education in India, 1855-1885" by Brett M. Bennett. Both chapters are form Science and Empire, 2011.

Triumph of the Expert: Agrarian Doctrines of Development and the Legacies of British Colonialism. Joseph Morgan Hidge, in Series in Ecology and History, 2007.

Nature and Nation: Forests and Development in Peninsular Malaysia. Jeyamalar Kathirithamby-Wells, 2005. And also: "Peninsular Malaysia in the context of natural history and colonial science." Jeyamalar Kathirithamby-Wells, New Zealand Journal of Asian Studies, Volume 11, Number 1, 2009.

"Empires of Forestry: Professional Forestry and State Power in Southeast Asia, Part 1". Peter Vandergeest and Nancy Lee Peluso, Environment and History 12, no. 1, pages 31-64, February 2006.

[artsy-hobbitses]

So, I’m a big sucker for in-detail worldbuilding, and I have some questions regarding your Transformer-humans AU. Since the Quintesson invasion occurred in the 20’s-40’s(?) what’s some cultural “fun-facts” that results from that? Like how does car racing come about, since the Prohibition mafias/gangs that originated NASCAR probably didn’t exist or were wildly altered? Does chocolate chip cookies still exist? What about other popular medias from that time? Do spaghetti westerns still exist? Etc.

Ooooh this is one of the questions I want to turn around in my head like a rotisserie chicken while I think about 5++ paragraphs of bouncing off the walls BS but I'll try to throw in what I know as of currently! One also has to note that it's going to be hard to condense 'cultural facts' since TTB doesn't take place in the Americas nor is it even constrained by one specific landmass.

There's going to be some rambling, so everything under the cut!

There is a 20-year gap in human culture/subculture circa the 1920s where time effectively 'stopped' for a lot of people due to the invasion, so a lot of the 1920s aesthetic is preserved and celebrated as the 'golden age' before everything change, even more so than it is now. A lot of the (western) characters dress in what you'd probably consider Modern Gangs Of New York (waistcoat, flatcaps, suspenders, etc) sensibilities, despite tech advancements.

Going off the above, a lot of the architecture you'd see is neo-Art Deco in nature.

Cars are an interesting questionmark here, mainly because I've established earlier on that they are nowhere near as commonplace as they are in our actual, current world, and not even in the Global Car Central of the USA. This is mainly due to prioritisation of resources for rebuilding (Quintessons did not care for oil given their advanced tech, but they very much coveted minerals/rare earth elements/metals during their invasion so distinctively, the rich in TTB are steel barons, not oil barons), so even middle-range cars tend to be a bit of a luxury item and will turn heads. Most governments aren't going to allocate those resources for mass production of personal vehicles (excluding utility vehicles like jeeps and trucks). Your average Joe relies mostly on public transport, like trains, trams, LRTs and Workers' Buses established by companies for their employees in less developed areas.

Per the above, NASCAR in its original iteration doesn't exist. There IS car racing, but it's consider 'upper class', rather like horse racing, and is the hobby of those who can afford it. Think the 24 Hours of Le Mans. It's not really 'accessible' to the common folk and it's mainly focused on reviving the personal automotive industry as a recreational/luxury sector.

That said, two-wheeled vehicles are a different story. These are smaller, take up less resources, are easier to maintain, modify and more importantly, hide. By 2050, they're the most popular form of personal transport, and Gojek-like delivery services are common in cities (Groove is a Gojek-type rider).

As such, motorcycle races are much more popular than car races in TTB due to the accessibility factor and how often they were used during the Quintesson Wars, being easier to move around, maneuver and harder to target. Quintesson War rebels on the ground took to motorcycles like the Bedouins/Mongolian soldiers to horses, and would decorate them the same way pilots would decorate their warplanes.

Therefore, the common layfolk go fucking bonkers for MotoGP, and biker gangs are very common.

There is the Olympics which focuses on the countries coming together, but also something like a massive global 'War Games' that occurs once every decade from 1950 to 2050 on the anniversary of earth's victory in the Quintesson Wars which focuses on each country's readiness and collaboration with others to face future invasions. It's a pretty huge affair.

Going off the veneration of the Roaring 20s, Speakeasies are still a thing here, but to the layfolk, they aren't as associated with crime as they are with rebellion. They're still known for serving alcohol but due to their hidden nature, they were also where fragmented communities would seek shelter/gather to relay plans. Within the USA, against govt regulation, some still operate in the dark smuggling contraband to underserved communities and providing an underground network for Cold Constructs to flee to borders, for a price of course.

Company Towns are common, due to logistics during rebuilding efforts---it made sense to have workers all in one area, and also made it easier to segregate the different classes from one another.

Spaghetti Westerns PROBABLY still exist to some extent, but nowhere near the level of Space Westerns. Because aliens cropped up in the timeline way, WAY earlier and left behind tech in the wake of their invasion that sped up mankind's space programmes, daytime TV would be proliferated with shows like Firefly and Battlestar Galactica.

Television itself skipped several stages---there was no setup for mechanical televisions. What TTB knows as 'TVs' were reversed engineered from stolen Quintesson tech (screens, similar to LCDs today), and the first 'TV's were basically used to break into Quintesson comms and spy on them/broadcast plans from one rebel cell to another.

The discourse between 'alien-friendly' media like Star Trek and propaganda-style 'alien negative' ones like Starship Troopers is intense.

Godzilla is. Very popular here. With a divergent background that he was was one of many animals mutated by Quintesson experiments to create biomes that better suited them. Against the alien threat of Ghidorah, he represents earth's ability to persevere, evolve and become a terrifying entity against alien forces seeking to subjugate it.

Science-adjacent, but Penicillin was discovered on the advent of rebels figuring out that aliens aren't well-quipped to handle diseases and infections caused by bacteria native to earth, and started employing biological warfare against them in the early stages of the counterattack period, before they had mastered the use of tech warfare/mobilized enough resources to take on the Quintessons head-on.

Chocolate chip cookies wouldn't be a thing for a while due to the lack of chocolate specifically, which is an industry only redeveloped back to commercial levels years after the invasion ended (it wasn't a priority). Its creation was likely attributed to a lower middle class woman attempting to spread out what little chocolate she managed to get her hands on to feed several people in a way that didn't necessarily feel like it was being 'rationed', and it became a popular, economical way to enjoy this little luxury.

[threadtalk]

The first thing that struck me about this 1905 gown was the black piping. This, my friends, is why velvet is one of the coolest materials known to mankind. Because of all the little fibers (making velvet is kind of like making a carpet) it soaks up light. So you get this deep, saturated black you'd not get otherwise. Plus, it's silk, so it would shimmer in the right light, too. The physics of velvet is so lovely.

Secondly, this dress just screams 1905. From the 1890s to the 1920s, fashion moved FAST. What we see here is the last gasp of that S shape corset as we head toward reformation dresses and the looser look of the 1920s. Though the lace is definitely a bit stained from its age, it's not hard to imagine this dress when it was shiny and new. The slight train and the blocking of lace and pattern just make this so whimsical. Not to mention those 18th century inspired sleeves! I think she's just a darling.

From Augusta Auctions.

[bestjeanistmonster]

thinking about how in oz au, when Tails first arrived in Oz when he was 3 it was a place that was wild, wonderful and magical, like there were towns and kingdoms but they were very much living amongst it in harmony

But then after tails and eggman start the production of the emerald city, they start introducing automations, machines and mass producing 1920’s modern technology to oz, building railroads, trains and paving the dirt roads with yellow bricks and tearing down parts of the forest to make way for their ‘glimmering metropolis of emerald’

the people of oz in turn start to change their attitudes towards nature and start to see it as more of a hinderance that’s in the way, something thats messy and bothersome. so they start cutting it back too and the nature they did keep around where they frequented were orderly and neat, domesticated if you will, if it doesn’t abide by their rules they cut it down

and with how nature and magic are interwoven in this au, it means that there’s a steady decline in magic and people being born with magic in the land of oz, and magical creatures started to avoid people and stick to what remained of the thick magical woods and mountains that encompassed oz

that means a further reliance on technology, and further reliance on the ‘great and powerful’ wizard of oz and unfortunately for Tails it meant even more pressure to keep up the lie

it’s also point of contention that starts to strain Sonic (pre-wicked witch) and Tails’s relationship

[mrmousetolliver]

Constant Lambert (1927) painted by Christopher Wood. Christopher "Kit" Wood was born in 1901 in Liverpool, England. At the age of 19, he was invited by the prestigious French art collector Alphonse Kann to move to Paris and study painting at the Academie Julian. With Kanns introductions, Wood met Chilean diplomat Antonio de Gandarillas. Although Gandarillas was married and fourteen years Woods senior, they soon became a couple and began living together. As well as providing financial support, Gandarillas introduced Wood to Picasso, Georges Auric and Jean Cocteau, and to the use of opium. His relationship with Gandarillas lasted through out his life in spite of the fact that Wood had several romantic relations with both men and woman, and at one point was engaged to heiress Meraud Guinness.

Woods artistic style was post-impressionism and primitivism. He created several set designs for the Ballet Russes, although they weren't used. Throughout the 1920's he split his time between France and England. and had several successful shows. In April 1929, Wood held a solo exhibition at Tooth's Gallery��in Bond Street, London where he met Lucy Wertheim, a British gallery owner,  at a private view. She purchased a picture and soon became one of his biggest supporters, buying up his work. In May 1930, Wood held an unsuccessful showing and started showing signs of mental illness, including threatening his own life. On August 21, 1930 Wood in preparation for a new show at Wertheims Gallery, traveled to Salisbury to have lunch with his mother and sister and to show them his new paintings. After the meeting, Christopher Wood threw himself under a train and died. While there is no specific reason why he killed himself at that time, speculation is that his opium addiction was causing paranoid delusions and he suspected he was being followed. In deference to his mothers wishes, his death was reported as an accident.

[girlactionfigure]

Hello guys, 

the purpose of this post is to provide you with easy access to every post which debunks a major subject of the Palestinian narrative. Enjoy. 

About the Hamas massacre, and the current Israeli-Gaza war:

1. All documented evidence (so far) of the Hamas massacre on October 7th: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1720536075817398620?t=FWXyYS5JoODZuCfC0xV0cA&s=19

2. The "Israel has killed its' own people" conspiracy: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1742678536681300267?t=-famAhuZaSNsKR8m6ZY-0w&s=19

3. The Hannibal Directive conspiracy: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1739289302071185757?t=VaSEQTmqFyAmAbaAUiHdsw&s=19

4. The "Israel harvests organs from Palestinians in Gaza" conspiracy: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1740493490457362488?t=I-oHWCQSMPa5p0X9EShVBg&s=19

5. Hamas has always been exploiting hospitals in Gaza for military purposes: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1743249465782235381?t=FjFiQdkpmR2CEf1FWBshhA&s=19

6. The "IDF shooting at Palestinians in Gaza" propaganda videos: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1750277607650685205?t=J2jzW4yek5yJrKN9blL7Kg&s=19

7. What the international law really says about the current war in Gaza: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1743024536302350349?t=WEMi9Wimlf2GNYVQZ_hLow&s=19

8. Hamas are faking their numbers of casualties: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1744119191475540176?t=0fAuQuL3H3GP5UrNFhJ7RQ&s=19

9. Palestinian teachers affiliated with Hamas: https://x.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1748071720647332286?t=4y4Pb8hagaZHqrgBxs9XuQ&s=08

10. Palestinian journalists are actually terrorists: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1745561440717504520?t=bdE7MWcPa4RuoJfcSR7QUw&s=19

Who really radicalizes their children: 

11. The "Israeli children holding guns" propaganda: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1746081709009821729?t=p7QuekhTipTbfFLYQT6rZA&s=19

12. The child-martyrdom cult of the Palestinian Authority: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1737978763428737268

13. Palestinian children are trained to become terrorists: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1749881558889066565?t=ncU8PZrFgfXy70qa8SF2Ig&s=19

The Palestinian Authority has the same purpose as Hamas:

14. The "10 Point Program" of the Palestinian Authority: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1749143735965794708?t=BENgP47EeaEZGZqqmTWqgA&s=19

15. How Arafat lied to the entire world during the Oslo Accords: https://x.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1747387464925212728?t=SLLsUVLbcBzE-VjcwxTsTg&s=08

16. How the Palestinian Authority funds terrorism: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1748385300559069372?t=L-3UeHJcK65kJEUwq-BoYw&s=19

17. What the charters of Hamas and the Palestinian Authority actually say: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1750624196219060256?t=EKGEgU68hvcMXdyU3vf59g&s=19

The "Israeli Occupation" propaganda: 

18. There is no "Israeli Occupation" according to the international law: https://x.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1733969873024225660?t=9IeggCxUiiIEQkU79LY9_w&s=08

19. Arab Muslims were massacring Jews since 1920, it didn't start in 1947: https://x.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1743753558992814150?t=rwjYcba57rLpFY-XCklhlw&s=08

20. The original "Palestinians" are Jews: https://x.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1741936249479352806?t=g10cgm_Zg7jFunI8nkHnRA&s=08

21. Gaza isn't a concentration camp: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1739590303533658372?t=0omGX8JLA5k-xY479kdGqw&s=19

22. What Happened after the Israeli pull-out from Gaza in 2005: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1741574620896022711?t=AXKMHkGjxPi2MaI9BQBzsA&s=19

23. "The Jews came to Palestine as refugees" narrative: https://x.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1747224380361396574?t=TILCTBJyBYfFqOoMRiyd2g&s=08

24. Israel isn't an apartheid state: https://x.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1747893184154226800?t=cN8vb30yL1q53NxXQpMYuQ&s=08

25. Israel isn't an apartheid state 2: https://x.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1746653096980209724?t=y_th6LgBZmTC6MGqEpIjmw&s=08

26. Israel isn't an apartheid state 3: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1740078451535630719?t=piKK-35XdbLocqCjBDGXSg&s=19

27. UNRWA is an international scam, and are aiding terrorists: https://twitter.com/shlomo_fishman/status/1744840770941551014?t=AKJHGqG18Jxk3-9pfE_QZQ&s=19

Any future posts I find important, will be also added here. Thanks a lot for your support.

Shlomo Fishman

@shlomo_fishman

[ihaveforgortoomany]

The quote at the very beginning of Reverse 1999 (spoilers for the Great Gatsby by Scot Fitzgerald i guess)

Speculation

I haven't seen anyone talk about this quote, I don't blame anyone since the text appears very briefly in which Vertin starts speaking, but I think the quote should be taken into consideration for the game to introduced by this quote + the fact that Fitzgerald's novels are referenced twice in game (the fore mentioned quote and Chapter Two)

The quote:

"It eluded us the but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster stretch our arms out farther .... And one fine morning - So we beat on, boats against the current, borne ceaselessly into the past"

This is the final line in the Great Gatsby published in 1925 as the penultimate novel by Fitzgerald, the final being Tender is the Night (I haven't read yet but probably should later heh).

This describes the tragedy of Gatsby's dream, an effort to reclaim the past and his love Daisy Buchanan that ultimately ends in his death. The line can be interpreted as either the inevitability of the past coming back or the futility of obtaining your dreams because of obstacles or the "current" (for Gatsby this is his social class and the hedonism of the Jazz Age/ 1920s).

So... Reverse 1999 introduces us with this quote and notably we hear Vertin say "No, it is not, the storm is coming" almost as a response to the quote.

This is again speculation but it sounds like the quote here sets up the narrative themes of the game, the concept of being trapped or doomed by your own past is made into a literal (physical?) entity of the storm - actively stealing away the future away from 1999. It sets up how Vertin stands in opposition to the Storm and seeks to find the truth and return to the year 1999.

I may explore this further but the game narratively deals with themes of being defined the trapped by your past (Forget Me Not, Manus Vindicate) vs moving forward to the future (Druvis, Vertin, etc) which can be seen in very chapter and event story so far.

It should be noted that the Great Gatsby is tragedy, if this is implying that Vertin's goal is ultimately doomed to fail it is too early to make concrete answers (but 100% we all on the pain train with no breaks and orange snacks).

In short the quote could be establishing Reverse 1999's theme of attempting to reclaim/ go back to the past vs moving forward to the future.

(Wow this is long)