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dankusner · 5 months ago

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BOOKS Dispatches from the shadows

PR pro dishes on his shady dealings with some notable names

Meet Phil Elwood, an insider’s insider of Washington.

A public relations professional, he has stealthily managed challenging assignments over the years, from Qatar’s contested World Cup bid to Vogue ’s disastrous 2011 profile of Bashar al-Assad’s wife, Asma.

His passion is controlling the narrative — leveraging valuable intelligence and his media savvy to deliver for clients.

And oh, what a client list it is.

Under the surface, though, Elwood is a wreck.

Diagnosed with depression when he dropped out of college, he self-medicated with booze (and more) as he built his Washington career, battling a succession of mental health crises that culminated in a suicide attempt.

After recovering from that episode, he’s telling his story in

All the Worst Humans: How I Made News for Dictators, Tycoons, and Politicians ,

an account that’s part therapy, part cautionary tale.

What makes Elwood’s story stand out from the typical Washington read is that his personal demons are so intertwined with his professional choices.

Most dramatic is his realization at the end of the story that his addiction to adrenaline — the power rush from working behind the scenes — is also a feature of his bipolar II disorder, which led him to the edge.

The book also pops because it’s funny — despite everything.

Elwood’s prose is zippy, even Sorkin-esque, and he relishes dark humor.

“Karl Marx said religion was the opium of the people,” Elwood writes in a section about becoming addicted to pain medication following a serious hip injury. “You know what’s a lot more like the opium of the people? Opiates.”

Elwood’s D.C. journey began in the summer of 2000.

Even though he blew up his college career, he finagled a Senate internship with Daniel Patrick Moynihan (D-N.Y.) with the help of a well-connected friend, then landed in the office of Sen. Carl Levin (D-Mich.).

Through Levin’s pull, he completed his formal education, then launched his professional life in Washington PR.

His lucky breaks made it clear to him how unfair the system can be.

He soon landed a job at Brown Lloyd James, the PR shop headed by former Beatles manager Peter Brown with a long client list of what Elwood deems the “worst humans,” including Libyan dictator Moammar Gaddafi and Syrian President Bashar al-Assad.

Needless to say, the job gave Elwood the excitement he craved.

Except that it was a bit too exciting.

One of Elwood’s wildest tales took place in 2009, when, he writes, Brown dispatched him to Las Vegas with Mutassim Gaddafi, son of the Libyan dictator, to make sure he and his entourage stayed out of the headlines while they had fun.

There were drugs, guns, a Cher concert (Mutassim was a fan) and lots of gambling.

A terrified Elwood realized that if anyone in this brutal, unhinged gang wanted to kill him, they’d probably get away with it.

He left Las Vegas relieved to be alive, only to be told he was needed in New York.

This time, it was Mutassim’s father, Moammar Gaddafi, whom BLJ had to (try to) manage during his notorious appearance at the U.N. General Assembly, as part of his short-lived rehabilitation phase with the West.

Tasked with housing and other logistics, the firm scrambled to organize a massive tent on the Bedford, N.J., estate of Donald Trump (the only willing host, according to Elwood) and find a sacrificial goat for the Libyan delegation, just to name a few to-do list items.

Elwood recounts that his moral angst and self-doubt became more acute in 2010 when he was part of Qatar’s successful effort to beat the United States in its bid to host the 2022 World Cup — a FIFA decision so controversial that the Justice Department eventually investigated.

He was further shaken on a business trip to Bosnia, where he visited the site of a Bosnian Serb massacre of Muslim civilians and was “confronted with the gritty reality of totalitarian power.”

He didn’t have to ponder too long; upon his return, Elwood recalls, Brown told him, “The Arab Spring has been bad for our business model,” and fired him.

Elwood then landed at Levick Strategic Communications.

There the clients were less brutal, but some were still, in Elwood’s assessment, dodgy; he cites the example of Kim Dotcom, a hacker and internet entrepreneur who has had decades of run-ins with the law.

Eventually, Elwood started his own shop.

This time, he worked with an Israeli firm, Psy-Group, that became ensnared in the Mueller investigation for allegedly pitching an election influence campaign to Trump’s team in 2016.

Elwood was questioned by the government but let go — and deftly managed to keep his name out of the press.

Another close brush.

One of the juiciest parts of Elwood’s story is his work with the media.

Early on, after he negotiated with CNN to air a strategically useful clip, he describes an “aha” moment:

“My job isn’t to manipulate public opinion. My job is to get gatekeepers like CNN to do it for me.”

This sounds cynical, but what he describes is an exchange in which both sides mutually benefit.

Elwood has an innate understanding of how journalists work and genuinely respects them.

He makes that clear as he spills details of his tradecraft: working with reputable reporters at top publications (he divulges a long A-list of names), selectively picking outlets for maximum impact and exploiting the “scoopiness” that journalists prize in exchange for results for his clients.

He describes this quid pro quo as a form of “insider trading” but points out that valuable information in Washington, like all commodities, is appraised and traded on a market.

And information is valuable only if it’s true, or at least true-ish.

To that end, he counsels his fellow PR flacks against trading in bad information — reminding them that good journalists will quickly detect lies when they are handed to them.

Elwood is a troubled but sympathetic narrator, and most readers will probably find themselves relieved to know that, at the end, he’s in a better place.

He closes his story lurking in the background, as a black rectangle on a Zoom call with clients.

But this time, he says, he’s working for “the good guys.”

All the Worst Humans How I Made News for Dictators, Tycoons, and Politicians Phil Elwood Henry Holt, $28.99

All the Worst Humans Author: Phil Elwood

CHAPTER 1

Of Marble and Giants

EIGHTEEN YEARS EARLIER, JULY 2000

The halls of the Capitol Building are empty this morning.

The clinks of the liquor bottles in the hand truck I’m pushing are the only sound.

I love being alone here, marveling at marble columns propping up carved ceilings.

Under the massive dome of the Rotunda, paintings tell the mythology of early America.

In Statuary Hall, I nod to a bronze statue of Huey Long, an assassinated senator who some consider a hero, others a criminal, and then enter a wood-paneled corridor.

Spiral staircases of iron and marble materialize out of dark corners.

I maneuver the bottles past unmarked doors that lead to the hideaway offices of Senators Trent Lott, Mitch McConnell, and Ted Kennedy.

Senators steal away to these coveted havens to host meetings they’d rather not have eyeballed by reporters or to nap after marathon debates.

The booze is heavy, and I’m out of breath when I reach Sen. Daniel Patrick Moynihan’s hideaway.

Vodka soda sweat leaks through my cheap, white collared shirt.

We interns were out late at Politiki bar last night.

I let myself in and head for the brass bar cart.

Fifths of whiskey, gin, scotch, and Tio Pepe sherry, Moynihan’s favorite, get loaded in and lined up.

When I’m finished, I sit on a leather couch dyed the same dark mahogany as the regal desk and spark up a Camel.

Moynihan is a fellow smoker.

His hideaway reeks of tobacco.

The hundred or so hideaways in the Capitol are passed down through handshake deals.

Seniority rules, and sitting on the Finance Committee doesn’t hurt.

Junior senators fight over windowless basement rooms the size of utility closets and furnished with cots.

Moynihan has earned a view of Pennsylvania Avenue and space for ten people to sip cocktails.

Standing under an oil painting, I pull back the cream-colored curtains and take it all in.

I imagine the senator from New York in here, lighting up, pouring a tumbler of Tio Pepe, and telling stories about the presidents he has advised.

Sitting in the private office of a Senate demigod still doesn’t feel real.

I’m a twenty-year-old college dropout whose only credentials are a job at a Mexican restaurant and a cocaine problem.

The rest of my intern class are the kids of campaign donors and New York City’s financial glitterati.

My dad is a pastor in the other Washington.

He preaches to a congregation in Olympia.

Six months ago, I was a sophomore at the University of Pittsburgh on a debate scholarship.

Debate is about speed.

Being able to talk fast was the prerequisite for entry.

On weekends, I traveled to universities around the nation to argue about what policies would lead to nuclear war.

Rapid-fire reading of news clippings scored points in a round.

So did biting insults lodged at your opponent in an attempt to trap them in a rhetorical mishap.

You won by manipulating the news and calling it “evidence” to advance your argument.

I won a lot.

My grades were nearly perfect until I started working nights as a cook at Mad Mex.

The waiters survived on a diet of wings and cocaine.

One night, one of them noticed that I seemed a bit down and he offered me a pick-me-up from his bag.

It worked.

For fifteen minutes.

Three months later, I was failing five out of five courses.

I don’t believe I attended one.

The week before finals, I called my older brother in a panic.

He jumped on a plane to Pittsburgh.

We debated my options.

I tried to advance the argument for my brother taking my finals.

It was raining when we went to the registrar’s office and filled out the forms.

The first Elwood to drop out of college.

My parents collected me at SeaTac airport.

I deplaned drunk on whiskey and clutching a plush toy of Opus the Penguin, from Berkeley Breathed’s comic strip.

My father shook his head and made me see a shrink.

I snowballed my way through the sessions.

Left out the cocaine use.

The shrink informed me that I was suffering from “situational depression.”

“Since you are removed from the situation,” she explained. “The problem must be resolved.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

It didn’t.

And the depression didn’t lift.

A childhood friend, who I’ll call Preston, worried that I had no prospects after dropping out of school, threw me a lifeline.

His college classmate Eric, a trust fund kid, worked in Washington, DC, as Senator Moynihan’s aide.

If he liked me, Eric could get me an internship on the Hill.

I called Eric, and he told me to meet him the next Tuesday, at 10 p.m., at 1823 M Street.

“Northwest M Street, the one near the White House,” he said. “Do you have a fake ID?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Bring it. You’ll need it in DC,” Eric said. “Your official interview will be on the Hill the next day. But this one is more important. I vet the interns for the staff.”

My parents bought me a suit at the mall, and I flew to Washington.

Résumé in hand, I cabbed it to a redbrick building with blacked-out windows on M Street.

My fake ID fooled the bouncer.

Inside, Ice Cube’s “You Can Do It” played as a dancer sprayed Windex on the pole before taking off her underwear.

A topless woman asked if I wanted some singles.

Eric wasn’t hard to spot.

He was the only other guy wearing a suit in the strip club on a Tuesday night.

He chugged a Bud Light at a table with a clear view of the stage.

I handed him my résumé.

He gave it to a dancer in a neon-yellow G-string.

“Relax,” he said, sliding me a beer. “You met me at Camelot on a Tuesday night. You passed the test.”

In Moynihan’s hideaway, I kill my cigarette and flush it down the toilet.

I lock up, push the empty hand truck past Minority Leader Tom Daschle’s office, and ride an elevator down to the basement.

I flash my badge to a guard, cut through the crypt under the Rotunda, and head into the Capitol Hill Tunnels.

I love these underground passageways, that feeling of special access.

I walk the pedestrian pathway alongside a miniature subway trolley modeled after the Disney World Monorail.

A group of congressional aides are taking the two-minute ride, briefcases on their laps.

To my right, I spot Sen. Fred Thompson.

“Good afternoon, Senator,” I say. “Die Hard Two was on TNT last night.”

“Was it really?” he replies in the deep southern drawl that was so out of place when he played a New York district attorney on NBC’s Law & Order. “Walk me back to my office.”

On the twenty-minute trip to the Hart Building, Thompson asks whether I think DC or Hollywood is the more terrifying place.

I argue in favor of Hollywood.

The Capitol doesn’t frighten me.

Just the opposite.

From the moment I set foot in DC, I knew I was home.

The Hill is a real-world version of debate team.

Everyone talks fast, and there are winners, losers, and nukes.

Last week, I had a drink with Sen. Russ Feingold, who told me stories of working with John McCain and Carl Levin on trying to pass campaign finance reform.

I’ve gone from bussing tables at a Mexican restaurant in Pittsburgh to rubbing elbows with senators.

I never want to leave.

I weave through redbrick-walled tunnels back toward Moynihan’s staff office in the Russell Building.

Discarded and broken office furniture lines the bowels of the Capitol Hill office buildings.

I pass the Senate barbershop, where I recently got a bad haircut sitting next to Majority Leader Lott.

A quick elevator ride up from the basement takes me to Russell’s fourth floor, where I drop off the hand truck and head down a flight of stairs to a private parking lot.

Two interns are already out here smoking.

The senior senator from Michigan Carl Levin’s beaten-up blue Oldsmobile sticks out among the rows of luxury sedans.

I smoke another Camel and watch Kit Bond of Missouri climb out of a black town car.

Kay Bailey Hutchison struts by, followed by her “purse boys,” two young, attractive male aides who carry her luxury bags around Capitol Hill.

When senators bum a smoke before hustling to their next meeting, I feel like a young Henry Hill parking cars for Paulie’s crew in Goodfellas.

It’s almost four o’clock.

In this town, the most important hour is happy hour.

I head back out into the muggy city, down First Street, passing the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress, where 3,700 boxes of Moynihan’s personal papers have been kept for posterity.

It’s the largest one-man collection in the library, Moynihan’s legislative director recently told me over whiskey and Cokes at the Capitol Lounge.

At Pennsylvania Avenue, a helicopter buzzes across the sky.

The pilot shadows a motorcade of black SUVs careening downtown, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

When the street clears, I duck into the Hawk ’n’ Dove.

I nurse a vodka soda, holding a good table with a view of the TVs, tuned to CNN.

Just like the hideaway office system, this place runs on dibs.

Soon the bar will be teaming with staffers from both sides of the aisle.

They will drink, party, date, and sometimes put together bipartisan legislation.

Tables are valuable currency.

As an intern, I take it as my sacred duty to make sure the staff doesn’t have to stand at the bar.

At five o’clock, Moynihan’s staff trickles into Hawk ’n’ Dove in ascending order of the food chain.

Legislative correspondents arrive first, along with the rest of the interns.

An hour later, the legislative assistants claim their seats.

Then come the legislative director and, finally, around seven, Moynihan’s chief of staff.

His blue suit is rumpled, and he looks exhausted.

In his hand is today’s “clip sheet,” a binder compiling daily press filings that mention our boss.

The interns create it each morning by cutting apart the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the hyper-local weeklies and meticulously underlining Moynihan’s name.

“Thanks for holding down the fort, Phil,” the chief of staff says. “Look at this. Hillary Clinton is going to walk into Moynihan’s seat. Rick Lazio doesn’t stand a chance.”

I’ve landed in Moynihan’s office just in time.

He’s about to retire after twenty-four years in the Senate.

The alumni list from his office reads like a who’s who of Washington, DC—and they help each other out.

I spent the rest of the summer helping them out by following the legislative director’s instructions:

“Do anything we ask. And do it with a smile. Even if it’s not part of your job. Even if it’s weird.”

I take his words to heart.

Moynihan’s staff takes a shine to me because I volunteer to huff cartloads of Tio Pepe and get menial intern tasks done at my restaurant pace.

There are two ways to go about a career here: get in deeper or get out.

I know one thing: I’m never leaving Washington.

But a college dropout’s trajectory is limited; I need a degree.

Before my internship ends, I apply to George Washington University.

I draft my own letter of recommendation, and Moynihan’s chief of staff, for whom I’ve held tables all summer at half the bars in town, signs it.

“Motivated and gifted with his words, Phil Elwood will make a valuable addition to your storied university.”

I wake up in a holding cell.

Two cops yank me into an interrogation room and slam me with the accusation that I drunkenly crashed through a window at GWU’s Gelman Library.

I can’t remember last night, but my throbbing head and the cuts on my body indicate that the police are telling the truth.

I’m frog-marched into a sheriff’s van and handcuffed to the floor.

I stand in front of a judge, who tells me he knows I’m very sorry for what I’ve done and that I will never do it again.

He slaps me on the wrist with twenty hours of community service.

Later, I hear that Moynihan’s office made a call.

A few days after I get home from central booking, a thin letter arrives from George Washington.

I am no longer welcome on campus.

I’m certain I’ll be excommunicated from DC.

I’ll have to return to Olympia.

My parents will once again watch their son emerge at the Arrivals gate holding his plush toy Opus the Penguin, like a deadbeat Sisyphus.

Instead, I’m promoted.

Moynihan’s office makes one call, and I’m hired as a legislative correspondent for the senior senator from Michigan, Carl Levin.

The happy hours continue.

It’s amazing I get anything done with all the booze.

Toward the end of my first year, the chief of staff hauls me into his office.

“I strongly suggest you get a college degree,” he says. “George Washington is off the table, clearly. What about Georgetown?”

Given my high school C average, Georgetown should be off the table, too.

But it turns out Levin has considerable influence with the university.

One letter from the senator and I’m accepted as a transfer student.

I realize this is how the world works, or at least how this world does.

It is not a meritocracy.

In the basement office of the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations, staffers drop off crates of documents.

“Go through these. Look for anything suspicious,” they instruct.

They leave to fetch more boxes.

Levin is leading an inquiry into the malfeasance of Enron’s board of directors.

Enron’s spectacular implosion has been a lead story on CNN for months.

Now Levin is making it his mission to codify the company’s wrongdoing into the national record.

I drink coffee with a team of lawyers who haven’t seen the light of day in weeks and sift through thousands of pages of emails with a highlighter.

Most of the material is banal talk about steakhouse lunches and corporate retreats.

Every few pages, I notice the obscene dollar amounts of Enron’s transactions.

Villains get paid in numbers with extra zeros.

On the day of the Enron hearings, I go watch the fireworks at the Hart Building.

A homeless man stands at the front of a long line stretching down Constitution Avenue.

I watch a sharky-looking guy in a jet-black suit hand the homeless man a ten-dollar bill and slide into his place.

Lobbyists have probably been pulling this trick since the Grant administration.

I flash my staff ID and follow the lobbyist past security and into the Senate hearing room, where I stand against the back wall.

Levin strides up to the dais in a baggy suit, the last of his hair combed over a sun-spotted scalp.

In 2013, BuzzFeed News will publish a list of the “23 Most Important Comb-overs of Congress.”

Levin will come in second place.

A man of the people.

He’s the hardest-working member of his staff.

I watch, rapt, as he rakes Herbert Winokur Jr., Enron’s Finance Committee chair, over the coals about a half-billion-dollar loan.

“Now, when you met with my staff, did you also tell my staff you did not have much recollection of that transaction?” Levin asks, peering down his glasses, pushed far down the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now that you have refreshed your recollections. Enron was borrowing a half a billion dollars from Citibank, but it did not show up on the balance sheet of Enron as debt but rather as preferred shares, which looked more like equity than debt. It was a loan disguised as equity in order to avoid showing debt on the books.”

“Sir, I believe it was accounted for as a consolidated subsidiary with a—”

Levin cuts him off. “Was it shown as a loan?”

“It was shown as—the entity was consolidated and the $500 million of Citibank was a minority interest.”

“But was it shown as a loan?”

Levin’s got him dead to rights.

I watch Winokur break. “No, sir.”

An exchange worthy of a headline.

I spot a gaggle of reporters taking notes at the side of the chamber.

As in a debate, they’ve got their evidence.

Now they’ll print it in tomorrow’s paper.

And some college debater will use the article as evidence in a round where the topic is “fiscal regulation.”

It’s codified into the record.

The truth, as far as anyone is concerned.

I’m fascinated by this bloodbath, particularly by the criminals on the witness stand.

Who helps them?

Who prepped them for this massacre?

Whoever it was, they aren’t good enough at their job.

Where’s the consistent messaging?

Why weren’t they expecting these questions?

Why aren’t they repeating the same five lines over and over and over?

Why are they just giving easy sound bites to the senator and the media?

I realize I’m probably the only person in the world who has this reaction to the Enron scandal.

I lean out into K Street, hailing a cab.

It’s the first week of summer.

School is out.

I’ve been barhopping with Hill staffers.

A yellow cab pulls up, and I attempt to hop over a Jersey barrier.

My foot catches the edge.

I spin as I fall to the curb.

I can’t walk.

I crawl into the cab’s backseat and tell the driver to take me to the nearest trauma center.

When we arrive at George Washington University’s ER, nurses put me in a wheelchair.

Three hours later, a tech looks at my X-ray, says, “Oh shit,” and starts to run out of the room.

I grab his arm.

Make him show me the image.

The ball of my hip is floating, completely separated from my femur.

I wake up sucking oxygen from a tube.

My mother is sitting in a chair next to the bed.

My mother lives on the other side of the country, so I figure something is probably wrong.

I don’t remember anything after looking at the X-ray.

I’m on crutches for a month.

Then I graduate to a cane.

For the rest of my life, I’ll walk with a slight limp.

And the three titanium screws in my hip will ache when the temperature dips below forty degrees.

A few months later, I skydive out of an airplane for the first time.

At a checkup, I inform my surgeon that he must have done some good work.

He is not pleased.

My parents fly in for Georgetown’s graduation ceremony.

They seem relieved that I made it to the finish line.

Levin writes yet another letter, and I’m accepted into the London School of Economics.

I live in a flat in Notting Hill, attending lectures on trade wars with the kids of prime ministers and international diplomats.

One day, I’m walking on campus when I pass a balding young man with hard eyes flanked by massive bodyguards.

I’ve heard about Saif Gaddafi.

The students whisper that he’s a dictator’s son.

I’ve heard we share a weed dealer.

In a few years, he’ll be one of my clients.

Long after I’ve been on his family’s payroll, the world will find out that Saif allegedly bought his PhD in philosophy from LSE with millions of pounds in bribes.

Howard Davies, the distinguished institution’s director, whose signature is on my diploma, will resign, disgraced.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

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benjicake · 2 years ago

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cat my old job i worked with alot of older ppl stuck there cause they been in there for so long they lose like vacay days and retirment money, so i literally had nothing to talk to them with except for work and the few times the cultural streams cross(my 50 something year old coworker was really vibing with the arcane imagine dragon songs)

so when i quit that job and started my new job was glad that most of my coworkers are relatively young or not to old than they dont engage with hobbies i do, but the thing i can talk with them about is fucking sports, i hate sports its the one loser gamer highschool/middleschool nerd part about me that literally has and will stay the same. I know its a trait from my childhood that hasnt changed cause i still find an exception for basketball.

BUT EVEN THEN i still hate sports, fucking oh no you fucking hate this person for supporting the new york piss eaters going against your new orlands shit takers, even though both of you are born and raised in delaware and live in plano. dude came into my store saw my coworker’s cowboys jersery and just started yelling “WE OWN THE COWBOYS YES SIR THE PACKERS FUCKING OWNED THE COWBOYS” and than left, idk if he even bought anything. also american football is boring to watch, can tom brady fucking blj????? can anyone on the cowboys do sidewinder loops??? no all they do is fucking run in a line and than get a concussion and than take 20 breaks so ads can play, and than they’ll get shit from football fans who work an office 9-5 and dont fuckign work

#this is has been my weekly rant of the day

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mvssmallow · 5 years ago

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Bloodline, Part VIII

Previous Chapters Soundtrack: The Hills

He probably should’ve known by the way his skin itched. There’s a looming chaos in the distance.

He’s escorting Mrs Lee, his 87 year old osteoporotic patient, out his clinic room when his neck itches. Just as his fingers reached up to scratch it, he notices the blurry blob of gray through the window panel of the clinic’s back door and well, shit, his stomach just drops.

He pauses to mentally thank every God out there that his consult room is right out the back and the closest one to the exits. Hardly any of the staff bother to venture this far, which means it’s easier to smuggle Alleged Criminals in and out without being seen.

Not that he’s thinking of doing that again but still, he’s grateful for the location.

None of that gratefulness does anything to stop that rush of adrenaline, tinged with both hopeful anticipation and panicked dread. He’s not prepared for this.

But when is he ever?

There’s a haze of smoke and where there’s smoke, there’s fire. In the back of his mind, that old clichéd saying floats around, mocking him with its cloying melodrama.

Smoke. Fire. Jiwon.

Yeah, that’s sounds about right.

“You can’t smoke here”.

So many things to say and that’s what comes out. It’s what his arrogance, ego and pride lets him say. Self Preservation wraps around him like a suit of armour because maybe he’s not prepared for this whole conversation but he will damm well make sure that he’s not gonna walk away with another wound this time.

He sees Jiwon’s smile, downright feels it hitting his gut, before he sees the rest of his face, which remains shrouded in the gray fabric of one of those oversized hoodies that’s somehow too familiar by now.

“Gonna call the cops?”

Don’t take the bait, Hanbin. Don’t play with this. You’re a goddam professional remember? He knows he’s glaring pointedly while his head screams loudly at him but still, it can’t drown out the involuntary stuttering of his logic or the way he just wants to shake Jiwon’s shoulders and ask him where the hell he’s been for the last 3 weeks or how he still finds Jiwon’s presence so intoxicating in the all the best and worst ways...

“What?” Jiwon asks with a smirk, taking a slow drag of his cigarette before blowing the smoke towards the sky. “Smoking a crime now?”

Gathering whatever frayed nerves he has left, he feels his arms crossing over his body in a move he knows is defensive. “Not if you put that out.”

Another smile; wide, knowing, amused. Like this was playing out just as expected.

There’s no protest though, just the stupidly arrogant roll of broad shoulders and crack of a neck as Jiwon snuffs the almost new cigarette against the wall of the clinic. It leaves behind ashy specks of grey that float to the ground like dead snowflakes and his eyes follow them for a moment before looking back up and locking straight into the fire of Jiwon’s eyes.

He really wants to punch that smirk off his face. Stitches and scars be dammed.

“What are you doing here?”

And just like that, the arrogance slides right off the face in front of him. He really should’ve known. The pit of ‘badness’ in his gut is rarely wrong.

“Just wanted to ask you a question.” Jiwon looks somewhere off into the distance and shrugs, the action could’ve been interpreted as casual or uncaring but Hanbin dares to let himself think otherwise, as stupid as that is.

“Okay?” He says warily.

“The antibiotics you gave me didn’t really work. They did shit all actually.”

Oh. This is about medicine. Of course it is. Why else would Jiwon be here?

“Are you still sick? I could-”

“It’s not me.” Jiwon interrupts harshly. “They weren’t for me.”

There’s a frustrated grumble that he really doesn’t expect and a grimace that he does. The words are ground out of Jiwon’s mouth so emphatically and miserably, as though they’re taking a whole lot of effort and sacrificed pride.

He immediately thinks of the worst things because negativity is his preferred mode these days. Maybe it’s Jiun. Maybe it’s a friend. Maybe it’s that girl-

“It’s my mum.”

Shit.

That’s even worse.

It’s probably comical really, how stupid and dumbfounded he looks with his mouth open, poised to say something that he can’t quite decide on. But just then, the clinic’s back door clicks open behind him and every muscle in his body tenses into hot panic. Jiwon takes a step backwards, hand suddenly reaching for something in his hoodie pocket, posture locked and loaded, ready to either fight or leave.

Shit.

“Er, Dr. Kim? Could I have a word?”

Jin.

Relief floods through him in an exhilarating rush. Okay. It’s just Jin. He can deal with Jin. Maybe.

“Sure. Of course.” He replies, keeping his voice as civil and neutral as possible.

Jin shoots him an equally neutral expression, nodding once before ducking back inside and closing the door.

Letting out a loud sigh, he turns to Jiwon with an apologetic look. “Give me a minute? I’ll be back.”

Jiwon’s gone back into Evasive-Mode again; his eyes dark and dead, his face an unreadable blank slate, his posture staying tense, even the hand in his hoodie stays there, seemingly unable to relax or let down its guard.

“Jiwon?”

Shutters boarded up, head already shaking, body already moving away. This is all too familiar. No no no, not again.

“Jiwon? Can you wait a few minutes?.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I’ll come back later. I gotta go pick up Jiun anyway.”

His watch tells him it’s 1230pm. School doesn’t finish until 3pm. So now they’re back to lying to each other again. It’s just so stupid and futile. Every conversation just goes round and round, like a dog chasing its tail or water circling down a drain. He wonders why it’s only him that’s getting frustrated by this.

“I’ll only be a few minutes. Please....just wait.” He huffs out, tone accidentally more irritated than he intended it to be. Jiwon opens his mouth, probably to protest, but no, he’s not going to wait to hear it today.

“For God’s sake, not everything is about you okay? Think of your mum and just wait for me! You came all his way, you can wait for 5 minutes!”

Shit. Too far, Hanbin. Too far. There goes his professionalism.

There’s a brief glaring-contest. Fire meets Fire again. But then, the last thing he expects to happen actually happens; Jiwon shakes his head, shrugs like he doesn’t give a shit and sits back down on the steps in silence.

“Thank you.” He sighs in annoyance.

“Whatever.” Jiwon mutters, quietly but equally annoyed.

He turns quickly, making his way inside before anything else happens.

“Are you seriously right now?!” The corridors are empty but Jin appears out of nowhere to hiss at him as soon as the back door clicks shut. “What the hell is he even doing here in the middle of the day?! Donghyuk is in his office! He could’ve seen you!”

A painful grip closes over his elbow as Jin drags him into his consult room and shuts the door.

“Before you say anything-”

“Oh no! Don’t start with me! I’m talking first!” Jin interrupts, face livid with disapproval. “Deal with whatever he wants fast. He can’t be seen here and you’ve got three people waiting for consults. You are not fucking up your career and job for him. You’re not. Okay? I’ve seen this shit before and it never ends well. They’re all the same, Hanbin. You know this. Stop thinking with your dick on this one.”

He flushes with both embarrassment and indignation. “That is not what I’m doing!”

Jin just rolls his eyes and fixes him with a terrifying parental glare. “I’ll stall the clinic for 5 more minutes but after that, you’re on your own. Fix whatever he wants then tell him to fuck off or come back at 6 when everyone else has gone. I swear to god Hanbin, he’s doing this shit on purpose to piss us off. Since when has he ever come here early anyway? I swear to GOD!”

Jin yanks the door open, still ranting under his breath as he makes his way back out towards the front of the clinic.

He rubs his eyes tired, willing his heart to slow down and his nervous system to chill the hell out. None of that actually happens.

He half expects Jiwon be gone by no, there he is, still sitting on the back steps of the clinic and staring into the parking lot with a hypervigilant look on his face.

“He yell at you?” It comes out gruff but oddly sympathetic.

“Something like that.” He replies in resignation. “Listen. I need to get back to work but what do you need me to do for your mum? If she’s not well, I can see her here for an appointment? After hours if you want.”

Jiwon shakes his head. “She can’t leave the house. She’ll freak out.”

He doesn’t do house visits, especially not in this part of town but....

“Do you want me to see her at home?” It’s blurted out before he can stop it.

“No.”

“Then what?” He pushes, tired and anxious about the minutes ticking by.

“I don’t know! Isn’t there anything you can give her? She’s coughing every fucking night and Jiun can’t sleep so he turns the TV on full blast, which means nobody is sleeping either so he’s missed three days of school and I can’t keep babysitting him instead of working.”

For a moment, Jiwon sounds like a normal guy just trying to do his best for his family in the face of a bad situation. It’s so raw and honest and endearing that something thaws inside him. The coiled ball of irritation in his gut unravels in one fell swoop. Jiwon is just a guy. Like any other guy.

Just a guy.

But stupid, stupid, stubborn guy who might be good at killing and crime or whatever else they accuse him of but he’s useless with everything else. Hanbin doesn’t fully trust him, he’s still on edge and doesn’t feel completely safe yet but the dark shadows of worry that flashes across Jiwon’s face, for barely a second, is just enough to help him make his decision.

He takes a pen and piece of crumpled paper out of his coat pocket and holds them out in front of Jiwon’s shocked expression.

“What?”

“Write down where she is.”

“What? No. You’re not-”

“I’m not asking. Just do it. I have to get back to work.” He drops the items into Jiwons hands and wills his legs not to shake too much. This is so unprofessional. You’re an idiot Hanbin.

Jiwon looks down at the pen and paper before standing up and making to give them back. “Look, I get you wanna help or whatever but I think she just needs some different tablets-”

“And you’re not a doctor.” He interrupts bluntly, folding his arms across his chest to stop them from trembling. “If you didn’t want help then you shouldn’t have come. So what’s it gonna be? Write it down or just leave Jiwon. I’m not standing here arguing with you all day.”

Part of him thinks he might’ve pushed this way way way too far today, his words coming out harsher and more aggressive than what he actually feels like on the inside. If Jiwon wants to stab him in the gut just for pissing him off then yeah, he probably deserves it.

After a long pause, it comes as a shock to him that Jiwon just grunts out a quiet ‘fuck!’ under his breath and scrawls hastily on the piece of paper before turning so they’re looking at each other again.

Fire meeting Fire.

“Here!” The crumpled scrap of paper is pushed against his chest.

Jiwon’s gaze doesn’t shift from his. The once dark and dead eyes are now shiny and so sharp in a way that he didn’t know was possible to see in a human.

“You heard about me?”

"What do you mean?”

“You heard about me.” Jiwon repeats. It’s not a question. More of a statement. “You know about me.”

“I don’t....” He shakes his head, his argument suddenly weak and not convincing anybody. “It’s just rumours...”

Jiwon laughs but the mirth doesn’t each his eyes at all. They’re still hard and piercing right into him. “You heard about me. So I don’t have to tell you what that piece of paper means do I?”

He swallows the lump in his throat and shakes his head, letting go of the charade. Yeah he knows. Yeah he’s heard all about Jiwon at this point but whether there’s any truth in the stories and myths remains to be seen.

“Alright then.” Jiwon nods, stepping back. “Come alone. If you think you’re being followed, just go straight home. Okay?”

“Okay.”

The order terrifies him for some reason and a sick dragging feeling of unease settles into the pit of his stomach again.

“Don’t fuck me over.”

A violent shiver tears down his spine. There’s no politeness in the statement. No consideration spared. Whatever niceties they’ve exchanged before is forgotten. There’s nothing here now but menace and intimidation.

It works.

And in that moment, the cold, sobering, fucking terrifying realisation finally hits him: the rumours are true. This is Jiwon at ‘work’. This is what he does.

He can’t even speak after that. Jiwon is still staring sharply at him in expectation and it’s not until he forces his head to nod that Jiwon regards him one last time before turning to walk away without saying anything at all.

He doesn’t stop shaking for the next five consults and is so nauseated that he skips lunch altogether. Jin is still pissed so he’s left to have his mental breakdown alone in his room.

The crumpled piece of paper burns a hole in his pocket and by the time 6pm ticks by, he feels the heavy, draining exhaustion right in his bones. He doesn’t even bother to stop his hands from shaking as he pulls the paper out to read the messy scrawl.

Fuck.

Here goes nothing.

#hello #BLJ anyone?#Bloodline #well would you look at that-I have actually updated something #please listen to the music link

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the-breloominati · 4 years ago

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"game-breaking bug" honey game-breaking bug (bad) or game-breaking bug (fun)

#not about anything in particular #i just we should differentiate between fun bugs/exploits and not fun bugs/exploits #i guess? idk #thinking about it i kinda feel like people already do but idm #idk**#i guess if this was gonna be directed toward anyone itd be nintento lol #but replace 'game-breaking bug' with 'bug/exploit' in general #still sad they chose to re-release the version of mario 64 where you cant blj

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writeranon69 · 3 years ago

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Kel knows how to blj irl but just doesn't tell anyone

He's only taught Sunny how to do it

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exit-path · 4 years ago

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Yo I didn’t tell anyone, but on July 8th I beat Super Mario 64 for the second time in my first-ever speedrun!

I did a 31-star speedrun (which involves backwards-long jumping on stairs in the lobby that makes you build up so much speed that you pass through doors that check your progress, and you skip 57% of the game), and I got a 1:55:03. Pretty shabby, considering 120th place on the leaderboards has a 1:05:40, so I’m probably not getting a leaderboard-worthy record anytime soon.

I think I got such a bad time because I was stubborn to actually do speedrun strats, I didn’t care about getting a fast time enough to even go to the basement after getting the basement key to even access the levels and stars there.

My main priority was to beat and master all the levels in the castle lobby first floor (BoB, PSS, BitDW, WF, SA, JRB, and CCM, in that order), and I didn’t care about getting any caps so I just skipped the ones I couldn’t do without strats (the Wing Cap star in BoB; the jet stream star in JRB).

I died a bunch of times on the Frosty Slide in CCM, which killed a bunch of time, and when I was BLJ-ing up the Infinite Stairs I accidentally warped into Wet Dry World, for the first time in my life. (Apparently this happens when you’re moving so fast that you clip through the wall? floor? and you end up above the floor triangles of the WDW painting, which warp you there no matter how high you are above them.) That killed even more time, because while it was hard enough that I BLJ-ed far enough that I even got to the Infinite Stairs, now I had to BLJ back.

I wanted to play for fun, but in terms of everyone speedrunning this game, I think I took it a bit far. If I’d actually been wanting a leaderboard-worthy run, then of course I’d use the strats that everyone there uses, and I wouldn’t get stars that would only waste time in a speedrun setting. I don’t think my quote-unquote “strats” would even be acceptable in a 120-star speedrun, where you try to get all the stars in the game and go for 100% completion! (Spoiler alert, surely enough, they do far from what I do. They BLJ into BitDW first, use cannonless on both stars in WF that require a cannon, use owlless on that one star in WF, do a speedrun strat in PSS twice, clip into the side of the JRB ship when it’s still sunk, go into BoB after getting the Wing Cap, use a speedrun strat on the Frosty Slide, and get the 100 coin star while in the slide.)

So what I’m doing is just weird then. No one even does 31-star speedrun anymore (It’s a category extension! Not some sub-category of the main list!), and I’m still trying to act all “orthodox” about it? I’m like “oh, look at me, I’m getting the Chain Chomp star without a bomb clip! I’m doing PSS while going the whole length of the slide! I’m doing WF without abusing the invincibility I get while ground pounding! (Like what does that even mean?) But BLJ-ing? Pftt! Nah. That’s not on the list. It’s fun, and I’ll allow myself to do that.”

So this all sounds pretty stupid. But I’m pretty happy with all that I’ve done anyways.

(ID: a photo I took on July 6th of the first time I beat SM64, also with 31 stars.)

#peysi #super mario 64

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thethousandyearwitch · 4 years ago

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The Show Must Go On! - A Youtuber AU you didn’t want and didn’t need

Hisoka Morrow, italian Makeup Youtuber, enjoys his life in the comfort and occasional drama of his profession. But nothing brings more drama into his life than the eldest son of the Zoldyck fashion magazine empire.

Meanwhile, aspiring australian Twitch Streamer Gon Freecs forms a special bond to a Speedrunner commonly going by "Kil".

Chapter 2

FF.net link - AO3 link

Gon Freecs had started his twitch account mostly for fun. After he had saved enough of his money from summer jobs to afford a computer for himself, the young boy had discovered the vast world of video games, diving headfirst into whatever flash games or free steam games he could (Until Mito caved and gave him some redeemable online gift cards as a present). Pretty quickly he started making connections over some of those games, getting invited to discord groupchats, and developing friendships with people he’d frequently play with.

One Day, his friend Leorio, a medical student from France who Gon had met through one of those groupchats, asked if he wanted to join his Sunday Stream. He explained that they’d just team up for a couple of rounds of Fortnite, and Gon could leave whenever he wanted to if he ended up not liking the Twitch experience. Leorio did not admit to the fact that he only asked Gon because his usual partner bailed due to a bad hangover, and he himself was too hungover to manage a stream by himself. This resulted in a lively evening filled with banter, excited yelling, and only minor technical difficulties considering Gons location further out in the country. Leorio ended the stream, thanking his viewers, signing off, but he stayed on call with Gon.

“Thanks so much for jumping in today, I owe you!” His French accent wasn’t too thick, but it still curled around his words.

“Its no problem! It was actually pretty fun, so if you ever need another stream-pal...” The young boy trailed off as he started to feel faint traces of sleepiness creeping up on him. His computer screen was the only light on in the room, and it wasn’t exactly gentle on his eyes.

“About that actually; Have you thought about trying to stream for yourself?”

“Huh?” Gon could hear the tell-tale creaking of Leorios chair as he reclined back. “I mean, you’ve definitely got the energy for it, you’re not half bad at playing video games; Though that’s not really a requirement...Point is, I think you’d have fun with it.” Gon let the thought of it roll around his mind like a marble. He did have a lot of fun livestreaming this once, and there wasn’t anything that exactly spoke against it, except maybe that his sleep schedule could suffer under it. But that may as well be expected of a boy his age.

“Do you think people would really come to watch me play video games?” He finally asked, voice lined more with curiosity rather than insecurity. “Are you kidding? My chat loved you! Everyone loves a cute kid whose always one victory royale away from changing his legal name into his gamer tag and develop an addiction to monster energy.” Gon giggled in reply, “I’m not even allowed to drink those.” “Thank God you aren’t, if you had any more energy than you already have, you’d probably explode on the spot. Those things are loaded with junk anyways.” Gon decided not to bring up the infamous Redbull-pyramid that always lingered in the corner of Leorios videos. He could always use that another time if Leorio tried to lecture him about healthy living habits.

“Well, I guess I could try it out this week…But I think I’d need a guide to help me set the whole thing up…” Gon grinned to himself, hearing the familiar creaking again as Leorio sat up straight on the other end.

“I mean, I did say I owe you, and who would I be to leave a kid struggling with modern technology. And since my chat seemed to love you, I may even host your first stream, get you some exposure, y’know?” Mission success, Gon fed into Leorios ego and ensured that he wouldn’t have to struggle with stream setup by himself. He was quite thankful for the older mans (by stretch of that word) help and friendship, almost like an older brother, switching between caring protectiveness and friendly torment.

“Now, isn’t it time for you to get some shut-eye?” Busted. Gon glanced at the clock in the corner of his screen, 12:13 am. They said their Goodbyes, and the young boy settled into bed almost as quickly as he fell asleep.

The coming week, as promised, Leorio had helped Gon figure out his stream setup, settling for his channel name ‘Foxbeargaming’. With each passing day and conversation about the topic, Gon felt the static inside him build up, excitement and anticipation mixing in his bloodstream, until that long-awaited Friday.

And it was worth that wait. Gon spend a good 3 hours that day streaming Fortnite, at first in Teams with Leorio and his usual stream-pal Zepile, and later a few single matches. He hadn’t even realized how easy it came to him to interact with chat, leisurely talking about what came to mind, joking about events in the game, and just basking in this new way of releasing his bubbly energy. Leorio had warned him that he may feel exhausted after the first stream, but that’s not at all what the young boy experienced; After turning everything off, he was still beaming with joy. When he nestled into bed, he curled to his side, trying to repress his smile, though it would still take a good hour before he had calmed down enough to drift to sleep.

That joy he had experienced was enough to drive him to continue to stream at least once every 5 days, not consistent enough to build a schedule, but often enough to slowly gather a fanbase, loyal viewers who started tuning in whenever he announced a stream. It took a couple of months before people started posting his stream highlights to YouTube, and after that only a few weeks before someone offered to do official edits for him, on his own YouTube channel. A YouTube channel ended up drawing even more attention to him, people in Twitch-chat mentioning they found him through compilations and highlights.

Of the people whose attention was caught by the bright faced boy, one appeared for the first time in chat while he was streaming Super Mario 64, a palate cleanser from his usual Fortnite streams. The first message had been inconspicuous enough, provoking, but not too much out of the ordinary.

“KilCat666: try a BLJ lol”

This however prompted Gon's entire chat to egg him on to try various speedrun tactics, until the rest of the stream was spent attempting (and failing) a “Lobby Backwards Long Jump”. Gon took it well and promised chat that if they wanted to he’d try to practice again on the next stream, asking for tips in his Discord chat. Speedrunning wasn’t really his way of playing games, he was too impatient and would rather experience the game as intended, but it shook things up, and was a surprisingly great way to regain focus after playing a different game for too long. Soon enough, the Server started bubbling with tutorials, tips, and heated discussions about optimal routes. Gon read through the chat, enjoying how everyone seemed to get into the topic, while also mourning his dwindling attention span as more and more messages came in. With the overflow of information, his brain felt like it was thrown into a deep fryer (Though maybe he was just hungry). Defeated, he dropped his head on his desk. Maybe he bit off more than he could chew. How was he supposed to take all this information in and actually learn it in time for the next stream? This was worse than school. Maybe he should ju-

Bloop.

Gon raised his head from his desk, greeted by a new private message. It wasn’t anyone from his friends-list, but that wasn’t too unusual, a lot of people from his Server would DM him, and he didn’t mind talking with anyone who had something to say to him.

“Kil: Yo.”

“Kil: do you need like help with SM64 lol”

The young boy adjusted his tired eyes to the screen, trying to find recognition into the profile picture of a white cat, but not finding it.

“GON: Hi!! :^D I’m taking tips right now if you have any!”

“Kil: your inputs were really sloppy lol”

Ouch, though true.

“Kil: but you’ve got morale at least”

“Kil: I made a short guide on my channel, if u wanna check it out?”

Attached to the last message was a link to a YouTube video, and just as announced, it was a eight minute tutorial on “LBLJ”, with text overlay explaining the various steps. What stood out more to Gon however, was the view and subscriber count to the Channel ‘Kilcat666’. After scrolling through the channel a bit more, and following another link to an adjacent Twitch channel with the same name, it dawned on him; This guy was a pro.

“GON: WOW :^O you are really good at this!!!!”

For a while, Gon thought that’s it. He browsed through a couple more of this kid’s videos. He was usually just referred to as ‘Kil’ or in rare instances ‘Killu’, and there wasn’t much on him as a person, just a short bio: “Kil, 14, him/his, Yorkshire area. SM64 0 Star contender.”. His streams of attempting to break the World record for any given game got a reasonable amount of viewers, with a steady fanbase that would spam inside jokes and cat emojis in chat. And in no single video did he ever show his face, or even speak. The only real communication he seemed to do with his audience was the occasional answer in chat, or text-overlays in his YouTube videos. Gon thought about how he was a little honoured to have another well known streamer actually give him advice and watch his stuff, though obviously it seemed that Kil wasn’t interested in keeping more in conta-

Bloop.

“Kil: Thanks uh, if you’d want to, we could like make a deal?”

“GON: What kind of deal? :^O”

“Kil: I could show you some tricks for casual speedrunning”

“Kil: And maybe if you want to you could show me how to get better at fortnite lol”

Gon was beaming. He wasn’t sure why, but he was grinning from ear to ear, and it didn’t even register to himself that he was already typing up a response until he hit the enter button.

“GON: Sure!!!!!! :^D!!!! Have you ever played before? We can team up with a friend of mine for the first couple rounds!”

Killua was never a child with many friends. Or any friends. Growing up sheltered by his family, with the mindset of one day inheriting a multimillion-dollar company, it was taught to him that acquaintances were convenient, friends were distractions.

When he got pulled out of school and put into home-schooling, it was because his friends at school were distractions.

When he snuck out to play with other kids in the country, he was placed on supervised house arrest, because he had been too distracted.

When he noticed his brother appearing in some weirdos YouTube video, he had to be told “That man is not my friend, he is a work associate.”

And like a drop of water can gradually tear through stone, the constant echoing of this rule tore through Killuas head. He still didn’t want to overtake the family legacy, but he knew better than to endanger others with his efforts of finding friendship. Instead, he decided to find solitary distractions, and found those in video games he first borrowed (or rather, took without being noticed) from his older brother. Gradually, he got more and more invested in video games, how they work, and the cultures surrounding them. That is how he found out about Speedrunning and streaming. Speedrunning was fascinating to the young boy. The effort to clear a game as fast as possible, faster than anyone else, past all supposed limitations a game would present casual players with. Specific tricks would look messy and incoherent to untrained eyes, but the hidden inputs were mechanical and exact. This is a distraction worth investing in.

At first, he didn’t care much about streaming or even recording his attempts. However, as he was slowly approaching Regional and World Records, there was hardly a way around it if he wanted to get verified records published. So, he started a Twitch Account, opting to go for his shortened name “Kil”, a half-assed attempt at keeping his family off of his tail. And as his collection of Top-3 Records grew, so did his audience when he was streaming attempts. When he got used enough to a game, he learned how to read chat while playing, even occasionally taking the time to answer questions, followed by a wave of excited cat emotes.

These are not friends, they are fans.

If he could continue to justify this, keep these people at a distance from him, it would be fine. Minimal interaction. No attachment. Easy enough.

It should have been easy enough.

But when he went through active play sessions of Super Mario 64 on Twitch, and he chose to tune into the first stream that popped up, it stopped being easy. It stopped being easy when he found himself laughing along with the cheery voice of the young streamer.

He wasn’t sure what he expected when he sent that first discord message. A small part of him hoped that this Gon kid wouldn’t reply. That way he could have just written him off as some vain lowtier streamer who isn’t worth Killuas time.

But of course he replied. And of course he would reply so kindly despite being contacted by a random stranger. Killua could feel something pull in his chest writing back and forth with Gon. This was just friendly- no. This was normal banter between two streamers who were exchanging helpful information. Two young, up-and-coming professionals in video game streaming, who can communicate like professionals.

Like work associates.

Work associates help each other out. They make deals. So, it would be okay if Killua would make a deal with Gon. Maybe get to know him in the progress, just a little, just enough to get a sense of his personality.

The pull in Killuas chest subsided when Gon agreed to his deal. But it would come back the first time they were on a call together, the first time Killua let someone else online hear his voice, hushed through a shitty in-ear cable headset, careful that he wouldn’t draw attention if someone were to walk past his room. And it subsided again when he heard Gon laugh at every bad joke he’d tell, loosened even more when he let himself laugh with him. Gon would try his best to follow any instructions he’d been given to learn speedrun strategies, and in turn Killua would let himself be guided through fortnite battles and aim-lessons. They worked well together, as if they had known each other for years, falling into a natural rhythm of jokes and casual conversation. This rhythm would continue for weeks, always coordinating when to call, taking turns with the games they would play.

Slowly, they started branching out to more games to play with each other. Slowly, Gon introduced Killua to his friends. Slowly, Killua got used to speaking on stream, just so Gon and he could guest-star on each other’s streams.

Through this gradual process, Killua felt like he was trapped in a pot of water, and the heat was being turned up just slow enough that he wouldn’t notice until its too late. Until the pull in his chest would threaten to tear him apart.

And then it did, as his mother raised her voice at the breakfast table, “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time on your Computer, Killua.”

“So is Milluki.” He tried to keep his voice unwavering, desperately trying to keep all of these gathered secrets behind it.

“We are just concerned of what you are doing on there; The internet has a lot of dangerous sides..” Kikyo Zoldyck was awfully good at turning her voice into a wail at any given time. Killua could feel his phone in his pocket vibrate from what he was sure was a message from Gon.

“..Maybe we should put some restriction on your use of it. Before it can start distracting you.”

#hisoillu #killugon #Hunter X Hunter #fanfiction #hxh fanfic

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