#Because it’s so clearly outside the scope of what the sentiment is referring to

[is-the-owl-video-cute]

Okay I 100% agree on the “general public with no clinical experience or proper legal licensing shouldn’t try to raise or rehab wildlife” thing but I will say there is a little more nuance to it

- country/location: in some people’s countries or regions wildlife rehabilitation centers don’t exist or are too far away to reach

- closures (my facility closed intakes due to HPAI for a period last year, many others did too)

I spoke with someone last year who was in the latter situation and handled it excellently. She had found a baby magpie who’s family had been killed by a local outdoor cat (with evidence). All of the rehabbers in the region (very broad radius) were closed due to HPAI. She contacted her region’s (utah) department of natural resources and explained the situation. She had previous experience raising baby parrots, already had a household setup for keeping birds since she had a couple pet parrots, and she was in contact with the (closed) rehabilitation facilities and one of them was willing to provide her with instructions on how to raise a baby magpie. The department of natural resources worked with her to issue a special permit for this. Obviously this isn’t ideal and the magpie is an imprint, however he will serve as an educational ambassador. Like, if you’re going to raise a baby animal without proper experience, this is the best reason and way to go about it.

I also spoke with someone from Ukraine, who had found a hawk (injured in some way, I couldn’t visually tell) but wasn’t able to get it to a rehab facility (either not open or safely accessible cus,, well it’s a warzone) so they were stuck by themselves. Not sure how this worked out, but the situation was perplexing.

Like.. there are some situations where it is genuinely not possible to get an injured animal into an ideal situation. Obviously this isn’t most situations and people need to learn to leave wildlife alone. But there is a little nuance. Obviously it’s NOT ideal and it’s risky for both the person and animal in question but like. Not everyone who is stuck in that situation should be demonized.

I agree with your sentiment but just think it’s important to remember like. Not everyone lives in a well developed country/region where wildlife rehabilitation resources exist. So sometimes if this situation occurs the best thing to do is offer in good faith advice to the person in that situation for what they can do with their resources. Obviously stressing that if they can get em to a rehabber to do that first.

Of course there are many things the average person or anyone else just can’t help, I’m all too familiar with finding a long dead bone jutting out the wrist of a hawk, or pulling maggots out of a half dead owl. And most people wouldn’t handle those situations well. But with situations where a rehabber can’t be reached but something can be done, people will try to do something to help even if it’s a bad idea (that’s just how some people are) and it’s better to direct them to do it in the best way possible.

I agree with you don’t get me wrong, I just think it’s important to remember that there’s a TINY space for nuance.

None of this is really “nuance” though.

The magpie finder contacted fish and game as well as the closed rehabs for proper input and a placement for the imprint was easy to find because of close contact with licensed individuals and issuance of a temp permit for this 1/1,000,000 issue.

I am very obviously not talking about people in active war zones when I say not to take in a wild animal that’s been wounded or orphaned, come on now.

Yes, if every rehabber in a 10,000 mile radius spontaneously combusts and there’s a baby owl sitting on the dead bodies of its parents right in front of you but you conveniently have a freezer full of mice and Government Steve gives you permission, yeah? I guess you can raise that baby owl in that wildly improbable and very specific circumstance, but this reads the same as when Ben Shapiro said “if there’s a bomb strong enough to level a city and only you know about the bomb and no one else believes there is a bomb and no one is around and the only way the bomb can be disarmed is for you to say the N word and no one will hear you, is it ethical to say the N word to diffuse the bomb?” I mean yeah. I guess so. That doesn’t mean there’s “nuance” to the fact white people shouldn’t say the N word.

I mean yeah. Yeah. In very extremely specific circumstances I’m sure you can think up an excuse for it. That doesn’t change the statement that an unqualified member of the public should not attempt to rehab a wild animal and should instead contact a licensed facility.

[webcricket]

Catch a Falling Star

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Sam and Dean Winchester

Word Count: 2282 (Part 4)

A/N: Part 4 of a Soulmate AU mini-series. My muse informed me this story is going to end up with more than 5 parts after all, primarily because Castiel is the most muse-inspiring angel in the garrison and also because Crowley popped in to throw a wrench into my plot outline. Demons, right?

Summary: What if angels didn’t end up just anywhere when they are banished by sigils…what if sometimes they end up exactly where they need to be? Turns out you are Castiel’s grounding stone, and it’s more complicated than either of you realizes. Castiel and the reader are reunited, and it feels so fluffing good.

Completed series Masterlist:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/165166387163/catch-a-falling-star-masterlist

Harbinger of the oppressively rising temperature outside, a pearlescent green cicada, having that very morning exhaustively fought his way from the black loamy embrace of the Earth after a long slumber to shed his skin and unfold translucent purple-veined wings to the light of day, perched in the uppermost branches of a cottonwood vociferously worshipping the sun. A whispering breeze, freshened by undulant waters of the lake and heavily perfumed by newly blooming stargazer lilies planted in a mulched bed beneath a wide-open window, rustled sheer white curtains to disturb the still air of the room within. The draft mingled pleasantly with aromatic spices of Ceylon and mint emanating in an ethereal mist from a cup sat on the broad white wash windowsill and the luxuriously piquant scent of citrus lotion warmed upon the fingertips idly circling the delicate porcelain rim of the cup. The page of a book turned, accompanied by an unperturbed exhaling of honeyed breath.

Tucked bare-chested beneath soft linen sheets, swathed in bandages smelling of medicinal antiseptic and cooling liniment, Castiel awoke to the summer serenity of the room. Certain any movement whatsoever would disturb this unblemished dream within which he presently found himself peacefully enveloped, he lay quiet and motionless lest he shatter the prevailing calm.

Detecting a subtle change in the atmosphere, you peered up contemplatively from the hardcover book balanced on your knee to study your convalescing guest. Dark-hair magnificently disheveled, eyelids restfully shuttered by lush lashes, he appeared disappointingly unmoved since the last glance you ventured to steal. Your crestfallen gaze traversed out into the meticulously maintained English style garden beyond the window. The wild blue coneflowers, tamed many years ago in the far corner by persevering fingers, prepared to blossom that afternoon – each verdant stalk stretching toward the sky and leaden with gravid buds. Your attention flitted back to the man laid out on the bed, nagging instinct insisting something was different. Book slipping forgotten from your lap into a nook of the plush cushioned chair, you rose.

Cas did not require sight to perceive your increased proximity. He could clearly envisage the inquisitive glinting of your bright eyes examining him as you stood over his idle vessel. His heartbeat skipped time, hastening to match pace with the dashing thump of yours.

Noting the pernicious fluid draining from his shoulder wound with a frown, you plucked a clean stack of gauze from the bedside table and commenced gingerly picking at the corners of the soiled dressing protecting the muscular joint to loosen and pry it off.

Betraying his indolent guise, the angel winced at the pang of anguish induced by the well-meaning and careful dance of your fingertips.

“I’m sorry!” you gasped, recoiling at his rousing reaction. The squares of gauze scattered soundlessly to the floor in your dismay.

Cas knew no matter how attentive your ministrations, the injury deep enough to strike his grace would remain excruciatingly painful until he regained enough strength to mend the breach of his vessel from within. Eyelids flicking open, undeterred by agony or a one-time stubborn resolve to avoid the perilous incursion into your life, he reached out unhesitatingly for your withdrawing limb, capturing you gently by the wrist. “It’s alright,” he sputtered, voice thick and husky with disuse, “you didn’t hurt me.”

Drifting nearer, you did not resist acquiescing to his adamantly tender grip, or tumbling into the extraordinary and oddly familiar blue depths of his eyes.

“Thank you. Thank you for…,” he stared blankly, jaw tensing in an attempt to formulate a coherent sentiment from a memory he could not summon. The last thing he recalled was tussling with a particularly burly demon, angelic might focusing to smite him when a force outside his control uprooted him from the scene. He couldn’t be certain he’d dispatched the demon before being banished. He was fairly certain the Winchesters were more than capable of handling the mess. He vaguely remembered crashing and, in a dazzlingly bright moment of sheer exhaustion, total vulnerability, and defeat of will, yielding to whatever fate providence deigned to offer up to him just then. And now here he lay – safe, comforted, entrusted to your care, and in precisely the last place he expected to be. He released your wrist, repeating himself for lack of available words, “For…”

“For dragging your half-conscious body out of the woods after you fell out of the sky and landed at my feet?” you supplied, brow fervidly arching. “You’re welcome.”

His expressive blues flew wide in genuine surprise in consideration of how casually you seemed to be taking the odd manner of his arrival.

“You really don’t remember?” you pondered aloud, a charmed smile illuminating your aspect. “Seems like something that’d be hard to forget. Unless, of course, this kind of thing happens to you routinely.”

Any higher reasoning regarding why you’d be better off not knowing him in affront to your deep universal bond was circumvented entirely by his weakened physical state, he mutely dared to hope any and all unfortunate future banishments routinely concluded at your feet.

“You’d better let me get this wound covered again before it gets infected.”

The angel nodded, not protesting your renewed efforts to tend to his shoulder. Seemingly struck speechless in your presence, he didn’t bother to mention the fact that there was no possible risk of infection when you began to swipe the yawning fracture of oozing flesh with betadine. Rather, sheets balled tightly in his fists, he stoically endured the overwhelming stinging discomfort without a single impolite grunt or growl to deter your actions.

“Where are you from anyway?” you asked, attempting to distract him from the burn of antibiotic ointment as you packed the wound.

“Originally?” he spoke through gritted teeth.

“It’s a place to start,” you angled your head sideways to inspect the final tape job, firmly pressing the edges to seal the bandage to his skin. Squinting, finding the result satisfactory, you bit your lower lip with a small nod of approval and removed your hands.

Cas did not fail to notice the cute quirk through his involuntarily tearing vision. Managing a moderately pain free relieved inhalation, he relaxed, retorting with the first thing to spring to mind, “Origins almost always are.”

A cheerful bubbling laugher emerged from your throat as you sat on the edge of the bed, absent-mindedly smoothing the wrinkled sheet beside him with a flattened palm.

The angel could not have prevented the smile drawing across his mouth if his continued angelic existence, nay, the perpetuation of all life in the creation, depended upon it. The sound of your laughter rang out as a delightful symphony in his ears. Deciding he had no reason to lie to you, and determining furthermore that masking his identity with misdirection seemed pointless, he pointed heavenward in answer.

You followed the indicated direction to look up at the rustic shiplap ceiling. A perplexed wrinkle creased your brow. “So…you’re what…an alien?”

“Angel,” he corrected.

“That was my second guess,” you remarked with a teasing grin.

“You don’t seem surprised.” His hand sought yours of its own volition, the rough pads of his fingers settling lightly across your knuckles.

Uncannily composed given his celestial revelation and the strangely comfortable contact between you that should be unnerving given his status as an almost complete stranger but instead felt more natural than any touch you’d experienced before, you met his warm regard. “Well, out of all the extremely fantastical possibilities I imagined while waiting for you to wake up to explain a man falling mostly uninjured out of the sky, you being an angel seems pretty darn ordinary.”

“I suppose it does,” he concurred. Noticing his errant hand, he decided he did not wish to remove it, even when his thumb boldly took it upon itself to trace a small expanding circle into your smooth skin.

“And also, I talked to your friend Dean last night.”

“Oh.” His thumb arrested its endeavor. The angel could not begin to fathom the scope of what Dean may or may not have said to you. The potentials were endless.

You continued, assuaging the angel’s unspoken concern, “He told me your name. Castiel. Cas, for short. He also said you’d probably be fine as long as I absolutely didn’t feed you after midnight. Does he always pepper random corny movie references into serious conversation?”

“It’s a coping mechanism of his. Or maybe a tick. Sometimes I find it hard to discern the difference. The grimmer the circumstances, the funnier he gets. I’m regularly surprised at how effective his brand of humor is at diffusing grave situations.”

“He must have been very worried about you then, because he was hilariously awful,” you noted. “Is he an angel too?”

“No, he’s a h-,” Cas stopped himself from saying hunter. He didn’t see the need to blacken the innocence of your world with knowledge of the monsters inhabiting it – angels were a destructive enough force with which to reckon. “A human. Dean and his brother Sam are the closest thing I have to family.”

“You’re lucky to have them,” you said, smiling.

“What about you, your family?”

Lip quivering, your smile faltered, despair darkening your expression.

Cas squeezed your hand consolingly. Remembering too late the hospital’s inability to locate a next of kin, he apologized, “Y/N, I’m sorry. I-I forgot.”

Withdrawing your hand from his grasp, you regarded him suspiciously, sniffling, “Forgot?”

He guiltily diverted his gaze, instantly recognizing his mistake in your bewildered reaction. After healing you at the hospital, he’d instructed you to forget him, and you had.

“How do you know so much about me?” you stood up from the bed, stepping back warily.

He struggled to sit upright to follow your retreat, clutching at his throbbing shoulder, groaning, “I can explain.”

You denied the tortuously strong inclination to help ease his struggle that yanked furiously at every nerve ending in your trembling frame.

“I was with you,” he strained, “at the hospital.” Giving up, he collapsed back onto the pillow in a fit of agony.

You recalled the passing mention of the man who stayed by your side. Dark hair. Trench coat. Handsome. Sad blue eyes. Your guardian angel according to the orderly who discharged you. Apprehension appeased by this recollection, you sprang forward, perching again on the edge of the bed, swiping the hair from his anguished brow. “You’re the mystery man who kept vigil over me,” you murmured, half-question, half-statement.

He nodded, “Yes, until I had strength enough to save you.”

“Then you’re my…my guardian angel?”

His torso rattled with a shaky remorseful breath, “I’m not. I stayed…I stayed to save you from me.”

“The doctors said my recovery was a miracle. You healed me, didn’t you? Why would I need to be saved from you? You’re the reason I’m alive.”

“You don’t know who I am, what I am to you, do you?” he asked, tilting his chin, appreciating for the first time that perhaps your limited human perception prevented you from hearing his divine heart beat for you as clearly as he distinguished the brilliance of your soul radiating for him.

“What are you talking about?”

He lifted two fingers to your temple, hovering them there, seeking permission to return the memories he took from you and more, “May I show you?”

“Show me what?” Eyelids fluttering shut, you submitted to his touch.

“Everything.”

Castiel, angel of the Lord, fallen, fated by design of the universe to be your match, your soulmate, hid nothing of himself from you. He divulged the vast span of his existence in exacting detail from his creation to this very moment. He held back none of the destructive angelic fury, none of the nagging doubts, none of the errors of judgement, none of the innocent or justified deaths on his blood-stained hands, none of the self-righteous indignation, none of the betrayal of friend and foe alike, none of the deep sorrow, none of the profound regret, none of the insurmountable quests for penance he attached to his many failures, none of the unremitting conviction of worthlessness, and none of the intractable belief that once you perceived him for the broken being he was you would have no choice but to reject him.

When you recovered your deluged wits, you found yourself nestled snuggly against the angel, quietly sobbing, arm draped across his torso and secure in his warmly encircling embrace. The last rays of the sinking sun shone through the window, reflecting off the lake to paint vivid shimmering orange-hued swaths of color across the far wall. Sensing your wakefulness, he gently wiped the streaming tears from your cheeks in turn.

You continued to weep – not because you pitied or feared or loathed him. You wept – not because you were overcome by the ferocity and dejection of the angelic maelstrom that he revealed to you. You wept because in himself he did not acknowledge the redemptive qualities of kindness, gentleness, courage, loyalty, strength, perseverance, hope, and the sense of wonder which equally defined him. You wept because the boundless capacity for love anchored within his heart was also the source of his unbearable suffering – he hurt intensely only because he loved deeply. Bearing the weight of this burden alone, it was no wonder to you that he fell from Heaven. Propping yourself up on an elbow to gaze bleary-eyed and undaunted into his fretfully furrowed features, you eased nearer to place a tearful smiling kiss upon his lips.

Castiel did not lose himself in the kiss as the clichéd saying goes. Rather, in the pliant give of your salt-laced lips, the angel found the one thing he’d always been searching for – home.

Part 5:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/163910839900/catch-a-falling-star

[multiverseofmiracleshq]

After the Whisperer posted their data leak on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s classified Project KOBIK, a group of heroes were summoned by Black Widow and the Winter Soldier. On the Helicarrier, formerly disgraced agent Sharon Carter gave them a rundown on the Pleasant Hill experiment. Upon arriving, they received a less than warm welcome and the group found themselves divided.

THIS IS THE OFFICIAL CHAT LOG COVERAGE OF THE IC

NATASHA ROMANOFF: She had been the last one on the Helicarrier. Funny, considering the fact that she was the one who had called them all there. Funny, considering the fact that she was the one (alongside Bucky) who was leaving a trail of property damage in her wake with little explanation. Natasha was, to put it very lightly, pissed. Wake up in the morning seeing red and going to bed with it still there kind of pissed. She and Bucky had decided early on it was best to not tell anyone what they were working on until after they had a better idea, but after the Whisperer and the whistleblower it was hard to deny that it was the right time. And so, the mass message. Everyone there had been selected for a reason. They could be trusted. Not the S.H.I.E.L.D. affiliates, but Sharon had called and Nat decided to at least hear her out. Krakoa had offered up five mutants for back-up with powers based in telepathy, tracking and teleportation. Her tardiness was a strategic tactic to stop the others from asking questions before she was ready. Braced against a wall with one and hanging onto one of the hooks, Natasha glanced around the group. “Everyone read their files? We have the Whisperer to thank for that. And Bobbi. Way to blow that whistle.” The anger was still present.

SHARON CARTER: As the helicarrier began its ascent, Sharon took a look at the anxious eyes around her in the room and glanced over to Bobbi and Daisy. It didn’t seem like those two were exactly eager to answer the questions regarding Project KOBIK, but then again neither was Sharon. The agent figured they’d have at least a little more time to break the news the proper way, but the Whisperer forced S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hand. Clearly Romanoff and Barnes knew that something was going on, and it was only a matter of time before even more information potentially got leaked. It was better to get ahead of it while they could. Natasha deserved answers, even if Sharon knew that the redhead was not going to react well to all of this. And helping S.H.I.E.L.D. with Project KOBIK was one of the main reasons Sharon was even allowed back in the United States, so she had no reason to go against Hill’s orders. It was simple: take the Avengers and Co. there, show them the town, and answer any questions they might have. Easier said than done, but still. “I’ll answer any questions any of you have on the way there, but I think showing everything to you will speak for itself.”

JESSICA JONES: Of course she had gotten caught up in something this big. A big pile of bullshit that smelled like Avengers and government agencies -- aka, her least favorite scents. Although she would have preferred to present as someone who didn’t come when called, Jess had already stuck her nose in deep enough that she had to follow through. That and she felt like she owed it to Matt. A blind man people didn’t know was blind who fought ninjas. Instead of getting annoyed about that fact Jessica just stared as the Black Widow spoke (definitely had never expected to be in the same space as her) and crossed her arms over her chest. “--So, I wasted a month of my life tracking down these people when Goldilocks (sharon) and Deep Throat (a reference to the nixon whistleblower and NOT linda lovelace) knew all along? Jesus, you people suck.”

MATT MURDOCK: Matt was hanging out along the perimeter of the group as Natasha began talking, but Jessica’s words quickly became much more intriguing. His masked gaze was seemingly fixed on the floor a few feet in front of him, one ear trained in the direction of those explaining the situation, the other poised to catch any additional snide remarks from his coworker - for lack of a better term, “Can’t say I say this very often, but I agree. Seems like information we should’ve been privy to much sooner.”

BUCKY BARNES: He stayed towards the back, seated uncomfortable with the buckles loose around his lap. James wasn't proud to be aboard the helicarrier. He wasn't excited or eager. He felt just about the same as he did when a hit went wrong and he ended up with the poor sap's insides on his outsides. James glanced over at Jess's sentiment, feeling the edge of his lips twitch but not giving anything more. "It's not exactly unexpected, is it?" he said aloud to no one in particular. "If SHIELD can keep something hidden, they will. Even from their friends."

JESSICA DREW: After reading and re-reading the file, Jessica found that her brain still couldn’t make sense of the dossier. Sure, she understood it. But she didn’t understand it. “Excuse me? Quick q.” The Avenger held up her folder and tapped at one of the black and white images. “There’s a porcupine on here. And my baby is with a man who is not qualified to babysit because my porcupine went to pick him up from daycare and went MIA. No correlation, right?” Her voice had pitched upwards towards slightly hysterical at the end. “I just need someone to tell me that you assholes didn’t turn a grown man into a porcupine. Especially not one who was reformed.”

CAROL DANVERS: "Don't be ridiculous." Carol said as she came over to look at the photo, even if she had her own file to refer to. She frowned down at it. "There's no way they'd turn a person into an animal. Especially not a porcupine. They could've done better. Like a wolf. Lion maybe. Porcupine? Way below Gocking's paygrade."

JESSICA DREW: “He never would have left Gerry at daycare. Or go without calling Kalie. They may as well have just put down Roger instead of Porcupine.” Jess craned her neck to look up at Carol. Her eyes definitely weren’t watering. “So, yeah. I have a few questions. How did you pull this off? Maybe my boyfriend was easy to catch, but some of these people wouldn’t be.”

CAROL DANVERS: Carol grimaced. "Also answering the how would be great. It's not exactly natural to turn a human being into a rodent."

DAISY JOHNSON: After receiving the call from Bobbi that everything had gone to shit for a lack of a better word, Daisy seriously reconsidered her entire involvement with SHIELD. It took weeks of searching for her dad before Sharon finally approached her and asked her to join the program. Daisy had been livid, to say the least. Cal didn’t even remember being Hyde. What gave SHIELD the right to change their minds and imprison him inside of a fake town? And then she realized that Mack was no longer acting Director, and everything made sense. There was absolutely no way he’d do something like that and not tell her. It took a lot of convincing from Bobbi for Daisy to not just try to storm in there and quake the whole damn town down herself. Staying close to the project was the best thing Daisy could do for her dad, and for everyone else who didn’t deserve to be mind wiped and placed in there. But it wasn’t like Natasha knew any of that. Or Bucky. Or any of the Avengers. To them, she was just another SHIELD goon following Hill’s orders. She could practically feel Nat’s eyes glaring a hole through her as she cleared her throat uncomfortably. Honestly she wouldn’t even be on that damn plane if not for Bobbi dragging her ass on there. She didn’t get much warning to the fact that Bobbi had told everyone what was going on. “It’s more complicated than that.” She mumbled, referring to James’ comment with a sigh.

SHARON CARTER: Sharon could tell that Jessica was on the verge of tears, and she’d almost feel bad if she’d actually known the woman. But she was just doing what she was told, which included placing Roger inside of Pleasant Hill. She didn’t personally nab him, but still. “He was coming too close to compromising the project.. I’m sorry. I know this is probably not what you want to hear.”

MATT MURDOCK: Elektra had been missing for longer than Matt was comfortable admitting, and hearing about what had supposedly happened to the man in question had him frankly very worried. Unable to request the files in brail for his own benefit, Matt would just have to wait until Jessica would get the chance to relay him the information, to reassure him his girlfriend wasn’t loose in this town running around as a lizard or something. Jesus.

JESSICA DREW: “He got too close?” Jessica barely managed to stop herself from raising her voice. “So you turned a decent human being into a rodent because he got too close?? Jesus Christ, we went from H.Y.D.R.A. to this?”

NATASHA ROMANOFF: “Not everyone got turned into animals.” Natasha remained collected. “We have an entire registry full of strange faces. You want to cue us in on who’s who?” When Daisy spoke, the redhead turned to look at it. “Then explain how complicated it is, Agent.”

DAISY JOHNSON: Daisy turned in response to Natasha speaking to her, eyebrows furrowing at being referred to like she was some sort of subordinate. "Look, I didn't know about Yelena when we talked. I wasn't lying to you. You think I'm not furious that my dad's inside of there? Don't take your anger out on me."

BUCKY BARNES: "But you knew." James chimed in. "You knew what the operative was. Former and current criminals. And apparently Roger Gocking."

CAROL DANVERS: "I'd love to know why we were kept in the dark, to start."

DAISY JOHNSON: "I didn't know the list until The Whisperer leaked it. They withheld it from me." It didn't take a rocket scientist to connect the disappearances, though. Yelena, Cal... Daisy just didn't have a scope of exactly who was who inside, or even what specific criminals were in there.

BUCKY BARNES: "You're a shitty spy." James remarked petulantly.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: She wasn’t here to get snapped at by someone who was part of the problem. As Bucky spoke, the Widow’s gaze remained even. “The word is complicit.” Her tone was cool. “Furious, maybe, but not mad enough to come out yourself. As soon as I heard what was going on, James and I were out there researching and blowing up outposts. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t have the list. You knew enough.”

CAROL DANVERS: "She did. She had enough to come to us and let us help, but she didn't. We can be angry and lash out all we want, but what we need right now are details. What exactly are we walking in to, Johnson?"

BOBBI MORSE: "Hey.” Bobbi had been silent so far, watching the situation unfold. She had talked to Clint and Nat. Bobbi had given Daisy the heads up about what she was going to do because it was the right choice, even if it was a late one. “I went to Pleasant Hill in the beginning. I’ve watched them from the beginning. I thought I was doing the right thing by staying informed, but after being there for a while and the Roger thing... we messed up. Bad. Daredevil, Nat, Jess. I’m sorry. To you too, Barnes. And Daisy has some of the blame, but I have more of the answers.”

MATT MURDOCK: Matt folded his arms across his chest, only minutely satisfied that someone had the gall to finally apologize. “Alright - then why are we here if not for more answers.”

STEVE ROGERS: Steve learned a long time ago to stop expecting anything and anticipate that whatever answer he was looking for was usually way more complicated than he liked. As it would turn out this entire operation was not at all an exception to the rule. Nat was pissed—rightfully so, and while he could understand both sides —to a degree, he seemed to remember a different outlook being taken when Wanda Maximoff was running something similar—except even that wasn’t premeditated. “Answers will get us a whole lot farther.” Steve said after Bobbi spoke. They could sit here and bicker all day, pointing fingers, but that didn’t really get them anywhere. “How did it even get this far?”

JESSICA DREW: “Sorry won’t make Roger human again, but thank you, Barbara.” Jess couldn’t believe she had slept with the husband of the woman who had turned her boyfriend into a rodent. Clint really knew how to pick women.

DAISY JOHNSON: Daisy narrowed her eyes at Natasha, shaking her head in frustration. She knew that they'd be upset when they realized she was involved, but it seemed like it was impossible to get them to understand. Of course she knew that what SHIELD was doing was wrong. But arguing about it wasn't going to help anyone. "Bobbi's right. We thought we were doing good by staying close to the project but obviously we weren't. I'm sorry for not telling you sooner." She settled on, not wanting to argue about it anymore. Daisy turned her focus to Carol and took a deep breath. "We're talking into a town. A creepily normal town. No one in there remembers who they really are. All they know is their new mundane lives."

CAROL DANVERS: "So you castrated an entire group of people and turned them into docile brainless next door neighbors?" Carol clicked her tongue in disbelief. "Just keeps getting better, doesn't it. Westview gave you ideas. Not exactly what I expected to happen."

CLINT BARTON: Clint let out a mirthless laugh from his place aboard. "Right. You had the best of intentions didn't you, Bobbi? Would never do anything wrong or disorderly."

ROGUE: Rogue crossed her arms, listening to everyone go back and forth. At first she thought the porcupine thing was a joke, but as it turned out, it horrifically wasn’t. “Ah’m sayin’. Ya’ll practically burned Wanda at the stake, but at least she didn’t turn nobody into a rodent.” She muttered after Carol spoke.

NATHAN SUMMERS "I don't think that helps." Nathan added from his place near Rogue.

SHARON CARTER: "Lying is in the job description of being a SHIELD agent," Sharon chimed in, raising an eyebrow at the whole squabble going on between Daisy, Nat, Carol, and James. Clearly everyone wanted to point fingers and find someone to blame for this, but that didn't change what had been done. "Right next to some overtime required. And I think castrated is a little dramatic. They're living the American Dream. Tidy homes, friendly neighbors, and no crime. If you ask me that beats rotting away in the Raft."

BUCKY BARNES: "I lived the American dream too and my girlfriend ended up joining the Thunderbolts as a result. Wouldn't exactly recommend."

ROGUE: “Wasn’t tryin’ to.” She shrugged. “All Ah here is a bunch of people makin’ excuses and pointin’ fingers. If Ah have t’be here an’ we ain’t gonna come up with a solution, Ah may as well join the bitchin’.”

MATT MURDOCK: “But the way you’re laying this out, they didn’t exactly get a choice, as to what their ‘American Dream’ was, did they? You just slapped an identity on them and sent them off,” Matt pitched in, addressing Sharon directly.

AMERICA CHAVEZ: "Isn't that natural for you?" America asked, eyes skating over towards Rogue briefly. "Look, I don't care why or how, just what we're going to do next. I don't exactly see the issue of leaving them there."

SHARON CARTER: "What does it matter if they're in prison anyways?" Sharon quipped as she turned towards Matt.

NATASHA ROMANOFF: “And now your girlfriend has been lobotomized because apparently once wasn’t enough.” Natasha was a little surprised to hear James refer to Yelena as such considering how rocky their relationship continued to be. “Pleasant Hill is completely erasing any chance of redemption. They’re all going to be stuck there until what? They die?” Yelena. James. Steve. Natasha remained on the outside as reality warped those she cared about and it was tiring.

SAM WILSON: “Somewhere along the way, I’m gettin the feeling that we forgot about free will. Even if these people won’t be ‘free’ again because they’re in prison, they deserve to know their own names. How is stripping that away okay?” Sam piped up. “Especially if you’ve got falsely accused.” He wasn’t Captain America anymore but it didn’t matter. Sam held onto  his ideals.

AMERICA CHAVEZ: "Better than them breaking out and wreaking havoc. I don't see what the big deal is."

MATT MURDOCK: “It’s absolutely a question of free will,” Matt shook his head, thankful for Sam’s comment. The legal repercussions of this entire scenario were frankly frightening to consider, but as Daredevil, he had no jurisdiction here, so thinly veiled warnings would have to do, “I’d tread lightly, if I were you.”

SHARON CARTER: "There's room for reevaluation for some. Obviously that's not exactly on the table yet but it will be. We're not monsters." Maybe it seemed a bit harsh, but years in Madripoor unfortunately did that to Sharon. She would have been on the same exact side as Steve and Nat several years ago. But her morality was warped, and unfortunately the offer from SHIELD was too good to turn down. Probably why they picked her to be the mayor of the town.

KATE BISHOP: “Really, man?” Kate pivoted in her seat to look at America. “Sam and the Devil Dude are right. Everyone should at least have a name.”

STEVE ROGERS: “The prison system takes away people’s free will every day. This is beyond that, this is a matter of identity. Humanity.” A man was a porcupine for God’s sake. “They’re still people.”

CASSIE LANG: "Um, technically think they do have names?" Cassie chimed in, frowning as she looked down at her folder and shrugged. "Just... not their own. Nevermind, I'm gonna shut up now. This is still super messed up."

AMERICA CHAVEZ: "People who might've murdered other people. Definitely some people who have murdered other people. Speaking of, how did you two manage to slip through the cracks?" she asked, question directed at Natasha and Bucky."People who might've murdered other people. Definitely some people who have murdered other people. Speaking of, how did you two manage to slip through the cracks?" she asked, question directed at Natasha and Bucky.

BOBBI MORSE: “Hey now.” Bobbi frowned at Clint. “I make bad decisions. You know it, I know it, our marriage counselor knows it. I’m trying to do right here. We can fix this. The town database is the answer. Sharon, am I authorized to proceed?”

STEVE ROGERS: Steve looked at America and crossed his arms as he stood between both James and Nat. “If you have a point to make, make it.”

AMERICA CHAVEZ: "I think I made my point, loud and clear. I just need one person to explain to me exactly what it is we're doing here."

NATASHA ROMANOFF: “I started by jumping off a cliff and sacrificing myself to stop Thanos.” A muscle in Natasha’s jaw twitched. “But good question. A decade and a half ago, I was Yelena. If I was stuck in Pleasant Hill I would never have been able to redeem myself on Vormir. And some of the people in this room wouldn’t be here.”

AMERICA CHAVEZ: "So we let them loose on the off chance they'll throw themselves off a mountain? I don't like relying on those odds."

SHARON CARTER: Sharon turned her head towards Bobbi and frowned before shaking her head. "Look, I get it. You all have raised some fair points. There are some risks, but that's not why I'm bringing you all there. I'm not going to help you unilaterally disarm. The point of this is to show you KOBIK."

MONICA RAMBEAU: “If we’re not going to Pleasant Hill,” Monica looked up. “Where are we going?” She hadn’t made eye contact with Daisy yet deliberately.  

MATT MURDOCK: “And we’re all supposed to just nod and accept that this is how things are going now? Are you that confident everyone here will be okay with it?”

STEVE ROGERS: “If the point was to make snap assumptions based on things you don’t know anything about, then, sure, consider it made. However if it was to try and convince me that people deserved to have their bodily autonomy ripped away based on criminal actions, you kind of missed the mark when you tried took shots at a woman that literally saved the universe you exist in and a man who had 70 years stolen from him.”

AMERIA CHAVEZ: America crossed her arms over her chest and straightened her shoulders. The last person to make her nervous was Old Man Steve who should've retired centuries ago. "And all those people they killed? Who advocates for them? You stand up for them because you're emotionally involved. Bet you wouldn't if they were just another nameless HYDRA agent. Now again, why are we here?"

NATASHA ROMANOFF: Well, they had invited a telepath for a reason. As America dissented from what seemed to be the group opinion, Natasha made eye contact with the woman in the rear of the Helicarrier. If Sharon was going to hinder and not help they’d have to go with plan b.

KWANNON: Purposefully situated in the back, the mutant known as Psylocke had been sitting silently. After picking up an errant thought, she caught the gaze of Romanoff and nodded once. She wasn’t Emma. She wasn’t Jean. Thankfully, she wasn’t Betsy. She was the most subtle choice to lead the mutant task force but her stint with the Hellions had prepared her. While Rogue and Cable participated in the discussion, the telepath closed violet eyes and concentrated for a moment. Passcode: 1-1-3-4-7-8-7-8-6-6. Username: Burnes. Storing it in her mind, Kwannon calmly unhooked her seatbelt and moved across the Helicarrier as smoothly as if it wasn’t moving. She was lithe in her actions as pink flared up in the shape of a dagger in one fist and she shoved it through the temple of Sharon Carter, a quick telepathic knockout. As Laura lunged to the side to catch the agent as instructed, Psylocke turned to Natasha. “Passcode: 1-1-3-4-7-8-7-8-6-6. Username: Burnes. I think Agent Morse has something to say.”

STEVE ROGERS: A light, airy scoff puffed from his lips and he shook his head a little. “I used to think the world was black and white too, then I woke up.” Literally. “You can make as many judgements as you’d like, but as far as I’m concerned, anyone who’s willing to let people have their basic human rights taken from them, is no better than those they condemn. Especially if it’s because they think of themselves as superior. But what do I know, I’m just an old man. i’m sure you’ve got it all figured out already.”

NATASHA ROMANOFF: “What you lack in subtly, you made up for in presentation.” Natasha snorted at Kwannon. The mutant was unresponsive as she once again took her seat. “I’m loving the debate, but we’re on a limited timeframe now.”

AMERICA CHAVEZ: "We're just trying to save the world." America said just as she heard the commotion and watched an unconscious Carter slump against Laura Kinney. "I'm getting off this plane if someone doesn't inform me what the hell is going on, right now."

LAURA KINNEY: Readjusting as she balanced the weight of Sharon in her arms, Laura eased her to the ground before nudging her with the toe of her boot. So much for being just the back-up.

BOBBI MORSE: “Was that a thinly veiled threat?” Bobbi’s eyes darted between Nat and Psylocke. It didn’t matter. She had been going to talk before Sharon shot her down anyway. “It’s Ripley.” Bobbi rose so she could be seen better. “Star. That’s what the town database is. It’s a complicated system literally hooked into the Reality Stone in her chest. Anything inputted is then instantly translated to reality. I haven’t talked to Ripley, because they’re keeping her unconscious and intubated. The Wyngarde sisters are patrolling the perimeter. What you’re seeing isn’t an illusion. It’s all real.”

DAISY JOHNSON: Daisy's eyes widened as she watched Sharon suddenly into one of the mutant's arms. She wondered for a moment if she might be next, not that she'd blame them. She glanced at Monica for a moment, frowning when she realized that the other agent was definitely avoiding eye contact. Not that she could blame her for that either. But she knew what she could do to make this right, and she wouldn't hesitate this time. "There's also SHIELD agents embedded into the town, but the Wyngarde sisters are the hard part."

KATE BISHOP: Letting out a low whistle, Kate shook her head. “If it’s a Reality Stone, couldn’t Wanda, like, counteract it or something? She’s got some experience here.”

WANDA MAXIMOFF: Although present, Wanda intended to fly home as soon as they reached Pleasant Hill. It wasn’t wise for her to be in the proximity. She shook her head at Kate’s suggestion. “Ripley wields a Reality Stone from Earth-616. I could look into it, but I won’t act until I study more. If what Bobbi says is true then moving prematurely could cement whatever KOBIK has done.”

GABBY KINNEY: Gabby followed suit and poked Sharon's cheek with her finger before chuckling softly and glancing up at Laura. "She was being kind of a bitch anyways." She whispered.

JESSICA DREW: “So what I’m hearing is that if we misstep we run the risk of making everyone stuck as their new happy go luck personas. Or fursona in one case.” God, she was livid. “Now that Natasha and her friend have knocked out Sharon, do we have any idea how to go about this?”

LAURA KINNEY: Wyngarde Sisters. Laura glanced to Cable and Rogue briefly. “I thought they were playing dead.” She muttered under her breath. At Gabby’s comment, she couldn’t help but snort slightly and shake her head.

BOBBI MORSE: As the Helicarrier redirected slightly to chart a course towards Pleasant Hill, Bobbi racked her brain. “Dr. Randall Jessup is the Head of Onsite Scientific Research. You’re not going to get Dr. Selvig, the head of the Science Division, so Jessup is your best choice. He goes by Dr. Daniel Torres and he can work the Directory.” With that, the aircraft slowly began its descent towards a field outside suburbia.

NATHAN SUMMERS: "As they should've." Nathan muttered in response.

CLINT BARTON: "Thanks Bobbi, I've always been a fan of your belated news."

BOBBI MORSE: “I’m sorry, Clint, do you want to take it outside? I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realize men would become rodents.”

DAISY JOHNSON: Daisy glanced towards Bobbi and Clint, grimacing at the argument before walking over to the pilot and taking a look outside of the window. "Looks like we're here."

SAM WILSON: “Wings up, guys.” Sam stood and cracked his neck. The Helicarrier finally touched down in a heavy gust of wind that flattened the grass. As the ramp slowly began to unfurl, Sam shot Carol a look. “Anyone else see the vanilla and chocolate dominatrixes down there?”

CLINT BARTON: "Maybe we could've realized it earlier if you'd just told someone."

CAROL DANVERS: "Pick up that vernacular from Perry?" Carol remarked teasingly next to Sam as the Wyngard’s came into view.

MARTINIQUE WYNGARDE: Martinique could hear the wind snapping around her and her sister as a helicarrier made its way to a landing, and could make out several guests inside. "I suppose we're supposed to do something about that?" She quipped towards Regan, her eyes rolling.

REGAN WYNGARDE: One hand rested on her black clad hip, the blonde Wyngarde used her free hand to shield her eyes. “--I was really hoping today was going to be a boring one. My shift is almost over.” Her tone was petulant. “Whatever. I’d say no showing off, but I’m the only one who could.”

BOBBI MORSE: “You do realize it’s only been a month, right? I still had to assess and gather evidence. I’m sorry I didn’t blow the whistle fast enough.” That was less apologetic and more annoyed. It felt like marriage counseling again.

SAM WILSON: “I think good ol’ Perry would have started with ‘Hey, girl, let me get in on that’ and then offer them a tour of his basement. Me? I’m happy with what I’ve got. You want to lead the way, Cap?”

CLINT BARTON: "There are people in there that we care about, Bobbi. It just...you could've handled this differently. You know I get it, I just wish I didn't have to."

BOBBI MORSE: Face softening, Bobbi nodded. “I know. I wish it was different. The second Sharon filled me in I either went along with it or had my mind erased, and that wouldn’t have helped anything” Rising to her feet, she unsheathed her battle staves before offering Clint a hand. “Punching things is the only better way to blow off steam than sex.”

CAROL DANVERS: "His basement? Was Perry also the hash slinging slasher?" The ramp hit solid ground and the helicarrier filled with the fading light of day, turning over into purples and blues. She was stepping to the front of the pack to face the Wyngarde's and all of Pleasant Hill when a rush of inertia turned her world a little topsey turvey. With a shove of power through her fists and the bottom of her feet, Carol found stability at the edge of the helicarrier, braced against the wall, just in time to see one of the sisters approach Bucky. "Dammit, I should've read the file." she muttered.

MARTINIQUE WYNGARDE: "Please," Martinique scoffed as she focused her attention on the man with the stupid goggles and metal wings attached to his back. She projected to replace Carol with Regan instead, and made it appear as if she was about to attack James with a knife.

CLINT BARTON: "At least on that we agree." Clint said as he followed suit. He understood better than he wanted to, but that didn't mean he didn't hate that people he cared about were hurting. On autopilot, he nocked an arrow and steadied his bow, rising it just in time for Martinique Wyngarde to shuffle the playing field. Reflexively, he positioned himself just enough to fire the bow at her fist to knock the knife from her grasp.

REGAN WYNGARDE: Finger tapping against her chin, the younger sister observed the heroes unloading. Martinique jumped in instantly, an impetuousness that had never let her be the favorite of their father. “Eenie meenie miney mo,” she hummed under her breath. Noticing the bow being notched, her eyes flashed white before it and the batons of the woman next to the archer vanished. A quick telepathic dive fished out the connection and Regan crossed the field towards them. “You had a lovely honeymoon. Seems like a great day to take a swim, huh?” For Regan, nothing changed. For Barbara Morse and Clint Barton they were suddenly trapped in a room filling with water. Wiping her hands, Regan smiled at her sister. “One point for me and none for you.”

CLINT BARTON: Clint stomped his feet hard, his boots splashing up water that was seeping under his pants and rising above his ankles fast. There was no source for it, which only told him that it wasn't real, but it sure as hell felt real. "I ever tell you I hate swimming? It's an awful activity." He set another arrow and fired at the wall, but the steel just dissolved against the fake walls and splattered into the fake water, only sealing their very real, not fake fates. "Maybe this is why I never signed the divorce papers. You were gonna follow me into death anyway."

BOBBI MORSE: Her staves were gone but Bobbi slammed her shoulder against the wall a few times. “I really hate telepaths.” She grumbled. Bobbi worked with Pleasant Hill. She knew what the Wyngarde’s could do. “Hey, baby?” Bobbi found herself back to back with Clint, using him as leverage to kick at the siding. “Regan Wyngarde’s illusions are strong enough to trick the body. Once we think we’re suffocating, our bodies actually will.” Maybe it was karma. She turned to face him, water now lapping at her chin. “You watched me drown once. That worked out better than this probably will. You know I still love you, right?”

BUCKY BARNES: Commotion broke out on the helicarrier as the Wyngarde’s infiltrated. He'd read the file, he knew that they specialized in illusion based abilities, but he hadn't expected one of them to take the form of Yelena, down to the way she clenched her fists at her sides when things got particularity hairy, always ready to grab a weapon holstered at her hip. To anyone else, this would've been such an easy snare, but James was cynical by nature and not easily disillusioned. He unhitched the rifle from his back holster and cocked it, aiming the barrel level with Yelena's head. "Dumb move, you don't actually think it's that easy to trick me, do you?"

MARTINIQUE WYNGARDE: Martinique glared at her sister, feeling anger flare through her chest as she shook her head and shrugged. As much as she tried not to give into the childish competitiveness that they often got into, she couldn't help it. She always had to prove herself to be better, always had to remind Regan of which of the two of them were older. She diverted her attention to Jessica Drew and pouted. "Your kid's adorable, you know." And with that, suddenly it appeared to Jessica as if her son turned into a porcupine, and then for good measure Martinique had him scurry away quickly towards the bushes.

DAISY JOHNSON: Daisy glared at the two women as everyone in the helicarrier seemed to suddenly lose their minds. She knew they specialized in telepathy and illusions, but other than that it didn't seem like they had a way to defend themselves against a quake. She stepped forward and held her arm around, sending a large shockwave towards the two mutants.

CLINT BARTON: The water was cold as it rushed around them, filling the tank at an alarming speed. They were almost submerged; his hair brushed against the ceiling. There was nowhere left to go. "Really? You're gonna do this now?" Clint said, head tilting down until their foreheads met. "You were always the love of my stupid, stupid life. Maybe I'll get luckier in the next one." He was joking, he always joked when he got nervous. He didn't mean it, but he couldn't break past the need to say it this way. "A stupid illusion." the water was getting higher. "A stupid fucking illusion."

REGAN WYNGARDE: As the dark haired agent Regan had seen inside began to shake the ground, the telepath narrowed her eyes and projected it so it looked as if the ground had dropped away as a result. Now having fun with it, Regan let an illusion roll over her as her body changed. Shorter and far more curved, she wore black jeans with a holster, boots and a dark t-shirt. As Barnes noticed her, she raised an eyebrow almost challengingly. “Nyet.” She spoke into the barrel of the gun with a slight Russian accent. “You’re too smart. Too damaged. But I don’t care.” Taking a step forward, dark painted nails nudged the barrel downwards. “It’d be easier with me. We both know it. I look like her, sound like her. We can all pretend and she can stay where she belongs.”

JESSICA DREW: As Clint and Bobbi suddenly began gasping, Jessica’s head snapped to the side as she saw one of the Mastermind’s appear to have Gerry. “Get the hell away from my son!” But it was too late and he was a porcupine. “You have to be fucking kidding me.” She turned to crawl through the bushes.

MARTINIQUE WYNGARDE: Martinique smirked as Jessica crawled and turned back towards her, continuing the illusion as she made the blood in her veins feel like lead. "Seems like your body's finally catching up with you, Drew." She continued the illusion, making the effects of the poisoning that was constantly plaguing Jessica's body seem to be accelerating.

BOBBI MORSE: Almost half a foot shorter than Clint, Bobbi was paddling to try and stay afloat. “I mean, I’m not sure there’s going to be another time to do it.” Bobbi tried to laugh before almost choking on water. As his forehead hit hers, her eyes briefly closed and she strained to hear him over the sloshing. Aware that she was shaking from the cold, Bobbi tried to button the top of her uniform to try and peel off a layer to make it easier to float. The shaking just increased. “Luckier than me? Never, Barton. I think we tapped out. Let’s be boring next life. Live somewhere warm. No bullshit.” She tried to kiss him, barely managing to reach his lips. “And no stupid fucking illusions.” And with that, Bobbi went under.

CLINT BARTON: There wasn't anymore space. The claustrophobia was intense, careening through any romantic or lovesick thought he could've given in response. He just watched Bobbi go under, the water enveloping around her, helpless to do anything but watch her drown. Again. As the water rose higher up his nose, he tilted his head to get one final breath in before the water went over his head, too.

BUCKY BARNES: He let her, the barrel pointing slightly downward yet his grip tightened around the trigger. The illusion was almost palpable, filling into his senses and spreading into every crack and crevice. He remembered reading how vivid it could feel, how the body would succumb before the mind. "You make a terrible blonde." he said with only a slight tremble in his throat. Forcing himself to move, he released the trigger and instead shifted his grip on the rifle, bringing the side of the gun across Wyngarde's head with a speed only granted by proximity. Even as he made contact, even as he heard the crack of the metal hitting bone, Yelena's form didn't give way into Regan's. It didn't change a bit.

DAISY JOHNSON: Usually it took a second for her shock blasts to hit, but suddenly the floor dropped out from below Daisy and she was falling what seemed to be a pretty lengthy distance. Even if she knew these two could make illusions, that didn't change the fact that this felt very real. Her eyes widened as she desperately tried to grasp onto the sides of the walls, but she just kept falling. And finally, after what felt like forever, she hit the ground with a hard thud that knocked every last breath of wind out of her. She wheezed as she laid on the ground before rolling over and spitting blood out of her mouth. "That... all you got?.."

CAROL DANVERS: It was utter chaos. Carol couldn't get to James or Clint or Bobbi because she was too busy chasing after Jess, who was now on her hands and knees, crawling through nothing. "Jessica fucking Drew-" she grabbed for Jess's shoulder, trying to yank her back. "If you don't get your ass up right now I swear to god I will lob you into space."

LAURA KINNEY: Following Kwannon’s telepathic instructions, Laura had laid low and circled  the perimeter. She could smell a Wyngarde standing next to James despite the difference in appearance, but Laura left him to it as he took her out with a blow from his gun. “Gabby.” She spoke her sisters name quietly, knowing she’d pick up on the sound. Counting to three silently, Laura lunged forwards towards Martinique. Using her momentum, she managed to tackle her with her thighs wrapped around the other mutants torso so she could throw both of them to the ground. Instantly in a crouch, two claws where extended towards Martinique as she left a spot for Gabby.

JESSICA DREW: “You don’t understand.” Jessica ignored Carol. When she touched her the brunette instantly sent a flare of stinging green energy towards her friend. “That a-hole did to Gerry what they did to Roger. I have to find him.” Her body was suffering though, and her crawl stalled as she sat on her knees. “IthinkI’mgoingtopassout.”

WANDA MAXIMOFF: “Enough.” Wanda could see through the illusions. She had been trapped in one of her own, a Westview that momentarily caught her off guard. But the people weren’t real. It only took the sight of her fake husband and children to snap out of it and scarlet exploded off of the Witch as she broke free. Regan Wyngarde was lying prone on the ground even though she looked like Yelena Belova. When Wanda lifted a hand red ate its way over the unconscious form and revealed its true shape. The illusions around the field slowly began to disintegrate and fade in clouds of red as Wanda hung suspended above it all. “I think we should be done with that.”

GABBY KINNEY: Gabby followed nearby, trying to lay low and not draw attention from either of the Wyngarde sisters as she listened to Laura and nodded, sneaking up on the other side of Martinique before she clawed across Martinique's stomach. She intentionally didn't go deep enough to kill, but definitely enough to maim as Martinique let out a scream and threw her head back. "Should we knock her out? We should knock her out, right?" She tried to raise her voice a bit over the screaming.

CAROL DANVERS: "Then pass out, you crazy baby obsessed freak." Carol said, words lined with concern as she shook out her hand. Crouching next to Jess, she braced her arms out, ready to catch, just as the illusion started to die away. They were left in the field, just adjacent to the helicarrier, no porcupines or bushes in sight. "Jess?" Carol asked, hesitantly.

DAISY JOHNSON: As the illusion lifted, Daisy could finally take a deep breath of air again as she came back to reality. She was laying on the helicarrier floor, a little disoriented as she brushed herself off and slowly used one of the side benches to stand herself up. "Bobbi? Clint? You guys good?"

JESSICA DREW: “You should try having a kid. They consume your every thought.” Jess slurred. Now having Carol’s approval, her eyes rolled back in her head and she swooned to the side. A moment later the illusion ceased, and Jessica blinked and sat up once more. Running her had over her face, she glanced around the field in confusion. “Gerry’s not a porcupine, is he? But Roger still is.”

CLINT BARTON: Clint swallowed air with a heave, inhaling so intensely that he began coughing, body lurching forward. He grabbed at his chest, hands slapping against dry clothing; against his holster and accessory weapons. Everything was in place, he was dry, he could breathe. Bobbi--- he shifted so quickly he almost smacked into her. They were both on the ground, against the wall of the helicarrier. Dry, unharmed, alive. "What a fucking dream." he said to himself once he'd regained his breath. "All one big fucking nightmare." he looked up at the sound of Johnson's voice. "Yeah. One of them must've knocked me out." He slowly got to his feet, dusting himself off like he could still feel water beneath his suit. "Always gotta bring the bow and arrow guy along to take the bulk of the beating, huh."

CAROL DANVERS: "Which is why I already have one. You." Carol took the bulk of her weight until Jess popped back up, taking her and her weight with her. "Gerry's not here, Jess. Gocking is, well. Would you rather I say he's safe at home?"

JESSICA DREW: Rising on wobbly feet, Jessica leaned against Carol for a moment of support. Although she had yet to tell her friend, Martinique was right. Her body was killing her. “No. I don’t think I want to say anything on it. Who saved the day?”

LAURA KINNEY: As Martinique began to trash, Laura moved to straddle her with her knee pressured against her solar plexus. “If you have someone who can create illusions and kill people, you’re always going to knock them out. Basic rule, Gabby.” In one quick motion Laura rose and drove her foot into Martinique’s temple. “Easy.”

GABBY KINNEY: "I mean I got the no killing her part down, didn't I? Does that not count for something?" Gabby snorted, laughing a little as Laura kicked Martinique in the head. "I totally could have done that."

BOBBI MORSE: For what wasn’t the first time in her life, Bobbi was pretty sure she died. Which, like every other time, was a bummer. Her lungs had stopped straining for air when out of nowhere it came flooding in to fill her lungs with such and intensity that she gagged. Body slumped against her ex-husbands, it took a second for Bobbi’s brain to catch up. “I’m taking time off after this.” She mumbled. “And I’m going away. Far away.” The top layer of her suit had been discarded to the side of her, and Bobbi buttoned it back on before grabbing her staves and hooking them back into her holster. “I knew I didn’t like those two.”

KWANNON: Picking her way through the field of recovering people, the raven haired telepath made her way first towards the Black Widow. She had psychically blocked herself off from the Wyngarde’s, and as a superior telepath that had allowed her time to pick through the mind of the still unconscious Sharon Carter. Relaying the information to Natasha, she followed the spies suggestion and moved to where James Barnes stood by Regan. “Her father is just as bad.” She commented quietly before dropping her voice and telling him, “Astrid Massey. Twenty-One. She’s a nursing student. Natasha said you would want to know.”

DAISY JOHNSON: "So what's our next move?" Daisy asked, pausing before turning to address Natasha. She knew she wasn't going to be able to make all of this up to them right away, but she was going to do what was right. The time to gather intel was over, it was time to figure out a game plan. "I'll do whatever you guys need me to do. I'm.. really sorry, that I didn't come out and say something sooner. It didn't feel like I had the option to. If Sharon found out.. well, like Bobbi said, we'd probably be locked away in here somewhere too. But as far as I'm concerned, Maria Hill can kiss my ass."

BUCKY BARNES: The illusion had dissolved, letting James confirm Regan's identity before turning his attention towards Psylocke. He still kept a guard against Regan while he listened, his gun pointed down at aimed at her unconscious form. "Thank you." He said thinly. He was so fucking tired of people messing with his and Yelena's mind.

JANE DOE/RIPLEY RYAN: There was a ripple. It was a slight stirring of reality tampering that slowly moved across Westview from its border. The Reality Stone that lived inside of Pleasant Hill’s Jane Doe responded to its multiversal sister when the Scarlet Witch used her magic outside the town. In an unprecedented move, the Town Database crashed for a singular moment. It only took that second for a blonde to materialize in the field by the border, clothed only in a hospital gown with unkempt blonde hair. A plastic hospital bracelet hung off one boney wrist as she stared at the group. “This isn’t right.”

CAROL DANVERS: "Ripley?" Carol said as she stood, hauling Jess to her feet with her. "For a brief, minute moment I wondered where you'd scampered off to. I guess I'm not entirely surprised it's here."

JANE DOE/RIPLEY RYAN: “Ripley.” The woman repeated blankly. “No. No, I don’t think so. Why are you here? You’re not supposed to be.”

CAROL DANVERS: Carol took a tentative step forward, closer to Ripley. "Then who are you? Why aren't we supposed to be here?"

JANE DOE/RIPLEY RYAN: At the question, genuine confusion and dismay washed over her face. She should know that, shouldn’t she? The sedatives that they had been pumping through her system dulled any red flags. Although she was still at first as the other woman approached, Jane took a step towards her and reached out to touch her arm. As soon as she made contact with the fabric of the uniform, the red in her chest lit up the thin gown. Red washing over her features, she looked back up at Carol as the Database once again manipulated the Stone inside of her. “I’m supposed to bring you home.” In a burst of red Carol Danvers vanished.

SAM WILSON: Watching the interaction warily, Sam took a step forward when what appeared to be Ripley touched Carol’s arm. Then, his girlfriend was gone completely and he was in front of the blonde within a second. Grasping both of her shoulders, Sam stared her down only to meet an unfocused gaze. “No, no. We’ve played this game before. Bring her back. Pleasant Hill isn’t our home, or yours. Bring her back or I swear to God, I’ll --- not again. Not this.”

JANE DOE/RIPLEY RYAN: The Database technician was already at work. Through his monitors he observed the group at the border and quickly typed in commands to have the Stone absorb people into the town. America Chavez. Cindy Moon. Clint Barton. Gwen Stacy. Jessica Drew. Kate Bishop. Kwannon. Laura Kinney. Matthew Murdock. Miles Morales. Natasha Romanoff. Scott Lang. He would have continued on but the connection cut out. Under the instructions of Dr. Jessup they had no choice but to recall Ryan back inside the hospital before she came to. Just like that, the Pleasant Hill border was silent once more.

SAM WILSON: Standing there in the aftermath, Sam couldn’t help but let out an angry, “Fuck.” Red disappearing, he looked to Wanda but she just shook her head. If her own abilities had been a catalyst for Ripley appearing they couldn’t risk an encore. “We’ve gotta...” he glanced around. “Sound off.” The heroes remaining made themselves known. Bobbi Morse. Cassie Lang. Daisy Johnson. Gabby Kinney. James Barnes. Jessica Jones. Nathan Summers. Peter Parker. Monica Rambeau. Riri Williams. Rogue. Sam Alexander. Sam Wilson. Sharon Carter. Stephen Strange. Steve Rogers. Vivian Vision. Wanda Maximoff. Sam listened to them all speak and nodded. “So we got a few let then.”

BOBBI MORSE: “We need to divide.” Bobbi announced. “I've got about twelve reality blocker chips on me that could help us get in that I was supposed to distribute. Anyone up a trip into hell?”

JESSICA JONES: “Jesus Christ, no.” Jessica shook her head. She was still reeling from a vision of Kilgrave. “I didn’t want to do this and now I *really* don’t want to do this. Plus, I’m out of whiskey.”

WANDA MAXIMOFF: Locking eyes with Strange, Wanda spoke after a moment. “I’ll go home and study. See what I can learn. I shouldn’t be here. My abilities drew Ripley out. They don’t want me here. I need to go to Krakoa though, I can bring someone with me.”

SAM WILSON: It was decided. Jessica Jones would be brought back to New York by Strange, and Wanda would accompany Rogue to Krakoa while Cable returned the Wyngarde sisters to the Island. Sharon would be brought into Pleasant Hill along with the rescue task force, but without Kwannon they were lacking a back up plan. The task force would consist of Bobbi Morse, Cassie Lang, Daisy Johnson, Gabby Kinney, James Barnes, Peter Parker, Monica Rambeau, Riri Williams, Sam Alexander, Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers and Vivian Vision. As each team broke off and vanished into the dying light, Sam took a deep breath before following Bobbi to the gate. In and out. That was the plan, but it wasn’t likely to be reality.

[topmixtrends]

LELAND BLOOM-MITTWOCH SR., cocaine in his blood and the Torah in his hands, ends his life by jumping off the roof of a Hyatt in Tampa, Florida. It’s 1999. In the moments before he leaps, he believes he sees a hand descend from the sky and call to him. It tells him he is worthy. He asks the hand if Reggie Marshall, the man he believes to be his best friend, who he believes died at the hands of a fellow drug dealer in 1973, was also worthy. The hand says yes, and he jumps. It is a prayerful moment, one that affirms Leland Sr.’s belief that he is doing the right thing. It is also tragic, like all death, but Leland Sr. seems to be at peace. Or, at least, as at peace as someone high on cocaine before noon can be.

It’s a striking beginning, made more so by its place outside of time. Rebekah Frumkin’s The Comedown is not told linearly, but through a string of chapters from the perspectives of interconnected characters from two families, the Bloom-Mittwochs and the Marshalls. A pair of family trees at the beginning of the book represents the two lineages, and each of the 14 chapters comes from someone connected to the aforementioned patriarchs, often either scorned or abandoned by them or by one of their offspring. The chapters cover huge chunks of time, from the respective characters’ births to the book’s fictional present, around 2009.

The trees and the nonlinear nature of the book create ample opportunities for dramatic irony, of which Frumkin, in her debut novel, makes wonderful use. When Leland Sr. is reflecting at the hotel in Tampa, he considers the risks involved with building relationships with other people:

He thought how there was no way to know how long loving someone could last, or whether it was even a good investment to begin with. That’s what kept people watching all those television soap operas. That’s what kept people praying in shul. They wanted to know how the other people and things they loved would turn out — whether they’d be destroyed by them or loved back.

Throughout his life, Leland Sr. did his fair share of loving and destroying, though it’s not always clear whether he sees it that way. He cheats on and then leaves his first wife and child in 1983, and then leaves his second wife a widow and his child fatherless in 1999 when he commits suicide. The woman with whom he cheats is Reggie’s estranged wife, Natasha Marshall. Their affair ends abruptly the day one of her 13-year-old sons catches them together. Even so, those he loved tended to love him back, at least for a time. Mental illness and drug addiction linked reciprocated love and eventual destruction: for Leland, the two could never be mutually exclusive. Despite the fundamental sentiment of Leland’s reflection, there seems to be little uncertainty about the inevitably tragic end to his most beloved relationships.

The exception to this rule is not a fortunate one. Reggie, who Leland Sr. frequently calls his best friend, found him to be a reprehensible character. Outside of their narrow interaction of drug dealer and drug consumer, Reggie wanted nothing to do with him. He was, as Reggie said, a “stupid ass […] the kind of stupid that couldn’t take a hint.” At times, he considered killing him:

He hated him but hurting him would feel like kicking a stray dog. He had a philosophy that the kind of person who deserved to be on the receiving end of a barrel was also the kind of person who’d been on the firing end, and Leland Sr. had never been on the firing end.

This comes first as a depressing surprise. When Leland Sr. describes their relationship, readers trust him implicitly. Every additional mention that undermines it as the book goes forward is a punch to the gut. While Leland Sr. leaves his wives and children, and ultimately humanity altogether, in his heart, he always remains true to Reggie.

This type of dissonance is the biggest return Frumkin draws out of her roving perspectives. Rarely do characters in The Comedown believe themselves to be or in the wrong, but they often are. This is clearest in a pivotal scene that takes place after Leland Sr.’s funeral. Leland Jr. confronts Diedre, his father’s second wife, and demands that she let him go to her home and take back the possessions his father took when he left, which he believes are rightfully his. Diedre, having just lost her husband, is not in a position to fight back: “She agreed to it because he wore an expensive suit and threatened to sue her if she didn’t comply.” She feels alone and scared, because Leland Jr. is trying to make her feel alone and scared. When Leland Jr. reflects on it in his chapter, though, he refers to it as “legal business” and sees his actions as justified. Importantly, his recollections erase the hostile tone that made the interaction especially horrifying the first time around. Parts of the interaction are run back again in Leland Jr.’s wife’s chapter. She sees her husband fall “into aggressive lockstep with Diedre” before he announces that he’ll be following her to her home. Her telling has compassion for her husband and recognizes how this stems from his anger at his father for abandoning him, but she can’t help but be a little horrified by Leland Jr.’s behavior. Nine years later, Diedre’s son Lee Jr. is still haunted by the memory. The event has deeply scarred him. On his 18th birthday, he drunkenly sends an email to Leland Jr. demanding the return of his family’s possessions. His mom is a manager at OfficeMax and they’re scraping by on her hourly wage while Leland Jr., much wealthier, has no real need for the valuables he took. Unsurprisingly, this is unsuccessful.

Frumkin’s technique of replaying scenes from multiple perspectives effectively gives readers a 360-degree view of how something happened. Most importantly, however, it is useful for exploring the totality of how her characters’ actions affect those around them, and how each character lives with it. The scope of The Comedown is such that everyone is in close proximity to a tragedy at all times. Frumkin’s juxtaposition makes it clear that what these characters do to one another in the book is both awful and perfectly human.

¤

The contrast born out of The Comedown’s structure also makes room for Frumkin to explore her characters’ wide-ranging sociopolitical circumstances. The differences are generational, racial, cultural, and economic, and she writes clearly on how their existence and collisions shape the lives of her characters. Aside from the aforementioned email from Lee Jr. to Leland Jr., the most compelling exploration of the tension this can bring about is the lives of Reggie and Natasha Marshall’s twins, Caleb and Aaron.

Aaron works for a real estate development company in Los Angeles while Caleb is a lawyer in their hometown of Cleveland. They’ve both found ways out of the poverty in which they grew up, but they are on divergent paths. Caleb spends his time, according to his brother, “living out his messiah dream as Lawyer for the Poor.” Caleb is only slightly more generous to himself:

The only thing keeping him in the Midwest was inertia. Inertia and what psychotherapists would probably call a savior complex. He wasn’t afraid of admitting to it. Better to be a savior than a sociopath.

The brothers share a similar impulse to ascribe pathology to what seems, on the surface, to be relatively normal moral behavior. This is made more striking by their consideration of Aaron’s job. A colleague is trying to get Aaron to help him purchase public housing complexes in Lynwood. Aaron, at the behest of his wife Netta, an accomplished artist whose work documents the lives of black subjects afflicted with poverty, is attempting to save the public housing and steer the buyer elsewhere. This despite the lingering negative feelings he has toward public complexes from his time living in one. He “hated how it felt living there, how people treated him for living there, how the other people there were always trying to beat him up and rip him off.” Neither brother takes much of a psychological interest in the origin of these feelings. For Aaron, it seems that the trauma of his childhood makes him resistant to doing the thing he knows is right, the thing that’s best for the most people and aligned with his moral position. What Frumkin is illuminating here is the manner in which pursuits that make more money — and Aaron makes a lot of money — are almost always considered more normal despite their destructive social value. That dynamic’s opposite, sacrificing money for a job that is fulfilling in a different way, is just as rational, but because it bucks capitalist logic, it requires an explanation. The fullness with which she approaches each perspective is what makes this possible.

Alongside these conflicts within the characters’ own lives, Frumkin also explores society-level phenomena. The Bloom-Mittwoch family is Jewish and the Marshall family is black, and their similarities and differences are crucial. Leland Sr., a hapless incompetent with a philosophy degree, falls backward into a job because his friend runs a scrap shop. Reggie, a much savvier person, struggling to give his children a better life than his own, finds his way into drug dealing. He’s exceptional at it, though the requisite hazards catch up to him. There’s little ambiguity about how things would have gone if their resources and privileges were flipped.

One of the issues on which the families align is on the subject of law enforcement. Reggie believes “you really [have] to pity anybody stupid enough to believe in the police” while Leland Sr. tells Leland Jr. one night that “there’s actually no such thing as a straight cop. They’re a gang. A violent gang.” Their experiences come from different places. Reggie has dealt with racist police practices his whole life, as a black man and as a drug dealer. Leland Sr. was a hippie at Kent State and saw the progressive armament of enforcers working to squelch protesters until his friends were among those eventually shot and killed. The Comedown also explores how this manifests concretely. Aaron, at 14, routinely finds himself and his friends subjected to baseless frisking.

As the book goes on, Frumkin’s narrators come from further down the family tree, which is a handy means of exposing generational divides and inheritance. Lee Jr. is the youngest family member. He is diagnosed as having bipolar disorder in a significantly less stigmatizing (though still needlessly stigmatizing) world. The illicit drugs are better, which is good and bad. More than this, though, he’s inherited a world where, unlike his father or half-brother, he doesn’t see much of a future for himself. When he begins college in 2009, the economy is in a recession and the future feels clear in its darkness. The structures that propped up the successful people in his family are not there for him, and he does not know what to do. Still, Frumkin also shows the promise ahead. Lee Jr.’s best friend in college, born Edward Jonathan Phillips but called, at different times, Tarzan, Tweety, or New Person, is a gender fluid character with a safe space for exploring and expressing their true self.

The matter-of-fact approach to writing about the complicated web of reasons why people’s lives turn out the way they do is essential to The Comedown’s success. Frumkin is also an accomplished journalist who has written about mental health, sex work, and other areas where the subjects are often mistreated or misunderstood. It shows here. The Comedown’s characters are cruel to one another and themselves for predictable reasons as well as for surprising ones. They are loving to one another and themselves in the same way. At its core, the book is about relationships and the joy and pain they bring. In that realm, and others, it’s a resounding success.

¤

Bradley Babendir is a fiction writer and critic. He has written for the New Republic, The New Inquiry, WBUR’s The ARTery, and elsewhere.

The post Family Matters: On Rebekah Frumkin’s “The Comedown” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[flauntpage]

Five Thoughts On Chris Christie, On Sports Radio At The End Of The World

1. On Monday morning, hours before New Jersey Governor Chris Christie began his first semi-formal audition for a job as a host at New York sports radio station WFAN, I found everyone on the internet talking about the end of the world. The two were not connected, strictly speaking. The more proximate cause was a big and doomy magazine story about the effects of climate change that pointed, ominously and insistently, in the direction of a jarringly imminent apocalypse. Mondays!

The scope of the story was frankly biblical, all dead oceans boiling with poison and surging through cities, great bands of the earth becoming hot enough to poach humans to death in hours, wars and displacement and dispossession, ancient viruses awakening in freshly thawed permafrost. There was nothing really metaphysical or righteous at work; this is biblical strictly in the sense that the future described is both broadly punitive and big. Causally, it is one long tragicomic flap of the butterfly effect—a thousand cattle emit gales of methane farts in Kansas while awaiting their date with the inside of a soggy Taco Bell shell, and then thousands of miles away a mammoth iceberg calves off the arctic ice shelf.

There is something decadent about considering horror on this scale, and not merely because of our instincts to ironize or elide anything that big. All that dark contemplation is overwhelming, and not unreasonably. But the work of living with this sort of dread, as we face it here on earth, is less about apprehending the end of everything than the challenge of the next moment, and the moment after that. It is a scary and stressful thing to imagine that the world is ending, but it would be far worse to act as if it were. Everything ends, but that in no way means you shouldn't set an alarm for tomorrow morning. There is always the next step, into something imminent and invisible, and it is non-negotiable.

Anyway, Chris Christie is still the Governor of New Jersey. The election to replace him is still four months away. If WFAN offers him the job that he auditioned for on Monday and Tuesday, in the time slot long occupied by New York's peevish sports radio emperor Mike Francesa, Christie would start right around the time that his successor as Governor is sworn in.

2. Monmouth University released a poll on Monday that put Christie's approval rating in New Jersey at 15 percent; 80 percent of those polled did not approve of the work he's done as governor, and 55 percent believe that the state is worse off than it was before he was first elected eight years ago.

For much of his second term, Christie was doing something other than governing, first playing defense on the scandal surrounding the vindictive and gratuitous closure of multiple lanes to the George Washington Bridge to punish a political rival and then, astoundingly, running for the Republican Presidential nomination, and finally in glum servitude to the man who beat him out to become the eventual nominee. Christie's value proposition, to Republican voters and donors, was that he would be cruel in all the ways they valued and petty in all the appropriate directions. He made his political fortune shouting down public school teachers and pushing around anyone light enough to move, and only lost when he ran into a bigger bully.

But when Christie lost—on the nomination he sought, on a role in President Trump's administration, and probably on any kind of future in electoral politics—he did not resign from the job he had only kind of done for the previous few years. He stuck around the office, nominally if not always literally, and periodically vetoed bills that passed through a legislature that no longer feared or respected him.

On July 4 weekend, the Newark Star-Ledger ran photos of Christie and his family lounging on a sunny state beach that was otherwise empty of visitors. It had been closed by a government shutdown that Christie had done little to prevent. The Monmouth University poll found that 86 percent of those surveyed had seen the photos. "Two-thirds of the public expressed a negative sentiment," the poll reported. "With "disgusted" (7 percent) being the most commonly used word. Anger (7 percent) and disbelief (6 percent) were also frequently mentioned themes. Nearly 1-in-5 residents described their reaction in terms of the governor's character, using words such as "selfish" (5 percent), "hypocrite" (4 percent), and "arrogant" (3 percent). Another 6 percent of those polled simply used some form of profanity."

Early in the show on Monday, Christie's co-host Evan Roberts—the WFAN host Joe Beningo referred to the pairing as "Evan and The Governor," Roberts went with "The Governor and Evan"—brought up the beach photos. "When you were on the beach, was it true you were wearing a Mets shirt?" Roberts asked. "Because it looked like it."

"I was," Christie confirmed, before revealing that he was also wearing Mets shorts, and a 2006 Mets NLCS hat. Roberts, who is also a Mets fan, was theatrically agog about the hat. He asked Christie how he could wear such a thing. "I'm a Mets fan," Christie answered. "I love pain. I love disappointment."

When you love pain, and disappointment. Photo by

3. As he de-emphasized the Governing The State Of New Jersey part of his life, Christie began appearing on WFAN more. He has subbed in for Boomer Esiason on the station's "Boomer And Carton" morning show numerous times, and developed a sort of rude chemistry with co-host Craig Carton over that time. He's appeared on Francesa's show as a guest, where the two generally traded compliments and told stories about what a wonderful man former Dallas Cowboys quarterback Roger Staubach is. Honestly, Christie is not bad—not great, but decidedly not bad—during these appearances. The better part of sports talk radio can be summed up by Jim Rome's rule of "have a take and don't suck," and Christie has at least half of that comfortably down.

Because he is world-historically self-assured and polished at public speaking, Christie does not come across as an amateur on the radio. Because he built his political identity through variously heated confrontations with weaker parties, generally from behind a dais and phalanxes of security, Christie is innately very comfortable with the stage-y disagreeability that is the fuel of bog-standard sports talk radio. He knows a decent amount about sports, too, or at least about the teams he cares about, and on Monday and Tuesday Christie didn't have a difficult time getting his huff and puff on as required.

In partnering him with Roberts, a former WFAN intern who has become an effective high-energy counterpoint to longer-tenured co-hosts, the plan was clearly to lock in a simple giving-shit/getting-shit dynamic between the two. Christie is a little too self-important for that, and much more naturally inclined to give than get, but he did his best. "You're stretching," Christie said on Monday after Roberts pumped it up as best he could on getting upset about the MLB All-Star Game determining home field advantage in the World Series. "You're better than that, Evan."

"I'm honestly not better than that," Roberts said.

4. It had been years since I'd last listened to sports talk radio for an extended period of time, and was not surprised to find myself out of shape when it came to listening to four-and-a-half hours of windy playfighting between a disgraced governor and a puppyish 34-year-old.

WFAN is as janky as it has ever been, with the same neutered guitar squalls and featureless male vocals singing corny jingles and redundant updates and endless reeling skeins of canned ads ("Rocket Mortgage by Quicken Loans proudly supports Mike Francesa"; "Guys Don't Talk About Antiperspirant") and host-read ads (Infiniti of Massapequa, Marvin Windows And Doors) and an ad Francesa recorded for a "longtime friend"'s credit union on Long Island that was somehow both.

There is, after you get out of the habit of listening by a sufficient distance, something both claustrophobic and immersive about it. In one sense, you are trapped in a studio with people who insist on being disagreeable about things they only sort of care about; the only voices from outside that purgatory arrive over the phone, and they are just as strange or stranger. "I don't care what everyone says," says a caller named Brian in Manhattan. "You're hilarious. When you said to that guy, 'if you want to sit on a beach, become the governor.' We were at a barbecue when we read that and we couldn't stop laughing." Roberts disconnects him and points out that Brian had called in the previous week and expressed his wish that Jacob deGrom would get bombed in his start that night, and then suffer a rotator cuff injury.

And yet, because the discursive circuit is so furiously closed, there is a sense in which the show's boundaries come into congruence with those of the broader world. Again, this is not exactly pleasant, and listening to Chris Christie and Evan Roberts from the height of an afternoon into the fat part of happy hour was not ever really fun—Christie is too prickly and pompous, Roberts not quite capable of carrying him—and more exhausting than anything else. But it worked in the sense that, when those weird WFAN promo voices sang the words, "Well you can't have New York without sports/and you can't have sports without the FAN" I barely noticed how uncanny it was. I was pretty much trapped in the moment, and I was honestly pretty anxious to escape from the moment, but I was in it.

5. People never really stop talking about the end. The vision of it changes to reflect the anxieties and specific harbingers of a given moment, but the undertow never really stops running. This last year and change especially has been shot through with intimations of collision and collapse, and the last few months have been defined by the horrific and darkly hilarious passive performance of it. We are not nearly through it, but it seems safe to say that to read about things like decline or collapse—and read about them, and read about them, and read about them—is no real preparation for living through them. There is no real getting used to it yet.

Empires decline and collapse, we know this, but this is the sort of thing most commonly viewed from the safety of a few hundred years. The idea of the end of everything is compelling in a highly abstracted way, as a story people tell and as a generational fear, mostly because of how definitive it is. In a moment defined by how parlous and shifting and ungovernable and multiply un-definitive it is, the clarity of an ending is...well, it's horrifying. But it's at least something that can be agreed upon.

But it's also a fantasy. We won't know that we've reached the end until we've passed it by, and we don't know if that moment has come and gone already. Our likeliest future, which is honestly no easier to imagine than a more fantastical end, is something about equally as absurd as the present. Things will change, because of what we have done and what we have yet to do, and they will get better or they will get worse, but day by day they will be similar, and generally exactly what we make of them. Moment by moment, our lives are made of the decisions we make, and we live with and in the sum of all that. Every day we make it all over again, as the home we want for ourselves or the prison we can't quite quit.

Chris Christie is finished, but he also has another few decades or so left in the sentence he is serving inside his sour self. It's hard to know, now, how many of those years he will spend in sports radio, but it is tough to think of a job that would suit him better. When one of Christie's many angry constituents finally got to confront him on the air on Monday—it was Mike From Montclair, a frequent Francesa caller, and he told the producer he wanted to talk about Aaron Judge—you could see in the brief and blustering confrontation and the lull that followed the absurd future that Christie has earned. His will to power doesn't matter, now. His pettiness and cruelty and vanity are, without any accompanying authority, now merely pitiful and small. Christie has the power to hang up on Mike From Montclair, but there are others waiting on the line. If he gets this job, that will be what he gets: the next call, and the one after that, and the one after that, through into the evening and then again tomorrow, and then for however many more days after that as he can stand. You can't say he hasn't earned it.

Five Thoughts On Chris Christie, On Sports Radio At The End Of The World published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv