#GOOD TO SEE WE’RE STILL HARASSING KARL

[peninkwrites]

Before: Karl and Quackity (don't) Date - Ch 4 of ?

Quackity is thrown several life rafts and refuses them all. This drowning goes about as well as can be expected.

(CW: Abuse, threats of violence and murder, violence, power imbalances, (maybe) disordered eating? and Schlatt)

crossposted to ao3

Ch 1

Ch 3

Ch 5

The Mafia AU

~

Quackity cannot go home.  He’s still walking, he’d stopped running after a few blocks, his throat already raw and very much not appreciating him gasping for breath, and he has no fucking clue where to go.  He can’t go back to his shitty apartment, Schlatt will just find him there.  It’s still day time.  So he can find somewhere public but far enough away that he can keep out of sight.

First he's going to keep walking until he’s across the river.  Quackity doesn’t feel safer across the river necessarily, but if it’s being harassed by cops or fucking murdered by Schlatt, it feels like the best way to go.

Murdered by Schlatt.  Is that the fear?  Is that really where we’re at right now?  Fucking hell…

Quackity will not call Karl.  No way in hell.  There’s no fucking way Karl wants anything to do with him now and he won’t be pathetic enough to beg him for help.  It’s fucking humiliating enough that the guy found out about Schlatt in the flesh, with him dragging Quackity around like a doll.  Quackity crosses the river, still at a quick stride.  He doesn’t think he’ll be safe at a campus building.  Schlatt now knows to check the libraries.  So Quackity turns into the first cafe he sees, a cutesy place called Rose’s, the bell over the door ringing loud enough to make him flinch.  The woman behind the counter looks startled by his intensity.  Quackity shrinks, quickly finding a table, pulling his beanie lower.  The woman working comes over to him, looking wary.

“What can I get you?”

“W-What?” Quackity isn’t really all there, it takes him far too long to process what she says.

She looks uncomfortable, long curly brown hair pulled back, nails painted red, holding a notepad.  “You’re gonna have to order something if you want to stay.”

“Right– Uh,” Quackity rubs his eyes.  “Black coffee.”

“Gotcha,” she’s quick to make her exit.

Quackity quickly pats down his pockets, relieved to find he’d thought to take his wallet with him when Schlatt had said they were going out.  Quackity is still antsy, leg bouncing furiously, staring out the window and biting his nails.  He can see the redness of his knuckles from where he punched Schlatt.  He’s about to pull down his sleeves when he remembers the ring of bruises around his neck.  It doesn’t matter.  He already looks like shit, there’s no point in trying to hide it.  He stands up too fast, the chair grinding noisily against the tile, the woman pouring his coffee raising an eyebrow at him, although she doesn’t say anything.

Quackity isn’t sure what he was planning on doing.  “Uh– Where’s– Where’s your restroom?”

She points down the hall.

Quackity nods his thanks and quickly disappears, locking himself inside the brightly lit bathroom.  He paces.

“You’re good… you’re gonna figure this out, you’re good!  You could–” There’s not much room to pace, he’s almost turning in place now.  “Y-You could go back, apologize.  Maybe he– If you apologize, he won’t kill you.  If you make a really big show about it, crying and shit–” Quackity laughs, panicked and still hoarse.  “Oh, you’re definitely gonna be fucking crying by the end of it, jesus fucking christ– Do I have a death wish?!  I fucking punched him.”  Quackity stops, gripping the edges of the sink, a lump in his already sore throat as he fends off tears.  It’s not like he can leave.  He can’t hide from Schlatt forever either.  He has nowhere to go.  Without Schlatt, he has no job, no money, nowhere to live, and no one paying his fucking tuition.  He is so close to graduating.  The youngest in their year.  He’s going to be so fucking impressive, there’s no way he can lose it right now.  There’s no way he can lose Schlatt right now.

Without Schlatt he has no one period.  No one willing to kiss him or touch him at all or make him feel like he’s worth literally anything.  Schlatt is harsh, but he’s honest.  At least when Schlatt praises him Quackity knows he means it.  No one else is going to be that for him, no one else is going to be anything for him.

What about Karl?

“What about Karl…” Quackity mutters.  “What a-fucking-bout him, huh?!  You scared him off!  That ship has sailed, you fucking idiot– ship you never should’ve had to begin with!”  He’s glaring at his own reflection now, hating himself for being the one to get him here.

He would’ve hated himself just as much if he’d let Schlatt keep dragging him along, reminding him of his place.

He should be used to hating himself in general by now.

Quackity tears his gaze away from his reflection, splashing cold water on his face.  He returns to the cafe.  There’s coffee at the table he had occupied before and the woman behind the counter isn’t looking at him.  Quackity returns to his seat, scanning the street outside like he’s somehow expecting Schlatt’s boys to have found him even here.  A figure comes up beside him, Quackity flinches violently, hitting the table as he jolts away, harsh enough to spill some of the coffee.

The server is still a little wary, she takes a step back.

“Do you– Do you want a donut?”

“W-What?” Quackity stares at her, somehow still uncomprehending.

“They’re– Um.  They’re a day old, so if they don’t go today I’ve got to throw them away and we close in a few hours, so– so it’d be free.  So, do you want a donut?”  Her tone isn’t exactly nice, it’s almost irritated, but she’s here nonetheless, offering him a basket, extending it as far away from her body as she can, like he’s a startled animal that might bite her.  She’s wearing a nametag.  Hannah.

Quackity feels a bit calmer, if only because he is startled.  “Okay.  Uh.  Thank you.”  He takes a sugar donut from the basket.  He really feels like he’s going to fucking cry now.

She gives him a nod before quickly returning to behind the counter.

Quackity stares at the donut.  Normally Quackity hates being pitied, he hates getting things without a clear price because that tended to be dangerous, but sometimes things are just kind.  And Quackity doesn’t know how to cope with that right now.  So he turns in his seat, angling himself away from the counter, and continues to vehemently fend off tears.

“What–” Quackity realizes something else she said.  “Uh, what time do you close?”

She looks almost apologetic.  “Seven.”

Quackity glances at his watch.  He has a little less than two hours.  He just nods and takes a sip of his coffee.  He hasn’t touched the donut yet.  He can’t.

Okay.  Two hours.  Where can you go that’s safe tonight?

Quackity doesn’t think he’s too good for homeless shelters, not by a fucking mile, but he also doesn’t trust Schlatt to not think of looking there.  They’re too public, he needs a door he can lock, if he can manage it.  Quackity, with a furtive glance at the server who remains behind the counter, gets out his wallet.  Okay, a hotel room is what, 25 a night?  What about a shitty dirt cheap motel?  15?  Does he have that kind of cash on him?  Why the fuck would he?

He has to have that kind of cash.  He has to.

That’s fifteen bucks.  Is there some shit motel room around here you can get for fifteen bucks?

For good measure he counts his change.

Oh wow 15.39 you’re really rolling in it huh, Quackity?

“Fuck…” Quackity sighs.  He doesn’t even know where to start looking.  “Hi, uh, sorry– Do you… do you have a phonebook?”

She looks at him carefully.  “Yeah,” she goes in the back, returning with it.  “Don’t rip out any pages.”

“Yeah, yeah for sure, then– d’you got a pen?” Quackity grabs a napkin to write it on.

She nods, giving him her pen.

“And– I am sorry to keep asking for things,” Quackity laughs like it’s almost painful.  “But do you know where the nearest payphone is?”

Her gaze is too intense as she clearly debates something, and for a moment Quackity almost thinks she’s going to kick him out.  Instead, she sighs.

“Fine, come on,” she walks behind the counter.

“What?” Quackity stares after her blankly.

She looks back at him, rolling her eyes like he’s being stupid on purpose.  “Only phone we have is back here.  Take the book with you, obviously.”

Quackity scrambles with the phone book before following her.  Around the corner, just in the kitchens, their phone is hooked to the wall.  Quackity is feeling incredibly jumpy about all of this.  He scans the room.  “So you’re… you’re closing alone?”

She narrows her eyes at him and Quackity realizes that was a super suspicious thing to say to a woman who is being very kind to him.  “Maybe.”

“Right, I didn’t– I just wasn’t sure if someone else was here,” is his fumbling explanation.  It explains nothing, but Quackity still likes it better to I’m a paranoid wreck and if someone sneaks up on me right now I’m scared I’ll pull a knife on them.

She remains cagey and cautious.  “Maybe.”

“Right, right.  That’s fine!  That’s– Uh, thank you.  Really, I mean–”

“Yeah, whatever,” she gives him a somewhat scathing once over, before clearly deeming him not a threat.  She waves him off before returning to her post at the front.

Quackity refocuses, flipping through the yellow pages until he gets to Hotels & Accommodations.

He skims the list, looking for a one star review.

He dials, he waits.

The man who answers probably greets him but Quackity is on a mission.

“Hi, can I ask what your lowest rate for a night is?”

A pause, the man startled.  “We are one of the most affordable motels in the city, one night starting at fifteen dollars.”

Quackity pauses.  He will at some point need to eat.  He cannot spend all of his money just on getting a shit hotel.

Quackity hangs up.

Next one star motel.  Fifteen again.  Next motel, 14.50 what a steal.  Next motel–

“Twenty–”

“Why the fuck are you charging that much?!  Your motel is shit!”

That time the other guy hangs up first.  Quackity is considering giving up.  Starving is still alive.

The next place he calls says the magic words, “our cheapest room is 13 a night–”

Quackity laughs, almost hysterical.  “Oh my god, seriously?!”

“Well, yes I–”

“Dude I could kiss you right now!  Holy shit– Okay–” 

“…please don’t.”

Quackity dials back his hopes, trying to calm down.  “And– I mean, d’you have vacancies for tonight?”

“Yes–”

“Okay, okay great– Okay, can you reserve it for me or some shit?”

A pause.  “...you don’t need to reserve a room.  If you check in, you will be one of three people in the building,” he says with a sigh.

“Great!  Great,” Quackity checks the listing, wincing at the address.  It’s on the river.  East side.  Okay, that’s fine.  That’s not the end of the world, he’ll cross the bridge and walk the ten minutes to the motel and then he is safe for the night.

Quackity hangs up without another word, returning to the front with the phonebook.  “Thank you.  Again, like, thank you a lot–” He fumbles for his wallet again, getting out coins to pay for his coffee.

“Dude.  Keep it.  It was one cup of coffee,” she stops him, “you just go back to going through… whatever you’re going through.”

Quackity isn’t sure how to take that.  Still, he returns the phone book to her.

Quackity makes it to the bridge.  He stops.  The sun hasn’t even set yet, there are civilians all over the place.  He can make it to a fucking motel.  He can’t pretend he isn’t tempted to head toward his apartment.  He wouldn’t get too close, he just wants to see if he’s right, if Schlatt has people there waiting for him.

He cannot get caught by being that stupid.  If only for the fact of how fucking embarrassing it would be.  He pokes his head around the corner, just to see, and then he’s getting shoved in a trunk and taken back to Schlatt, and he’ll die knowing what fucked him over was going back just to see.

So Quackity heads for the motel.

The lobby smells like mildew, cigarettes, and kind of like cat piss, and when Quackity asks ‘you guys wouldn’t like, have a toothbrush or some shit you could give me?’ and the clerk looks at him like he told a very unfunny joke, but when Quackity hesitates before writing his name to check in, uncertainly writing Kyle Jacobs– he’s aware of this pathetic demonstration of his subconscious, he is, but who gives a shit right now– they don’t question that it’s probably not his name.  They give him a key, politely telling him to check the mouse traps when he first gets in there, and don’t look him in the eye.

That is fine by him.  The room is dimly lit, but Quackity does not open the curtains, he shuts the door behind him, and locks it with the chain.  He checks the mouse traps, all empty.  Lucky him.  There is soap in the shower, but Quackity thinks he might stay cleaner avoiding it for now.  He sits on the edge of the bed.  The room doesn’t have a TV or a radio.  It doesn’t even have a phone.  There is a phone at the end of the hall, but who the fuck is he planning on calling?  Karl’s phone number is still tucked in his wallet.  His considerably more empty wallet.

Fuck.  This is not a long-term solution.  This is one night of relative safety, and then what?

I’ll tell you what you don’t do, we don’t fucking call Karl.  We don’t do that to him.  If he’s got any brains at all he will forget you fucking exist, and you won’t be the selfish bastard to remind him, now will you?

For a moment, that irritating voice in his head sounds like Schlatt.  Quackity rubs his eyes.  He’s safe for now.  And he’s wired like a spring.  He curls up on top of the musty blankets, staring at the thin gap in the curtains.  The sun hasn’t even set yet, only a little after eight, and there’s no way he’s going to fall asleep having only eaten a single donut and a cup of coffee all day.

It almost doesn’t connect that this very morning he’d woken up in bed beside Schlatt, and laid awake there, waiting for Schlatt to wake up, not wanting to risk being the one to wake him too early.  He’d stayed in that bed unmoving for over an hour, waiting for Schlatt to move first.  Then, as he had for the many days previously, he’d tread lightly around him, he avoided him when he could, put as much defiance as he could manage into sulking, he barely spoke, and not just because his voice was still hoarse from that first night back.  And he did what Schlatt asked.

Yep.  You were such a good pet, weren’t you?  So well behaved.  And now, when Schlatt finds you, because eventually he will, and when he kills you for being defiant, for punching him in the face in public, in front of a couple of his stupid followers, you’ll know it didn’t do you any good.  All it meant was that your last days on earth were spent groveling on your knees for him to let you fucking eat, let you go outside again, let you finish fucking law school.

Quackity’s chest feels very tight, he grabs the worn pillow in front of him, presses it to his face, and screams.  He screams until his throat is once more raw, until screaming begins to hurt.

“Can’t… I can’t fucking die yet…” his voice is ragged, barely beyond a whisper.  No one is fucking listening anyway.  “I’m 21.  I can’t fucking– I can’t die yet.  I–”  He laughs, bordering on hysterics, and with it a sob.  “I have a paper due on Friday.”

He does eventually sleep, getting up once more to check the lock before taking off most of his clothes.  They’ll stay clean longer that way, even if Quackity is doing his best not to think about the potential fallout of his bare skin on these sheets.  He sleeps straight through til morning, until 11 am there’s someone banging on his door.

Quackity bolts upright, searching for his knife which he’d fall asleep holding.

“Fuck–” he yanks his hand back, shaking it out at the thin cut he’d managed to give himself trying to grab the blade.

Through the door, a voice reaches him.  “Check out time is 11:30, unless you’re paying to stay another night.”

“O-Okay, okay, I fucking got it!” Quackity shouts back until the guy leaves him alone.  “Fuck…” he goes to the bathroom sink, washing away the blood.  It’s a tiny cut.  He stops the bleeding with a dab of toilet paper.

He’s got a half hour left here to get his shit together.

He showers, gets dressed in his dirty clothes from the day before, checks his wallet and his abysmal $2.39, and heads out.  He hesitates just inside the lobby.

Schlatt won’t go running all over on the West side.  He just has to make it across the river.

Would he search campus?  If his boys were sniffing around there too long the cops would get called for sure.

That’s not a guarantee.  And if Schlatt’s pissed enough, that doesn’t mean it’ll stop him.

Quackity starts walking before he can change his mind.  He has to go somewhere.

Quackity wants to go home.  Home for him is a shitty overcrowded flat, arguably home is just his bedroom.  It is the only patch of this city that is properly his and even that’s not true.  That room is being rented by Schlatt.

Quackity has nothing.

Not true.  Technically you have two dollars and 39 cents.

Fuck, Quackity wants to call Karl.

You said you weren’t gonna do that to him.  Think of the danger you would put him in.

“Fuck it…” Quackity scans the street the moment he crosses the river for a payphone.  “I’m dead anyway, might as well… try to say goodbye or some shit…” he mutters.  He hesitates for another moment.  This could very well be a fucking waste of 20 cents, but he has to try.  The phone rings, Quackity leaning against the glass of the booth.  He needs to get food after this or he’s going to pass out.

The phone keeps ringing.

Quackity waits.  He doesn’t give up.  He keeps waiting until the phone stops ringing.  He’s still holding the phone when he hears the coins clatter back out of the machine.

Quackity leaves.

He didn’t drag Karl into this mess, he didn’t say some pathetic goodbye, and somehow he still resents himself for calling at all.  Somehow it’s worse that Karl didn’t answer, even if he got away from the consequences of his own weakness.  At least if Karl had answered, Quackity’s feeble yearning could’ve ended some way.

His misery persists the rest of the day.  He finds brief sanctuary in a burger and fries that after the time he’s had is so good he could cry.  It’s the first proper meal he’s had all fucking week, and that makes the afternoon go easier.  Still, Quackity dreads the sunset.  Cafes close, parks close, the pigs start prowling around, and this time Quackity has nowhere to go.

You could risk a shelter.  Come on, what’re the odds that tonight Schlatt’s little patrols will search every homeless shelter?

Quackity also doesn’t want to die because he got too soft to obey his own rules.  Tonight won’t be fun, but ideally it will be survivable.

Survivable for what?  What’s the plan, Q?  What the fuck do you think is gonna be different about tomorrow?

That is a tomorrow problem.  Right now, we just gotta find somewhere.

The sun hasn’t set yet, not with such long summer days, but that doesn’t give him somewhere to go.

Quackity’s first thought is a place also on the East side, one that won’t be open for another two hours after this place closes, one owned by someone who has every right to hate him.

Niki’s place will be open until like midnight.  That’ll give you some time.  The rest of the night… you’ll figure something out.

Quackity doesn’t want to.  He doesn’t know why Niki would accept him, especially without Karl to support him, but it’s the only other place he can think of that will be open that late that doesn’t allow Schlatt’s bullies inside.  Ironic considering it’s under Schlatt’s thumb at present, but they know to steer clear when Niki always has a shotgun ready.  And after that, he can find somewhere on the streets to hunker down, worst case scenario.

You find some fucking park bench West of the river, then the pigs will probably harass you.  You try and find some dark corner East side of the river, if you’re lucky it’ll be a Badlander who mugs you instead of one of Schlatt’s boys who drags you back to him.

Why the fuck did you waste your money on a motel?  Should’ve gotten a bus ticket out of here.

To where?

Quackity hasn’t had to rough it in a long time.  He wishes he had his fucking car.  Schlatt would recognize it, but if he found some back alley far enough on the West side, he could cover up in the back seat and hopefully the pigs wouldn’t bother to check it.  Not like it matters.  He doesn’t have his car.

He could find a park.  He’s pretty sure they officially close after dark, but if he’s lucky, the sun will set in time for Niki’s place to open up.

So Quackity wastes the next two hours wandering King’s Park and doing his best not to think about walking this same path with Karl.  The yearning he has for a man he barely knows, he finds it pathetic, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stop himself.  He’s still jumpy.  It’s a public place, joggers and bikers paying him no mind, but Quackity is still half expecting Schlatt’s men to somehow be lurking.  He’s been in a state of near constant adrenaline for the past few days anyway, trying to keep Schlatt happy after what happened last time, but at least he’d grown more confident Schlatt wouldn’t deliberately kill him, even if he got rough.  Not anymore.

Two hours later when Quackity crosses the river again, he does so with a racing heart.  It would be so easy for Schlatt’s boys to be patrolling these particular streets, to spot him and grab him.

How do you think Schlatt will kill you, huh?  Beat you to death?  Execution style, bullet between the eyes in front of everyone?  Hey, maybe it’ll be something romantic and classy, like force feeding you some chocolate covered strawberries laced with fucking cyanide.

He walks as fast as he can without breaking into an all out sprint.  Some brief, rational part of him wildly thinks, why are you so certain the man you love is going to kill you?  But it’s easy to bury, to ignore the contradiction that he thinks he loves Schlatt just as much as he thinks he’s going to kill him.  He has more important things to worry about right now.  Like whether or not Niki will let him stay.

He glances at the top of the display case in the window before going back into the alley.  He knocks three times, and then once more.  That same tall kid answers, staring at him with slightly wide eyes.

“Um–” Quackity has half a mind to run away, but then he gets ahold of himself.  “Uh– It’s… Sourdough?  I think.”  Now that he’s committed, he’s scared the kid is going to shut the door in his face.

The boy looks him over, expression hard to read behind his mask, but Quackity can tell he lingers on Quackity’s bruised neck. He opens the door further.  “It’s ciabatta, actually, but close enough.  They are labeled, though.  Just so you know.  So you don’t guess next time.”

Quackity gives a jerky nod of thanks as he enters.  Next time.  Why’s this kid so open to there being a next time?  He clearly knows who Quackity is.

He’s the only patron at present, considering it’s 9 o’clock on the dot.  That is not ideal for him.  Niki once again gives him a scrutinizing look.

Quackity’s first impulse is to apologize, but Niki speaks first.

“So, where’s Karl?”

“What?” Quackity stares at her blankly, somehow almost feeling wounded.

She smirks, “what, did you mess it up on the first date?”

Quackity realizes she’s teasing him.  He laughs nervously.  “Didn’t need to.  He wised up and ran for the hills once he… once he got a good look at me.”

Niki processes this carefully.  “That doesn’t sound like Karl,” she says mildly.

“What?  Wising up?” Quackity hesitates for another moment, puzzled, but he comes up to the bar and takes a seat, glancing back at the kid who has stayed by the door, as if expecting the tall thirteen year old to pose a threat.

“No.  Running off after he looks at someone,” Niki shrugs.  She pauses in her task of laying out clean glasses for the night, growing more serious.  “Why are you here, Quackity?”

Quackity hates this.  Maybe he should just let Schlatt have his way with him, surely that would be easier than this.  “I don’t… I don’t have anywhere else to go tonight.  And I won’t cause any trouble, okay?  I just–  I just don’t have anywhere else.”

Niki isn’t staring at the bruises on his neck, but her looking him in the eye with that kind of intensity is just as disconcerting.

“Okay.  Fine.  If you order a drink, you can stay,” Niki shrugs.

“Thank you,” Quackity feels weak with relief.  He gets himself a beer, a precious 85 cents now gone, chooses a corner to hunker down in, and stays there, quiet and untroublesome for the rest of the night.  The kid with Niki keeps on looking over at him, looking away quickly whenever Quackity stares back.  Many people trickle in throughout the night, thankfully no familiar faces.  Quackity eventually relaxes enough to curl up in a booth to sleep for a few hours.  No one bothers him.

Quackity jolts awake.

The Speakeasy is empty, and Niki’s little assistant is wiping down tables.

“W-What time is it?” Quackity asks blearily, wiping his eyes.

“A little after one,” he says.

“Fuck, sorry,” he scrambles to sit up unsteadily.

Niki comes over to him, arms folded across her chest, calculating.  Quackity stares at her, wary, the next seconds agonizing, for a moment he has the unhinged thought of she’s called Schlatt.  She’s sending you back to him in exchange for something, before he gets ahold of himself.  Finally she speaks, “do you want to spend the night, Quackity?”

Quackity is taken aback.  “Do I– What?”

She clearly says this grudgingly, but she says it nonetheless.  “The Secret City– It’s not just a Speakeasy, alright?  If someone needs help, somewhere to stay, even if…” She gives him a once over, holding back some judgment.  “The point is.  Do you want to stay here?”

“No,” Quackity says immediately.  “I’m– I’m fine,” no one in the room believes him.  “Look, I’m sorry for the trouble.  I’ll leave.  I know I’ve– I haven’t been a good person.  Not to you.  So I’m sorry for that.  And I’m sorry for… for Schlatt,” he winces.

She remains solemn, expression difficult to read.  “I’m sorry for him too,” is how she replies, returning to her work cleaning up behind the bar.  “Hope you land somewhere safe, Quackity.”

Quackity nods, a little shaky still as he makes sure he has all of his stuff, which isn’t much.  He just doesn’t know what to do with her being kind.  The last time they’d seen each other, he’d been with Karl and she’d been far too polite considering the time before that Quackity had been with Schlatt while he threatened to burn her building to the ground.

Quackity almost wants to accept her offer.  He can’t.  He already probably owes her for letting him stay this long despite his shitty behavior previously, and he cannot owe anyone else.  Schlatt already has a fucking stake on his soul, he doesn’t have much left of himself to loan out.

So he leaves.

It’s colder now, the hot summer day hadn’t needed a jacket, but now there’s this awful chill in the air, wind biting through the narrow alleys, and Quackity is just in a white button up and his beanie.  He unrolls his sleeves and buries a shiver.  Where the fuck is he going to sleep?  He got maybe two restless hours at Niki’s place.  He shouldn’t stay in one place.  Really, he needs to find his way across the river again, just to put some distance between himself and Schlatt.  He knows Badlands territory starts not far from here, although he might already be in Badlands territory.  This whole patch of the city is violently contentious, but Schlatt is an arrogant dick who wouldn’t be deterred to send people looking for him, Badlands or not.

Fuck.  Why does this have to be so hard?  Why can’t he just go back to his shit apartment and rest?

What the fuck does he think he’s even doing?  He’s only putting off the inevitable.  He’ll have to face Schlatt eventually.

The thought of going to his stupid fancy townhouse and enduring the humiliation of begging for his fucking life, of doing all that and Schlatt still doing something horrible to him, he wants to avoid it for as long as he can.  And if he just tries to go back to his own apartment, that just means he gets manhandled into the trunk of a car only to have the same end result.

So he keeps walking, back toward the West side.  He just needs to cross the river unseen.  The streets are deserted this late, but that just makes him feel like more of a target.  He’s getting himself so worked up he feels like he should just break into an all out sprint.  He doesn’t, not yet, just walks fast, listening for the sound of a car turning the corner.

He can see the bridge.

He hears a car engine.

Crossing the bridge isn’t some fucking magic point of no return, Schlatt would just have a harder time searching over there.  If he’s already spotted, he’s doomed.

He doesn’t even have a fucking gun, not to say he’d actually use it if he did, still Quackity dares to look over his shoulder, he doesn’t recognize the driver, but the driver is looking at him.  Quackity doesn’t run, he stands very still, and waits like he’s awaiting execution, blood pounding in his ears as he tries to commit to not suffering the indignity of being chased down at tackled before he gets dragged away.  The man keeps driving.

Quackity slumps back against the boarded up shop behind him, catching his breath.  He feels like his skin is covered in pins and needles.  The guy was probably just staring at him because he’d stared first like a fucking deer in headlights.  Quackity almost wants to throw up.  He’s barely eaten today, so there’s not much there, but he still feels sick.  He needs to keep moving.  He cannot stay here, just because that guy wasn’t after him doesn’t mean there aren’t other dickheads prowling the streets who definitely are.

Quackity, once he feels a tiny bit more stable, resumes his walk.  Fucking hell, he hasn’t had to walk this much in ages.  Quackity crosses the bridge to an also relatively deserted West side.

Okay.  Now what?

Homeless shelters are closed up by now even if he wanted to risk it, so Quackity is short on options.  Quackity doesn’t have friends.  Not the kind that would let him come spend the night because he needs help.  One other option is a tried and true method he used to get through some shitty cold nights after things really went down hill; that being, hunting for a one night stand and getting himself a bed that way.  Hell, that’s how he met Schlatt in the first place.  Quackity still feels wired like a spring, he’s exhausted, running on adrenaline alone, his clothes are gross and he’s so irritable he’d probably be as charming as a feral cat; and after the week he’s had, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive the risks of a one night stand without it ending in a stabbing. 

Quackity can think of one other place open this late that Schlatt, and his pathetic followers, would rather eat dirt than go into.  Quackity would rather eat dirt than go in there right now, after hours, without any business or authority.  They’re not going to let him stay just for the hell of it, the only way he’s got somewhere safe to be tonight is by fucking up a little bit.

While he loathes the thought, Quackity walks through the East side and up to the counter of a police station, an exhausted lackey stuck behind the desk, half asleep.  Quackity claps in his face.

“Oh fuck–” The man bolts up, knocking over a cup of pens and scrambling to get them.  He’s handsomer than the usual pigs.  A little scruffy, broad shouldered, hair pulled back, currently wide-eyed.  “Uh– Can–” He clears his throat when it begins to crack from disuse and probably falling asleep.  “Can I help you?” He says more commandingly, although that clearly takes effort.

Quackity doesn’t recognize him, but then again cops tend to blur together for him.  Regardless, Quackity is less than impressed by this lackey.  He’s also irritated because the safest place for him right now is at this motherfucker’s mercy.  Quackity had made a few calculations before coming in here, and if the choice is between maybe getting booked and having a night in jail on his record or Schlatt ensuring he doesn’t live to see another sunrise, well.  He’s in survival mode right now, whatever steps prolong his time away from Schlatt, it’s worth it because it’s better than being dead.  

“Hi,” Quackity says dryly.  “Do you know what drinking alcohol, a first offense specifically, will get you?”

The man looks incredibly nervous now.  “Uh, look, I dunno who you were talking to, but– Uh, it wasn’t like, anything bad, or– I mean–” The guy quickly realizes he’s digging himself into a hole, he tries to put up his walls a bit.  “Who were you talking to?” He says sharply.

Quackity stares at him.  “Holy shit, dude, I am not here to get on you for drinking.  Although, well done, you stopped yourself two inches away from a confession.”

“Oh,” he frowns.  “What do you want, then?”

“Well, you see, I had a drink earlier tonight– I know, I know, such criminal behavior!– But I am a good samaritan, and thought I should turn myself in.  Because, as I’m sure you know as a noble officer of the law,” Quackity sneers, “first offense means one night in jail to sober up, a slap on the wrist, and in the morning, we part ways, better people all around, eh?”  He gestures grandly to the dingy lobby.

The man squints at him, those cogs in his pig brain clearly struggling to turn.  “You… want me to arrest you?”

“I mean, buy a guy a drink first– or don’t, considering– more like, you don’t book me, just– You know, give me a few hours to sober up,” Quackity tries not to sound desperate.

“You… You don’t seem… drunk,” the pig is so dense.  Of course he is, he’s a pig, but it’s almost impressive.

“Uh huh, sure, well, who knows I might go out and keep drinking, so,” Quackity nods back toward the holding cells.

Sapnap has never worked the night shift alone before.  George was supposed to stay with him tonight, but he went ‘out on patrol’ about an hour ago, meaning he’s probably either asleep in his squad car or gave up so much he’s back at his place in bed. The other guys working the night shift are out making their rounds and won’t be back until early morning, if there isn’t trouble.  Which, there usually isn’t considering most cops would rather take a swim in the river than cross it this time of night.  Regardless, Sapnap has no fucking clue what to do.  This dude clearly needs help, and he’s super agitated, but Sapnap doesn’t exactly feel comfortable locking him up as a solution.

“Do you… like… wanna make a police report?” Sapnap rummages for the paperwork.

“...what?”

“Well,” Sapnap is almost embarrassed.  He hasn’t done this sort of thing on his own before, and he doesn’t want to screw it up.  “You– You got… in a fight, right?  Or… or you were mugged or some shit?”  He nods to the bruises around the man’s neck, to the fainter bruises on his knuckles.  Sapnap isn’t stupid.  He knows those kind of marks around someone’s neck, that’s not from a mugging, but he felt it was more delicate to not get any more specific than that, unless he chose to share.

The look this man gives him, unnerved and almost disgusted.

“Uh, you don’t… you don’t have to.  There are like, resources,” Sapnap rummages for some of the pamphlets they should probably have somewhere.

“Jesus fucking christ, I’d prefer if you just arrested me or gave me a hard time or some shit,” he almost shudders.

“You don’t–” Sapnap is grasping at straws here, rummaging through the front desk.  “You don’t have to… to make a police report.  Or– Fuck, gimme a sec, man, we have– We have a… a pamphlet, the Captain, she literally fucking showed me–”

“Please stop.”

“Right,” Sapnap straightens.  “Okay, what do you want to do?”

Quackity doesn’t know what to make of this guy.  It’s a little pathetic and a little endearing.  “You… you haven’t been a cop for long, have you?”

The man bristles, offended.  “I’ve been a cop for… for three years now, so.”

Quackity winces.  “That’s actually worse… okay.”

“Okay, you don’t have to file a report.  And…”

Sapnap is struggling right now.  He realizes he has no idea how else to help someone.  He cannot think of a single resource they have here.  All of their efforts go towards fighting off organized crime, which suddenly feels very stupid to him.  Some part of him almost wants to contact his dad, it’s an insane thought, one he’s quick to bury, a stranger will not break his streak of no contact for the past few years, but he can’t fully erase the thought that his dad could, and likely would, have done something to help this guy.  Probably a violent something, but looking at those bruises, maybe that isn’t always a bad thing.  Still, Sapnap tries with what he has.  “Do you… so, my boss, the– the Captain, her office has a couch, and if you wanna you can stay there?  And in the morning if you wanna like talk about shit, we can do that then, right?  And like, Sam– I mean, uh, Officer– Um.  Lieutenant Warden, Officer, Lieutenant, whatever– he’s gonna be in here at like, seven, and he is way better at this stuff than I am.”

Quackity was not prepared for this.  Lately too many people have given him far too much kindness.  He’s not used to it, he doesn’t trust it.

Quackity doesn’t have another option.

“Yeah.  I’ll– I’m gonna leave in the morning, I just–” Quackity hates this.  He wishes this stupid asshole had just rolled his eyes and humored him enough to put him in a cell.  That was easy to understand, an easy intention to read.  This was not.  “If you try anything–” Quackity tries for a threat, before stopping.  Yet again he’s reminded that he has no power here.  He has a fucking knife in his pocket.  That is it.  All of his power came from being on Schlatt’s arm, and at present that was what he was running from.

The cop raises his hands passively.  “Yeah, don’t worry about it, man.  If it makes you feel better you can deadbolt the door.  I don’t really care.  My boss has a key to the deadbolt so if you like, barricaded yourself in there, she can open it later.”

Quackity has one final debate of how risky it would be to sleep outside tonight.

Schlatt might not even be looking.  Maybe he assumes you’re gonna come crawling back any day now.  Except you fucking hit him, in broad daylight.  And that warrants punishment.  So.  Yeah.  He’s definitely looking for you.

“Fuck…” Quackity sighs.  “Fine, okay.”

The cop stands up quickly.  “It’s– Come on, back here,” he holds open the gate to the bullpen and Quackity follows.  “I bet we have blankets and shit somewhere, if you just– just gimme a sec–” and he’s off, heading toward a storage closet, returning with a scratchy gray blanket that definitely looks more suited to a holding cell.  Quackity accepts it with all the enthusiasm of being handed a dead rat.

The cop nods with too much enthusiasm.  “Okay, cool, and, uh–” He fumbles to open a door.  It’s locked.  “Just a sec–”

Quackity stands in scathing silence while the man fumbles for his keys.

“I mean,” he unlocks it and now hesitates.  “I actually…”  He seems to be debating if he really should be letting him in the office.  “I’m not supposed to–”  He shakes his head, coming to some conclusion.  “No, no she’d be fine with it– Here,” he nods into the office, flicking on a light.  When Quackity doesn’t step forward, he steps back, giving him more space, nodding to the office again, like he’s encouraging a child to step into a pool.

It might actually be worse that Quackity doesn’t think the man is trying to be patronizing.  He seems more unsure than anything.  Regardless, keeping his narrowed eyes locked on the cop at all times, he enters the office.  It is not decorated as he would expect for a Police Captain.  It’s too… fun.  There are rainbows all over the place, sewn into the throw pillows on the leather couch against the back wall, on the mug of pens on the desk, rainbow and glittery reading out ‘World’s Best Dad!’.  Other signs of a child are on the shelf directly behind the desk, clearly a place of pride, children’s drawings of pyramids and stick figures alongside an almost impressive clay sculpture of an animal, maybe a sphynx considering the Egyptian theme.

“I’m guessing she has a kid?” Quackity says dryly.

The cop glances at the decor, unphased.  “Uh, yeah, but like– I mean, he’s like 20, I think he’s studying to be an architect or something.  She’s just…” There’s a different look behind his eyes now, something a little too sad for Quackity’s liking.  “...sentimental about her kid and shit, y’know?”

“Mhm.  Cute,” Quackity says sarcastically.  He hovers beside the couch.  He doesn’t want to even sit down until the cop is out of the room.  He doesn’t know how he’s planning on sleeping here.

“Oh– Oh, one sec,” the cop walks past him quickly.  “Just gotta…” he tugs at the drawers on the desk, making sure they’re locked as needed.  “Nothing personal, I just… don’t know you.”

“Yeah, likewise.”

The cop gives him an awkward nod and goes to leave.  He starts to shut the door before finding a reason to linger just a bit longer.  “And if you need something or– or, I dunno, just–” he points over his shoulder to the front desk.  “I’m supposed to be awake so it’s not like you’re gonna bother me.”

Quackity gives him an awkward nod in turn, every bit of unsure and endearing caring the man shows makes Quackity want him to leave faster.

Finally, he fucks off.

Quackity’s debate on how the fuck he’s going to fall asleep here is answered by his exhaustion.  He keeps a vigilant watch on the window in the door to the office for about five minutes before he crashes.

Quackity wakes slowly at first, only once he processes that he’s not at home in bed, and he’s not in Schlatt’s bed, does he bolt upright.  He doesn’t know how he hadn’t awoken before.  The buzz of a crowded police station hits him immediately, but the office he’s in remains empty and dim from the shades drawn.

Quackity struggles to get to his feet, patting down his pockets.  He still has his wallet.  He still has his knife.  There’s no way in hell he would’ve slept through someone searching him, but he had to check anyway, he has reason to be paranoid.  He scans the office.  The only exterior windows are too small and too high up for him to crawl out of.  Only one way out then.  He gears himself up, and peaks out into the bullpen.

No one is paying him any mind, all busy at their desks or going about their day doing pig things.  And he doesn’t see the cop he spoke to last night at the front desk.  Quackity jumps when out of the corner of his eye, a short woman in uniform with curly brown hair pulled back comes up to him.

“Hi!”

“Jesus–” Quackity puts one hand over his heart.  “...hi?”

“I’m Captain Puffy.  Officer Halo spoke to me before he left this morning, said you were… staying with us,” she smiles, her thoughts unspoken but Quackity gets the gist, a bit unorthodox, but I won’t hold it against you.

“Sorry for… for commandeering your office I thought I was gonna wake up sooner.  I’ll leave,” Quackity wants to get out of there as fast as he can.

The Captain follows him.  “I was wondering if I could talk to you, actually.  About–”

“No, uh.  No thank you, I don’t need help,” Quackity keeps walking.

“Okay!  Okay, that’s fine, but considering you slept in my office, I think I can ask something of you,” the Captain pulls the card that Quackity hates the most.

He hates owing people.

Quackity stops, turning around with gritted teeth.  “And what’s that?”

She hands him a card.  “On the back is my personal number.  It’s clear you’re not a big fan of cops, which fair enough, so.  If you need help in general,” she nods, still holding out the card.

“That’s it?  You… you don’t wanna search me to make sure I didn’t steal shit from your office or get my name at least so you can find me or… or something?”  Quackity has yet to accept the card.

The Captain peeks past him into her office, scanning her desk, and the shelf of knicknacks behind it.  “Nope!”

Quackity stares at her.  “You… you don’t run a very tight ship here, do you, Captain?”

She raises her eyebrows once, smile now reading more mischief than friendliness.  “You could say that.  I am…” She scans the bullpen, “considering retirement.”

“Bit young for retirement, aren’t you?”

She laughs.  “That’s sweet of you to say.  I’d say you’re a bit young for fight club,” she is looking at him with way too much intensity.  “Where’d you get those bruises, son?”

Quackity stares back, unyielding.  “...put on my tie too tight,” he says sarcastically.

“Hm,” she laughs, without much humor behind it.  “Well, if your… tie gives you any more trouble.  I’d be happy to help you take care of it.  And not as a Police Officer.”

Quackity scoffs.  “Yeah, I don’t think you can help me with… my kind of tie…”

“Try me,” she once more offers her card.  “Just in case.”

Quackity doesn’t move.

The Captain doesn’t give up.  “Taking it is payment for sleeping in my office.”

Quackity reluctantly accepts.

“Okay, cool!  Nice to meet you..?” She waits for a name.  He doesn’t say anything.  She shrugs.  “Eh, worth a shot, but anyway, hope you… get home safe.  Or wherever you’re going.”

Quackity almost wants to break.  The past two days he has been given lifeline after lifeline and each one he refused, he couldn’t trust it, he turned all of them away, but he’s so tired.  So for a brief moment, he’s tempted to grab this lifeline and not let go, to tell this woman I think he’s gonna kill me– is that enough to make you all actually do something about it?  You’ve all been trying to pin Schlatt for years and you don’t think you can, but if you all can make me disappear, I can tell you anything you want to know.  I cannot exist anymore, even in jail he will find a way to kill me, so arresting him isn’t enough.  I will throw my fucking life away if it means I still have a life.

Quackity is about to become a lawyer.  He’s built so much for himself here.  He has bled and killed and torn himself apart to crawl out of the depths better than he was before, someone powerful.  He’d rather die than throw that away.

So Quackity leaves.

And he tries to decide how much more time he’s going to waste pretending there’s any way forward besides going back to Schlatt.

Quackity is so tired.  He’s probably walked ten miles in the past two days.  All of Quackity’s best efforts, and none of it matters.  In the end, he doesn’t have a choice.  Quackity is wandering the streets on the West side, hungry and tired but relatively comfortable in the fact that Schlatt wouldn’t send his boys lurking on some random patch of land across the river on the off chance that they’d spot him.

Quackity thought he was safe.  He really should know better.

Someone comes up behind him, they grab his arm, hold on tight, and Quackity gets so far as to grab his knife before he feels the barrel of a gun pressed against his side.

“You know, all the fuss about you has been a bit ridiculous,” he says dryly.  He hasn’t stopped walking, basically sweeping Quackity along with him, Quackity helpless to resist unless he feels like dying here and now.  The man is definitely one of Schlatt’s circle.  Quackity never bothered to learn their names, but he doesn’t think some personal plea would make a difference right about now anyway.

“Let fucking go of me–” Quackity snarls, but it’s a futile gesture.  He gave up on going for his knife the moment he felt the gun.  He scans the street frantically, but the few people walking past don’t know that Quackity is getting pulled along unwillingly.  It’s not like he can shout for help unless, again, he wants a bullet in his side.

The man huffs, amused, dragging Quackity around a corner, Quackity resisting only enough to make himself stumble.  Quackity recognizes one of Schlatt’s cars parked on the street.  “Yeah, yeah, sure thing, sweetheart.  That’s what he calls you, right?  Sweetheart, pumpkin, bitch,” with that last spiteful word he throws Quackity against the car, Quackity trying to catch himself as his shins get banged up against the metal, just barely avoiding hitting the ground.  He’s pretty sure if he falls over right now this man will kick him until his ribs break just for the fun of it.  The man is no longer trying to be subtle about waving a gun in his face, this street deserted.  “Get in.”

Quackity takes one step toward the passenger side, and immediately:  “No.  You think I’m fucking stupid?  I’m not gonna drive around with you somewhere you can cause more trouble, you got that?  You know better,” he sneers, one hand still holding the gun, the other lifting the trunk.

Quackity remains frozen for a moment.  This all feels too final.

“He’s gonna kill me, you know,” Quackity doesn’t know why he tries.  All of the compassion and mercy he’s been given these past two days, he should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

“Yeah.  Maybe,” the bastard sounds fucking amused.  “After he had us split up running all over the fucking city looking for you.  Two days now, and you have been the biggest thorn in my side.  You knew running wasn’t gonna save you, but you had to run off to make this as slow and inconvenient for all of us as possible, right?  For all that, I’d say he should kill you.  And if he does,” he looks too pleased, staring at Quackity now like he’s a piece of meat to be butchered.  “I hope I get to watch.  Now get in the fucking trunk.”

His patience runs thin, grabbing Quackity by the scruff of his shirt and wrestling him into the trunk.  Quackity has maybe a second to make sure none of his limbs were about to get crushed before the lid slams shut and he’s locked in utter blackness, the man bangs on the metal twice for good measure, Quackity flinching, his heart pounding in his throat as he hears the hum of the engine and he’s taken toward an early grave.  Maybe the trunk should be taken as a nice warmup for a fucking coffin.

Who is he kidding.  No one is going to pay for him to have a coffin, or a funeral, or a headstone.  Unless Schlatt finds the idea funny.

Quackity is getting annoyed by his own frantic breathing, but it’s not like he can make himself stop.  He cannot see his own hands as they scratch at the interior for an escape he knows doesn’t exist.  He doesn’t want to cry.  He’s alone in the dark for now, so if he’s planning on crying before he’s dead this is the time to do it, but soon that asshole is going to be back again and Quackity is spitefully, viciously not going to give a man like that a reason to mock him further.

So Quackity doesn’t let himself cry, even as he tears at the walls, and briefly allows himself to scream until he can no longer hear the car engine.  Quackity remembers the drive over to the East side taking longer.  Not this time.

Quackity is blinded by light and then he’s back on his feet.  Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry–  The man is back to pretending to be subtle, holding onto his arm, the gun digging into his ribs painfully, as they approach the front of the house.  There isn’t even anyone on the street to witness it.  Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry–

“Knock.”

“What?” Quackity is frozen.

The man shoves him forward, up the last step.  “Fucking knock.”

Quackity can see his hand trembling as he reaches for the ram’s head knocker.  The door opens before he can knock a third time and Quackity is, for a moment, staring at nothing at the height Schlatt’s head should be.  He looks down.

Tubbo is thirteen years old.  He’s always seemed older, but not now.  He looks up at Quackity, eyes watering, clearly fending off tears much like Quackity had been, and he looks like a kid who has been very scared lately and hasn’t known what to do about it.  Quackity has no idea what to do now but before he can attempt to do anything, Tubbo hugs him tightly.

Quackity doesn’t know how he keeps it together.  He doesn’t break down in tears, he doesn’t run.  He just hugs Tubbo back.

“It’s okay, man.  It’s okay.  It’s– It’s gonna be fine,” he says hoarsely, looking past Tubbo into the entryway, looking for Schlatt.  Tubbo just holds on tighter.  Quackity can feel him shaking.

“Keep it moving.  Jesus…” that man’s irritable voice comes from behind them, so Quackity moves inside, but he doesn’t let go, he lets Tubbo remain glued to him, still searching for his partner, his boss, his executioner.

“Tubbo.”

It’s rare that Quackity hears Schlatt talk directly to his son.  Tubbo seems startled as well, quickly letting go and stepping back, and Quackity doesn’t know if it was intentional, but it looks like Tubbo put himself between Quackity and Schlatt.

Schlatt isn’t looking at Tubbo.  He’s staring at Quackity.  Schlatt continues to Tubbo, “go on.  Get out of here, don’t you have homework or some crap you should be doing?”

Tubbo doesn’t move.  He is definitely standing between Quackity and Schlatt.

Now Schlatt looks at his son, annoyed.  “Are fucking deaf as well as stupid?  I said go.  Get outta here, scram, d’you want me to tell you a different way?”  Schlatt takes a step forward.  Tubbo takes a step back, but he’s still standing in front of Quackity.

“Tubbo,” Quackity puts a hand on his shoulder, Tubbo turning back to look at him, no longer just terrified, Tubbo looks furious, even as he still refuses to say a word.  Quackity doesn’t know how to console him, but he knows Tubbo cannot stay standing between him and Schlatt for much longer.  “I’m okay.  Promise.  You should…” Quackity glances up at Schlatt, who remains impatient.  “You should just do what he said.  I’m good, okay?”  There’s so much more he wants to say to this kid, staring into pale eyes that are so scared for him.

You can still get out of here.  Don’t let yourself get stuck in it.  Don’t let anyone fucking walk over you.  No one.  You cannot trust anyone.  Trust no one but yourself.  Your word is the last word.  You’re a strong kid and you’re gonna make it and I’m just sorry I won’t be there to see what you do next.

Out of the corner of his eye, Quackity sees Schlatt take a step forward.

“Quackity…” Finally Tubbo speaks.  “You’re…”  He’s in the same boat as Quackity.  There are things he wants to say but can’t, not with Schlatt still leering.

“Tubbo, I said get out of here.  Right fucking now, okay?  I am telling you to fucking leave,” Quackity is harsh.  He thinks he has to be.  He lets go of Tubbo’s shoulders and pushes him toward the stairs.

Tubbo pauses for another moment.  “I’m sorry,” is all he manages to say before he disappears up the steps, fleeing before he sees another dead body in this house.

“The brat, he’s just so clingy sometimes,” Schlatt sighs, like this is all conversational.

Quackity doesn’t move.  He doesn’t say anything.  He feels like he swallowed concrete.  Schlatt is eyeing him up, making some assessment, Quackity doesn’t know of what.

“I was worried sick,” Schlatt says softly.  “Do you have any idea what you put me through?”

Quackity stands there in front of him, feeling very exposed, and a little faint.  He’s 21 years old, almost 22.  He is too young to die.  No one will even miss him, except maybe Tubbo apparently, but that just makes him feel so much worse.  He was going to be the youngest person to graduate from his Law School.  He’s so close.  He just wants to graduate, get his name in the papers for something other than a body in the river.

Schlatt does not pull out a gun.  He doesn’t grab him by the throat or hit him or at the very least tell him how he is going to die.  Instead, he takes Quackity’s hand and tugs him toward the stairs.  “Come on.  I think we need to have a chat.”

Quackity actually looks back at the stupid lackey who’d dragged him here in the first place, but he looks as confused as Quackity feels.  Quackity had assumed his death would be a spectacle.  Somehow the call for privacy scares him more.  Still, he doesn’t fight, he doesn’t run, he lets Schlatt pull him into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.  Quackity stands in the middle of the room and wonders vaguely if he’s going to be sick.  Schlatt slowly turns back to face him, the door now shut.

“Where have you been, pumpkin?” Schlatt sounds hurt.  He steps closer, putting his hand on the back of Quackity’s neck, pulling him in even closer, his left hand taking Quackity’s right.  He kisses his knuckles, and Quackity spots a faint bruise on Schlatt’s jawline from those same knuckles.  He refocuses on Schlatt’s eyes, his gaze cutting into him like a knife, but Quackity can’t bring himself to look away.

“You’re not…” Quackity says weakly.

“I’m not..?” Schlatt waits, earnest, for Quackity to continue, a dangerous little smile that doesn’t match his tone.

Quackity tries to focus, to force himself to speak steadily.  “I thought you were gonna kill me.”

Schlatt doesn’t laugh.  He doesn’t look surprised or offended, and he doesn’t confirm or deny what Quackity had said.  He just keeps that peculiar, hollow smile.  “Why would I kill you, baby?  What, because you fucked up?  Not the first time, probably won’t be the last.  God knows how the fuck you got into law school with your brains, but still.  I’m not gonna kill you over a silly little thing like that,” he cups Quackity’s face tenderly.  “I don’t want to lose you, sweetheart.  Why do you think I went through all this trouble to get you back to me?”

“Oh,” Quackity doesn’t know what else to say.  Schlatt is being sweet.  This is beyond any mercy Quackity expected from this, and fuck, Quackity is a mess, because his immediate feeling isn’t just relief, but a relief so profound it leaves Quackity a little too lovesick.  Schlatt is forgiving, he was worried, he cares.  It’s not just that he’s already paying Quackity’s bills and for his school and gives him a shred of power in a world of violent criminals, he also loves him.  And Quackity loves him too.

Schlatt kisses him, slow and persistent, and Quackity finds himself responding in turn.  This is so much better than dying.  Schlatt pulls back for a moment.

“See, if I killed you, that would mean what you did meant something, eh?”  He laughs softly, his breath faintly smelling of booze and brushing against Quackity’s cheek.  “And that’s not true, is it?  You hit me, and then you ran away like a fucking coward, as you do.  And it didn’t mean anything.  Right?”

Quackity buries a shiver.  “Right.”

Schlatt smirks.  “That’s what I thought.  Good boy.”  He pauses, just taking in Quackity’s face, poring over him, and Quackity feels almost blinded by this much affection.

“I mean, I still have to hurt you.”

There it is.

Schlatt seems to mull something over, and now his looking Quackity over feels much more like he’s prepping for a dissection than romance.  “Not bad, but…” he laughs at Quackity’s clear shift in expression, “I can’t let you get away with that shit, sweetheart.  If my boys start to think I let my favorite bitch get away with punching me, I mean– What’s to stop them from walking all over me, right?  Do you see where I’m coming from, pumpkin?”

Quackity manages to get out one word, voice soft and hoarse as he remembers there are worse things in this world than dying.  “Schlatt–”

“Sh, don’t talk,” Schlatt croons.  “And don’t look so worried,” he teases.  His hands wander, until they’re tenderly, loosely, around Quackity’s neck.  “I don’t want your face fucked up, at least not permanently.  But it’s got to be visible, and it’s gotta be worse than what you gave,” he grins, the bruise on his jaw barely visible in the dim lighting.  “A lot worse.”

Quackity doesn’t know what to do with his own survival, with Schlatt’s mercy and love tied up in his sadism.  There is so little fight left in him now, it doesn’t make a difference if he’s alive or dead.  Either way, Schlatt knows how to be worse.

[lordheis]

“ you all suck. every single one of you sneaky little snot-nosed bastards. don’t think i don’t see you plotting, because i do. i’m going to smush you all into paste. “

“ . . . after i get this jello off my hammer. fuck me. eww. “

[apocalypticgargoyle]

Dream smut or fluff where reader and him are high key mean to eachotjer despite having so many mutual friends, but then something (very vague i know I’m sorry) makes them have to get close and the develop feelings? Sorry I’m shit at requests but thank you!!!

i know this is shitty im sorry akjsdh bls forgive me

𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑. ♘ 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

± warnings: dream being a dick, slight slut shaming, toxic behavior, vulgar/suggestive mentions and language, sexual harassment on a bus (not by dream, you can breathe)

⋆ song recommendation: When the Night is Over by Lord Huron

You pulled a blanket beneath your chin, yawning slightly at whatever the tv was playing. You only had it on in an attempt to drown out the noises coming from your roommate's bedroom as she smoozed her date. You were honestly shocked the two hadn’t moved in together yet with all the time they spent wrapped up.

Her door opened, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of you sprawled out on the couch. He marched toward you quietly, hovering over your shoulder. You peered up at her hesitantly. “What are you watching?” She asked, voice barely above a whisper. You furrowed your brows, opening your mouth to speak but she hurriedly cut you off. “Do you mind watching it at Nick’s instead?”

You raised your eyebrows. “You’re kicking me out again?” She gave you an apologetic smile, making you roll your eyes as you stood up and pulled on your jacket. “This would hurt less if they also paid rent,” you mumbled, with a small glare.

She thanked you repeatedly, holding onto your arm as you gathered what little belongings you needed for the night. “I promise I’ll make it up to you,” she courted, opening the door for you. “Tomorrow, dinner’s on me okay?” You sent her a tired look and she apologized again. She stopped you as you stepped out into the cold night, leaning through the space between the door and the frame. “Maybe you can cozy up to that Clay guy? You guys have such a good vibe,” she mocked, making you chuckle lightly.

You shook your head, waving to her. “Enjoy your night. Please, for the love of God, clean the bathroom afterward,” you called, hearing her laugh at your statement.

The bus ride was quiet due to the time of night and the weather, both of which you didn’t mind. You knew Nick’s house would be warm and loud. Before you knew it, you found yourself in front of his apartment door, kicking at the concrete ground as you heard someone stumbling to let you inside. The door opened swiftly, Clay’s large frame blocking the light from the kitchen. He leaned against the doorframe mockingly as he looked at you.

He wet his lips. “Who’s the lucky guy tonight?” He joshed.

You rolled your eyes, brushing past his body to get out of the cold. “Whoever’s dick you’re not sucking, I guess,” you quipped back, making him laugh darkly. You kicked off your shoes as he shut the door. “Where’s Sapnap?” You asked, shrugging off your jacket. You’d texted him ahead of time to ask if you could stay over, which he readily agreed to.

Clay sent you a smug look. “You guys have a fun night planned?” He made a gesture with his hand to insinuate you were there to give Nick a handjob.

You bit back a chuckle. “Why? You wanna join?” You shot back. He bit his lip and moaned pornographically.

“Cut it out, Dream,” Nick grumbled as he walked into the room. He pulled on your arm to follow him.

Dream scoffed exasperatedly. “Me? I’m not the one who started it!” He called after the two of you.

As Nick pushed you out of the room, you turned your head. “You most certainly did!” You answered. You heard him chuckle at your words as Nick shut the door to his room. You plopped down on his bed as he sat in his chair, swiveling to look at you. “Why does Dream pick at me so much?” You mumbled, fishing in your pockets for your phone.

“He’s jealous,” Nick answered absent-mindedly. “What's the date look like tonight?” He asked, referring to the reason you were there in the first place. This wasn’t the first time or the last time your roommate had kicked you out. It was becoming a more frequent occurrence for you to end up on Nick’s couch or at their place in the middle of the day with your toothbrush and a change of clothes.

You moved to lean into his pillows. “I don’t know, it's the same granola fucker she’s been hanging around,” you answered.

He rubbed his chin with a slight smirk. “There’s a subtle justice to knowing she’s still with that asshat,” he commented, making you snort.

A week later, you were on your way back to your apartment after a lecture when someone felt you up. It was the straw on the camel’s back for you as you spin around to smack the guy, stirring up a few of the bystanders. You’d walked the rest of the way home, stepping through the door to be met with your roommate and her hookup twisted together in the kitchen.

You clamped your hand over your eyes, mumbling about how you just wanted to take a nap when you were once again sent to Nick’s. You let subtle tears fall as you trudged your way across the city, hoping to get out whatever darkness you had to your attitude. The last thing you wanted to do was confront Clay looking like you did. He was like the troll with the keys to the bridge. That was really the only reason the two of you ever talked, so you knew he’d be waiting to berate you before you could get to Nick.

As you walked into the building, you spotted Clay carrying a large box, his hair slightly disheveled and his hands dirty. You knew almost instantly that he was probably attempting to fix the kitchen sink and got a call because of the size of the package. That sink had been dripping since they’d moved in, making it Clay’s mission to futz around with it every Friday afternoon. You tried helping him one time, only ending up with a deflated sense of confidence and the second wave of your childhood anger issues.

He nodded at you as you held the elevator door open for him. “What’s up, babycakes?” He chirped, popping his gum. When you hesitated to answer, he looked at you fully, scoffing. “Damn, walk of shame gone sour?”

You crossed your arms over your chest, inhaling deeply to try and calm your nerves. “I’m not really in the mood today,” you muttered, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

He snorted, setting the box down between his feet. “You’re always in the mood! Isn’t that like your thing,” he continued to jeer. “You look like you had a fun night though-”

“Clay, stop. I’m serious,” barked at him. His expression twisting at your use of his name.

He raised his hands in mock defense. “Sorry, I thought we had---like a bit thing, um-” he cut himself off, awkwardly shoving his fists in his pockets. After a beat of silence between the two of you, the elevator came to a sharp halt on the wrong floor, the light switching to red. The two of you shared a look, knowing that the landlord was probably flipping the wrong switches again. Clay texted Nick to see what was going on.

It began to grow colder in the elevator, as it usually did. When it was off, the cold from outside usually seeped in through the elevator shaft. There was one time you were stuck in the elevator for a few hours with one of your neighbors and Karl when he had come to visit. Back then, the three of you played Uno on the guy’s phone. It was also summer, so the chill creeping up your legs wasn’t as intolerable as it was now.

You rubbed the arms of your sweater in hopes of generating some kind of warmth. Clay watched you carefully, his hands moving to grip the bar behind him. “Do you want my sweatshirt?” He offered. You shook your head, sliding onto the ground and hugging your knees to your chest. He hesitantly slumped down beside you, kicking his long legs out towards the door. The red light filling the space made his features look softer.

He nudged your arm gently with his own. “I know I’m not Sapnap, but…” he chewed on the inside of his cheek, shrugging slightly, “I mean, we’re stuck in here. We can talk about it.”

You blinked away the tears threatening to spill once again, your eyes burning and tired. “I haven’t slept with him, you know?” You stated, turning to look at him briefly before moving to sit cross-legged, planning with your fingers. “I’ve never even kissed him. I’ve never kissed anyone,” you scoffed. Clay was silent, but out of the corner of your eye, you could see him watching you intently.

Being this close to him, you could smell the smoky vanilla undertones of his cologne. The scent reminded you of a masculine version of the candle your aunt always burned when she went out for a night to spite her ex-husband.

Clay leaned his head back against the wood paneling, his soft blond hair flattening in the back to spread against the wall. You swallowed, sighing slightly. “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet and I’m getting groped on the bus and kicked out of my damn apartment because my roommate and her fucking boyfriend have to hook up on every surface. Nothing is sacred.” You shook your head, wiping away some stray tears with the back of your hand and sniffling pathetically. “You can keep making slut jokes, I don’t care. But I swear to God, I haven’t done anything with Sapnap. Or Karl, or Quackity. No one.”

He chuckled softly. “I know. That’s why I used to make those jokes,” he mumbled. “It was like… ironic humor. And then it got so far that the only way I knew you’d talk back to me was if I was fucking around with you,” he admitted. You chuckled slightly at his words, taking a deep breath.

“Oh, Dream,” you sighed. “I would have hooked up with you if you weren’t such an ass,” you chided. His laugh made you feel better. He held his hand out to you, more for support than anything, but as you laced your fingers with his, your heart eased, feeling safe beside him.

After a beat of silence, he spoke up again. "I can ride the bus with you now... if you want..." He offered, a shyness that seemed so foreign to his character shown through his eyes. "I promise I won't grope you," he joshed, making you roll your eyes.

"That's really not something we should be joking about," you mumbled, wiping away the rest of your tears on your sleeve.

His thumb brushed against the back of your hand soothingly. "I mask my awkwardness around you in dark humor. I'm sorry."

[teddy06writes]

Fully Functioning Tricycle

Sapnap x reader x Karl

requested: no (;-; no one has requested anything, pls request things guys requests are open) 

Trigger warnings: slight swearing, 

“blep” talking

“blep” flashback

‘blep’ video or text

premise: since you’d been absorbed into Karl and Nicks relationship, you guys had kept it under wraps, until... you accidently said something on a stream with Quackity, when you start getting hate about it Karl and Nick decide to do something about it

(y/n/n)- your nick name

(y/s/n) your screen name

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

No one was quite too sure when it started, Karl would say once you moved in with them, and Sapnap argued that it started even before that, that you had just naturally been absorbed into their relationship. 

Now ‘the frat house’ as the house you all rented had been dubbed by your friends on the Dream Smp, consisted of one relationship, and not just a group of pinning idiots. 

You sighed, looking down at all the messages flooding your phone, it hadn’t even been a whole day since you let it slip, and still so many people knew, so many people were giving you hate online. 

Everyone knew, except your boyfriends. 

Somehow despite letting your involvement in there relationship out, and thousands of people were tweeting about it, they still hadn’t realized. 

You had to hand it to them, for two pretty smart guys, Karl and Nick could be pretty oblivious. 

“(y/n/n)?” 

Karl’s call knocked you out of your thoughts and back to reality, so, you pushed away from your desk, “Yeah?”

He stuck his head in the door, “You almost done? Nicky’s about to finish his stream, and I would like cuddles.” 

“uhhhh,” you glanced at your monitor, the assignment for one of your classes still open, “Soon, baby, I’m almost done.” 

“M, kay.”

You pulled you chair back in as Karl wandered out, doing your best to refocus on the assignment, and not back onto the top notification, ‘I can’t believe (y/s/n) managed to convince themself they were good enough for Sapnap and Karl’ 

You sighed, you didn’t want to keep looking through them, but- what if someone said something worse? 

It was a rabbit hole, every mention, every hashtag, every dm dragged you further in. 

~~

“Do you think (y/n)s being weird?” Karl asked quietly. 

Nick looked up at him confused, “Weird how?” 

“I don’t know, something just seems off, you know?” 

Nick frowned as he looked back down at twitter, confused by what he was seeing, he held his phone out for Karl to see, “You think this has something to do with it?” 

~~

After a little while, and maybe a few tears, you managed to tear yourself away from your phone long enough to finish the work you had left, continuing to shove your phone away whenever a new notification came up.

You finished up the last of your assignment, quietly sending it off to your professor, and shutting down your computer, you shuffled off toward your unused bed, flopping down face first. 

“(Y/n/n)!” Nick half sang, laying down next to you, “I was told to retrieve you for cuddles.” 

You hummed in acknowledgement, shifting closer to him as he wrapped an arm around you. 

“You alright love?” 

“‘m tired.” You mumbled, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. 

“Why don’t you come cuddle then? Karl’s lookin for a movie right now.” 

Slowly you pulled yourself to stand with a sigh, “Alright.” 

You shuffled out of the room, Nick only pausing to grab your phone, glaring down at a notification that read, ‘imagine thinking living in the same house is enough to warrant becoming a homewrecker.’ 

He quickly followed you into the other bedroom, smiling upon seeing how Karl’s face lit up upon seeing both his partners. 

“(y/n/n)! Nicky!” He exclaimed, Holding up his arms, “Cuddles!” 

You smiled at that, climbing into bed next to him, burying your head in his chest as Nick came to lay on your other side, wrapping an arm around both of you and pressing a light kiss to the back of your neck. 

“(Y/n).” 

It was the tone Nick used that got your worried, “Yeah?” 

“Why didn’t you tell us what was going on with the fans on twitter, Darlin?” Karl asked softly. 

Nick sighed, “I know we said we were keeping this on the down low, and it doesn’t really matter that it’s out there, but why didn’t you tell us?” 

You bit your lip to stop it from quivering, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve said anything. I didn’t mean to mess this up. We- We said we were going to announce it soon right?” 

“Hey, hey,” Nick sat up a little, using the hand that wasn’t already holding Karl’s to rub small circles into your shoulder, “It’s alright love. It doesn’t matter that it’s out there, we just wanna know why you didn’t tell us about the toxic people?” 

“It’s nothing.” You muttered. 

“No it isn’t,” Karl said, “Darlin what happened?” 

~~

“The Frat house?” 

You had been streaming with Quackity, running around on the smp. 

“Yeah, that’s what we call it!” You laughed. 

Quackity snorted, “The Frat House? Why?” 

“Have you met Karl and Sapnap? They are literally frat boys that aren’t in a frat!” 

“Nah, it’s still weird. Like, why? What the fuck?” 

You chuckled, “Interestingly it did actually used to be a frat house.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?” He laughed. 

“Yeah, that’s why there’s like four different bedrooms, plus a weird party basement.” 

You both laughed, and went back to trying to mess with Fundy’s build without him noticing. 

“What’s it like living with Sapnap? Is he actually that much of a Chad?” 

“Oh yeah. It’s- it’s fucking chaotic here, obviously. I swear we do enough grocery shopping for like, three times the people than what live here, and every room except mine is a mess.” 

“Oof, Imagine living with chadnap full time chat?” Quackity laughed. 

A text to speech donation asked, “What’s it like being the third wheel too frat boys Karl and Quackity?” 

In spite of yourself you snorted, “Someone asked what it’s like being the third wheel.”

He laughed, “Oh yes, the viewers want to know, give us the scoop!” 

“Well.... I guess I’m not a third wheel in that sense, We’re pretty much a fully functioning tricycle now.”  You clamped a hand over your mouth, realizing what you’d said. 

~~ 

Karl laughed once you finished explaining, and you slapped him lightly, “It’s not funny.” 

“Yes it is!” He giggled. 

“No!” You half wailed, “I fucked everything up!” 

Nick barley held back a chuckle, “It is a little funny.” 

You sighed, screwing your eyes shut and snuggling into them, “I didn’t wanna mess anythin up, but I did an’ now your making fun of me.”

Nick kissed the back of your neck again, “We aren’t making fun of you.” 

“We just think it’s funny the way you said it,” Karl reassured, “What isn’t funny is the people harassing you.” 

“Why didn’t you tell us it was going on?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” You insisted, “It’ll all blow over eventually.” 

~~

Sapnap 

@sapnapalt

GUYS PLEASE WATCH THIS VID IT”S IMPORTANT!!

The video:

*Karl and Nick are half sat up in bed looking at the camera*

Nick: ‘guys as much as we were thinking weren’t going to have to say this, it really needs to be said.’ 

Karl: ‘When we came forward with our relationship you guys were all super caring and considerate, there was actually very little hate going around, surprisingly, and what are a few random homophobes on the internet gonna do?’ 

Nick: ‘We really appreciate how kind you all were to us, so please’ 

*the camera shifts down to show you, asleep on Karl’s chest and wrapped in Nick’s hoodie* 

Nick: ‘stop bothering our partner.’ 

Karl: ‘please, it- everything has gone to far since they first said it and it isn’t okay. Yeah, we were keeping this a secret but thats because we were planning on a funny reveal, Just because this came out sooner than we planned doesn’t mean you get to bother (y/n) about it! I want all the hate your sending to them to stop!’ 

Nick: ‘It’s honestly fucking disgusting, how far you guys are taking this! The fact that they can hardly pick up there phone without getting more of this bull shit is not okay!’ 

*karl smiles at him softly* : ‘we just want (y/n) to be happy and comfortable in this relationship and you guys aren’t exactly helping. Please Please please stop sending them hate and so yeah, it’s official, we really are a fully functioning tricycle.’ 

Nick: ‘so stop sending our partner hate!’ 

~~ 

You didn’t actually see the video until later, having all but thrown your phone away once you woke up the next morning, but when you did you couldn’t help but quickly tackle Karl, who happened to also be in the kitchen, in a hug. 

“Thank you.” 

He smiled into your shoulder, hugging you back just as tightly, “It was mostly Nicks idea.” 

As if on cue Nick hugged you both from the side, “We couldn’t just leave it be love.” 

Still grinning madly, you kissed them both, “I love you guys. So, so much.” 

[winfall]

Episode 1: Welcome to Suplex City (Volume 6)

(photo of chair by Mariakray on Pixabay)

(photo by Damir Kopezhanov on Unsplash)

ACT THREE

INT. RAW TALK - KURT'S OFFICE – SOME TIME LATER

Charly drops a file on Kurt's desk.

CHARLY: They call themselves The Revival.

Kurt looks through the file.

CHARLY (CONT'D): A gang of advocates who support good old-fashioned fist fights. “No firearms. Just fists.”

KURT: Okay...

CHARLY: How is it possible that they've gotten away with two robberies technically unarmed?  Because not enough people are seeking out the truth even when it's right in front of them.

Kurt closes the file and puts it aside.

KURT: Look, Charly, I admire what you're doing, but save yourself the trouble. Those guys are probably halfway into Canada by now, and the last thing the public needs is more news about crimes that will never be solved. That's why I want you at the Universal Crown tonight. At least it'll take the city's mind off of worrying about being the next victim.

His phone rings.

KURT (CONT'D): Can you shut the door on your way out? Thanks.

Outraged, Charly leaves the room.

(photo by Sergey Isakhanyan on Unsplash)

INT. BULLET CLUB – LATER

JBL and Booker T walk into the bar surrounded by bikers. Drinking. Shooting Pool. Throwing darts at Shane McMahon's photo. Having a good time.

Laughter comes from the back where a group of guys are playing cards. JBL has spotted his target.

AJ STYLES gathers in his big pot.

AJ: I am phenomenal, if I do say so myself.

KARL ANDERSON clears his throat on sight of JBL and Booker T coming their way. He and LUKE GALLOWS stand guard.

AJ (CONT'D): At ease, boys. (to JBL and Booker) To what do we owe the pleasure this time?

JBL: We have reason to believe you can help us find a couple of suspects.

He takes out his phone and shows them a close-up of Dawson's glove.

JBL (CONT'D): See anything familiar?

AJ looks at the photo. Now he's offended.

AJ: I can assure you, those are not my guys. Quite frankly, you're looking at them. And I don't think they appreciate your accusations. You know, we're getting sick and tired of you breathing down our backs.  

BOOKER T: We're just doing our job.

AJ stands causing Anderson and Gallows to back him up.

AJ: Does your job include harassment? Or maybe you're having trouble hearing me. I said they're not one of us. Why are you still here?

JBL: One more question. Where were you at 9 AM this morning?

AJ snarls like an angry pitbull.

JBL (CONT'D): Let us know if you hear anything.

He and Booker T walk away.

ANDERSON/GALLOWS: Nerds./Nerds.

(photo by Jordan Koons on Unsplash)

INT. END OF DAYS PAWN SHOP – LATER

BARON CORBIN stands behind the front glass display counter of the cluttered pawn shop watching Freestyle, an amateur wrestling show, on an antique TV.

COMMENTATOR (ON TV): Jason Jordan has proven to be unstoppable thus far. The kid has a bright future ahead of him.

Dean, Roman, and Seth enter heading straight for Baron. Baron ignores them until they gather around the counter.

BARON: Can I help you with something?

SETH: That depends. Sell any illegal weapons lately?

ROMAN: I'm sure Shane would love to hear all about that.

Baron keeps watching the match on TV, uninterested.

BARON: I don't know what you're talking about.

DEAN: You don't know what we're talking about?

BARON: That's what I just said. Look, if you're not going to buy anything I suggest you get out of my store. Clowns...

Baron goes back to watching his program.

ROMAN: He's right. Let's have a look around. See what we can find. Then maybe he'll tell us what we want to know.

Roman eyes a trashcan full of kendo sticks. He picks one up, twirls it around.

ROMAN (CONT’D): Hey, how much for this?

Smashes a display case.

BARON: Hey! He can't do that.

DEAN: Looks to me he can do whatever he wants unless you start opening your mouth.

Baron remains silent.

Seth wanders over to a collection of baseball bats.

SETH: All we want is a moment of your time.

He takes a bat. Smashes the TV.

Baron hops over the counter, charging at Seth.

Dean grabs the trashcan and slams it against Baron’s back. Baron falls to the floor. Dean tosses the can.

DEAN: Get him up.

Roman and Seth lift Baron to his feet. Dean approaches Baron, wielding his own kendo stick.

BARON: I didn't sell them anything. Those bozos stole them from me the second I turned my back.

SETH: Why didn't you call the police?

Corbin keeps his mouth shut.

DEAN: Cat got your tongue? We have ways of making you talk. An entire room full of them. So, unless you start yapping, we're going to turn your junkyard into a playground.

BARON: I didn't want to be involved. You want information? I know what their license plate number is.

DEAN: What, did you chase them down?

BARON: I sold it to them.

The three of them exchange looks.

Dean snatches a receipt slip from the counter, grabs a pen and thrusts it at Baron. Baron writes down the plate number. Dean takes it. It reads, “WEGOHARD.”

JBL and Booker T enter. Assessing the situation, they pull out their guns.

JBL: Freeze!

Seth and Roman drop Baron as all three of them hold up their hands. Roman lowers his mask.

ROMAN: They're with me.

JBL: You've gotta be kidding me.

END OF ACT THREE

[ty-talks-comics]

The Boys Season 1 Review and Comparison

This was so cathartic.

In an age where we’re inundated with superhero media on all fronts with their bright colors, cheery jokes and positive outlooks, it’s easy to slowly become sick of it, feel the “superhero fatigue” as it were. Where Marvel ruins some stories with far too many jokes (looking at you Thor: Ragnarok) and DC is far too dreary and serious for its own good with a lack of levity, where can one turn to for a GOOD happy medium?

Well, in comes Seth Rogan and Evan Gold, the brilliant minds behind the amazing adaptation of Preacher with yet another brutal and slightly more cynical series. The Boys absolutely stuns not only by being a genuinely compelling series, but also by being one of the few adaptations that improves on the original medium in a few aspects.

Story

The story centers around Hughie Campbell and the titular Boys as they work to expose the horrific deeds of The Seven, a collective of the world's greatest superheroes, and the company that sponsors them, Vought American.

In this world, superheroes are everywhere. They're on breakfast cereals, TV shows, movies, pretty much every piece of media and entertainment imaginable while also protecting America from crime. Sounds familiar, huh? The kicker here is that, much like every asshole celebrity that lets the fame and fortune go to their heads, these heroes are massive cunts. They take performance enhancing drugs, routinely cause accidents that hurt or kill people, sexually harass people left and right and just lie to their adoring public like they’re children.

Unlike the books, however, The Boys team isn’t the well oiled machine that’s been taking down and blackmailing superheroes for years and the first four episodes are spent introducing the different team members.This is likely due to wanting to give people time to care about them individually and the limited number of episodes in the season. This definitely works in also retooling the characters themselves for TV since they may not have seventy-two issues of character development ahead of them

For the most part, the show follows the initial story beats of the comics with a few select differences before splintering off in an entirely new direction. Hughie’s girlfriend still gets blown apart by A-Train, he denies Vought America’s hush money which draws the attention of Billy Butcher and Starlight joins the Seven after the “death” of the hero Lamplighter. 

This also means that there's less time to focus on smaller plotlines and teams that are referenced to in passing dialogue like the Teenage Kix, a pastiche on the Teen Titans, or Payback, the number two group of superheroes to The Seven. While seeing the team take these guys down on the small screen would have been fun, I like the idea of keeping the plot focused on just the core group of antagonists. This way, we don’t have to slog through three or four seasons of small fry and get the big bads in the last few.

After the first half, fans of the comic may start to feel a little bit of the familiar, but then things start to take a drastic turn when Billy's pride and the rest of the teams sloppiness gets them all burned and branded wanted criminals. This never happens in the books because The Boys are funded and protected by the CIA, but here they’re just another group of concerned citizens that are completely in over their heads, adding to the tension and keeping everyone guessing as to what will happen for the rest of the season and in Season 2.

Themes

The original series was written during the latter years of the Bush Administration. Tensions were high and America was still embroiled in the Iraq War. The president was a simpering fool and companies were fucking people over left and right in the name of patriotism. Reality TV and the awful personalities on our screens were on nearly every channel and all of this only fueled the anger that is Garth Ennis’ pen and Darick Robertson’s pencils. It was a product of its time and it was perfect.

We’re now in the Information Age where superheroes and social media are the only things that matter in everyone’s mind, where women’s empowerment is stronger than ever and our leaders speak bombastically with shit eating grins full of lies. Rogen and Goldberg have kept the series modern and take everything to task.

Media. Marvel and DC are everywhere nowadays with some indie companies managing to scrape up their own part of the pie. The Boys makes fun of the seemingly endless cycle of sequels and the goody-two-shoes images of America’s favorite heroes. Everything is carefully managed and curated by a media team, similar to how Disney micromanages even the smallest details of their properties to make everything so sickeningly squeaky clean. 

Not only do the heroes stop crime, but they star in their own movies about themselves as well, some have sponsorships for shoes and have to compete with each other for everything. Almost everything is done for the cameras, even intimate moments whenever Vought can find a way to make it work. The heroes are never too far from the spotlight even when they want to be and oftentimes their acts can go viral without them knowing.

Sexual Assault. In the comics, Starlight is sexually assaulted by Homelander, Black Noir and A-Train in a gross scene to establish that there’s nothing good in that world. It was good for its time in its own dark way, but today there are absolutely consequences to such things as there should have been back then. In the show, Starlight is assaulted by The Deep, her childhood crush, alone. 

It’s dark and makes use of the imbalance of power as The Deep threatens to have her kicked off of the team. Soon after, Starlight comes forward with what happens to her, not allowing herself to let what happened stand and unlike in the books, The Deep gets his comeuppance. Though this also unfortunately leading to him getting assaulted as well. It’s powerful and allows for Starlight to move what could have been an image of weakness, though Vought uses this to their advantage as well, painting her a feminist icon. Best for business right?

Politics. While not everything has to be an allegory for Trump, it’s hard to say that Homelander isn’t just that. He’s what the president thinks he is, a strong, blonde haired man that the entire country loves. Homelander has the people eating out of the palm of his hands and he’s only feeding them shit. He hates the common man and will just as easily let many die if it can somehow serve his interests. He’s not above a little sexual harassment himself and he is just an evil bastard.

There’s also a subplot of military application of superheroes that I feel mirrors the discussion on the use of drones in war. Drones are absolutely deadly and have caused the deaths of hundreds, even innocents when things have gone really wrong. Even President Obama was criticized for how reckless and dangerous their use could be. The world could only imagine the hell that would rain down if superheroes were allowed to duke it out over national security.

Characters

The Boys as a comic series was an unrepentantly cynical take on the superhero genre in an established universe of heroes. The creator, Garth Ennis, didn’t grow up with many superheroes and actually felt disrespected by a few of them, like Captain America. He brought on the amazing Darick Robertson and other artists to realize this horrid world of drugs, hardcore sex and brutal violence. Many of the stories are fun and hilarious, but with the unfortunate feeling of a lot of them feeling one note due to the one dimensional nature of a lot of the “heroes” and the ever escalating level of black humor to the point of being cartoonish.

Our main character cast is absolutely fantastic. Jack Quiad’s Hughie is much like his comic counterpart, aside from being like six feet tall and not Scottish. He’s surprisingly smart with a lot of awkwardness about him. He has a good heart and doesn’t see ALL superheroes as being evil, but does have a slight sense of justice that wants to see The Seven and Vought taken down. 

Karl Urban’s Butcher was the absolute perfect casting choice. He’s got that wry British wit, the fury to capture Butcher’s rage against supes and can play a manipulator like nobody's business. His character arc is one of the few regressions that I can actually appreciate for how it's done, especially as things become more fucked because of him and how he chooses to blame everyone else.

Everyone else is a slight bit of an improvement over the comics versions. The Frenchman, played by Tomer Capon, is similar to his comics counterpart, but we’re given reason to care about him and The Female. In the comics, Frenchie and the Female knew each other prior, but I don’t think it’s ever revealed how they met or became close. In the show Frenchie frees The Female, played by Karen Fukuhara, from thugs that had been keeping her prisoner and he slowly gains her trust over the course of the next few episodes after her introduction. We see their friendship grow, learn a little bit of her backstory and get a better understanding of what she wants versus just following Frenchie around and being terrifyingly adorable.

Annie January aka Starlight, played by Erin Moriarty, is probably the second best change in character in the series. She starts out as a bright eyed, bushy tailed hero looking to do good, but after being sexually assaulted on her first day in The Seven, decides that it will never happen again. In the comics, Annie stays around in The Seven and takes the abuse for a little while before speaking out and fighting back against the rest of them. What makes things even better, not only does she challenge her uber Christian beliefs during an event sponsored by Vought, but she does so while also getting Vought to force her abuser into giving a public apology at the mere thought of her causing their stock prices to crash.

Consequently, Mother’s Milk, portrayed by Laz Alonso, one of the most layered characters in the comics isn’t made better, but the more ridiculous aspects of is character have been toned down. We don’t hear of his disabled mother and his addiction to her breast milk that fuels his own superpowers, nor is his wife a crack addict that makes pornos with their daughter. He’s simply a reliable member of the team that loves his wife and will give Butcher the truth when he’s acting like an asshole.

The series actually brings a lot of grey to most of these characters. A-Train never once shows remorse for his actions in the books, but in the show he's painted as kind of sympathetic, while still being seen as a monster for what he does and the reasons behind them. The Deep could go either way after his actions with a redemption arc or a full turn to villain, but is shown to be knowingly aware of how little regard there is for him. He calls himself a "diversity hire" and acknowledges his own ineptitude, but he's still an absolutely terrible person.

Queen Maeve may be one of my favorite changes that manages to be even more sympathetic than her already pretty great comic counterpart. She, much like Starlight, did want to change the world, but she let the apathy and jaded nature of the job take her over. She's an alcoholic that sees a bit of herself in Starlight. The change comes in how she reacts to what I think might be Homelander's most heinous act in the show. She shows far more remorse and guilt over what happens than she does in the comic, showing us a side of her makes you want to root for her and to see her get better.

The best character… dear Lord, is Homelander, played by Anthony Starr. Homelander is a bastard. The worst thing imaginable because of his sheer strength and power. He’s a sociopath with all of the powers of Superman and none of the goodness. In the comics he’s simply just another asshole. 

He’s the most powerful of the Seven and absolutely revels in the hedonistic lifestyle that he’s accustomed to while also hating being under the rule of Vought. In the show, he’s shown as being supportive to Vought, especially it’s current Senior VP of Hero Management, Madelyn Stillwell. He has something of a mommy fetish as shown with his interactions with her and later in the series actually expresses emotions over learning of his own tragedies, but instead of trying to change for the better, he doubles down on his hatred and anger to become an even bigger monster than before. 

In the comic he just wants all of the superheroes to conquer the world, but here, he just wants to hurt everyone who hurts him. He plays games like a child, threatening and revealing secrets to toy with people before absolutely breaking them. He's horrible in a very personal way and his sneering smile only makes him so much more hateable. He knows there isn't a damn thing you can do to stop him and he revels in that fact, I love it.

Pacing and Direction

Coming in at an hour for each episode, the first two to three can feel a bit slow. Getting all of the story elements to sit just right can take time, especially as new things are introduced every few minutes. This slow burn approach easily helps to build the tension before things get really crazy by episode four. By that point, the story is unfolding at a perfect rhythm, the team is mostly together, they’ve made their plans of action and it’s all so smooth.

Thankfully each episode is directed by different people to avoid each feeling so similar. The common humor and tone is kept the same, but some episodes are very hopeful almost before being met with one that absolutely makes you hate certain characters and the actions that they take. In particular, the episode where Hughie and Butcher visit a group therapy session and Butcher flies off into a rage about the weakness of the attendees as they basically lick the balls of the heroes that have maimed them was amazing. The director pulls so much emotion out of that scene and continues on as the episode moves along in a far more dramatic fashion than some of the others.

Some others lean heavier on the debauchery such as the episode where Hughie and Butcher venture into a superhero sex club and watch as these guys do some pretty amazing feats with their abilities in some really gross ways. There’s a good balance of levity and drama that makes neither feel too overwhelming.

Overall

With a great cast, impeccable acting and an unpredictability that I actually enjoyed, The Boys absolutely blew me away. I was wholly prepared to rip it apart if I felt like it didn’t do the story justice, but Rogen and Goldberg are fans and knew what we all wanted. It’s unabashedly a comic book show, but still has enough to it that people who have never heard of the series will be floored by how much they can find to enjoy.

It’s for the nihilistic and jaded comic book fan. It’s for the casual watcher who’s gotten enough of Marvel’s colorful displays of happiness and it’s absolutely for the happy person who just wants to have some fun with what they watch. 

I thoroughly enjoyed this season of The Boys. So much so that I’m aching with anticipation to re-read the comic series in preparation for Season Two. It’s unlikely that it’ll follow the plot much, if at all after the ending, but with Stormfront (as a woman) being announced as the new Hero joining the Seven in the next season, I’m excited as to who else they might pull. This first season absolutely earns a high recommendation from me.

[selfindulgentpoorlywritten]

It’s Nice (Carter Hart Imagine)

This was written AND edited in a hypomanic blur so like. I’m pretty sure there are real words involved, but I make no promises.

Rating: T

Pairing: Carter Hart/Reader

Words: 3429

Warnings: food, pet(s), talk of children

Requested: yes / no

Summary: Just an average evening with Carter, except not really average at all.

The meal plan the nutritionist had made is indisputably for a professional athlete, with the number of calories and sheer mass of protein it calls for. It had taken some trial and error, but you’d figured out a way to adjust it to fit your own needs in a way that didn’t mean twice the cooking. You’re probably the only reason Carter even kind of sticks to it, because he’s inclined to make whatever’s easiest (or just order out, if he’s especially tired), so having you around to cook for the two of you keeps him more or less on track.

Right now, you’re finishing up dinner. All you have to do is let the chicken simmer and occasionally spoon some sauce onto it from the pan to make sure it doesn’t dry out. Most of your attention is focused on the other pan, where you’re just cooking some chicken to use over the next few days, to save time and make sure it doesn’t spoil. Dinner had been a bit of a mess tonight, honestly. You’d used the last lemon yesterday, so it was lucky you had a (questionably old) bottle of lemon juice in the fridge to replace it. The recipe called for half-and-half, which you never have in the house, so you’d just substituted milk and used the meal plan to justify it. You’d forgotten the tongs were all in the dishwasher, so now you’re doing your best to flip and handle the chicken with a spoon. And to top it off, you’re cat-sitting for your friend, and Harri hasn’t given you one moment of rest since you first brought out the meat. You’ve spent the better part of 45 minutes pushing her away from the raw-- and then cooked-- chicken breasts every five seconds.

“Ma’am,” you scold, pushing her away yet again, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to stop.” You have no idea where the habit of calling pets “sir” and “ma’am” came from, but you’ve done it for quite a while. It usually makes people laugh when they hear it, so it’s not a habit you’re trying to break. Finally, you deem the last batch of chicken done, so you push Harri back again, grabbing the skillet by the handle and moving it closer to the plate on the counter to hopefully minimize spillage.

“Holy fuck!” you don’t-quite-shout, literally jumping a bit in surprise. You would swing around to confront the person who’d grabbed you from behind, but they’re holding fast. Carter is holding fast. He’s pretty much the only person who can sneak up on you, despite being objectively large for a human. When you first started dating, he would laugh when he managed to surprise you; now he just smiles into your neck and gently sways the two of you side-to-side. Leaving the spoon in the pan, you use your now-free hand to smack one of his forearms.

“Maybe don’t sneak up on me when I have a hot pan in my hands, next time,” you say, trying to sound annoyed and definitely not succeeding. Yes, he should absolutely be more mindful of danger when he surprises you, but also consider: he’s adorable and you love him.

“I’m sorry,” he replies, genuine at first, before you can feel his smile turn to a smirk against your skin and hear his voice gain a mischievous edge, “Guess I’ll have you make it up to you somehow.” You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see it. You kick backward at his ankle.

“Let me finish dinner, you menace,” you say, craning your neck so you can kiss him hello despite your words. Once he’s gotten his kiss he backs off, hoisting himself up to sit on the counter. You would’ve gotten reprimanded for that when you were a kid, but this is your apartment, both of yours, so you can sit on the counter all you want. Take that, mom.

“How was your day?” he asks. You start telling him a bit about it, just a summary, saving the details for the dinner table. It’s odd being certain that he’s actually listening, actually cares about what you have to say. It’s nice.

The pre-cooked chicken covered and safely tucked in the fridge, you separate tonight’s food onto two plates, his significantly more full than yours. He hops off the counter and takes his plate, walking around the counter with you. You sit across from each other at the small wooden table, eating as you talk about your days in more detail. It’s not quite pre-season yet, still the tail-end of conditioning camp. That means he has more time to spend with you, but less to do during the day, which translates to less to talk about at dinner. Luckily, you’ve gotten pretty good at keeping the conversation going; asking both leading and specific questions to get more information out of him. You don’t really need to know any of it, but you like listening to him talk and knowing what’s going on in his life. Plus, taking an interest in his life always makes him happy.

Once you’ve both finished eating, he takes your plate with his own and brings them to the sink. It doesn’t bother you that you’re the chef of the relationship, because he carries his weight around the house in other ways. You cook, he does the dishes, you do the laundry, he cleans the bathroom and floors, and so on. There’s a balance here that you haven’t experienced before. It’s nice. 

It’s your turn to sit on the counter, continuing to chat while he rinses the dishes and loads them into the dishwasher, gathering the pots and pans from cooking and doing the same with them. With that taken care of, you hop off the counter and walk with him into the living room. You settle down on the couch, feet up on the ottoman, and he situates himself so he can lean into your side with his too-long legs taking up the third cushion. You’ve been bingeing a new series on Hulu, so you click your way through the requisite settings until you can press play on the correct episode.

Usually, you tend to be a bit restless. Sitting through an entire episode of a show used to be an impossible task, and you’d get up every five minutes to clean something or set something up or fix something. But with Carter snuggled up into you, hand on your outstretched thigh, breathing steady, sitting still for an hour seems like nothing. You’d sit still ‘til the end of eternity so long as Carter was close.

Plus the part where Harri is curled up on your shins, which doesn’t seem comfortable (but she’s a cat so who knows), and you’re pretty sure its a federal offense to disturb a sleeping animal.

    You watch two episodes, mindful of your self-imposed bedtime. The two of you make comments throughout, half of it critiquing certain aspects of the plot or composition, the other half just going “WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK?” and commenting on how hot Karl Urban is. You’ve never had a relationship, intimate or otherwise, where you didn’t have to hold in your thoughts and reactions. It’s nice.

    The second episode ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, but you join forces to talk yourselves out of watching another. The next will probably end on a cliffhanger too, ‘cause that’s how they keep you watching, so there’s really no point in watching any more right now. If you give in, you’ll most likely end up staying up way too late watching “just one more” and regretting it in the morning. Eventually, you resolutely turn the TV off and shove Carter off you. He whines and groans but heaves himself off the couch to follow you toward the bedroom.

    You brush your teeth before washing and moisturizing your face. Unfortunately you don’t have a double vanity, so most of the time is spent hip-checking each other out of the way and playfully trash talking around toothbrushes and Carter accidentally spitting toothpaste on your hand. Which isn’t unfortunate at all, really, because it’s lighthearted and domestic and fun. Plus, the limited space means he has to stay close by your side, radiating heat better than any furnace and casually brushing against you here and there. Or at least he has an excuse to. So he’ll bump your hips together to push you out of the way, even though he doesn’t really need the sink at the moment, a foamy grin on his face; then casually brush your shoulders together ten seconds later, smile gone gentle and fond. When you two had first started dating, every touch would feel thrillingly electric; now it just feels warm and safe. You’d take more than some spitty toothpaste to the hand for this.

    “We’re supposed to be calming down, not getting riled up,” you scold him as you continue to harass each other, but you’re smiling too much to really sound peeved. Carter puts one hand on your waist-- thumb stretching upward enough to be suggestive-- and cups your jaw with the other, and you just cleaned that, come on.

    “Oh, I’ll rile you up,” he purrs, shuffling further into your space and stroking his thumb along your ribcage. His tone makes something twist in your stomach, his usually light eyes dark and his gaze heavy when you meet it. Maybe dating the most gorgeous man in the world has some downsides. Like him seducing you in the bathroom when you literally just washed up.

    “You’re such a fuck boy,” you force out, reaching up to playfully push him away by the face.

    “Hey!” he objects, though he does step back and remove his hands, “I’m a himbo, if anything!” No matter how much you regret teaching him that word, it’s still funny as fuck to hear, and you break out laughing. He laughs with you for a minute, and you’re basically doubled over with it as he weakly attempts to assert that “it’s not funny, I’m serious” around giggles. Once you can finally breathe again and have wiped the tears from your eyes, he steps back into your space to press a kiss to your lips, lingering for a few breathless moments. Finally, he exhales, minty-fresh air fanning over your lips. You let out the breath you were holding too, lips tingling, temptation building as you open your eyes and take in the look of raw want on his face.

    Just as you’re about to succumb to the pull in your stomach, he moves away. Tease. Well, not really, ‘cause you had rebuffed his advances already, so he was really just respecting your boundaries. But he didn’t have to be so goddamn sexy all the time, okay? Hell, when you first met, you’d thought he was just an adorable little sweetheart, not anticipating how he could apparently flip a switch to become the most alluring (beguiling, tempting, bewitching, captivating…) man you’d ever encountered. So of course, 99% of his charm was being cute and lovable; except when he had you (at least mostly) alone and turned into a fucking incubus. Or maybe you’re a little biased, what with being in love with him, and all. Anyway.

    Back in the bedroom proper, you change into your usual sleepwear, taking a bit longer than you would when you lived alone with how much time you’re spending blatantly staring at Carter. Hey, he’s your boyfriend, you’re allowed to appreciate him, okay? And you’re totally allowed to stare at his ass in those tight boxer-briefs as he leads the way through to the living room. Dating privileges.

    It’s routine now, to go make a cup of tea before returning and curling up in your chair to continue reading your latest book. Meanwhile, Carter stretches out on the couch with his phone and laptop, checking out whatever videos or memos the team and staff have suggested (or “suggested”) and skimming any new stats. Everyone says you shouldn’t look at any type of screen before bed, but it never seems to keep him from falling asleep, so you don’t bother him about it.

You’d almost forgotten about Harri until she jumps into your lap, curling up in a position that can’t be comfortable, purring despite it. She purrs like a motorboat, vibrating against your legs and making enough noise to distract you from reading. Luckily for her, it’s cute rather than annoying. You scratch behind her ears and down her spine, in response to which she somehow manages to purr even louder. When you look up, Carter has shifted so he can watch you, a small smile on his face.

“What?” you ask, catching his contagious smile. He just smiles wider.

“We should get a pet,” he says. It’s kind of a big deal.

Living together is one thing; you can always move out if things go south, no harm no foul. But bringing a living being into the situation is a serious commitment, and you both knew it. Saying you should get a pet together is saying he sees a future with you, and is sure enough about it that he’s willing to bet another life on it.

“So I can take care of it and you get to be the cool dad who gives it treats whenever you’re home?” you ask, mostly rhetorically. He knows you’re okay with being the primary caretaker, you knew that would be the case going into this relationship, and you don’t begrudge him the limitations of his job. The question has always been whether he could handle being away from a pet as often as he has to. If he could handle not having a straight month home outside the summer, coming home from a game exhausted and still needing to be an involved pet parent, potentially missing milestones, not being there for first steps or words or-- okay, maybe getting a pet is really just a way of preparing for a child. Maybe the two of you have discussed that a pet would be the next step, and this is him saying he’s ready for a trial run, and though you’ve always been the one who’s ready to commit, you’re maybe a little more nervous than you’ve let on.

“Y/N,” he says, shifting again so he’s sitting upright facing you, looking you dead in the eye, “I’m ready to be the best dad I can. If you’re not ready-- for a pet-- that’s okay.” He’s so sincere, brows furrowed and mouth turned in a half-smile, “We can wait, if that’s what you need. I’ll wait as long as you need.” You’re not sure how to respond to such consideration, not sure how to process the fact that you’re not afraid when he stands and walks toward you, that you feel safe even as he looms above you because it’s Carter and you know he’d never hurt you. Not like “know”, where you try to convince yourself he wouldn’t but can’t quite get there, but actually know, 100%, that he wouldn’t. And not only that he wouldn’t hurt you, but that he’ll actually protect you, and care for you, and keep you safe. That you’re not on your own anymore. It’s nice.

“But,” he says, carefully kneeling in front of your chair and giving Harri a pet before continuing, “I’m ready when you are.” Okay. That’s. This is. Okay.

Maybe you’re not ready. But maybe you’ll never be ready. Maybe no one is ever ready to get a pet or have kids or commit wholly to another person. But maybe you just have to do it. It’s never the right time, but if there’s no perfect moment, that means it’s always the perfect moment. You can make it the right time. You want to.

“Dog or cat?” you ask, letting a smile break out on your face in tandem with his. He kneels up and leans over Harri to kiss you, slow and sweet but still distinctly excited. You’re really going to do this.

You debate the merits of Cat vs. Dog for a bit, before returning to your respective reading. Around 10:30, you return your book to the table and nudge Harri off of you, ruffling Carter’s hair as you pass by into the kitchen to get a glass of water. On your way back through to the bedroom, you haul him off the couch despite his protests and pull him along to bed. One of the unsung benefits of dating a millionaire athlete? He insisted on a bed that might actually be made of magic and fairy tears. Something far out of your solo price range.

The both of you plug in your phones and double-check your alarms for tomorrow morning, checking any last messages and shooting out any final responses. You climb into bed first, lying on your back just a smidge right from the middle. Carter follows, crawling under the covers to curl up against your left side. His head is a solid weight on your chest and he whines when you reach over to cut off the lamp on the bedside table. If he doesn’t want to be jostled, he should learn to wait before cuddling.

You settle back into place, running your fingers through his hair to placate him. He just burrows in even closer, plastering your bodies together with a leg slung over your hip and arm around your waist. His hair is soft against your skin, smooth as it passes through your fingers. When you scratch his scalp a bit, he hums in contentment. Despite being so big, he always makes himself small here, like he spends so much time having to be a wall that he simply crumbles when he’s around you.

After an indeterminate amount of time, he wiggles against you, nudging his head against your hand. It had stilled against his scalp a while ago, but now you resume scratching and stroking. His pleased hum warms you through and through, making something in your chest swell happily. After what can be no more than thirty seconds, he follows the hum with an indignant noise that you’re not quite sure how to explain, but definitely understand. You sigh.

“Alright, alright,” you concede, taking another deep breath. He always loves when you do this; god only knows why. It always makes you feel vaguely embarrassed but mostly appreciated, and you’re not sure why you always put up this token resistance, but that’s the way it goes. Honestly, it’s probably out of simple habit at this point. Maybe a little bit because you were raised to be a tad too humble, and this feels show-off-ish, despite being a performance for an audience of one.

Another intent inhale, and you start to sing. Carter never cares what you sing, he just likes to hear your voice as he falls asleep sometimes. Occasionally, he’ll have a request, if he’s gotten obsessed with a new song. Once in a while, usually after a tough loss or a hard day, he’ll ask you to sing something comforting (usually a few somethings comforting, since it tends to be more difficult for him to fall asleep those days). Tonight he just wants to hear you, to know you’re there with him, to know you love him enough to sing contrary to your reservations just because it makes him happy. Tonight, you want him to know how you love him so much more than that, so much more than you can express in word or deed, to know that you’re ready when he is.

Gin Wigmore isn’t exactly known for love songs, but she really hit it out of the park with Don’t Stop, as far as you’re concerned. You’re doing a softer rendition, not bothering to attempt her signature rasp, letting the words almost run together rather than cutting them harshly like her. It’s more a serenade than anything, something rounded and smooth to help the both of you sleep. You could do this forever, you think; spend every evening of the rest of your life with Carter, eating and talking and bumping hips at the sink and falling asleep surrounded by the warmth of his body. You want to do this forever. To be the one he comes home to and for that to be a good thing. As his breathing evens out to the sound of your voice and his fingertips go lax against your ribcage, you’re starting to think you just might get it.

[nickburn]

Art and the Artist in EDH

Most Commander players enjoy constraints in deck-building. Constraints give our decks creative and strategic focus while providing a lens for personal expression. One only needs to look at a chairs deck once to understand that constraints can be interesting problems to solve as well as fun talking points at the table. We’re already well-versed in navigating the 100-card singleton restriction and the nuances of color identity and multiplayer politics. How we navigate them is a series of personal choices we ultimately have to make for ourselves.

With Wizards of the Coast deciding not to work with Noah Bradley or Terese Nielsen anymore, Commander players now have an interesting new conundrum to think over: should I continue to run cards with art by these creators? For me, I think it’s worth the time to take these cards out of my decks and find replacements. In other mediums, it can be harder to separate art from the artist, and even worthwhile to explore how some innovative or groundbreaking works were created by problematic people. In magic, though, the art is not just what sits between the card name and the type line: it’s all the pieces of the card, from the frame, to the flavor text, to the mechanics, coming together to form a cohesive whole. Bradley’s and Nielsen’s art, while objectively beautiful, is also now a negative reminder of the people that made it, and that reminder is not entirely cohesive with the messages the rest of the game should strive to communicate. Recently, some cards with racist depictions have even been completely removed from the game, and I hope WotC continues this trend going forward.

So how do we go about finding alternatives for cards with Bradley’s and Nielsen’s art that we may be running already? Well, I’m going to tell you which offending cards I found in my own decks and the suitable replacements I’ve picked for them. Hopefully, you’ll have an idea of what you’d like to do with your own builds after you see what I’ve done here. 

I currently own six commander decks built around these commanders: Ayula, Queen Among Bears; Niv-Mizzet Reborn; Princess Twilight Sparkle; Grenzo, Dungeon Warden; Zedruu the Greathearted; and Gavi, Nest Warden. My first concern when examining the decks for Bradley or Nielsen art was the commanders themselves. Thankfully, none of my commanders were painted by them. A quick Scryfall search shows us that Nielsen has created art for seven legendary creatures, and Bradley does not have art on any commanders at present.

Thankfully, for the two Akroma’s, gorgeous alternate versions of the art do exist and are cheap to acquire in a variety of card frames (I think I personally prefer the Angel of Wrath art by Chippy anyway). For Hanna, Ship’s Navigator, we have to go all the way back to Invasion to find the original art. Basandra, Ertai, Sydri, and Thromok, though, do not have other versions yet. Hopefully, they will see reprints someday. For now, I wouldn’t begrudge anyone for running them, as they all have unique niches in their colors, and I’d never want to ask someone to give up their favorite commander. If you do run them, though, you may want to consider commissioning an alternate art version from an independent creator, if that makes you more comfortable with playing them.

So that leaves the other 99 for each of my decks. For Ayula, I found that I was running a basic Forest of Bradley’s and Hunter’s Insight by Nielsen. The Forest is trivial to replace, and I already have a Fifth Edition one by David O’Connor I want to use from a Starter Deck I recently picked up. Hunter’s Insight is a good draw spell for the deck, for sure, but there is no shortage of those in green now. I just happen to have a Heartwood Storyteller lying around (art by Anthony S. Waters), so I’m going to slot that in for the same draw function. It’s a creature to boot, so it can pick up the deck’s equipment, and it might even make me some friends around the table. Ayula’s not a particularly group hug-y deck, but it couldn’t hurt, since most of the deck is creatures anyway.

For my Niv-Mizzet Reborn/Maze’s End deck, I was happy to see that I don’t have to worry about replacing any of the Gates or Maze’s End itself. I did place an additional constraint on the deck of only including cards from Ravnica sets, so it already doesn’t have as much wiggle room. But the only card I found to take out was Transguild Promenade by Bradley. I do hope it gets a reprint someday, but it’s honestly not that good of a card. I was mostly running it for flavor anyway, so I don’t feel too bad about putting in a Novijen, Heart of Progress that I have instead (art by Martina Pilcerova). This card is not optimal for a five-color deck, but it is flavorful. And I can always find something else later.

Princess Twilight Sparkle was running Nielsen’s Swords to Plowshares and Bradley’s Winds of Abandon. I’m replacing Swords with the original Path to Exile, since it basically does the same thing and I’ve always loved Todd Lockwood’s art for it. It also helps my opponents find lands if they’re mana screwed, which feels a little better than just giving them some life. Winds of Abandon is a lot harder to replace, since it’s still a new card and I was really looking forward to playing it. I could definitely see it getting reprinted soon, though, so I’m sticking in a Kirtar’s Wrath (art by the prolific Kev Walker) as an alternative board wipe with some upside.

My Grenzo deck was running Bradley’s version of Forgotten Cave and Nielsen’s Darksteel Pendant. Luckily, I still have an original Forgotten Cave from Onslaught, so that was easy to replace. I have a soft spot for Darksteel Pendant since there aren’t that many Darksteel cards, so I do hope WotC reprints this obscure common someday. Scry is an all too common ability now, though, so there’s no shortage of options. I’m slotting in a Conjurer’s Bauble (art by Darrell Riche), since it’s cheap utility and getting things from the graveyard to the bottom of the library is actually super great for Grenzo.

I recently bought Approach of the Second Sun for my Zedruu build (my long-time favorite commander deck), so I’m the most sad to see this one go. The card has become a commander staple since it was printed, as it’s a great alternate win condition for white. It’s especially great in Zedruu, which doesn’t have many other ways to close out games. I’m replacing it with Sphinx’s Tutelage (art by Slawomir Maniak) as a way to mill someone out, although there’s really no replacement for Second Sun. I was going to take out Bradley’s Leyline of Anticipation in favor of another Fifth Edition card, Ray of Command, but then I realized Ray’s Fifth Ed. art was created by known neo-Nazi Harold McNeill, the artist behind the infamous Invoke Prejudice. So I’m going with Dack’s Duplicate instead (art by Karl Kopinski).

Finally, my newest deck is headed by Gavi, Nest Warden, which really likes to have Forgotten Cave and Lonely Sandbar to function. Since I don’t have another Forgotten Cave or Heather Hudson’s version of Lonely Sandbar at the moment, I’m just slotting in a Fifth Edition Mountain and Island (art by John Avon and J.W. Frost respectively). That just leaves Bradley’s Spirit Cairn to take out, which isn’t a particularly stellar card anyway. So another Fifth Edition card, Forget (art by Mike Kimble), is going in instead. It’s cool to have some targeted discard in blue, so it can either trigger Gavi or disrupt an opponent’s hand in a pinch.

And that’s all of my decks updated! Phew.

This is a game and a format I love and want to continue to share with others. I think that can only happen as long as the space we provide for new players is kind and inviting. Bigotry and harassment have no place in games or elsewhere. So by ditching some of these potentially-problematic symbols, my hope is that it makes Magic a little safer for everyone.

If you stuck with me this long, thank you for reading!

You can follow more of my thoughts on Twitter @NCBurnham.

Be kind and stay safe out there. <3

[ponticle]

Day 5: Seminar, Day 3, Afternoon [9-Day Anderstair Challenge]

[Masterpost - linked series order available on the main story summary page]

[Read it on Ao3]

Chapter Summary: Alistair and Anders finally emerge and have to go their separate ways for the day. Anders remembers Karl. Rated M: angst, memories, language

Seminar Day 3: Afternoon

In order to fulfill my requirements at this seminar I need to attend a certain number of sessions. The morning session today just didn’t happen—I’ll need to make it up tomorrow. It was totally worth it, though…

Dorian is in the lobby when we finally make it downstairs. He looks us over appraisingly.

“Finally decided to join us, I see?” he clicks his tongue.

Alistair hits his arm and laughs, “Don’t you have a toddler to check on?”

Dorian smiles, “Cullen has that under control.”

“Does that mean he told you to stop calling because you’re making him insane?” Alistair smirks.

The three of us walk side by side to a lecture hall on the far end of the hotel. I haven’t consulted my schedule at all, but I’m afraid to say anything, for fear of being noticed. At least only Alistair has been harassed so far.

“You’re coming to this class?” asks Dorian.

“Uh… yeah?” I stammer.

Dorian squints at me, “You’re interested in ‘curriculum planning for the advanced resident?’”

I blush. I guess the question of why Dorian is here has finally be answered—for the clinical direction classes.

“Oh… I guess not,” I stumble.

Dorian shakes his head and goes inside, leaving us alone in the hallway.

Alistair looks at me pityingly. “I’ll see you later?” he whispers.

I nod. It seems like we’re going to do nothing but see each other. It’s horrifying, but I love it.

“Text me when you’re done,” he adds, kissing me on the cheek.

When he disappears, I’m left feeling warm and tingly where his lips were. Fucking in private is one thing, but a kiss in the middle of an academic setting is entirely another. Granted, it’s not very professional—but it shows that he’s not embarrassed of me. It shows that he values me. I’m dying.

Isabela: Andy… update?

Anders: the shit is currently hitting the fan.

Isabela: does that mean his wife showed up and you’re being held hostage?

I laugh, even though it’s a terrible joke.

Anders: no… we are just fucking our brains out and he kissed me in the hallway…

Isabela: is that a euphemism?

Anders: no… lol

It occurs to me that she hasn’t used the group text. That’s unusual.

Anders: why did you only text me?

Isabela: you know how judgy they are… I want to know how you really are.

Anders: thanks, Bel… to be honest… I’m happier than I’ve been in ages.

Isabela: As long as you’re happy, I’m happy. Keep me updated.

Anders: will do.

Isabela: And… if you want to tell me any details… I’m totally open to that.

Anders: oh god… I have to go… See you!! [heart]

I look up and try to figure out which sessions are starting in my immediate vicinity. I settle on one that has to do with advanced imaging guidelines. When I sit down, I realize my desk friend from yesterday is also in this session. She smiles when she sees me even though I texted all the way through our lecture yesterday.

“Hi again,” she says, as we settle in.

“Hi,” I grin. “What’s your name again?”

“Carly,” she smiles. “You’re Anders, right?”

I grin and nod, but I feel like I should address the elephant in the room—or maybe it’s just in my head—either way, I don’t feel good about it.

“I’m sorry about all the texting yesterday—I hope the lighting didn’t bug you…” I mumble.

She laughs musically. “Don’t worry. It seemed like it was important.”

I smile, “Thanks. Well, today, I won’t be doing anything like that. I’m putting my phone away.”

We nod to each other before the presenter turns off the house lights. It’s a good thing I don’t have any text emergencies going on right now—radiology lectures are always taught in relative darkness so that the class can see the films. Emerging from one feels like being reborn. It actually reminds me a lot of the darkroom in college. Karl, my college boyfriend, studied photography.

Over a decade ago

“Are you sure we should be in here?” I whisper.

Karl closes the door behind us and flicks on the red light.

“I mean,” I continue, “what if someone catches us?”

He laughs, “Catches us doing what? We're developing film…” He holds up his camera and smirks. He's all about classic photography techniques—no Nikon digital camera or photoshop retouching for him. Everything he shoots is raw.

“Oh… is that what we're going to do?” I tease. “Here I was, thinking you wanted me to suck your dick… I guess not…”

I step away from him toward the door, but he grabs me around the waist and pulls me back.

“Please stay,” he whispers through my hair.

I nod and turn in the circle of his arms.

“Besides,” he kisses me, “don't you want to see these photos?”

I nod. I do, actually. They're from a weekend in Rockport. We took a trip out there to see the ocean. We weren't afraid of seeing anyone we knew, so Karl was more at ease than usual. I'm still not used to the fact that he isn't out. That weekend was one part perfect and one part tease—I wish I could have him like that all the time.

He mixes the chemicals and begins a complicated series of reactions until he has developing photographs hanging all over the room. I'm careful not to let them drip on me, but I get pretty close. I want to see what they become in real time.

“So… what do you think?” he asks from over my left shoulder.

“You made me look like a model,” I'm trying not to sound prideful, but I've never seen myself look like that. My hair is a tangled, wavy mess of salt and sea air. In the first panel of this group, it's whipping across my cheek. My shirt’s collar is unbuttoned to the middle of my chest and the sun is highlighting a particularly smooth patch of skin at the base of my neck.

“I didn't have to do anything—I just caught you in the act of looking beautiful,” he says.

I'm sort of dumbfounded.

“...which wasn't hard because you look like that all the time,” adds Karl.

I’m blushing.

“Look at this one,” he pulls another one down from the line and holds it up to the light.

(It’s kind of like a selfie although we didn’t have that word back then.) He’s kissing my cheek while I squint up into the lens. We look so happy.

“The sunshine was really good for us…” I mumble.

He puts a hand on my cheek and looks at me pointedly. “I know that it was easier there… that it felt better for you… I’m sorry…”

“—don’t,” I interrupt. “I just want you—in any scenario I can get you…”

He smiles.

“...and if that means I have to fuck you in this darkroom,” I wrap a hand around to grab a handful of his ass. “...then I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.”

“No one is suggesting that, Anders…” he laughs.

“Come on, Karl… you don’t have to twist my arm… I said I’d do it!”

He cackles, even as I kiss his neck.

Presently

Karl was really nice. He was a genuine person with good intentions; he was kind to me. He never cheated or made me wonder if he really wanted to be with me. When he had something to say to me, he said it… and even though it didn't last forever, he was good.

Alistair is a huge mess. Everything we do is a nightmare—but I never loved Karl like I love him.

Despite my promise to my desk friend, I pull out my phone and type a text.

Anders: I’ve been having the most amazing week with you.

He writes back almost instantly.

Alistair: me too.

[bountyofbeads]

Secondary burns: Chico, Calif., is in tumult after a fire emptied out neighboring Paradise

https://wapo.st/2MFtDXz

Secondary burns: Chico, Calif., is in tumult after a fire emptied out neighboring Paradise

By Scott Wilson | Published August 03 at 12:00 PM ET | Washington Post | Posted August 4, 2019 |

CHICO, Calif. — There is a recall campaign underway in this normally laid-back college town — a nasty, sometimes-personal effort to remove the mayor and a council member for alleged incompetence.

And the backdrop is California’s swiftly changing climate.

This city suffered, more than any other, the secondary burns of the Camp Fire that left the nearby town of Paradise in ashes last year. Now it is watching a global threat play out in its local politics, where housing and homelessness, traffic and crime, spent compassion and civic obligation have become stand-in issues for the overall challenge the climate is raising here.

“We were quietly simmering as one of the highest cost-of-living cities in the state, maybe even in the country,” said Mayor Randall Stone, a recall target along with city council member Karl Ory. “Now we are in a collective trauma, no doubt about it.”

The turning point came Nov. 8, when a wildfire sparked up in the Sierra foothills about 15 miles east of here. Fleeing the blaze, almost 20,000 Paradise residents landed in Chico, where some had worked and many had previously spent time shopping or on date nights.

The city of 93,000 people grew to 112,000, a 20 percent population spike, in a matter of hours. The vast majority of the Paradise displaced are still here.

In the following months, Chico’s pre-fire challenges have been amplified. Violent crime has risen as a police department suddenly too small for its city has failed to keep up. Traffic along the city’s wide streets has thickened.

Chico’s housing vacancy rate was less than 1 percent before the fire, a city already straining at full capacity in a region where it was already very hard to find a place to live. Now the shortage is a crisis with rents skyrocketing, evictions up, and businesses struggling to attract new employees.

Much of the restive public’s complaint has little to do with mayoral decisions or council policy. It is the symptom of a more free-ranging anger, directed at nearly everyone in charge of anything from government agencies to private charities, since the fire changed everything. It also reflects a fear of the future, of the fires to come.

The city’s welcome, once warm, is wearing thin.

“At some point you have to make a decision, and, if it’s not working out for your family, you have to move on,” said Nichole Nava, whose One Chico civic group is behind the recall effort, referring to the Paradise displaced. “Otherwise, you become a burden on society, and I do not use that term lightly.”

THE STATE’S STEPS

The Camp Fire, which killed 85 people and destroyed more than 14,000 homes, has generated a few firsts in California and in the country.

The utility whose equipment caused the fire, Pacific Gas & Electric, filed for bankruptcy protection with $30 billion in fire-related liabilities. Analysts have called the bankruptcy the first driven by a changing climate.

The thousands displaced by the fire — just 2,500 people have returned to Paradise — are among the nation’s first climate-change refugees. Now, across the croplands of Butte County, anger over the fire’s social fallout is stirring the first grass-roots political backlash stemming from California’s climate of extremes.

Mayors and council members of three cities affected by the fire — Paradise, Oroville and Chico — have been threatened with ouster in recent months. Two recall campaigns have since been withdrawn, primarily because of the public cost.

The state government has tried to address the effects of California’s “new abnormal,” as former governor Jerry Brown characterized a climate that has whipsawed between rain-soaked winters and desert-dry summers in recent years.

Gov. Gavin Newsom (D) signed legislation last month creating a $21 billion emergency fund to help pay for future fire damage costs. The measure also will loosen some of the nation’s strictest liability rules for utilities when their equipment causes a fire, but only after those utilities carry out billions of dollars in fire-prevention safety work.

Those steps have done little to assuage the rising frustration among many here who believe a future of fire, and the way the city’s elected leadership has managed the aftermath of this one, are changing the place for the worse.

“The effects have been extremely polarizing on this community,” Nava said. “For me, this recall points to a job performance issue, simple as that.”

‘Pot and fake climate’

Nava is an on-the-go 51, the regional manager of a group of government social service agencies, the mother of two grown children and a Chico resident since the third grade. She loves the place.

But, during the past year, the place has changed.

People have broken into her home and into her car. One of her children has been evicted — twice — because of rising rents. Her husband screens her phone calls, testing first in English and then in Spanish, whether the caller is for real or another threatening opponent of the recall effort. Trash and human waste have polluted some of her favorite creeks and parks.

“People have just given up reporting crimes, there’s no follow-through,” she said. “We’re at a boiling point.”

For many of the visible changes, Nava blames a hardcore group of homeless people that gathers in the city’s many parks and around City Hall, a challenge that existed before the fire, but one she says has grown significantly since then.

Many, she said, have arrived for the post-fire charity — the gift cards, gas cards and donated food meant for Paradise refugees. She calls it a “free giveaway show that has never ended.”

Nava and her group, which she said numbers about 1,000 residents and organizes primarily on Facebook, point to one evening in particular to sum up what she says are the council’s out-of-touch priorities.

In early April, the council voted to declare a climate emergency. The council also selected the members of a new cannabis advisory board, which will help the city develop licensing rules for the retail sale of marijuana.

At the time, council member Ann Schwab, whom Nava considered for recall, acknowledged that traffic and crime might appear more pressing concerns to those in the audience, but she added that “climate change must be part of the discussion as we face all the other issues.”

To Nava and others, the votes looked like fiddling while the city burned, metaphorically at least. One local businessman told the council that he wanted more police on the streets, while council members seemed more concerned with “pot and fake climate.”

The recall effort began the following month. Nava’s group faces a November deadline to gather enough signatures to qualify the issue for a special-election ballot, which would be held within four months of the signatures’ certification.

IT HAS NOT BEEN EASY.

Nava said signature gatherers are harassed regularly, and that those shops and stores that have allowed her to set up a petition table outside have been punished on Yelp with bad reviews. Her email inbox is filled with threats. So far, though, she is unfazed.

“Getting rid of these two, we hope, will halt the cancer,” Nava said.

An endangered idyll?

It is sometimes difficult to see the city that she does.

The streets are filled on warm summer evenings, residents and tourists shopping vintage-vinyl stores and the Bird in Hand, Tomfoolery and Made in Chico boutiques. There is a farmers market and live music in the town square on Thursday nights.

Students have begun to trickle back into town, filling the bars where Sierra Nevada, the beer born here, is available in all of its varieties.

The overall crime rate in Chico is down. The city already has several thousand houses and apartments approved for construction, the reason the council opted out of state legislation pushed hard by Nava’s group that would have waived some environmental review on home building.

Even the housing market is showing signs of loosening, with new listings popping up and staying on the market longer. The rental market, though, is still so tight that the council is considering a law to prevent future evictions without cause.

“It’s a supply and demand question, but I do think it is getting better,” said Brandi Laffins, president of Sierra North Valley Realtors, the regional trade association. “None of us as Realtors like to see what is happening right now. We’re hoping this is stabilizing because we hate to see good people leaving.”

A tactical election

The Chico council comprises seven members, and it always has been closely divided between conservatives and liberals. President Trump easily won surrounding Butte County in 2016. Within Chico’s city limits, though, he was trounced.

“We’re an island of liberalism in a sea of conservatism, and that’s certainly part of what’s driving this now,” said council member Karl Ory, the other recall target.

Ory is a tall, white-haired 68-year-old who keeps a small office above Duffy’s Tavern on Main Street. He served on the council in the 1970s before taking a decades-long hiatus from elected office. Like Stone, his term will expire in 2020. He worked in the affordable housing field, advising and building, during his time out of office.

Removing Stone and Ory — and replacing them with conservatives in a subsequent election — would bring a conservative majority to the council. Why not wait until Stone and Ory come up for election next year?

Those opposing the recall say the conservatives have a better chance of ousting the two in a special election than on the November 2020 ballot, which also will include a referendum on Trump.

“Why have they picked me this time? I don’t know, maybe they see me as the weakest link,” said Ory, who won the fewest votes of those elected to the council in 2016. “I think they will find they have made a mistake.”

But he has some sympathy for those frustrated by the council’s priorities, even if he believes they are the right ones. He has seen it before.

In the early 1970s, the council passed a resolution declaring Chico a “nuclear-free” city. Ory voted for it. In the subsequent election, voters pushed out the liberal majority of which he was a part.

There also is real worry, he said, about the city’s future when severe fires are predicted to occur with greater frequency across the region.

A recent city government survey asked: Do you believe Chico is headed in the right direction? Two years ago, nearly half of the respondents answered “yes.” This time just 20 percent did.

“When you have 80 percent of the city angry, what aren’t they angry about?” Ory said.

NO APOLOGIES

Much of that anger is evident in the recall “Notice of Intent” that Nava filed with the city in May.

The document lists grievances against Ory, including his positions on housing policy and how he “belittles and disparages constituents during council meetings.”

The list of particulars against Stone includes the claim that he “exhibits narcissistic behavior,” and that he “demonstrates unethical behavior by responding to comments using his underage children’s Facebook accounts.”

“I’m aggressive and I am also unmoved by this vitriol,” Stone said. “I consider it part of the political process. People are going to be upset about what you are doing.”

Stone, 46, was raised the son of a midsize city mayor. His dad, Larry Stone, ran Sunnyvale, Calif., in Silicon Valley, when Randall was a child. He, too, faced a recall effort, which did not succeed.

Stone, who first arrived here for college, appears tuned to a frequency slightly higher than those of most Chico residents.

He rides an electric unicycle through the city streets, often chooses a bow tie in a town of T-shirts and wears two watches to keep track of the time and the biometrics that matter to a marathon runner such as himself.

He is unapologetic about the council’s work. His background is in financial management and affordable housing development, and he believes the council is focused correctly on the social damage the post-fire stress has caused here.

“We’re not seeing the frequency increase in cases of abuse, but the intensity is higher when we do see them,” said Stone, whose wife is a social worker in the city. “If it’s domestic violence, it is more intense. If it is elder abuse, it is more intense. If it is child abuse, it is more intense.”

Stone said the recall is simply a calculated push by building interests to take back a council majority at a vulnerable moment for elected leaders in a traumatized city.

He is so unconcerned, he said, he is not raising money to contest it.

Return to Paradise

A rumbling stream of utility vans, dump trucks and construction crews constantly head east up Skyway, the rising road that connects Chico and Paradise.

Along the route billboards advertise law firms that specialize in helping secure “relief from the Paradise Fire.” Other signs are simply encouraging: “#RidgeRising,” one reads, the slogan for the rebuilding of the scorched town.

The Sinclaires, burned out by the fire as it swept along Forest Lane that November morning, are the vanguard of the slow reverse migration to Paradise.

Travis and his wife, Victoria, became the first Paradise family to receive a certificate of occupancy to move into their new house in late July. A shade of deep blue with an American flag flying from the facade, the house was built from the ground up by a local construction company whose owner also lost his home in the fire.

On a recent morning, the couple’s third in their new home, the doorbell rang every few minutes with a delivery, another box to add to the stacks around the living room. Victoria arrived with slushy coffee drinks from Dutch Bros., the drive-through franchise here that sponsors a large “We Heart Paradise” billboard at the entrance to Chico.

“It’s like Christmas right now,” Travis said.

The couple lost everything in the fire.

Travis, 40, worked at Safeway during the day. At night, he delivered pizzas for Round Table, which shared the same strip mall with the grocery store. Both Safeway and Round Table burned to the ground. He has been working at the Safeway in Chico ever since.

The couple and their daughter, Emily, uprooted for her senior year in high school, and their three cats spent about seven months in a student apartment in Chico between the fire and their return.

It was noisy and cramped, with train tracks running just yards away along the back of the building. “We went shopping there, we went to movies there, we know people there,” Travis said. “But living there was a whole different thing.”

There is activity now along Forest Lane — a house going up next door, another across the street. There also are holes that will not be filled.

Victoria, a county social worker, said fewer than 25 percent of her friends intend to return. The rest will remain in increasingly angry cities such as Chico.

“When we first got there, everyone was super nice and welcomed us like family,” Travis said. “But after a few months, you see on Facebook that there is too much traffic in the city, too much crime. I mean, the crime isn’t because of the people from Paradise.”

[megantodd2415-blog]

Project 4: Research

https://www.aiga.org/medalist-ruth-ansel-2016

-Co-Art Director of Harpers Bazaar in the 60s

-Art director of the NYT Magazine beginning in 1974

-Vanity Fair reinvention in the 1984; Living record of the HOllywood obsessed go-go 80s

-1983: revamped house & garden

-Rock n Roll Flair

-“Showed us how magazines, at their best, are a vital visual record, a time stamp for an entire age”

-“Magazines give you an idea of what it was like to be alive at a certain time”-Ansel

-Work with the best people+white space+ let it happen

-Grew up in the bronx

-Loved movies

-Graduated from Alfred University in Western NY with a BFA in ceramic design

-Began at Columbia records under Bob Cato

-Married to Bob Gill; Who introduced her to “NY Design Mafia”: George Lois, Robert Brownjohn, Saul Bass, and Ivan Chermayeff

-Travelled Europe after marriage to Bob Gill

-1961: moved to NY to work with Henry Wolf at Harpers Bazaar; Got hired by Marvin Israel even though she had NO experience; No cliches to unlearn; Taught herself to develop a critical eye, “to be curious seven days a week”

-“Magazines were the closest thing I could find to films”

-“Child of the moment”

-Must be brilliant and be able to execute the brilliant

-Became co-art director with bea feitler after Israel was fired; She was in her 20s; Helped to forge a revolutionary new direction for harper bazarr; Conceptual photography + pop art + street fashion + rock music + film

-In motion, dark, intelligent, introverted, beautiful

-1990s: formed her own studio and designed monographs and began a highly productive collaboration with Tim Walker

-Design wall graphics in 2012 for a London exhibition organied around the publication of Storyteller

-Simple design; Effortless

-Four rules: Provoke something new, Inform yourself and be sensitive to the culture around you, bring it into your work (Constantly be changing and evolving), Entertain your audience (Juxtaposition), Inspire others and get out of the way

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruth_Ansel

-1960s: Harper's bazaar co-art director (1963); 1965 Iconic cover of Jean Shrimpton

-1970s: NYT (1974), House & Garden (1983), Vanity Fair (1984 as Art Director), & Vogue art director

-1957: began working under Bob Cato at Columbia Records

-1992 opened her own design studio where she still creates today: Dark Odyssey by Phillip Jones Griffiths, The Sixties by Richard Avedon, Women & the white oak dance project by annie leibovitz, Ad campaigns for versace, club monaco, and karl lagerfeld, Jerry schatzberg photography book, Elsa peretti the life and and work

-In 2009 she presented her work at moderna museet in stockholm sweden

-Hall of Femmes: Ruth Ansel

-2011 received art directors club hall of fame award

-Art directors club: gold medal for design in 1970

-AIGA Medalist in 2016

-Design award for continuing excellence in publication design by the society of publication

https://books.google.com/books?id=dILVaYXKT30C&pg=PT7&dq=ruth+ansel&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj79dOD0MfSAhVjqVQKHT55CA84ChDoAQgjMAI#v=onepage&q=ruth%20ansel&f=false

-Art director, designer, and lecturer

-Created the film titles for the cult film: My dinner with andre

-Designed alice and wonderland, the end of the game by peter beard, dark odyssey by philip jones griffiths, the sixties by richard avedon, women and the white oak dance project by annie leibovitz, monograph for taschen by peter beard, ad campaigns for versace, club monaco, and karl lagerfeld, monograph of the work by Denis Piel for Rizzoli

https://www.revolvy.com/page/Ruth-Ansel

-One of the first females to hold art director positions

http://halloffemmes.com/category/ruth-ansel/

-Grand

-Private (purposely publishes fake emails so people can’t reach her)

-Lives in Manhattan's upper west side; Black clothes, mary janes, a big orange watch, and a turquoise ring

-Pop art, street fashion, rock & roll music & film

-Born in the bronx in the 30s, her father was in the china import business and her mom ran a small lingerie shop

-Always interested in movies and art; BFFs with Nina castelli, daughter of leo castelli and ileana sonnabend; Spent summer in East Hamptons where she got to see William de kooning paint his woman series, meet jackson pollock and larry rivers at dinners, saw her first ballet, robert rauschenberg and Picasso exhibitions

-Earned a bachelor of fine arts in ceramic design from alfred university

-Briefly married and moved to France to look for adventure, but after 8 months she ran out of money; Never felt that she was taken seriously

https://vimeo.com/32518855

-Movies as an escape; Narrative, visual, invention, entering other peoples lives and words

-“Responding to what’s going on out there”

-Magazine: entertainment + information + inspiration; Lucky to begin at a great magazine; Harpers bazarr best accident to happen in her life; Drawn to the cultural magazine

-Must be curious and have curiosity

-Learn by watching

-Influenced mostly by picasso and Matisse; Imitations - but never near there talent; Genius; Brilliance

-Great work of art: moving

-April 1965 Avedon up and pop issue - avedon guest edited - influential issue of its time, exploration of the moon; Understood what was happening socially in the world; First woman astronaut

-Do your work and you move on, you do what’s important to you; There are always great women artists and designers, that fall through the cracks the higher up they go

-NYT: wanted to respond to what was going on in the world, better care about things other than art; Also admired the NYT; Women treated shabbily - women subjects; Sexual harassment - continued with her work

https://www.printmag.com/interviews/ruth-ansel-2016-aiga-medalist/

-Telling stories through pictures

-Fired from harpers bazar

-“Not taking a risk would lead me to a safe place that would hold fewer creative challenges. And pretty soon you’re repeating yourself, and you’re no good at all”

-Culture

-“Find out who you ar. Hold on to your passions and dig deep while trusting your instincts. Step outside of what is expected. Embrace accidents and know that eventually you will discover the perfect solution to a creative dilemma and be very joyous while doing it. Understanding the changing dynamics of what’s happening the world today allows you to dare”

-“Who dares wins!” - Zaha Hadid

-BOLD

-Gives back

https://www.phillips.com/article/6005714/an-influential-vision-the-collection-of-ruth-ansel

-“On a short list of the strong, incomparable art directors” with whom Avedon worked with

https://vimeo.com/119453929

-Your perceptions grow and change throughout time; So does culture

-“There are bridges between art and design”

-Continuity, love of craft and invention, privilege of collaborating

-“What a graphic designer does, is not so great historically”; “What I do becomes an instant part of the popular culture and my working language can influence if not direct, for better or worse the contemporary visual landscape”; “You see the moment more clearly, and change is what you reflect, but if the design team is strong, then the image can become the content itself, it tells the story”

-Believes in the image desperately

-Continuously develop a style and modify an image; Which is likely never how you pictured it

-Design Philosophy?; None; I just indicate a sense of direction and believe in my team and trust them, I just guide

-Eclectic: fascinated with everything

-Magpie Aesthetic

-Critical Eye is important

-Must demand the highest level of artistry

-Simple design that appears effortless

-Incredibly influenced by the movies

-Never did a magazine twice

-Magazines: tell stories; Great magazines appeal to your imagination and transport you; Reinvent yourself; To be like the people on the pages or be apart of the beautiful world

-“Magazines are the mirrors of social history”

-“Without the basis of loving what you’re doing, you aren’t going to get too far”

-Provoke, Inform, entertain, inspire; Above all else; Foundation

-“What can we do that reflects what’s happening in the time we’re in”

-Illusion: there is no reality, it is our projection of reality

-Shock

-Thinking outside the box

-Lasting design

-Breaking rules

-Women focused, but not looking down on them, for smart women

-“A photograph is mutable, it’s changeable… we live, we die, it is about remembering, it’s about being here, it’s about marking our existence”

-“Bring those moments into view for readers”

-Big advocate of how things were done in the past, layouts done by hand, reshoots

-Advocate of women

-Tried to make the covers of NYT Magazine as posters

-COLLABORATION

https://www.harpersbazaar.com/uk/culture/bazaar-art/news/a38138/bazaar-flashback-ruth-ansel/

-A key figure in shaping magazine design as we know it

-“Photography is a metaphor for all our experiences, and in the hands of passionate individuals, it can heighten them. The photograph is history”

https://www.harpersbazaar.com/fashion/photography/g4597/ruth-ansel-daring-moments/

Most memorable pages at Harper Bazaar

-Space Girl

-Out of this world

-Mercury rising

-King of cool  

-Having A Ball

-Fashion Flasher

-Team Spirit

-Vroooom

-Power Stripes

-Going Dotty

https://static1.squarespace.com/static/561eaed4e4b09058780f2ad8/t/5629664ce4b0b0d8bdbd5518/1445553740889/Ruth+Ansel.pdf

-Married, divorced, went to europe, failed to create film titles and ran out of money, then moved home and worked for magazines, because why not

-Landed at bazaar by calling them and asking for a job - cold called

-New editor=fired

-“I hate deadlines and I am lazy”

-“I had to be tuned in to what was going on. I was hardly ever turned down”

-“Books, fashion campaigns, identities, branding”

-“A magazine is supposed to reflect, like a mirror, the time we live in, and if it’s a good magazine, it reflects it provocatively. That’s what we did.”

-“I’ve always been more interested in attracting attention to the page than bringing attention to myself”

http://www.indexmagazine.com/interviews/ruth_ansel.shtml

-Began at harpers bazaar in 1961

-Inspired by coworkers marvin israel, dick avedon, diana vreeland

-“Touched by brilliance”

-Girls given the chance because it was a girls magazine

-Speaking about the NYT: “Personalizing the story was the key, for me… You want to create impact with an image. My goal was always to exist subliminally, so that the reader would think, “this is a great photograph””

-“The important ingredients are the right editor, the right idea, and the right team at the right time”

-“It’s all fiction in one form or another”

https://cultureofdesign.wordpress.com/2016/05/02/ruth-ansel-sandra-alvarez/

-One of the most important female voices in the graphic and product design industry

-Clean and modern work

-Modern and elegant, approachable to youth

-Empowerment women at the decade

-Being the first women and creating the stories she did

-“Used art, photojournalism, and graphic design as tools to open doors and to break with the standards that were established”

-“Jean shrimpton that came to the planet’s rescue, in a metaphor to empower women as a reckoned force in the sixties

-Woman: “in motion, a dark, intelligent, introverted, beautiful woman”

-Attention to detail and hand on approach

-Wit

-Fun

-Special energy

-Inspired

-Collaborator

-“Designing a magazine is a little like designing a face. No two faces are alike but each has the same essential structure- two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. Each magazine, even each advertising campaign, pretty much has the same ingredients. Whether it’s fashion, beauty and accessories, or home, architecture and lifestyle, what you must do is constantly rearrange and reinvent the relationships, pay attention to the content and context, pay attention to the time you live in, pay attention to what is newly creative and who is creating it. If you do that it will work and live on as good design”

https://www.annenbergspaceforphotography.org/video/ruth-ansel-conversation/

-You want to do things that haven’t been done before, that are out there, that might not be accepted

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgf-aUKwo5k

-Figured she would find a man and get married

-Wanted to work at the most sophisticated fashion magazine at the time

-Paris > NY was a major shift (avant garde > NY)

-Image was king (Harpers) > Word was King (NYT)

-Wasn’t treated as an equal, no woman was

-Right photographer is the key

-Must be of your time to capture what’s going on

-Looking for an education

-“Went where my instincts led me”

[mikevrivera]

“Technology is not about breakthroughs”: Alysha Naples on what your startup can do to avoid creating just another “gadget”

When Henry Ford or Karl Benz were first developing the ideas that would spurn their businesses, they could never have imagined their cars would one day be filled with angry people stuck in traffic jams nearly everyday around the world.

“This is an unintended consequence of a very well-intentioned technology,” according to Alysha Naples, senior director of user experience and interaction at Magic Leap in San Francisco.

Speaking at Melbourne creative tech conference Pause Fest on Wednesday, Naples called on entrepreneurs, tech developers and innovators to pause and seriously consider why they do what they do, and how their work will impact people and the world, not just today but long into the future.

“Technology is not about breakthroughs,” she says.

“Innovation is about the unintended long-term consequences of what we celebrate today.”

Naples looked at several other examples of emerging technologies that had unintended consequences, including artificial intelligence-powered Google Photos, which mistook people for gorillas, and Microsoft’s chatter bot blunder with Tay.

“Tay” went from “humans are super cool” to full nazi in <24 hrs and I’m not at all concerned about the future of AI pic.twitter.com/xuGi1u9S1A

— gerry (@geraldmellor) March 24, 2016

“They didn’t teach Tay about the boundaries of acceptable speech,” Naples says.

“It took 18 hours for it to go from humans are cool to using hate speech.”

While an algorithm may measure engagement perfectly, it does not have the ability to “understand truth from lie”, says Naples, and it’s not safe from human bias at the development stage unless conscious effort is made.

“Data and algorithms, cannot replace facts and ethics,” she says.

Are you just creating another “gadget”?

“We’re actually living a split existence,” says Naples when speaking about how people live between the real world and what’s on their screens.

With the development of artificial intelligence, virtual reality and augmented reality, the wall between real life and our digital world is blurring, but people experiencing this are still humans with actual emotions, she says.

Naples argues that “learning, sharing, playing and exploring” have always been fundamental to human life, and no technology can replace a person’s innate need to do these things.

“If your technology doesn’t support these, you’re just creating a gadget,” she says.

When creating new technology or building startups, particularly in the realms of virtual reality and augmented reality, Naples says it’s crucial to build solutions that connect, rather than isolate, people.

“How can this be solved in a way that builds connection?” she says.

“If we can learn to embrace that, we can be the most powerful force ever seen.

“We have to start by asking the right questions, these things take time.”

Uncovering the consequences of your startup

The biggest question founders and creators should ask is “why”, says Naples. It’s not about “can I”, she says. Instead, think “why I”.

When doing market research or receiving feedback, Naples says it’s critical to listen to the “essence” of what people are saying and what’s underneath their surface statements. Understanding this will help you develop solutions that deliver what they need.

“Focus on what’s really being said,” she says.

Also, consider the “unintended consequences” of what you’re building and start developing “safeguards” to address or fix these issues. If negative outcomes present themselves after you have gone to market, Naples says it’s important to be transparent and take immediate action, sharing the solutions you’re trying and what is or isn’t working.

“You have to be the bad guy as well as the hero in your story if you want the hero to keep winning,” she says.

“Throughout history the explorers and dreamers, which is probably what you see yourself as … we’ve looked at technology and making things better.

But “being good” is not enough.

“Empathy is a conscious choice,” Naples says.

“We have to really take the time to slow down and think and put ourselves in someone else’s shoes.

“Right now, we are just a pile of good-intentioned technology.”

To illustrate her point, Naples pointed to a video made by Keichi Matsude.

“This basically scared the shit out of everyone,” she says.

“People say, ‘oh this would never happen’ but I’m sure that’s what Henry Ford would have said if we were to show him the traffic jams back in his time.”

An example of conscious empathy

With the advent of online gaming came a “floodgate” of harassment against women and girls, says Naples, but one game created for PlayStation 3 was created with a very conscious focus on empathy early on.

Naples says Journey began with the premise of forging friendships around the world instead of “collecting gold” or “shooting bad guys”.

It taps into “universal emotions” by expecting people to work together and rewarding players for supporting each other.

“They wanted to create a game to allow people to really connect,” she says.

“They created a system where it is impossible t harass somebody … the absolute worst thing you can do [in the game] is walk away.

“Journey only works in this way because it’s what [the creators] decided to do.”

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The post “Technology is not about breakthroughs”: Alysha Naples on what your startup can do to avoid creating just another “gadget” appeared first on StartupSmart.

from StartupSmart http://www.startupsmart.com.au/news-analysis/technology-is-not-about-breakthroughs-alysha-naples-on-what-your-startup-can-do-to-avoid-creating-just-another-gadget/