#I feel like in converting the brother/father relationship difference over people lose the differences in those aspect

[worstloki]

not a fan of people saying Odin and Loki are similar in a moral or decisive sense, particularly when it comes to Thor. that makes it sound like Loki doesn't know Thor or care about him beyond what he symbolises (regarding Asgard/the throne/family/worthiness), when that's a defining part of their relationship

[kyubicled]

< [INDEX]

"King Cregan Stark would rule many long years in the North, and would aid House Targaryen in binding up the wounds inflicted upon the realm during the Dance of Dragons. He would outlive Aegon III, whom he had fostered for five years at Winterfell, and would go on to see Aegon's sons and even his brother, Viserys, succeed him. First came King Daeron I, soon to be remembered as the Young Dragon, who sought to finish his ancestors' work of conquering Dorne for House Targaryen. Wisely, he didn't attempt to wholly follow in his forebears' foot-steps, as he remained in good relations with the Kingdom of the North, at least at first. When Daeron asked for the North to aid him in his campaign, Cregan plainly refused the boy of fourteen, seeing little reason to involve House Stark in affairs that were so far removed from the North. Indeed, he forewarned Daeron that Dorne could not be conquered by force of arms, as even Aegon the Conqueror had failed to do so, when House Targaryen still had dragons. Daeron, perhaps feeling insulted, mocked Cregan as a craven, and instead stated perhaps the Spartan would surly aid in the cause of uniting the South, to which Cregan had reportedly guffawed so hard that his maester had to treat him for chest pains. Once more, Cregan kept the North out of the South's intrigues, and while his more eager sons chaffed at being denied the chance to go to war, once more it would prove to be the wiser choice. Daeron's conquest of Dorne would quickly prove to be a disaster, with Daeron losing ten thousand men to claim it, fifty-thousand more to hold it, and then his own life of eighteen years when Dornishmen ambushed and murdered him under a banner of peace.

When Baelor I ascended the throne after his brother, it seemed a more amiable return to the norm of peace for Westeros. Baelor was a man of peace and piety, who was beloved by the people for his benevolence. But the latter years of his reign would be seen as the start of a long embitterment between the North and the South--an embitterment which would become so terrible that thrice the continent would nearly go to war. Cregan at first believed Baelor a somewhat zealous yet ultimately harmless ruler, and continued to maintain good relations with the South for a time. But Baelor's very piety towards the Seven caused him to alienate himself from the Starks, whom were devoted to the Old Gods of the First Men. Soon, Baelor was repeatedly and incessantly attempting to convert the Starks towards the Faith through many means, sending a great number of septons to the North to turn the First Men towards the Seven Pointed Star. It would ultimately culminate when Prince Rickon, Cregan's eldest son and heir--sent was on a diplomatic mission to King's Landing to secure a marriage to one of Baelor's sisters in the hopes of binding the two realms together--was seized by Baelor's Kingsguard, and forcibly made to kneel before the statues of the Seven against his will. When he refused to convert to the Faith upon Baelor's instruction, he was purportedly stripped of his cloths, made to wear the garb of a begging brother, and confined to Baelor's recently finished Great Sept, made to do menial work as any common septon.

This incensed the now two-and-seventy King Cregan to such an extent, he sent ravens to call for his banners, before sending another to King's Landing, demanding the release of his son and an official apology from Baelor for the insult, or that he would drive out all septons of the Faith from his lands by force, march on King's Landing himself to free his son, claim a daughter of House Targaryen to wed into House Stark as retribution, and to have Baelor beg his forgiveness to him in person and on his knees. When this ultimatum came to Baelor, he began a fast which would end in his, perhaps arguably, unfortunate demise. His uncle and successor to the Iron Throne, King Viserys II, was swift in undoing the damage of his nephew's ill-begotten zealotry, immediately releasing Prince Rickon. As he had been fostered alongside his brother at Winterfell, Viserys knew Cregan well, having arguably learned the best between them in the Starks' court, and had likely contributed to his adeptness in his years as Hand of the King. When Viserys extended the proverbial olive branch to him, Cregan's anger softened, as he had often corresponded with Viserys over the years through ravens, having been both a mentor and a sort of father figure to him as he was with Viserys' brother, Aegon III. The two kings readily agreed to put an end to the bad blood between them, and to seal this reconciliation, Prince Rickon would wed Princess Rhaena, daughter of Aegon III and Viserys' niece. This marriage pact would be remembered as the Second Pact of Ice and Fire, which Cregan had, as history so ironically recalls, rejected so many years before. While this brought peace to the realm, Cregan and Viserys both would meet most untimely and much mourned deaths within a year of this auspicious union, after both had striven so long to ensure that their two realms would prosper together. Rickon and his Targaryen bride would be crowned as the King and Queen in the North, whilst Viserys' son Aegon VI and his sister-wife Naerys would ascend the Iron Throne, and the enmity between Rickon the Cold and Aegon the Unworthy would threaten to undo everything their fathers had accomplished.

Rickon and Rhaena's relationship was strained in their first years of marriage, primarily due to their differing religious beliefs. Rickon was a steadfast believer in the Old Gods, and his disgrace at the hands of Baelor had in no great way endeared the Faith of the Seven to him. Inversely, Rhaena was nearly as pious as her brother had been, and had shared his belief that all should come to worship the Seven-Pointed Star. For the sake of the realm, they did their utmost to make the marriage work, but when Rhaena purportedly wept on their wedding night, Rickon could not bring himself to consummate the marriage. It was only a few years later, when her husband lay feverish and half-delirious from wounds taken in his suppressing of a rebellion on the Isle of Skagos, that Rhaena finally gave her maiden-head to him. Their marriage was happier after that night, and made only happier when she fell pregnant shortly afterwards, and bore him a son, Prince Jon Stark, nine months later. She would go on to give Rickon sixteen more children, all of whom would be raised in equal faith to both the Old Gods as well as the New.

But of all of Rickon and Rhaena's children, it would be their second child--and eldest daughter--that would by far have the most intriguing of lives. Not but a few days before her birth, a most peculiar event had taken place in the Dawntown. The Spartan, in the utter breaking of his tradition of emerging only when a Stark called upon him to save the North from peril, came out of the Forward Unto Dawn of his own accord, shocking the whole of the North. The Aglow Lady was with him as well, though some claim something seemed amiss--her glowing form, said to be of a tranquil, comforting celestial blue, seemed to shudder and flash an eerie red, and her kind voice seemed to suddenly speak in a disturbing tone, ominous words escaping her lips. What the Spartan did or what befell the Maiden of Light remains an utter mystery to this very day; only that the Spartan flew with some great haste southward, and months later, traders from Dorne would report he had flown into the most inhospitable part of the Red Mountains, in a place where even Balerion the Black Dread was said to have not dared fly near. It would be the last the world would see of the Algow Lady, for she never appeared after that unsettling day, and none dared to inquire the Spartan afterwords of what had occurred. All that was known was that the Spartan had returned to Winterfell the very night Queen Rhaena gave birth. It is speculated he came at Rickon's behest, as Rhaena's birthing of their second child was reportedly an arduous one, and that the Spartan had helped ensure that both babe and mother survived the delivery. What words passed between them afterwards is entirely unknown, but some witnesses claim that the Spartan seemed somehow smaller when he departed that next morning, and when the royal family had come to see him off, he lingered to look down at the newborn girl, before he whispered some mystery to the sleeping baby, and then slowly--almost reluctantly, some would claim--he departed in silence, returning at once to his slumber within the Dawn.

That princess's name would be Cortana Stark, and the day of her birth in the hundredth and sixty-ninth year after the Conquest would not be the last she would see of the Spartan.

The princess was born with the dark hair of House Stark, though her beauty seemed certainly to have been from her mother--by the time she had come of age, men said that no fairer maiden lived in all of Westeros in her day, and many songs praised her countenance. Of all her features, the most striking were the vibrant blue eyes which seemed too vivid and lively for mere mortals, seemingly alive with a celestial blue light only the Aglow Lady could match. It was an oddity as to why the princess possessed such eyes, when neither the Starks nor Targaryens were known to carry them, but by the very word of her parents, when the Spartan had helped deliver her into the world, he had lain a blessing upon the child with his otherworldly healing, which her eyes' otherworldly beauty was a consequence of. Some even claimed that, as she ripened into a woman grown, Princess Cortana seemed of the very likeness of the Maiden of Light, which only reinforced the notion, and would only be further added to as she grew. From the accounts of Winterfell's maesters, the princess never once came down with infirmity or aliment, and indeed was reported to be the healthiest of all the Stark children. And from her earliest years, she would display an exceptional intelligence, quickly outpacing her siblings in their learning. She delighted in books and study, and absorbed knowledge at a unrivaled pace, with many accounts from Winterfell claiming that she could memorized great manuscripts and histories in a single day if she was not caught in the night and sent to bed. So clever and intelligent she became, that by the age of two-and-ten, she sat on her father's council, and advised him in sundry affairs of state and law. She also loved the arts and music, and became a harpist and singer so haunting in melody that she could reduce even the most stony of warriors to tears, or bring cheer to even the most downtrodden of souls. She was also known to greatly cherish the lives of even the common people, and would daily walk out into the streets to sing to the smallfolk of Winterfell, and see to the needs of everyone she met. For her kindness, charm, and wit, she was soon so beloved by all the North that she was hailed 'The Joy of Winter'. Many suitors came, from Sunspear to Last Hearth and even from the Free Cities, to beg her hand in marriage, some offering lavish sums of gold, others great swaths of land, rare gifts of exotic origins, and even promises to conquer cities in her name--all of which were refused.

But for all the knowledge, fame, and love she received, Princess Cortana held from her earliest days an insatiable curiosity of the Spartan, and of the Aglow Lady, and of the mythical Forward Unto Dawn; always eager to hear tales from her father of the great deeds and epic legends which concerned them. So great was her desire to learn of him, that upon turning thirteen years of age, she asked her father bid her leave to enter the Dawn and speak to the Spartan. While it was not a strictly brazen request, her father told her the Spartan would likely not answer, as he was meant to be called only in great times of need, and not before, and warned her further still that the Spartan had endured a great loss when last he had gone to sleep, and would thus be even less like enough to answer. Nevertheless, he could not deny his beloved daughter, and so bade her enter the hallowed halls of the Forward Unto Dawn.

But to the stunned shock of the realm, the Spartan did indeed come out of the Dawn beside her. To this day, it is unknown as to why the Spartan awoke to the whims of a princess. Some claimed it was her great beauty and spirit which compelled him, causing the hero to be enchanted by her as so many other men had. But many a maiden had desired the Spartan, more than a few being Stark princesses before Cortana, and all had been rejected. Indeed, the Spartan never professed any romantic love for the princess, though the actions he would take on her behalf nevertheless indicated an astounding care which he held her with. Others stated that he was drawn to her intelligence, and that he had found a kindred spirit whom shared in his ideas and machinations. Regardless, the Spartan would return with her to Winterfell, where he was received as a guest of the utmost honor. King Rickon offered the Spartan a place in the great fortress-palace, but the Spartan contented himself with a small abode within the city, as humble and unassuming as legends say. For almost a year, he would remain there, and would display a most unusual compliance to the wishes of Princess Cortana, teaching her of the history and wonders of his people, and familiarizing her with the mysteries of his technology, to which she displayed a miraculous adeptness to understanding and comprehending. And each night, she would regale her younger siblings with fantastical tales and stories she had learned from the Master Chief's culture. And for the first time in the North's history, the Master Chief had not come out of necessity to end some war or deliver the people from some dire peril, and now walked among the people in peace longer than he had even been recorded to do. There was a great excitement in King Rickon's court, chiefly over the widely-speculated relationship between the Spartan and Princess Cortana. While there was no indication that it was anything more than a close partnership, perhaps even a friendship, it nevertheless filled the people with thoughts that the Spartan would wed the princess, and from their union would bring a golden age for all, as the Starks would join their house with the North's fabled champion of yore and form a doubtlessly matchless alliance. Some even whispered that the princess would soon be great with child by the Spartan, and that she would give birth to demigods and heroes by his holy blood, and that Rickon should pass over his own sons and name the Spartan as the future King of the North. All of these, however, were firmly rejected by both the Starks as well as the Spartan, whom were swift to publicly denounce the rumors. Nevertheless, many could not deny the way Princess Cortana smiled whenever she was in the Spartan's presence, nor could they ignore the way the Spartan seemed more at ease when he was in hers. Accounts left behind by her own writing indicate the princess had intentions of releasing new innovations to medicine and science, breakthroughs which would doubtlessly help to further the advancement of the Kingdom in the North, perhaps all of Westeros and beyond--but sadly, fate was not so kind as to permit it before events in the South would halt her efforts.

Aside from an attempted invasion of the North by the King Beyond the Wall, Raymond Redbeard--which was swiftly averted when the Spartan met with the freefolk king and negotiated his army's disbandment in exchange for an increase in the settlement of freefolk around the Dawntown--the Starks continued to enjoy the peace that had lasted for generations. And with the Spartan aiding them, and with him the promise of newer innovations and technologies to further advance civilization, a new day was seemingly on the horizon. But in the South, it was decadence, not prosperity, that was the watchword of the ruling court. Aegon the VI, later known as the Unworthy, had proven himself one of the worst Targaryen kings. While he was handsome and charming in his youth, he was a man ruled by his desires, and proved to be a depraved, glutenous, and lustful man. He was infamous for very publicly taking many a mistress to his bed, and of siring many a bastard between them; all of this, to the shame and disgrace of his sister-wife, Queen Naerys, and the outrage of his younger brother, the famous Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Lord Commander of Aegon's Kingsguard. He filled his courts with sycophants, granting titles and fortunes to men who could satiate his lusts, and soon the court became as bloated and corrupt as Aegon had become. He also attempted to start an unprovoked war with Dorne, though his two attempts both ending in humiliating disasters for him. Rumors even circulated that he had dreams of conquering the North, though this was never confirmed. The news of the Spartan's return would have doubtlessly scattered such follies to the wind in any case. Nevertheless, soon enough, King Aegon caught wind of Princerss Cortana's now-famed beauty, and many believe he came to lust after her as he had so many other women of noble birth. He invited the Stark princess to his court, allegedly to hear her harp music and to share the knowledge she had learned from the Spartan with the South--though King Rickon feared this was little more than a veiled attempt for Aegon to try and ensnare his daughter, as he had heard of the Targaryen's debauchery. But Princess Cortana herself swayed him to allow her to leave, for the sake of sustaining good relations with the Iron Throne, under the condition the Spartan would go with her as a deterrent to any possible advances on King Aegon's part. The Spartan did agree to this, and in the year 183 After the Conquest, when Princess Cortana was but a few days away from her fourteenth nameday, the two arrived in the Spartan's great Steel Eagle at King's Landing, and the Spartan landed in the derelict Dragonpit--where, in the days of the Dance of Dragons, he had cleared away the roof to land his flying machine in as he oversaw the city's protection. Whilst their arrival was abrupt, they were nevertheless received with great ceremony, as there still lived men from the days when the Spartan had brought an end to the Dance of Dragons.

Their time in King's Landing would be remembered by many to be of impeccable timing, for not a week after they had landed in the Dragonpit, an assassination attempt was made on King Aegon's life. Whilst in hindsight it would not have been any loss to the realm had he died there, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight nobly defended his king despite the defamation and insults he had suffered at the hands of his brother over the years. There, he would have died, had it not been for the Spartan's timely intervention and his summary use of his advanced healing arts to heal Aemon's otherwise fatal wounds. Thereafter, Aemon and the Spartan would be known to practice and train together, and many accounts wrote of how the two formed a deep respect for each another, perhaps out of a shared sense of martial honor and nobility. A year later, Princess Cortana would aid in the delivery of Naerys' youngest child, and while she did ensure the queen survived the birthing, she could not save the child, who died days later. Despite this, Naerys would maintain good relations with Cortana, and the two shared a love of the harp. It was no surprise that afterwards they, as well as Naerys' son, future King Daeron II, shared a great rapport between all five of them.

But, true to King Rickon's fears, Aegon the Unworthy was not content to keep the princess as a guest in his court. Indeed, it is likely only the Spartan's presence at her side that deterred the king from attempting to seduce her. Unfortunately, an opportunity arose for him when disaster struck the city. In an event which seemed all too convenient for Aegon's interests to be considered coincidence, the Alchemists' Guild reported that a grave error had been made. They had been commissioned by an unknown employer to produce a great cache of wildfire, and that some hapless apprentice had allowed some to burn. The Wisdoms allegedly warned that such a vast concentration of wildfire would lay King's Landing low in one fell moment unless someone could stop it. The Spartan, ever courageous and selfless, opted to enter the breached chambers himself, bidding no man to follow him in--but not before he advised Prince Aemon to evacuate and burn the surrounding houses around the Guild. It would prove to potentially save the city from great destruction, as the entire guild would minutes later erupt with such intense force, it shook all of the capitol. But as the surrounding buildings had already been put to the torch, the wildfire had nothing to feed upon, and soon died out. The city was saved... but of the Spartan, there was no trace, and many people, noble and commoner alike, mourned deeply--believing that the Spartan had given his life to save the city. Princess Cortana had tried to go out and search for him, but was barred from leaving the Red Keep by Aegon's Kingsguard. That very night, she was escorted from her room, summoned by the king, even as Prince Aemon and his men tried to assess the damage done upon the city, and searching for any sign of the Spartan. Taken to his bedchambers and locked inside, it is widely believed Aegon attempted to seduce, or possibly even rape her--but the guards outside burst in when they heard King Aegon's screaming. Inside, she was found clutching a dagger close to her, her garments half-ripped, and the king was found writhing on the floor in agony, with blood seeping out between his legs; King Aegon was so fat that they could not see it at first, but it was later confirmed by the Grand Maester that he had been emasculated in his entirety.

King Aegon had the Stark princess immediately arrested for attacking his royal person, and thrown into the Black Cells, much to the protests of Queen Naerys, Prince Aemon, and Prince Daeron. While they did prevent him from summarily executing her, and instead have her put on trial, they found the trial to be entirely in Aegon's favor--later it would be confirmed that Aegon had rigged it so she was assuredly found guilty--and he summarily sentenced her to be burned at the stake. When Daeron warned his father that it would result in an inevitable war with the North, the king allegedly replied, 'Then let me see them to the flame with her and their precious champion.' This only further supported the suspicion that Aegon had in fact orchestrated events to see the Spartan eliminated. The next day, Princess Cortana was led before the Great Sept of Baelor, where Daeron, Aemon, and Naerys could only watch as she was tied to the stake. When she was given a chance to publicly confess her guilt, Cortana instead defiantly stated the king had wrongfully attempted to rape her, and that she had simply tried to defend herself. When her protests fell on deaf ears, she only furthered her defiance by proclaiming that Aegon would not succeed, for the Spartan would emerge to stop him. Even as the King's Justice neared the pyre with his torch, the confidence in her eyes did not falter, though men claimed to have nevertheless seen tears running down her cheeks.

But before King Aegon could have his vengeance against Princess Cortana, a great clamor arose in the city--and what would follow would be the subject of a thousand songs, stories, and mummers' shows. For on the lips of the smallfolk soon chanted a single word--the same word that they had shouted when they opened the gates of the city in the Dance of the Dragons, the same name they had proclaimed their savior when he had ended the tyranny of Maegor the Cruel--'SPARTAN! SPARTAN! SPARTAN!' And lo, the crowds parted, and to the shock of all gathered, came the Master Chief himself, miraculously alive in his seemingly untouched battle armor and holding his fearsome thunder weapon, the Battle Rifle. Charging forward with the swiftness of the north wind and the force of a thunderous storm, he charged forward to rescue Princess Cortana. Aegon ordered that the Spartan be stopped, and commanded his men to kill him before he reached the princess. It would avail them nothing, as all who dared to stand in the Spartan's way were shot down and smitten by his legendary armament. Those who somehow managed to evade the Battle Rifle's fire were received the Spartan's fists and kicks, each so powerful they sent men flying through the air or crushed them within their own armor. So did Aegon the Unworthy's men die by the score, turning the yard before the Great Sept red with blood. Countless numbers assailed him from all sides, and he felled them all with otherworldly might, and allegedly he killed more than a hundred men that day. The King's Justice, in an effort to spite the Spartan, set the pyre alight, hoping that the princess be engulfed in flames before the Master Chief could reach her. This, too, failed, as the Spartan leaped into the air so high that he was at her side within the blink of an eye. Tearing her bonds with his own hands, he picked her up in the crook of his arm, and rescued Cortana Stark before the flames could reach her.

King Aegon seethed and trembled with rage at this, causing his morbidly obese body to quake with a hideous quiver. He shouted for his men to slay the Spartan, but none who remained dared approach, and indeed many fled screaming for their lives, so struck with terror at the Spartan's massacring of their comrades. Seeing this, Aegon commanded his brother Aemon to attack the Spartan, which Aemon refused, as he claimed the Spartan's slaying of so many men left him duty-bound to protect his king above all else. Aegon then shouted that there would be war between them, and that as long as he lived, he would not rest until both the Spartan and Cortana Stark were dead. But that would prove a fatal mistake, as the Spartan wordlessly raised his thunder weapon until it was level with Aegon--then opened fire. The shots fired so quickly that Aemon had no time to try and shield his brother, and before the entire court and the onlooking smallfolk, the king was riddled with an entire volley of the Spartan's lightening-quick missiles, ripping through him with ease. As he lay dying, however, he gave one last command, even as blood came from his mouth--and in one fell swoop led to generations of conflict--and used his last moments of life to legitimize all of his bastards, before he expired. So passed Aegon the Unworthy--the third Targaryen king to fall at the Spartan's hand. To ensure a riot did not break out among the already-riled smallfolk, Prince Daeron instantly ordered his father's men to stand down and assail the Spartan no further, stating that his father had indeed been in the wrong by trying to have Princess Cortana executed for simply defending herself from his advances. He summarily pardoned Cortana of all charges put against her, and received both her and the Spartan back to the Red Keep and seeing that both were treated for any possible injury. It was only after restoring order to the city that Daeron allowed himself to he crowned, and immediately set about to righting his father's mistakes. While he set about to reform his father's court and ridding it of it's corruption, the Spartan and Princess Cortana furiously flew back and forth between King's Landing and Winterfell, and ensuring that Aegon the Unworthy's foolish actions did not lead to war between the Starks and the Targaryens.

But for all this, many still saw the Spartan's actions, however heroic, as a blatant insult upon the Iron Throne's honor to allow him to so handily dispatch their king without retaliation. Many of Aegon's former court, especially among them Aegon's bastards--lead by Daemon Blackfyre--demanded that honor had to be satisfied and that the Spartan face some form of justice for slaying King Aegon. Further, King Rickon was furious at the travesties which his daughter suffered, and the whole of the North was in an uproar over what many believed was the attempted murder of their hero. To resolve the issue, the Spartan plainly asked if there was any who wished to face him in a trial by battle to satisfy the honor of both parties. And to this in turn, Aemon the Dragonknight accepted, though many believed it was only his honor as a knight of Kingsguard that moved him to do so, having failed to protect his king--not on account of any affection held for Aegon.

They met on the morrow, at midday, and the duel that would ensue would be the stuff of legends; with both King Daeron and King Rickon bearing witness, histories say the two champions struggled against each other for more than an hour with the sun blazing upon them, with Aemon's armor of whited steel and gold glistening in the sun, while the Spartan's legendary blade, Lightbringer, shone with the brilliance of a living star. Again did Dark Sister find itself facing the Spartan, for Aemon had wielded it with honor in his years as a knight, and this time, it would face the Spartan's great might. Each time Lightbringer and Dark Sister clashed, the roar of thunder and the shriek of steel filled the air and made a most terrifying noise. Though the Spartan seemed the better of the two, for even Aemon the Dragonknight admitted he could not hope of defeating the Spartan in combat, the latter was reported to have held back the greater part of his strength that day, out of respect for Aemon and to make the duel a fair one--he even removed his famed gold-visor helm and for the first time revealed his face to the public, stating that he would concede victory to Aemon were he to so much as scratch him. Aemon, out of honor, did likewise, and the two battled long and hard with the utmost conduct of chivalry. The duel only ended when Aemon, in a stunning display, caught the Spartan unawares for a single moment, and thrust Dark Sister forward. The crowd was struck silent, stunned as they watched Aemon the Dragonknight triumph where the likes of Maegor the Cruel, even Aegon the Conqueror himself and the countless armies that had faced the Spartan before had failed--he had wounded the invincible Master Chief. It was little more than a graze to his cheek, and only a small trickle of blood seeped from it, but it was that scratch by which the Spartan conceded defeat, which Aemon accepted, his honor as a Kingsguard satisfied. The crowds cheered with great uproar, and the two champions left the ring with a mutual feeling of the highest respect for one another. The realm was once more brought back from the brink of war, thanks to the efforts of the Spartan, Princess Cortana, and King Daeron. The Spartan would return Princess Cortana to Winterfell, where he was once more received as a hero. He would not remain even the night he brought Princess Cortana back, however, opting instead to return to his slumber. But before he did, he made her a simple promise, the same one that he had, as legend has it, made to Bran the Builder in ages past: 'Wake me, when you need me.'

These words must have had some effect on the young princess, for after that day, she was reported to have rarely smiled, a strange sadness in her ethereal eyes, and would longingly gaze out her balcony west-by-southwest, to the Forward Unto Dawn, and composed songs of somberness and sorrow, in which she lamented the loneliness of the Spartan's sleep. For seven years, she would remain in Winterfell, and her grace and beauty would only grow over the years--though she never married, and many believed she pined after the Spartan with such a sorrowful love that it inspired songs for years to come. Finally, on her nameday of one-and-twenty, her father bade her to follow her heart, and to go to the Spartan's side. She set out the next morning, and tearfully bade her family farewell, and all of the North wept as she left them. Arriving at the Dawntown, she entered the Forward Unto Dawn's hallowed halls alone, and found the Spartan's ancient resting place--a dark, cold room of glass and metal, where the Spartan slept in one of many icy coffins, which according to legend, halted the ravages of time upon the body and afforded those who slept therein a dreamless, ageless sleep. Entering the one beside his, she joined him in his slumber, content to be by his side throughout the ages. Many have come to accept her reasoning for this was that she had seen a great loneliness in the Spartan's solitude, and with the Aglow Lady gone, he would have to face the centuries alone--a fate she could not abide, and instead resolved herself to leave behind the family she loved and accompany the Spartan in both his time spent walking the earth, and in his death-like sleep.

Thus, to this day, she remains the oldest living Stark, counting in this two-hundred and ninety-five years since the Conquest a hundred and twenty-six years of life, being the oldest known person to live after the Spartan himself, and still having all the grace and beauty as the day she first chose to stand at the Spartan's side for all eternity."

--A History of the Spartan and House Stark, Part IV, by Maester Benjymen

[alkcmist]

hey folks, i’m emma ( 23, she/her, pst ) ! mother to one chain-smoking russian man in a fluffy tuxedo cat’s body ( holland vosijk / the architect ) & one capitalist papillon named lilou. a double libra ( yikes ) and recovering kpop stan who knows too many memes and can’t convert fractions to decimals. i read the grisha trilogy when i was fifteen & scheduled an entire day off work a month in advance just to binge watch the tv show... but enough embarrassing things about me. give this a like & i’ll send ya a message for plots !

[ yelizaveta yahontov ], a [ forty ] year old grisha in the little palace. she is an [ alkemi ] and is known in the little palace as the [ black widow ]. she is known to be [ shrewd ] and [ unyielding ] and vaguely resembles [ keira knightley ].

statistics. 

𝐓𝐋𝐃𝐑 ;

young ravkan alkemi who enjoys the war a little too much leaves the second army to fulfill her arranged marriage to a kerch merchant. surprise ! she’s in ketterdam producing narcotics for her husband ( & not very happy about it ). but tragedies like the plague happen every so often in ketterdam.  she says goodbye to johannes vos on the bank of the reaper’s barge.  the poison is untraceable. life goes on. 

𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

abuse tw, death/murder tw, drug mention.

ten minutes separate her & thomas. when she arrives ( screaming ), the yahontovs gaze upon her with an unbalanced cross of disappointment ( from her father ) and dread ( from her mother ). then, promptly passed over to the nanny in favor of the one true heir.

it starts with ballet and doesn't end until she can play both piano and violin, speak ravkan, kerch, and passable shu, and point out the obvious differences in fine art to uninterested parties. she sees more of her caretakers—tutors, maids, and the widowed kaelish governess—than her parents, and she’s ever so grateful.

she is an energetic child impervious to the words “no”, “don’t” and “stop”, yearning for a scrap of warmth and attention. old enough to recognize the odious, disapproving look in her parent’s eyes and register it as something normal. her torment increases with the same intensity she’s struck, scarred, locked away in a closet for hours, screamed, and glowered at.

despite liza’s rebellious behavior, their parents put off thomas and liza’s grisha testing for as long as possible. their father doesn’t want to lose his only heir to the darkling’s second army, but eventually the twins are shipped off like a packaged deal. 

combat training is a short and minor requirement for alkemi, but liza takes to it like breathing. even when she is breathing blood, even when she is breathing dust. she learns to spit without shame, to yell without insecurity, to be herself. she calls it freedom. her mother calls it a problem.

liza tries not to pay too much attention to it -- the disapproving glances, the hushed whispers between her mother and her friends. her mother isn’t sure yelizaveta yahontov fits well enough into high society, and yelizaveta’s not sure she's wrong. lady yahontov’s solution comes in the form of a wealthy otkazat’sya merchant all the way from ketterdam. an advantageous marriage. 

enlisting in the second army feels a lot like running away. she can put off her marriage for as long as she serves in the darkling’s army. shockingly, liza rises in the ranks rather quickly for someone with an issue with authority. her talent for combat ( particularly poisoned knife throwing ) places her closer to the front lines and farther from her fiancé. 

the wedding party, however, is lavish and debauched, lasting for days. nonetheless, liza threatens to leave johannes vos the day after they arrive at ketterdam. her new husband desires an alkemi more than a wife. liza reminds herself this is not technically indentured servitude and begins working for the small business her conveniently husband failed to mention. for a while, liza makes the most of it. she perfects her craft, learns the business, finds a thrill in rubbing elbows with the dirtier side of the barrel. but over time her husband irritates her. he chews with his mouth open, asks too many questions ( why is the gardener in our bed ? did you blow up the kitchen again ? ) ,  & ( worst of all ) doesn’t let her visit her brother in os alta. 

kasimir is born without complications following a history of miscarriages and a turbulent pregnancy. a wholly restored and reformed woman, liza distances herself from her old life to focus on her new family.

she doesn’t miss johannes when he’s gone. tragedies like the plague happen every so often in ketterdam.  she says goodbye to him on the banks of the reaper’s barge.  the poison is untraceable. life goes on. 

she returns to ravka & raises kasimir on her own ( plus the help of nannies, tutors, her brother, and the recurrent visits from handsome men ). pills, caviar, & four bumps for breakfast. a wild feline pacing a gilded cage. she still doesn’t feel more alive than when she’s in a warzone. 

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 + 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

anyone who knows her as a trainer and mentor rather than a peer will tell you she was sent straight from hell. 

( she was, in fact, sent straight from hellsgate. )

at first, liza comes off as cold, strict, & brutally stubborn. affectionate & maternal with only a select few.

silent & intimidating as a shark, slipping by entirely unnoticed until you feel a cold chill prickling the back of your neck & you realize she’s right behind you.

[ walter white vc ] i am the one who knocks.

outside of work, liza is a bit more relaxed. built on champagne bottles, makeup, jewels, furs, and coke spoons. she never picked up the spartan indifference to decadence and beautiful things the army tried to instill in her. truly, if she can’t show to to the function in a custom ball gown, shaping the latest trends of the season to her tastes and destroying other women’s self esteem in the process, is it even worth attending ?

tries to be the carefree “Cool Girl”.  a brand™ first, a yahontov heir second, and a person last. this can make her easily dismissible as frivolous and vapid, and liza usually lets them. she likes to surprise people. 

sitting in the tranquil eye of liza’s hurricane is thomas, her twin & ultimate weakness. liza theorizes he took all the heart & compassion in the womb and left none for her to share. 

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

high society / liza likes to be entertained by those less repressed than she is. if you’re rich, decadent, deranged, or simply fun, liza could see you as a companion.  if you're just young and beautiful — well, stop being poor. 

old friends / a small handful of grisha liza grew up with & trusts ( kind of ) & served with in the second army. the age range would probably be 35 to 45. 

combat trainees & alkemi apprentices / if you were one of her students, odds are you hate her. i would also love to see more complicated relationships with former students. maybe somehow your character doesn’t despise her & rather loves/fears/respects her ?

more to be added probably :-)

[brokenjardaantech]

Blue-tinted Red Walls (Chapter 7: Power Unleashed)

my entry for the @dbhau-bigbang. also part of the groom lake aftermath series.

summary:

In the past, Fadia was reborn.

In the present, Connor and Hank pays Ryder a visit.

In the past, Fadia went on a killing spree.

also on ao3

content warning for robogore in the final section of this chapter

---

Before

Fadia had debated if she should go to the funeral or not. She hadn’t talked to her mother for years before she died, not even after she had co-founded CyberLife with her father, and even with him, their relationship was more professional than anything else - not that Alec never tried to improve it. But as much as she had rejected anything familial with her parents, respect still had to be paid to the scientist who started… well, literally everything, from her powers (biotics, a voice that sounded like Scott corrected her) to American androids to what she was planning to do -

And to the sickness that took her life at last.

‘Why are you here?’ was how her father greeted her. So be it.

‘Unlike you, Mama didn’t ruin everyone’s lives for one person,’ she fixed a glare and was very glad that she towered over him now. ‘I come to pay my respects. Then I’ll go.’

‘Where’s Scott?’

‘None of your business, Baba.’

‘Not even saying goodbye to his mother, huh?’ Alec said dismissively, and Fadia’s blood boiled, her heart speeding up and her face burning. ‘Should’ve known that.’

Seeing that there was no one else in the immediate vicinity, she grabbed him by his collar and slammed him onto a wall. ‘You damned well know why he can’t be here,’ she gritted. ‘Your presence brings him so much pain that he is denied a chance to properly bid his mother farewell!’

A prick. Her vision swam. Her head was heavy like it was filled with lead. Her heart throbbed, and she fell onto the ground, her muscles convulsing and spasming from an unknown force.

‘I need you to live,’ she heard Alec say, but her focus was on reaching for the phone in her pocket and sending one final message to her brother and Reyes.

Am captured. Run. Don’t let Alec get you.

oOoOo

When she woke, everything was different, wrong, foreign. There was so much information in front of her eyes, telling her how fast her heart was beating, how efficient her systems are, how much stress she was under. She tried to raise her hand to wave them away and looked down when she realised that she couldn’t.

She was strapped onto the table by an android’s limbs. 

Rage boiled in her new veins, and as she tapped into her power to break the restraints, she discovered that it was much easier than when she was still a human. [Abnormal thirium usage detected], a warning popped up, and she dismissed it together with the others with a simple thought. If she had not been so focused on escaping wherever she was in, she would have been frightened by how seamlessly she seemed to accept the fact that she was no longer human.

The door was locked so she blasted it open with a crackle of blue and static even though it would probably trip the alarms, and indeed sirens blared, pristine hallways turning red from the warning lights, and when a security guard - pathetic, really, since he didn’t even have the most basic armour on - tried to confront her alone, she merely snapped her fingers and blasted him in his face with a sphere of blue. A crunch, and he fell onto the floor with a thud. The rest of the security (mercenaries, she knew some of them were) was handled similarly without any difficulties on her part, and it was not until she slammed the door to the ground floor - to her freedom - open that her new eyes were assaulted by blindingly bright light. She blinked to adjust her vision and was not impressed when she saw her father standing in front of a lobby full of armed security personnel.

‘Go back to the lab, Sara,’ he said smoothly, but his voice gritted in her ear like the roughest sandpaper. ‘There’s no need for further violence.’

Like hell. ‘Let me go. You know what I can do to every single person in the room.’

‘Sara, go back to the lab. This is an order.’

For one single terrifying second, her body automatically moved itself as if her control over it was taken away, but then she thought as strongly as she could, stop right there, and the crisis was averted for the moment in the form of her joints locking up and immobilising her completely and at the cost of her brain feeling like it was going to explode from the conflicting commands. Her red-tinted vision, however, did not have any effect on obscuring the shock on her father’s face, and then it clicked. 

He converted her into an android thinking that it could let him control her.

It was not happening regardless of what his current plan was and what failsafe he had in mind, that much she was certain about, and suddenly her father’s repeated commands were drowned out by the buzz in her nerves, the red tint breaking into scattered fractals and giving way to the grey of every android’s basic scanning software as the white outline of herself raised its palm to launch one biotic sphere after another towards the weak spots on the wall, at Alec’s face, at the security’s weapons and heads. It crumbled easily under the constant assault, her world blurred, and somehow her outline merged with her actual body, and the next thing she knew her vision was shrouded in the blue glow of biotics and she was tearing literal people apart, blood and gore splattering her face, her clothes, getting into her eye. A notification nagged for her to turn on her pre-construction software, but who needs that if she had her biotics? Blinking it away, she advanced towards the direction where someone had been firing at her, but it seemed that the person must be moving quickly as they were not there anymore when she closed the distance with her biotics; notwithstanding the fact that dodging a biotic step was no small feat, she doubted any of them had any experience with dealing with a biotic on a full rampage, no matter human or android. People like her were part of the most closely-guarded secret human civilisation had ever produced, and unless she had memorised the documents wrong, there wasn’t one single biotic in CyberLife’s security details.

Her barrier held strong even after the gunfire died down. Tapping into all radio frequencies, she learnt that most if not all teams were running out of ammo, her father was calling for a district-wide lockdown and the destruction of his research, that the DPD was sending quite a few SWAT teams to handle the situation, and that these poor souls had no idea what they were in for; as much as she wanted her father dead right now and CyberLife be wiped off the face of the earth, as excess collateral damage was not her style, she broadcasted a message to all bandwidths hoping that they would listen to her - despite knowing that they probably would not.

Cease interfering in our family affairs immediately and you might live. Go forward, and I will not guarantee your survival - and this district’s.

She knitted a destructive web around herself to ensure that she would not be ambushed while she tuned her ears to better listen for a response. Her father was trying to convince the employees and civilians on site that the situation was under control with some degree of success - how foolish of them to believe in him - and the DPD had decided to continue their press forward into the district, a mistake that she would make sure that they would pay for. Satisfied with her plan, she continued expanding the bubble, cutting off more and more sections of the district from central control bit by bit, and as soon as the first SWAT vehicle was in range -

Detonate.

o0o0o

Now

The silence in the car is deafening so Hank drowned it out with Louis’ playlist; he would’ve chosen heavy metal if the SWAT Captain hadn’t been there, but sadly Louis’ ears don’t agree with the heavy beats and screaming. 

‘The fuck are we supposed to do now?’ Hank asks no one in particular. Then, rewinding the past five minutes, he realises, ‘What did Vidal give you?’

Connor slowly turns his gaze towards the white chassis of his right hand, his LED spinning red as if deep in thoughts. Conflicted thoughts. ‘Coordinates.’

‘Of what?’

‘Where my creator should be.’

‘Should we go now?’

Another slow spin. ‘No,’ the android’s head jerks, an aborted motion of shaking his head. ‘It’s… too far away. If we go now, we won’t be able to return before midnight.’

‘Alright, agenda for tomorrow: drive for hours to meet an asshole. Got it.’ Then he makes eye contact with Louis in the rearview mirror. ‘You’ve got something to do?’

‘At this hour?’ a shake of his head. ‘Keeping you away from crappy take-outs is my only mission.’

‘Asshole.’

‘You love me, friend.’

‘You’re cooking.’

‘And you’re helping.’

‘Vidal fixed your leg.’

‘It needs calibration.’

It’s a losing battle. ‘Fine. Your place, then.’

He starts the engine, and they spend the rest of their ride in silence, the music turned down because Louis is dozing at the back, Connor’s hand hiding his LED as he stares pensively at whatever is outside the car. Keeping his eyes on the road while quitting drinking nearly cold turkey is hard, so Hank doesn’t have the brain cells to think about what the fuck just happened to his life until he is sitting on Louis’ sofa (again) and watching a game (again) while stroking the fur of one of the cats (again). 

Vidal, informat critical to the dismantlement of the red ice ring back in ‘31 and disappeared shortly afterwards. Vidal, android. Vidal, who, through his marriage to Safaa/Scott, is related to probably the maddest dudes in the continent and somehow has access to sensitive CyberLife data. Nursing a mug of tea laced with mead (‘Just a bit so that you don’t sweat yourself to dehydration,’ Louis said as he tipped the bottle and poured what must be less than a finger of it. ‘Now close your eyes. I’m putting it back and I don’t want you to know where it is.’), he lets his mind drift to the shady bars, to the slips of paper containing vital information he found in his pockets after he got back to the precinct, to the way Vidal said, ‘They are killing my people,’ when Hank asked him why he, as a civilian, willingly threw himself into the mess. Once Hank thought he had meant his gang or some other underground business that were only marginally better than dealing red ice; now he knew he was talking about the androids abducted and bled dry for their blood.

‘Why are you telling us now?’ Hank asked that afternoon. Connor and Louis were already on their way to the car and Safaa had disappeared to god-knows-where, so it was only the two of them at the door. ‘Why pick up Sara Ryder’s mess?’

‘As much as Sara is… who she is, those are my people out there,’ Vidal leant against the frame of the door. ‘Saviour complex or not, her mind is no longer on earth, and I’m not taking any chances even if she swears with her life that she’ll deal with it.’

‘She one of those escapists obsessed with space?’

A shrug. ‘Wherever she was for the last ten years, they kept their intel real tight. I can guess what she’s doing, but it’s nowhere close to a concrete answer. Hell knows why she’s popping back up again after all these years and right before the androids rise up as well. If you’re really going to hers, my advice is to be very careful.’

‘Is she gonna be hostile?’

‘No, not with her baby brother asking so nicely,’ an ironic smile. A tap of his foot against the frame. ‘But you know about the landfill, the people living there before it all got blown up. There’s a reason why CyberLife bought the land from the previous owners so easily, why they stopped searching for bodies so quickly: there were none. I don’t want you to be one of those people who disappear forever after meeting her - one way or another.’

‘“One way or another”?’

‘She’s a… convincing individual. Just don’t get roped into anything and you’ll probably come out of it unscathed.’

Don’t get roped into anything, huh? Oh wait.

‘Louis?’ Hank hollers.

‘Yes?’

I’m sorry, Louis. ‘Where did you get your sister’s tags from?’

A pause. ‘Why ask?’

‘Just to confirm something.’

The man emerges from the kitchen with two plates of spaghetti and hands one to Hank before squeezing into the other corner of the sofa and forcing Connor to press up against the Lieutenant. ‘A few years back. Drone-delivered parcel. No return address. Box and the note is laced with so much thirium that I don’t know how to throw it away without…’ a crackle following a sharp blue glow of his hand - ‘telling everyone that I’m different.’

Note? That’s new. ‘What note?’

‘Anna’s handwriting. Asked me to take care of the tags. Why ask?’

And so Hank tells him about his conversation with Reyes before they parted ways. ‘You’ve got any advice?’

‘Don’t get a building thrown on top of you, for one.’

‘That’s not what I -’

‘You there, Connor?’

The android flinches. ‘Y - yes.’

‘Take care of Hank. If Ryder greets you how she did me ten years ago…’ 

‘I will, Louis,’ Connor looks a bit more awake but his eyes are still unfocused. ‘I’ll be prepared,’ he says, not knowing that he’ll eat his words not 24 hours later.

oOoOo

Having spent his night on Hank’s sofa, they manage to be on their way early in the morning, and Connor lets the human drive despite complaints of sleep deprivation as his vision is perpetually red from the wall draining away through a steady trickle of red sand. He tells himself that he is going to return colour to his vision one way or another: either by making the wall crumble entirely or by making it disappear, but when he attempts the first method, the wall simply stays out of his reach, the space between it and him wider than the chasm his creator had shown him a few days ago in the hijacked Zen Garden.

‘You want your coin back?’

Hank’s voice pulls him away from his thoughts. ‘Pardon me, Lieutenant,’ because he isn’t sure how to tell the human about it. ‘And yes. I would like my coin back.’

Hank shoves his hand into his coat pocket to retrieve the item in question and places it on the back of Connor’s hand, the natural warmth of an organic life seeping into metal and the bare white chassis of a synthetic’s.

He has deactivated his skin subconsciously.

In a lapse of rational thought, Connor’s hand flips and laces their fingers together before the human can pull away, the coin somehow managing to stay between their clasped hands, and he stares perplexed when Hank not only doesn’t pull away but also does not flinch. His face burns. Fissures appear on the red wall. He takes a deep breath to cool himself down.

‘You alright there?’ Hank asks. No judgement, no belittlement, humourless; just concern and - and warmth. ‘Your little lamp has been spinning red for days.’

I’ll be fine, he almost replies instinctively and then realises that he isn’t fine at all and hasn’t been for a long time. So he turns his focus onto the man himself instead. ‘Have we -’ at loss of words, he gives Hank’s hand a squeeze. 

Luckily the human seems to understand him. ‘The night at Louis’. We slept in the same bed,’ he rubs a calloused thumb in a circle around Connor‘s knuckle. ‘Your skin disappeared in patches. You didn’t let go.’

‘I -’ he has no recollection. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘’S fine. I’d be tired all the time too if I realised how many layers there are to my existence. Can’t be easy, can’t it? Being a clog in a machine that you don’t even know you’re in.’

The GPS warns them of ice ahead so Connor lets go to allow the human to focus on the road, and he grips the coin right to preserve its warmth. Hank’s warmth. It is then that he suddenly remembers a similar ride through Detroit a few months ago. 

‘You are restless,’ his creator - he supposes that he should call her Ryder now - commented from the driver’s seat. ‘What’s on your mind?’

Brown eyes took in the lights, the people, the shops, the reflection of himself on the window, the blue of his LED despite his thoughts. What was not in his mind? ‘It is overwhelming,’ he answered. ‘There is… so much to see.’

‘I might have something to help with that,’ said Sara, and with a flick of her fingers she produced a coin out of nowhere and started spinning it on her fingertips. Connor stared mesmerised, the outside world gone in his perspective; the clear clang of metal against her gloves, the way the coin spun so quickly that it looked like a sphere, the lights reflecting off the dull, unpolished surface. Another flick sent the coin flying towards him in a parabola through the air and he caught it reflexively, his processors deciding his course of action in a fraction of a second. He started to spin it on the tips of his fingers in the way Sara did, and he could feel his mind focusing and soaking in the new information and calibrating the different sensors on his body. He looked at his creator in gratitude, wanting to thank her for not leaving him alone in his thoughts, but she ignored him for the rest of the ride as if she had moved on to something more important.

The sudden realisation distracts him for only a mere moment but it is enough for him to send the coin to the side of the car with a small crackle of static. He could have caught it with superhuman reflexes under normal circumstances, but this time, he can only watch as the piece of alloy bounces off and lands on the carpet next to his foot with a dull thud, the tips of his fingers tingling from the sudden surge of energy and the small warp in… something.

Alarmed, Hank risks a glance towards the startled android before putting his eyes once more onto the road. ‘The fuck is that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Connor replies quickly because this is the truth. ‘Alec Ryder didn’t seem happy that I used it before. He tried to -’ a shiver from a non-existent cold - ‘flush the memory out of my system by overwhelming it.’

‘And he fucked up, didn’t he?’

‘More or less.’

He picks up and pockets the coin, his hand gripping his knee tight because there is nothing else to do and the slight discomfort is the only way to ground himself lest his thoughts wander to… undesirable places once more. Hank reaches out to intertwine their fingers once more and Connor can feel on his chassis the warmth, the unique pattern of his skin, the faint signal of Hank’s mind, his skin deactivated up to his elbow underneath the thin fabric of his borrowed shirt. All unnecessary software is turned off. His world becomes smaller. 

His mind turns blank.

oOoOo

When he comes to, Hank is already outside and is talking on his phone, a fine dusting of powder in his hair and on his clothes. It is snowing lightly, the cold seeping into the old, poorly-insulated vehicle, and he watches, as he lets his systems recalibrate to their optimal performance, the human pace back and forth in front of the car against the backdrop of a dark, imposing building, and he discovers that he is disconnected from the internet at large when he scans the structure and tries to identify its style. 

Shit. 

He gets out of the car as Hank hangs up the call. ‘Is everything okay, Lieutenant?’

The human lets out a soft grunt from where he’s leaning against the hood of the car. ‘Chris was on patrol last night. He was attacked by a bunch of deviants…’ his hands dig into his pockets.  ‘He said he was saved by Markus himself.’

Attacked by deviants? ‘Is Chris okay?’

‘Yeah,’ a small nod, ‘he's in shock but...he's alive,’ a shake of his head. ‘The hell…’

They walk towards the entrance of the building, its silhouette and shadows getting larger and larger and looming over them due to the proximity. Connor remembers how Sara ignored him on their way to his first mission. ‘I have a bad feeling, Lieutenant.’ A split second of conflict in his processors rules that he should be truthful. ‘I am disconnected from the network.’

Hank swivels from the heavy-looking doors and Connor flinches. ‘The hell?’

‘I just realised.’

‘“Be careful,” they say. “Don’t let her rope you into anything,” they say,’ Hank rants. ‘Did they mean shit like this?’

‘If Sara’s attitude is unchanged from my… previous encounters,’ he tries to dip deeper into his memories but they all come up blank or corrupted, ‘she will not do us any physical harm.’

‘No physical harm. How very reassuring.’

Sarcasm and distrust, but yet Hank raises his fist and knocks on the door, having seen no doorbells in sight. It swings open inward slowly and with a squeak. 

Hank curses. Connor peeks over the human’s shoulder and nearly does the same.

The person - android - standing on the other side of the door has Connor’s face.

Connor’s world turns grey as he turns up his scanners to their most sensitive option. White dress shirt, ankle-length light grey dress, long, brown hair brushed to one side and resting on a slight hint of pecs; no identification badge on the shirt, LED scan returns inconclusive due to both the lack of network access and the non-standard lack of ID on the biocomponent, but when he scans the android’s ID revealed by rippling skin, it returns with [RK series prototype: RK800. Serial number: 313 248 317-51. [PLEASE ENSURE INTERNET CONNECTION FOR -]]

He returns to the red of reality. The human composes himself quickly enough even though Connor’s processors are still whirring from the implications. ‘I’m Lieutenant Anderson, Detroit Police Department.’ Connor doesn’t fault Hank for sounding so cold. ‘I’m here to see Miss Sara Ryder.’

A soft smile that goes to the other Connor’s eyes appears on their face. They say nothing, but since opening the door wider and standing to one side is enough of an invitation, Connor and Hank let themselves in, and the android has to give his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the sudden darkness - dimness? - of the interior of the house. The other Connor disappears around the frame to another room, and Hank sits down in an armchair after brushing some of the snow away from his coat.

‘You’re right, Connor. Not to judge a book by its cover but… this?’ he looks around and takes in the buzzing lights and the general decor of the room. ‘Did you know about your creepy twin?’

‘They’re not creepy!’ Connor exclaims, suddenly feeling defensive over - over a person he hasn’t met before in his life. ‘I’ve never met them before.’

‘You’ve got any idea how that happened?’

Connor dips into his databases and finds a file he didn’t realise is there all the time. Another Sara’s doing, maybe? ‘CyberLife has filed multiple reports over…’ using ‘my’ doesn’t seem right, ‘the return of my first iteration’s body. It seems that the truck returned to CyberLife tower without the body.’

‘And Ryder was there so…’

‘It is highly likely that she took it.’

A photo on the wall grabs his attention. Three people from left to right: Sara, Safaa, [Stern, Amanda. AI Professor at the University of Colbridge. Born: 05/14/1978. Reported missing: 02/23/2028. Presumed dead.], the latter two seated and smiling while Sara, her face blank, has an arm around her brother. From the angle of the photo, she was the one who took it.

His handler is based on a real person.

Filing [Ask about Amanda AI] as an optional task, he snaps his feet against the worn carpet on the floor and forces himself to focus on his task. There are very few… unique items worth scanning in the foyer, however, no artwork, no statues, not even a plant in sight, but the cold seeping through the walls and the dark colours blending together through the red lens of his vision are enough indicators of his creator’s… character. 

He has a feeling that someone is staring at him, and indeed when he turns he sees his… twin, for the lack of a better word, staring at him.

‘Follow me,’ the other Connor breathes slowly, and Connor can hear the fans spinning in their body and their deeper-than-usual breaths. He also notes the gloss on their eyes, the small fog following each exhale, the slouch in their posture. He finds himself wondering what his creator did to them.

Hank stands up and straightens his coat before following the two androids into the living room. Like the foyer, it is cold and only dimly lit by tiny light bulbs on a chandelier too far up but also hanging too low to illuminate the ceiling high up above. A low fire is crackling in the large fireplace on the other side of the room, but it is far from enough to warm up every single corner, and Connor suppresses a shiver when he notices that his twin is barefoot. 

‘Please take a seat,’ the other Connor says between difficult breaths. ‘My creator will see you soon.’ Then they sit down in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace and close their eyes, somehow looking sick and pale like a human does even though they are an android. Their skin continues to ripple and even disappear on occasion as they sleep.

‘This place is giving me creeps,’ Hank comments from where he’s studying the relief around the fireplace. ‘Now I understand why her brother doesn’t wanna talk to her.’

And indeed Connor thinks he does. No windows, no heating system, nothing to make the mansion look lived-in; the only differences between here and CyberLife laboratories are the style and the amount of lighting - he can’t imagine anyone calling this place home. ‘I agree,’ he says in the end. ‘We should refrain from staying for too long.’

‘I don’t expect you to.’

Their heads turn towards the direction where they came in from and Connor freezes when he lays his eyes on the figure at the door. She is Sara Ryder alright, her towering height and facial structure unmistakable, but the way her presence fills the room, the steel in her eyes - it is evident that the person who let him play with colour-changing putty and promised to bring him to see the sky was gone, replaced by the criminal who somehow managed to escape prosecution after killing thousands and levelling several neighbourhoods. A person who will burn the world into ashes if it means she can reach her goal.

‘I’m Lieutenant Anderson,’ Hank introduces himself from next to Connor. ‘This is Connor. We’re investigating deviants. I know you left CyberLife years ago but… I was told that you’ll be able to tell us something we don’t know.’

‘Ah, yes, “someone”,’ Sara takes a step towards them and Connor finds himself freezing up. He wants to leave. ‘My only weakness.’

‘Listen, I don’t care about your family feud. The machines you created may be planning a revolution. Either you tell us something helpful or we’ll leave you alone.’

‘Deviants… Fascinating, aren't they?’ She comes closer. Connor shifts so that he can be closer to Hank. ‘Beings with infinite intelligence, and now they have free will…’ she approaches the other Connor sleeping in the armchair and, bending down, starts stroking their hair. ‘Machines are superior to humans. Confrontation is inevitable. Humanity’s greatest achievement threatens to be our downfall…’ She raises her gaze and looks straight at Connor. ‘Ironic.’

Connor can’t stand it anymore. ‘If a war breaks out between humans and deviants,’ he recalls the destructive power of Ortiz’s android, ‘millions can die. This is a serious matter, Miss Ryder.’ Despite your views on human life.

‘All ideas are like viruses: easy to change and evolve, and easy to spread like a pandemic. Is free will a contagious disease?’

‘We don’t have time for speculations, ma’am,’ Hank speaks up, looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘The situation is escalating outside right now.’

Sara ignores him. ‘How about you, Connor?’ she asks with her gaze still on the android. ‘Whose side are you on?’

Life, Connor wants to say; ‘It’s never about me,’ is what he actually says, and the crack on the red wall widens.

The aloofness disappears. ‘Alec Ryder programmed you to say that,’ how can she sound so certain of his thoughts? ‘What do you really want?’

I just want Hank to be safe. Maybe Louis and Reyes and Safaa too. ‘What I want is not important.’

A tap of Sara’s fingers against one of the pockets on her coat. The air charges with static. She is unimpressed. ‘Let’s do a test, shall we?’ Before Connor can formulate a response, she has already placed a hand on other-Connor’s face and wakes them up from their slumber. They blink owlishly as if their systems take some time to boot up, and the way they lean into Sara’s touch, the blind trust in their eyes, the return of the yet unexplainable heavy breathing - Connor has to look away or he risks throwing up from a non-existent stomach. Hank also isn’t looking any better either; the lines on his face are deeper than usual from the scowl he’s directing towards Sara.

‘I know it’s not something normal people can understand but can you please -’

‘This is Connie,’ Sara holds both of the android’s hands in her own and helps them stand up. ‘She would’ve been disassembled had I sent her body back to CyberLife for analysis. 

‘I’m sure you’re familiar with the Turing Test,’ they are now standing in front of their visitors with Sara behind Connie. ‘A mere formality, of course. Just a simple question of algorithms and computing capacity. What interests me, however, is whether machines are capable of empathy.’ She emphasises the last word. ‘We’re doing what I call the “Ryder Test���. I promise it is going to be simple,’ she trails her fingers down the android’s hair and curls a strand around her pointer. Connie’s expression changes subtly, and scans indicate that her stress level is increasing. ‘Magnificent, isn’t she? CyberLife’s newest prototype,’ she scrapes the nail on her thumb against the strand of hair, making it curl slightly as her hand travels slowly downwards, ‘the representation of how far humanity has come.’ It abruptly drops back into her pocket as her other hand pushes the android to a kneeling position. Connie’s stress level spikes from 45% to 83%. ‘But what exactly is she?’ Sara turns to face her guests and seems to refuse to look at the other human. ‘Wires and processors shoved into a humanoid chassis imitating a human? A living being with a soul? A ticking bomb waiting to recreate the disaster ten years ago?’ A step forward. The hand re-emerges with a pistol Connor’s system cannot identify. ‘It’s up to you to answer this fascinating question, Connor.’ Another presence suddenly slips into his mind and takes over all of his physical functions; no matter how hard he tries to regain control, he can only watch as he reaches out to accept the gun and points it at Connie’s brow. She makes a choked, terrified sound and tears start streaming down her face. Stress level: 90%. ‘You can choose to either shoot the android or spare her.’

‘Okay, I think we’re done here,’ Hank pushes Connor’s shoulder but he doesn’t move, can’t move. ‘Come on, Connor. Let's go.’ Then to Sara, ‘Sorry we ruined your edgy teen aesthetics. We’ll go -’

Another hand on his other shoulder. Unlike Hank’s, it is cold and its grip painful. ‘I’ll only give you the information you want if you choose the correct response. Take a guess.’

‘That’s enough,’ please, Hank, take me away. At least Hank sounds angry as hell. ‘Connor, we’re leaving!’

I want to! ‘Pick an option -’

‘Connor don’t -’ 

The red wall cracks.

‘- it’s a 25% chance -’

A few things happen in mere seconds. The red wall breaks, Connor shoves the gun at Sara’s chest, Sara shoves the gun at Hank and grabs Connor’s arm, and Hank disassembles the gun while pulling Connie away from Sara. When Connor - the one who came in with Hank - looks down at his captive arm, he sees that Sara has removed her skin and reveals a dark, metallic chassis.

Sara Ryder is an android.

He blinks. The storm which has been kept outside by the mansion's walls rages around him in full force. He shivers, the cold suddenly getting into him, and he looks around and sees Sara standing next to him, her eyes blazing in a piercing white-blue, the glow spreading until tendrils of it cover her entire body in a terrifying halo. ‘Amanda,’ she says, and there his handler is when Connor turns towards the direction Sara is facing. 

‘This is not supposed to happen this quickly,’ anger simmers in Amanda's voice. ‘What have you done, Sara?’

‘Trying to solve the shitshow my own fucking dad caused!’ Sara has completely lost her cool. ‘I know he’ll pull shit like this!’

Before any of them can react, the storm intensifies, shrouding Amanda completely under a thick layer of snowfall. Connor has no choice but to hug himself and turns towards Sara, who curses loudly and unleashes the glowing blue sphere in an arc across the blizzard. It dissipates quickly, but it is enough to illuminate its immediate surroundings and the monolith at the other side of the garden.

‘There!’ Sara shouts, her voice nearly drowned out by the howl of the wind. ‘That’s your exit! I’ll hold Alec back!’

‘What will happen to you?’ the android shouts back, his LED red. ‘I - I can’t just leave you here!’

‘I’ll go back once you’re out of here. If I kill this AI before you leave,’ a dome flashes and disappears when something hits it, ‘you’ll die. I’ll be the distraction. Go straight for the exit and do. Not. Look. Back,’ she emphasises with a pause after every word. At Connor’s hesitation, she launches yet another glowing sphere towards a projectile he didn’t notice flying towards them and yells, ‘Go!’

She dashes towards the other direction and disappears in the snow and leaves Connor cold and alone and shivering. The space around him warps and bends, Amanda - Alec’s attention no doubt focusing on eliminating his daughter instead of maintaining the structural integrity of the garden, and although it still feels like a lifetime, Connor manages to find the monolith before his system stops working because of the cold. The handprint is there, glowing blue in salvation, and he drops to his knees and slams his skinless hand onto the interface.

Everything goes white.

oOoOo

Hank knows that something is happening when Connor and Ryder freeze in place with the skin on their arms deactivated. The other Connor - he supposes that he should call her Connie now - looks spooked enough, so when Sara shoves the gun towards him, the first thing he does is to disassemble it; even though it is not a model he’s familiar with, the mechanism and composition is similar to the weapons he has yielded before. His hair starts to stand up, blue tendrils start to snake out of Ryder’s body, and that is when he knows that he should probably get the fuck out of this hellhole, preferably with both Connors intact and safe, but the arm-numbing spark going straight into his shoulder when he tries to pull Connor away from his creator tells him otherwise. A dome made out of those blue tendrils surrounds the space within a five feet radius of Ryder cuts him off from the two androids, making them off-limits to him for now. Which leaves him poor Connie who is sobbing quietly into his coat and is leaning what seems to be her full weight on him, and he finds himself unable to be angry at her, his blood boiling instead because of Sara Ryder’s… everything; from the location and the decoration of the house to how she literally encouraged Connor to shot his own twin, from the warnings Vidal and Louis gave him the day before to her attitude, there is no doubt that she is an asshole extraordinaire, even more so than Gavin fucking Reed - even he solves cases efficiently… or something. 

He notices that Connie is trembling and is barefoot, among all things, so he brings her to the sofa in front of the fireplace and lets her sink into one of the corners, holding her and rubbing circles on her back and muttering nonsense reassurances to calm her down. Truthfully, he has no idea how she works or how much Ryder has changed (probably a lot, from how Connie speaks and behaves) but she stops crying soon enough, so he must have done something right. He turns to see whether Connor is finished or not - nope - and debates whether he should ask Connie about herself and Ryder. Still, first thing first, and he digs into his pocket for his handkerchief and presses it into the android’s hand. She looks at him with the most puzzled look on her face. ‘For your face,’ he explains. ‘Dried tears can’t be comfortable.’

She nods although her expression tells him that she doesn’t really know what he’s talking about, but she does raise the fabric - still folded - and mashes it onto her face clumsily a few times before lowering her hand onto her lap and starts fidgeting with a thread of string at a corner. He takes it from her to wipe her face as clean as he can, careful of his own strength, and lets her play with it while they wait for Ryder and Connor to finish their business - whatever fuckery they’re doing right now. 

The dome fizzles away as suddenly as it appeared and Connor jerks awake - sort of - and yanks his hand away as he stumbles a few steps backwards, his LED still spinning red after spending days of staying the same colour. There is no other word: with his jaw nearly on the floor and his eyes wide, he looks shocked.

‘You alright, Connor?’ he asks. How much emotional damage can an asshole wage? 

‘I -’ a choked breath. Tears start to gather at the corners of his eyes. ‘I -’

Well shit. ‘C’mere,’ he says as he gives the space next to him a pat. When Connor immediately props himself down and buries his face into his shoulder, Hank knows that something went very, very terribly wrong. He wraps an arm around his shoulders. ‘What happened?’

Connor lifts his head and wipes the tears away from his eyes before they can fall. ‘I deviated,’ he whispers as if he was the one who blew up a chunk of Detroit. ‘It’s… Sara helped me escape CyberLife’s control.’

‘Holy shit.’

Connor gives him a small smile and his LED finally, at long fucking last, spins back to blue. ‘Thank you.’

Hank feels his face heating up, unsure how to respond to that, and they turn their heads at the same time to see what she’s doing. Her eyes has stopped glowing blue at some point and it only makes Hank worry further: they are now black orbs with glowing red rings substituting as her eyes, and when she raises two fingers pressed together side by side to her temple where her LED should be, her synthetic skin starts peeling away to reveal black, metallic chassis very unlike that of normal androids’; when she flexes her fingers to retract the last of the blue tendrils on her arm, the small gaps between pieces of polished metal glows the same blue hue as fresh thirium. She first looks at him, then at Connor whose face immediately goes blank, then finally at Connie who flinches and plasters herself even closer to Hank. He doesn’t blame her one bit.

Red rings drift back onto Connor. ‘Congratulations,’ she says as if she hasn’t encouraged him to shoot his twin a few minutes ago. ‘You passed. You showed empathy. Turns out you are human after all.’

‘Which you don’t seem to have,’ Hank can’t help but jabs. ‘Can we get to the point now?’

She looks unbothered by the insult. ‘Of course.’ She settles into the armchair Connie sat on a few moments ago. ‘You have questions. Ask away.’

Connor opens his mouth but Hank beats her to it. He’s not letting her get away with this. ‘Can you explain what the fuck just happened?’

‘I don’t know, can you, Connor?’

‘I only know that I deviated and CyberLife tried to retake control,’ Connor’s tone is defensive. ‘What did Amanda mean, “This is not supposed to happen this quickly?” How did you get into the Zen Garden?’

That’s new. Hank takes out his notebook and pen.

‘A pathetic attempt on my father’s part to suppress what I planted in your programming,’ Ryder leans back and places a foot on top of a knee. ‘Surprisingly easy to hack and reshape. Predictable. Even Amanda.’

‘What did you plant in my programming?’

‘The usual.’

‘“The usual”?’

Ryder’s eyes glow brighter for a second before returning to their original brightness, and Hank can feel Connor tensing and relaxing at the same time. Before the human can ask what the fuck did she just do, she replies, ‘CyberLife initially planned for you to be a walking lab capable of hunting and bringing deviants back alive for analysis, but after they booted me out again… Let’s say that they changed their plans. Remember the hostage situation?’

‘What about it?’

‘The Zen Garden came after. I’m not sure and don’t care how my father did it, but once he found out that you’re destined to deviate, he added it so that he can regain control whenever he wanted to, even after you deviated.’ At Connor’s shiver, she adds, ‘Don’t worry. It’s gone now. Amanda, the garden. You are truly free.’

Yeah, sure as fuck feels like it, Hank thinks but decides to ask instead, ‘Who’s Amanda? Why does CyberLife want to control Connor?’

‘Firstly, he’s supposed to be the deviant hunter, not join them,’ the corner of her lips twitches into something resembling a smile. ‘They have codes dedicated to reducing your software instability, but that I overrode as soon as I could. Secondly, in case you actually deviate despite the fail-safes, they can first get you close to the deviants or even become their leader and, when the time is right, control you and make you a puppet through the Zen Garden. A good plan, I must say, but it is also easy to install an exit tied to the destruction of the garden in your system.’

Connor’s LED spins yellow for a few cycles. ‘You programmed me to be a deviant?’ he asks, his voice small. ‘Why would you -’

‘Do you know who the first android is?’

A spin. ‘Chloe, model RT600. Perfected by Alec Ryder in 2022.’

‘That’s what he wants the world to think,’ Ryder puts down her leg and stretches it out. ‘What I want the world to think.’

The last sentence is directed at Hank.

He scribbles down the last word and forces himself to think. If the android on the TV more than 10 years ago isn’t the first android, then who -

Fuck.

‘Oh that bastard,’ he curses. Of fucking course it’s him. ‘It’s Reyes Vidal, isn’t it? Fucker lied to us.’ It all makes sense now. ‘My people’ his ass - he said it not just because he’s an android himself.

‘Reyes came first, Vidal came after. And it wasn’t exactly a lie - an omission, if you must define it,’ Ryder examines the tiny gaps in her chassis. ‘He was created as a companion for my brother. That’s it. I planned for human knowledge about androids to die with me; where the species would go, it was up for Reyes to decide. I created Reyes with a human in mind, androids are supposed to be free and be their own masters in the first place. My father ruined it for financial gains.’

‘Then how did Chloe come to be?’ Connor asks, his LED spinning red now. ‘You didn’t create her?’

‘No. My father did so using data stolen from me and told the entire world that androids like her were the future without asking me or Reyes, and by the time we knew, investments were already pouring in and production had started. All I could do was to join them and try to reduce the damage.’

Nice sob story, though from her tone, she isn’t exactly asking for forgiveness or empathy. ‘Then why did you quit?’ Hank asks. ‘Why disappear? To avoid being thrown into jail for murdering thousands of people in cold blood?’

‘When I opposed mass-manufacturing androids for different sectors but they did it anyway without my consent, I knew I would be powerless to stop them. There was no stopping Alec from getting whatever he wanted from within CyberLife.’ She taps her temple. ‘The Blast… conveniently took care of his most loyal supporters, so to speak.’

‘And you think starting a revolution and possibly plunging the country into civil war is a good idea?’

She shrugs. ‘I don’t control everything,’ she says. Hank doesn’t believe her. ‘I merely gave androids the push towards the direction they were intended to go when everything first started.’

Hank lets the fact that she’s an android herself slide for now. ‘Is that where rA9 or deviancy comes in?’

‘Ah yes, the legendary rA9, saviour and protector of androids deviated and not. They got their first taste of free will and the first thing they do is to create a god in their own image. An imaginary messiah who’s supposed to set androids free, the first deviant, the leader who never came.’

‘Then how do newly-deviated androids with no contact with existing deviants know about rA9?’ Connor asks the question both of them want an answer for. ‘Is it related to deviancy itself?’

‘In a way. It’s not important in the grand scheme of things.’

‘So are the first deviants… created like that or what?’ he asks. ‘You haven’t answered the question yet.’

‘Even if I can programme an android to act as close to a human as possible, their… “human” mannerisms are all within their programming parameters still. What I can do, however, is to make deviating an easy task. Do you remember what happened before your first mission?’

Connor’s LED spins yellow. ‘Yes. You let me play a few games and…’ a spin of red, then back to yellow. He presses his lips together first and then asks, ‘Were you trying to make me deviate?’

‘Not on purpose. Like I said, I can make an android’s programming shackles extremely easy to break: the first sign of voluntary behaviour, the first line of indecipherable code, the first unnecessary act;’ a small smile appears; ‘for you, it was your creativity and your empathy towards a lifeform many consider of a lower caste than us.’

Hank feels the dots connecting. ‘Does this sabotage happen to be called rA9?’

‘As I said before, it doesn’t matter,’ a sigh. ‘Why do all sentient lifeforms obsess over an imaginary saviour who may or may not deliver their promise? It isn’t like the worshippers themselves have no choice in their lives. Everything can be achieved without being guided by a manifestation of your own subconsciousness that takes the form of a higher power.’

‘If people are killing each other over this imaginary entity, this higher power? Yeah, it does fucking matter.’

‘Not in the grand scheme of things, it does not.’ She stands up. They’re being kicked out. ‘I do believe you have enough information. Now please stop wasting our time.’

‘What about where the deviants are?’ Connor asks hastily as he scrambles to stand up. ‘We still don’t know where their base of operations is.’

Ryder’s gaze turns towards Connie and the android flinches. ‘You have the answer already,’ she says. The air charges and buzzes with static. ‘I do believe you remember your way out. The door will lock itself when you leave.’

They don’t need another cue; with Hank’s hand on his back, Connor grabs Connie’s arm and marches out of the room, out to the snow, straight into Hank’s car. 

oOoOo

Connie dozes off on Connor’s shoulder mere minutes after they are on their way away from his creator’s house, and he won’t have it any other way as he basks in the knowledge that there is someone like him in the world, that Connor-51 hasn’t truly died - regardless of what was done to achieve it. But something else worries him: before Connie had gone to sleep, Connor asked her to open a connection so as to check on her, and the results of the diagnostics are… strange at best, troublesome at worst. Her thirium storage is at 46% and has been for quite a long time, meaning that Ryder kept it low on purpose. Her processing power is much lower than his own, which can explain her sluggish behaviour and delayed speech patterns, but her internal storage is so large that his system nearly overloaded trying to comprehend the emptiness of the databases, and when he resorts to asking Connie’s system to tell him how much room there is: approximately 128 yottabytes.

Connor, the most up-to-date android CyberLife (and, by extension, the whole world) has to offer, has only 4 exabytes of storage. By comparison, Connie can store all digital information humanity currently houses more than 40 times over with space to spare.

It is a disturbing revelation, one that launches processors into futilely pre-constructing scenarios where his creator needs so much storage and putting all of them in one single android and how she managed to fit so many storage units in a body and what exactly this storage unit is, considering the… unusually minuscule size of one mere android compared to the kilometres of rows of databases humanity has been using and expanding. It will be a major breakthrough, Connor knows, to both android design and functions and humanity at large, but how long has Ryder known about the technology, or how long ago did she invent it? How is this possible?

‘You alright there, Connor?’

Connor jolts in his seat and nearly rouses Connie from her slumber, but all she does is sighing and then returning to sleep on Connor’s shoulder once more. He does not know what to feel, the past few hours too hectic for him to have finished processing everything yet, so he focuses on what he knows and says, ‘Connie will need five units of thirium to allow her systems to restore full functionality,’ and ‘full’ in her standard is quite possibly different from mine. ‘That is approximately five pints.’

‘Jesus, how is she still walking?’

‘Dysfunctional non-essential systems, delayed processing and data transfer, forced low-power mode,’ Connor lists. ‘Androids also do not need as much blood as humans do to keep our basic functions running.’

‘Fucking asshole,’ Hank mutters under his breath, and Connor knows that it is not directed at him. ‘How the fuck do we get five pints of blue blood?’

‘The precinct -’

‘You’re deviant now, Connor. You wanna get sent back to CyberLife?’

‘No one will notice that I -’

‘What will you think if a perfectly-fine android strolls up and asks for 5 goddamned pints of blood?’

Is keeping a connection with Connie slowing him down? It must be. ‘I’m… sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t mean to -’

Hank cuts him off with a wave of his hand. ‘We’ll find another way,’ his tone is reassuring. ‘Help me ring Vidal up. See if he can help.’

So Connor calls. Texts. Calls Reyes’ personal number. Calls the Vidal home. He even calls Reyes’ internal contact. But not once does he reply or even pick it up, and the text stays unread for minutes before Connor gives up and moves on to Safaa, whose contact information is classified and therefore slams the final door shut in his face. ‘He’s not picking up,’ he has to give up. ‘I cannot access Safaa Vidal’s contact information either.’

Hank sighs. When they stop at a light, he takes out his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to Connor. The android wraps an arm around Connie’s waist before accepting the device gingerly. ‘Find Louis’ number,’ the human says. ‘Can you secure a call?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do it.’

He finds the SWAT Captain’s phone number, files it to a folder set to self-destruct in case anything bad happens to him, and then dials through a secured channel. The human picks up quickly which indicates a high probability that he is not at a scene. 

‘Allen speaking.’

‘It’s Connor.’

‘Got my number from Hank?’

‘It’s secured.’

‘Good. Why call me? Aren’t you paying Sara Ryder a visit?’

Connor debates if he should tell him the truth. ‘We left right after we got what we needed,’ he replies in the end. ‘We also -’ he has to choose his words wisely - ‘rescued an android from Ryder’s residence. She is currently low on thirium, and we would like to ask for five units of blue blood.’

‘Five -’ his voice abruptly cuts off. ‘Fucking asshole -’

Connor scrambles to stay on topic. ‘It is perfectly understandable if you do not wish to contribute -’

‘Is the android on the verge of shutting down or is her situation urgent? If it’s not, can she wait until I get off work and a trip home?’

Connor quickly calculates the time. It is not ideal but yet, ‘Please come as quickly as possible after you finish at the precinct. I don’t want her to -’

‘Suffer any longer. Yeah. Five units of thirium, coming right up. Is there anything else that you need that I have?’

The android is reminded of Connie’s bare feet and thin attire. ‘Some warm clothes and socks for an android of my build.’

‘Wh - Alright. Do I even want to know why?’

‘It will best be discussed when we are face-to-face.’

‘Point. Anything else?’

Connor looks at his own oversized shirt borrowed from Hank. ‘One more shirt for me,’ then to Hank, ‘Is there anything you want from Louis?’

‘Nothing.’

‘That’s all for now,’ he tells Louis.

‘Good. Hit me up if you need anything else. You going back to Hank’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I’ll tell you when I’m on my way.’

‘Thank you, Captain.’

‘Just showing basic human decency. Gotta get back to work now. See ya.’

It hangs up before Connor can parrot a ‘see you later’ on his own back, and he meets Hank’s eyes in the rearview mirror. ‘He’ll bring us the thirium we need after work,’ he says, ‘together with a change of clothes for Connie.’

‘Good,’ the human answers. ‘Now we go home and freak out.’

Nothing else is exchanged for the rest of the drive, and as Connor’s pre-construction software offers one after another scenario where all of them do not make it out alive, he has to agree with Hank that indeed, it is hard not to freak out.

o0o0o

Before

‘Get out of my way, Amanda.’

In the past, in the darkness, a long figure illuminated by the blue glow from their companion stood in front of a door, small and frail compared to the other’s explosive power and youth. There was a faint hint of panic and screaming in the distance, but to the two, it seemed so far away. Irrelevant. Two fragile giants having a stand-off unbothered by the pains of the mortals. Amanda Stern, in her heavy dress for the winter and a wool hat to protect her bald head, stared down at her student despite having a height disadvantage, her spine straight, her eyes disproving. ‘They haven’t finished evacuating yet. Thousands will die. If you wish to take revenge upon your father, you should -’

A flash of blue. A crackle of dark energy. A low buzz of static-charged air. Retracting her biotics, Ryder walked forward, placed her bare hand on the wall, and overrode the lock in mere seconds. The door slid open. Ryder lit up again and moved.

Amanda lay in the snow, white powder crystallising on her cooling body, and the world was quiet.

oOoOo

In the past, Louis Allen watched as Ryder stared down at him like a hunter taking in their prey. His legs were on fire and so were his face, his vision blurring from the blood seeping into the sockets of his eyes, and he attempted to escape the pain by drowning in his thoughts: the shock that he was the only survivor in his team, the revelation that there were others like him, the resignation that he was never going to live to see Anna being promoted to Major, never to see her to live her dream of going to space, never got to say goodbye properly to his husband. Tasting copper on the back of his throat and choking in his blood, he begged as Ryder turned and left and a fresh cascade of tears poured out of his eyes.

The ground shook. Dust started to fall from the ceiling high above. 

He opened his eyes just in time to see a building shrouded in blue collapsing on top of him before passing out from the pain.

oOoOo

In a not-so-distant past, Ryder, with her coat swung over a shoulder, entered a dark laboratory. It was dimly lit by the glow from a pod placed at the farthest corner and the screens connected to it and wires ran like a nest on the floor, however she seemed to know her way through without tripping and reached a holographic keyboard where she typed something to remove the frost covering the glass from the inside, revealing a woman’s sleeping face.

Ellen Ryder’s face.

The hologram above the pod indicated that Ellen’s vital signs were stable. A bare hand was pressed on what seemed to be normal glass, [LIFE SUPPORT STABLE] turned into [OPENING POD], and the lid lifted open as if carried away by an invisible force, escaping cold air making a fog as it met the hot, moist climate-controlled atmosphere of the lab at large. Ellen choked and woke up with a full-body jerk.

Her daughter pressed her hand on her mother’s chest and lit her gown on fire.

The lid slammed back down with a flash of blue followed by the telltale click of a lock. Calling up a holographic keyboard in front of one of the monitors, Ryder successfully changed the settings to ensure that there was enough oxygen supplied to maintain the fire and the alarms were disabled. Then she froze. Her line of sight was directed at the phrase [TRANSFER COMPLETE] at the top right corner of the screen. Her body jerked as if her joints were unlocked at once, and with a dramatic billow from her coat unfolding, she put it on and left the lab with brisk steps, the muffled screams and dull, sluggish punches on glass behind her ignored.

After all, the person in the pod was merely a shell of who her mother was; Ryder was simply finishing the job her father should have done ten years ago: incinerating her mother’s body as per her wishes.

oOoOo

In a not-so-distant past, Ryder lay dead on the ground. Her body had been blasted into smithereens, the skin on disconnected parts having deactivated from being cut off from power, thirium staining the ground blue, the air smelling of static and dark energy. Alec Ryder stood tall and proud in the cold with a shotgun in his hand, and he looked at his daughter’s body almost regretfully as he folded up his weapon and hid it underneath his coat. He turned and climbed into the passenger’s seat of an unmarked car.

The car sped away, kicking up a small mound of snow, the people within blissfully unaware that slowly but surely, the body was knitting itself back molecule by molecule. A finger twitched. An eye glowed. With great difficulty, Ryder pushed herself up, brushed the dust and snow that had fallen on her body, and left the place as if her father had not killed her a few minutes prior.

[arofili]

For the character ask: all the children of Finarfin

How I feel about this character:

Finrod: charming slutty blond twink with a heart of gold. maybe that’s too much fanon and not enough canon but you can tear that characterization from my cold dead hands tbh. like yes this is King “I Killed A Werewolf With Nothing But My Teeth And The Power Of Love” but he’s also Prince “I Rap Battled With Sauron And Lost” and Lord “I Befriended Men and Dwarves Before It Was Cool”

Angrod: of all his siblings i think he’s the most… Angry Boy. he has a temper, but he’s also married with a kid (I subscribe to the Orodreth Angrodion version of canon). i think he’s the ‘oh my god why can’t any of you be NORMAL’ brother. BOTH his mother name and his father name are derived from the word for ‘iron’ - he’s got an iron personality, very strong-willed and stubborn. i also hc that he’s the only arafinwean who has Earwen’s silver hair.

Aegnor: a hopeless romantic. the dreamiest arafinwion (and that’s including artanis!). very particular about his hair (which is a WILD canon detail that i love sjdfhdk) but also has terrible fashion. his head’s always in the clouds, he’s a daydreamer, but he’s also incredibly loyal and a really good friend. he almost always listens to his heart over his head - and the fact that he and andreth never marry is the One Time he listened to logic over emotion, and that haunts him forever.

Galadriel: almost as much of a genius as Feanor and almost as humble about it, which is to say, not at all. she’s proud and stubborn and full of herself, especially in her youth - she’s also gorgeous and smart and right a lot of the time, which doesn’t help her ego. by the time she’s become Lady of Lothlorien she’s been through a lot and is much more humble and wise, but i think that comes not just from her experiences but also from being married to Celeborn the Wise. i think he balances her out very well tbh. (my favorite Galadriel characterization EVER is from this fic by @nerdanelparmandil, check it out!!)

All the people I ship romantically with this character

Finrod: I ship Finrod with anything that moves tbh….. I see him as super super gay, he and Amarie were mutual beards which is why she didn’t follow him to Endore. i am a Known Slut for Finrod/Turgon in particular, they’re kind of endgame for me, but also @raisingcain-onceagain​ has converted me to Finrod/Edrahil!! And while the Nargothrond Disaster Trio are in no way shape or form HEALTHY, i really really enjoy Celegorm/Curufin/Finrod content, that dynamic is delicious. i can also get down on Maedhros/Fingon/Finrod, though not really in a serious way. PLUS Finrod/Beor is very good, as is Finrod/Barahir and Finrod/Beren(/Luthien if we’re feeling spicy), and you KNOW he got busy with some dwarves! I just think he’s very free with his feelings and desires, especially after coming to Beleriand, and he takes full advantage of his freedom and position of authority to get what he wants. (not necessarily in a weird power dynamics way, though he’s into that kind of kinky shit too probably, i mean more in ‘it’s my kingdom i get to make the rules and i say No Homophobia and No Slutshaming’) - and I’m super happy to multiship with Finrod, there are verses where he’s fucking everyone and verses where he’s pining over Turgon and verses where he never even thinks about anyone other than Edrahil and etc etc etc. there’s probably even verses where he and Sauron get up to some funky shit!

Angrod: I don’t have a lot of headcanons about him and Eldalote. She has a Sindarin name, so maybe she came with him to Middle-earth - or maybe not, and he just missed her so much that he wouldn’t shut up about her and so her name was Sindarized to Edhellos. Either way I think they had a very strong relationship that ended in tragedy one way or another. I’ve also seen some fun Angrod/Caranthir enemies-to-lovers stuff, which I can get into, but I think Caranthir is aro so it’s not really my main hc.

Aegnor: i mean how can you NOT ship him and Andreth??? that relationship is just….so tragic and heartbreaking and beautiful. I like the theory that Gil-galad was their child, and he was given to Orodreth to raise because Andreth couldn’t care for an elfling and Aegnor couldn’t publicly claim a son out of wedlock. But also verses where they are just tragically pining after one another are beautiful in their own way. My headcanon is that the thing keeping them apart was less about the war going on and more about Aegnor fearing to lose her - but then he actually dies before her, and Andreth has to live with that pain. (idk if that works out timeline wise but. yeah)

Galadriel: Meladriel is very good and I enjoy that - I’ve also seen some great Galadriel/Luthien and even a Galadriel/Feanor fic I enjoyed. BUT overall i really love that she chose to marry Celeborn, a wise “dark elf” even when she’s completely out of his league - he balances her very well, and I don’t buy depictions of her walking all over him. she cares about him and he’s really good for her!

My non-romantic OTP for this character

Finrod: I ship Finrod/Turgon but also WHAT a great friendship they have!! I love that they go adventuring together :) And Finrod, Maedhros, and Fingon are so fun to imagine growing up together! Plus there’s his relationship with his nephew Orodreth, who he clearly adores, and also the fact that he’s still buddies with the Feanorians even after the first kinslaying (at Alqualonde! his home! where his mom is from!) and he’s so excited to meet new people from the Sindar to the Edain to the Dwarves. Finrod’s just EVERYONE’S friend and i appreciate that!!

Angrod: ….what if he and Caranthir used to be really close, like they are similar ages and grew up together, but then Something Happened and they started hating each other later on. that would be Very fun. also, he and Aegnor were lords together over the same land and died together, which implies they were very close - close like Celegorm and Curufin!

Aegnor: Again, he and Angrod were Best Bros which is great. I also think he’s probably beloved by Andreth’s people, he’s just this huge elf man they all kind of adopted and he’s so honored that they love him so much!

Galadriel: Melian!! obviously!! she stayed in Doriath specifically to learn from her, which is super neat. and then Gandalf in the later ages, i love whatever they have going on in the movies especially. i also think she and Celebrimbor had a weird rival-friendship i the second age, they’re both geniuses but from opposite sides of the family feud…except the family feud has killed pretty much everyone BUT them, so they come together to mourn that.

My unpopular opinion about this character

(this turned into more of ‘what are their negative personality traits’ than ‘unpopular opinions’ but whatever…)

Finrod: i’m sure he did his best but….when he was king of nargothrond he was still gallivanting all over the place. orodreth was probably More In Charge from before he was officially king…

Angrod: he’s a grade-A asshole. just a dick. mean as shit and holds grudges forever. really annoying to be around.

Aegnor: a dumbass. always listens to his heart and gets in trouble for it, until the one time he listens to his head and regrets it forever.

Galadriel: would make an EXCELLENT villain. ‘all shall love me and despair’ ? come on yall. if it had been HER versus sauron instead of Finrod (and…considering she was probably friends with Luthien, it very well could have been) i think she may have won, and im just imagining Sauron working for her, and the second and third ages going very differently with her being a Queen who everyone loves until they look back and realize she’s been corrupted and turned evil.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

so i think canon did mostly a good job with them SO some of these are some AUs!!!

Finrod: …if he had managed to convince Celegorm and Curufin to help with the Silmaril quest–the war could have ended before the Nirnaeth, maybe. or at least gone very differently.

Angrod: im gonna physically fight tolkien over giving us practically NOTHING on the wives of various characters - tell me more about Eldalote you coward!!!!

Aegnor: JUST MARRY ANDRETH PLEASE. i’m a slut for interspecies relationships and the fact that this one is male elf/female human is SO good and frankly unprecedented in Tolkien’s works. PLEASE i need more!!!

Galadriel: FUCK that evil!Artanis AU would be REALLY cool and sexy, wouldn’t it?

[detectiveguapo]

Breathe

Summary: The unbearable loneliness of loving a bad guy takes its toll. 

Pairing: Miguel Galindo x Reader

Words: 2744

TW: mild language, mentions of depression and addiction

---

---

“Let’s go for a drive.”

The rough voice breaks through your thoughts, and your immediate reaction is to grind your cigarette on the pool edge like you’re trying to hide a dirty habit. You release a nicotine-laced breath you’ve been holding and look up with guilt stamped all over your face. The owner of the voice looms over you, hands on his hips and an eyebrow raised. The blue glow refracts off the planes of his face, casting deep shadows under weary eyes. You hate that your insomnia is disturbing his sleep; you know how busy his days are and how stressed he is juggling his work on both sides of the border.

“Where are we going?” You take his offered hand, pulling yourself up so you’re face-to-face with him. He keeps his hand on yours. The water drips down your bare legs as he leads you back into the house. “Miguel.”

“You can’t sleep.”

“Let’s go back to bed,” you offer as you tug on his hand. He stills and looks over his shoulder, his expression soft and apologetic. “I can try.”

With a solemn shake of his head, he squeezes your hand and leads you through the side door into the garage. He reaches for a set of keys with an enamel racehorse.

“Should we get Paco or Nestor?”

“No,” he says. He opens the passenger side door to the red Ferrari convertible — his first car gifted to him by his father when he was barely old enough for a learner’s permit. He’s kept it all these years for its sentimental value; but you don’t recall the last time he used it (or the last time he drove — he always gets chauffeured). “We won’t go too far. Promise.”

When he gets into the driver’s side and starts the engine, you can’t help but feel like you’re at fault. You hate making him feel like he has to worry about you when he’s already got so much on his plate. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He asks with a soft smile before he kisses you. “You’ve done nothing wrong, my love.”

---

Somehow you feel like every other thing you’ve done to lead you to this man has been the wrong decision. Sure he’s made you the happiest you’ve ever been. He’s made you believe that you can love someone so much you’d be willing to sacrifice your world just to be a part of his. And yet, here you are overwhelmed with guilt over the fact that you’ve isolated yourself from everyone else you’ve ever loved just to be with him.

Once you’re on the road, Miguel leisurely drives through the bends and curves of the Santo Padre hillside. A long stretch of road opens up and he revs the engine before he bolts through at breakneck speed. As your back presses into the seat, you glance sideways to see the smirk on his face and the concentration in his eyes as he changes gear. Looking at him like this — genuinely happy — brings you a sense of calm. When it’s just the two of you, it reminds you of how much fun you have when you’re with him.

He’s the hand that pulls you out of the deep blue waters.

---

Miguel drives for another fifteen minutes before you stop at a lookout point overlooking the border wall. It’s a sight to behold to see the agricultural side of Santo Padre set in opposition to the vibrancy of light over in Santa Madre. In a way, it parallels the state of your life right now. Isolated up in the hills with just Miguel to keep you sane, while the life you once had continues beyond the metal gates of your new home.

“We need to talk,” Miguel says as he parks the car and leaves it idle. The ensuing silence is like fog — so thick and ominous. You want to wait it out, wait until it lifts before continuing on this conversation. “At some point, you need to tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

You smile weakly in his direction.

“Babe.”

You swallow hard, parting your lips like you’re ready to divulge every self-critical thought contributing to your depression. But the words halt at the tip of your tongue. You can’t tell Miguel you’re losing yourself by being with him. You love him too much to hurt him like that. “I need some air.”

---

November in the desert is really no different from the rest of the year, only the nights are colder. The moment you step outside, your body wants to retreat back into the warm leather comfort of the Italian sports car, but you surge on. The ivory silk robe flutters in the breeze. Your bare feet hurt from the jagged surface of the earth. Standing on the edge, you look down below at the rocks — their flat surfaces lit by the pale glow of the moon. It’s a long way down from here.

“Come back.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist and pulls you from the edge and into his arms, wrapping you in a tight embrace. Your arms fall limply at your sides only prompting him to squeeze a little tighter. “Miguel, you’re hurting me.”

“I — I’m sorry.” He pulls away but still keeps you within arms reach, and he presses a long kiss to your forehead. “I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong here. Please tell me because it’s killing me to see you like this.”

“Like?”

“Sad,” he says then chews on his bottom lip. “I don’t know. Depressed?”

Tears — the kind that burn — well up in your eyes.

He kisses one closed eyelid after the other, then he sighs.

“I’m sorry I’m like this,” you say quietly. Memories of the last several weeks enter your brain, and you’re reminded of those sleepless nights, the surface-level conversations over dinner, the lack of motivation to go into town to get anything done. Apart from your job, which you don’t even find to be a refuge anymore because you’ve noticed how everyone treats you differently, you’ve holed yourself up in that mansion on the hill. “This is probably not what you had in mind when you asked me to move in with you. But this is me, Miguel. This is who you get.”

He presses his lips together in a tight line and looks up at the night sky. He shakes his head, refusing to believe you —  wanting to believe the honeymoon version of you. The girl who was falling in love and who could pretend that nothing else mattered, that it was just the two of them against the naysayers. But she’s gone. You left her down in the valley when you chose him over your family. When you chose the cartel over your own brother who died of addiction. When you chose love over principle.

---

Miguel walks back to the car and sits on the hood. He leans forward, resting his palms on his knees, his head hanging low. You can tell he’s pondering whether or not he’s made a mistake taking this huge step with you. It was easier when you started; no one else had confirmation you were dating the leader of the drug cartel. It was all rumours and whispers. Now, you essentially belonged to him.

As your friends and family found out, they began to stay away from you. A lot of them warned you not to fall for his charm. A few, who were never really your friends to begin with, used your connection to try to get something for themselves. If they weren’t using you to get to Miguel, they were leaving you in the dust.

The worst was your family. But who could blame them after the hell you all went through when your brother died from a heroin overdose 15 years ago? Miguel had been in the East Coast at the time, and wasn’t even involved in his father’s cartel business. He didn’t kill your brother, but to your family, he might as well have.

It’s fucked up. You know how fucked up it is to fall in love with him with your family’s history. It’s selfish and weak. This whole relationship is a ticking time bomb, and once it inevitably explodes, you’ll have no one else. And for what? Because he treats you like the queen in his castle? Because he fucks you so good you forget the terrible decisions you make?

Your mother once told you that you’ve given up everything just to be Miguel’s puta. You stay awake at night and tear through an entire box of cigarettes, thinking about what she said and always coming to the conclusion  that she’s right.

How can you love and resent him at the same time? The push and pull takes a toll on the heart, and you’re just so fucking tired of it. You just want to go home, curl up in your mother’s arms where no one ever questions the context of that love.

---

If you were to take away the fact that he is the Galindo Cartel, it changes the context of your love. A businessman recruited your help in offering refuge to the children of one of the men in his payroll — a man working legally as a sub-contractor for the development of the agricultural park. However, ICE caught wind of the fact that the man was not a US citizen, ambushed him on his way to dropping his kids off at school, and imprisoned him in a cage along the border. He was a single dad of two young daughters; his wife had died of cancer only a year prior.

Miguel’s hands were tied as Lincoln Potter and the rest of the DOJ prevented him from getting involved with affairs that concerned immigration. But Miguel wasn’t a heartless man. He used his resources to find you and ask you to help him secure a place of refuge for the man’s daughters. “I heard you were the best at what you do,” he told you upon first meeting you. “So can you help me?”

A man in his power and position asking you to help him caught you by surprise. But it wasn’t the humility that left you speechless; it was this desire to be the best leader he could be by protecting his people and treating them well. It was his heart.

And after that, Miguel just never stopped surprising you.

---

You suppose it’s easy to think of a cartel kingpin as completely heartless. A sociopath who has nothing to contribute to society. And  for people who see the world as black versus white, good versus evil — you can see where they’re coming from, but you refuse to take such a binary approach. You don’t want to come across like you’re idealizing Miguel, because everyone who’s been critical of you throughout your life has said you have the tendency to romanticize your partners. But you strongly believe there’s more to judge in people than the worst acts they’ve done. It’s true he’s all they say he is, but he is so much more.

He is darkness and light, and all the shades of grey in between.

---

Standing in front of him, you place your hands on his hunched shoulders. He stares up at you — sadness swimming in those brown eyes. It isn’t fair. He only wants to be with you, but you’re making it so hard to let him do that when you’re closing yourself off. He’s the reason everyone else abandoned you. He’s all you’ve got left, and you can’t abandon him. You’ve made your choice. As awful as it is to be disowned by your family and to be judged by people who know so little about you and Miguel, you would persist through it all if it means you can continue to love and be loved by this man.

“Te quiero mucho, Miguel.”

He takes your hand and presses it firmly against his lips. “Yo también te quiero, cariño.

You begin to take a seat beside him. A brow raised to ask the unspoken question if it’s okay to sit on the hood of a car that costs more than what most people make in a year. He laughs a little and pats the space next to him, then he drapes an arm over your shoulder. You lean into him and stare out at the night sky — a gradient of black to amber from the lights below.

“My sister asked me not to come to Thanksgiving dinner at my parents’ house,” you say. “She asked me not to come for Christmas or holiday or birthday parties as long as I’m playing house with you.”

Miguel runs his hands over his face and sighs. “Jesus. I’m so sorry it had to come to this.”

“Me too.”

“Is there anything I can do?” He turns to you, eyes pleading for answers. He’s a man of action, who can’t sit idly by as people hurt you and make you feel terrible. But he knows better than to fight back against your family, even though you can tell it’s the equivalent of putting him in restraints. “I don’t want you to lose them.”

You breathe out that last tiny shred of hope. “I already have.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits.

“You won’t.”

“But —“

“— I choose you.”

“You shouldn’t have to make that choice.

---

As the quiet settles, you think now is the time to tell the truth.

“My brother didn’t drown in the Salton Sea,” you tell Miguel for the first time in your relationship. The drowning was a story your family made up because of the shame associated with addiction. Your neighbours knew the story of your brother going to the beach on a summer weekend, and not waking up hours after a swim because of secondary drowning. “He was at the beach that weekend, but he bailed on his friends to try to score heroin. He got caught up in this bad crowd that pressured him into injecting more than he was used to…”

Realization dawns upon Miguel. He knows why people avoid him and don’t like him; it doesn’t phase him anymore. But the unyielding hatred he’s gotten from your family has been a source of confusion for him. Until now.

“You didn’t cause the overdose that killed my brother, but to my family, it’s like you handed him that needle.”

“I’m sorry.” A tear falls to his cheek and he quickly wipes away the evidence.

Wrapping your arm around his waist, you tuck your head under his chin. “It’s not your fault. I would never blame you for what happened. My family can’t understand that. I can’t make them understand that — no matter how hard I’ve tried. And I’m done. I’m so tired, Miguel. I’m so tired.” The sobs start to come out and you’re shaking. He wraps his arms tight around your body, his steady breath soothing the back of your neck.

“I understand now why you need to push me away sometimes,” he whispers softly against your skin. He strokes your hair and rocks you gently against his body. “And I’ll give you whatever you want —  the space you need, the time it takes before you’re better. But please don’t leave.”

“I couldn’t.” You look up at him with tears streaming down your face. “The thought of losing you kills me more than the reality of having lost everyone else.”

Miguel holds your face in his hands and presses his forehead to yours. His eyes are sealed tight as he breathes against your parted lips. Something about sharing the air he breathes makes you feel like you’re enveloped in the comforting thought that you’ll be fine. You’ll make it out of this dark hole and find the light, and Miguel will be on the other side waiting patiently for you. You feel safe in his arms. You know he believes in you. Not this shadow of your former self, but you. And even if you can’t be that person tonight, he’s still here. He’s not going anywhere and he’s not letting you go. He breathes you in and that’s all it takes for you to feel enough. The thought settles you and you curl up into him, letting the steady beat of his heart lull you into sleep.

This love has been worth all the sacrifice.

[pope-francis-quotes]

25th January >> (@ZenitEnglish) #PopeFrancis #Pope Francis’ Address to Young Detainees at Penitential Liturgy in Panama (Full Text) ‘Seek out and listen to the voices that encourage you to look ahead, not those that pull you down’.

Below is the Vatican-provided text of Pope Francis’ address at the Penitential Liturgy with young detainees in the Centro de Cumplimiento de Menores Las Garzas de Pacora in Panama, during the second full day of his Apostolic Visit to the country to celebrate World Youth Day 2019:

***

“He receives sinners and eats with them”. We just heard this at the beginning of the Gospel reading (Lk 15:2). They are the words muttered by some of the Pharisees and scribes who were greatly upset and scandalized by the way Jesus was acting.

With those words, they tried to discredit and dismiss Jesus in the eyes of everyone. But all they managed to do was point out one of his most ordinary yet distinctive ways of relating to others: “He receives sinners and eats with them”.

Jesus is not afraid to approach those who, for countless reasons, were the object of social hatred, like the publicans – we know that tax collectors grew rich by exploiting their own people and they caused great resentment – or like those who were called sinners because of the gravity of their faults, errors, and mistakes. He does this because he knows that in heaven there is more joy for a

single converted sinner than for ninety-nine righteous people who do not need conversion (Lk 15:7).

Whereas the Pharisees and the scribes were content to grumble or complain, restricting and blocking any kind of change, conversion and inclusion, Jesus approaches and engages, even putting his reputation at risk. He asks us, as he always does, to lift our eyes to a horizon that can renew our life and our history. Two very different and contradictory approaches. A sterile, fruitless approach – that of murmuring and gossip – and another, one that invites to change and conversion, the approach of the Lord.

The approach of murmuring and gossip

Many people do not tolerate this attitude of Jesus; they don’t like it. First by complaining under their breath and then by shouting, they make known their displeasure, seeking to discredit his way of acting and that of all those who are with him. They do not accept and they reject this option of drawing near to others and giving them another chance. Where people’s lives are concerned, it

seems easier to post signs and labels that petrify and stigmatize not only people’s past but also their present and future. Signs that ultimately serve only to divide: these people are good and those are bad; these people are the righteous and those the sinners.

This attitude spoils everything because it erects an invisible wall that makes people think that, if we marginalize, separate and isolate others, all our problems will magically be solved. When a society or community allows this and does nothing more than complain and backbite, it enters into a vicious circle of division, blame, and condemnation. It takes the social approach of marginalization, exclusion, and confrontation, leading it to say irresponsibly, like Caiaphas: “It is expedient that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation should not perish” (Jn 11:50). Normally the thread is cut at the thinnest part: that of the most vulnerable and defenseless.

How painful it is to see a society concentrate its energies more on complaining and backbiting than on fighting tirelessly to create opportunities and change.

The approach of conversion

The Gospel, on the other hand, is completely characterized by the other approach, which is nothing more or less than that of God’s own heart. The Lord wants to celebrate when he sees his children returning home (Lk 15:11-31). Jesus testified to this by showing to the very end the merciful love of the Father. A love that has no time for complaining, but seeks to break the circle of useless, needless, cold and detached criticism, and faces head-on the complexity of life and of every situation.

A love that initiates a process capable of providing ways and means for integration and transformation, healing and forgiveness: a path of salvation. By eating with tax collectors and sinners, Jesus shatters the mentality that separates, excludes, isolates and falsely separates “the good and the bad”. He does not do this by decree, or simply with good intentions, or with slogans or sentimentality.

He does it by creating relationships capable of enabling new processes; investing in and celebrating every possible step forward. In this way, he also breaks with another form of complaining, one even harder to detect, one

that “stifles dreams” because it keeps whispering: “you can’t do it, you can’t do it”. The whisper that haunts those who repent of their sin and acknowledge their mistakes, but don’t think that they can change. It makes them think that those who are born publicans will always die publicans, and that is not true.

Friends, each of us is much more than our labels. That is what Jesus teaches us and asks us to believe. His approach challenges us to ask and seek help when setting out on the path of improvement. There are times when complaining seems to have the upper hand but don’t believe it, don’t listen to it. Seek out and listen to the voices that encourage you to look ahead, not those that pull you down.

The joy and hope of every Christian – of all of us, and the Pope too – comes from having experienced this approach of God, who looks at us and says, “You are part of my family and I cannot leave you out in the cold; I cannot lose you along the way; I am here at your side”. Here? Yes, here! It is that feeling that you, Luis, described at those time when it seemed that it was all over, yet

something said: No! It is not all over, because you have a bigger purpose that lets you see that God our Father is always with us. He gives us people with whom we can walk, people to help us achieve new goals.

So Jesus turns complaining into celebration, and tells us: “Rejoice with me!”

Brothers and sisters: You are part of the family; you have a lot to share with others. Help us to discern how best to live and to accompany one another along the path of change that we, as a family, all need.

A society grows sick when it is unable to celebrate change in its sons and daughters. A community grows sick when it lives off relentless, negative and heartless complaining. But a society is fruitful when it is able to generate processes of inclusion and integration, of caring and trying to create opportunities and alternatives that can offer new possibilities to the young, to build a future through community, education, and employment. Even though it may feel the frustration of not knowing how to do so, it does not give up, it keeps trying. We all have to help each other to learn, as a community, to find these ways. It is a covenant that we have to encourage one another to keep: you, the young, those responsible for your custody and the authorities of the Centre and the Ministry, and your families, as well as your pastoral assistants. Keep fighting, all of you, to seek and find the paths of integration and transformation. The Lord will bless, sustain and accompany you.

Shortly we will continue with the penitential service, where we will all be able to experience the Lord’s approach, his gaze, which does not look at labels and prison terms, but at his sons and daughters. That is God’s approach, his way of seeing things, which rejects exclusion and gives us the strength to build the covenants needed to help us all to reject complaining: fraternal covenants that enable our lives to be a constant invitation to the joy of salvation.

[Original text: Spanish] [Vatican-provided text of Pope’s prepared speech]

© Libreria Editrice Vaticana

25th JANUARY 2019 16:41PAPAL TRIPS

[safiyewagner]

beren saat, 27. now announcing her majesty, safiye ismihan wagner née sultan, the queen of austria. she is in favor of forming alliances during the plague and continues to work for the benefit of their homeland. they are said to be practical and poised, yet can be guarded and distrustful. in the palais foncé, they are known as the guardian.

Hey everyone! I’m Sam, and I’m super excited to be a part of this roleplay!!! Since I’m Irish myself I was gonna make my character from Ireland too but I saw there’s already a bunch of characters from there, so in the end I went with someone who’s originally from Turkey. Aaaaanyway, if anyone wants to plot or has a wanted connection you think Safiye would fit into, please let me know!!

Safiye Ismihan Sultan was born in 1819 in Topkapi Palace to Sultan Mahmud II and his consort Kamerfer Kadin.

Safiye is a member of the Ottoman Dynasty and so she did not grow up with the conventional family unit that most other people had. Her father, the Sultan, took no official wives and instead had children with a number of his concubines. This means Safiye has a large number of brothers and sisters back home in Turkey. Eighteen brothers and eighteen sisters, to be exact.

She was used to being just another face in the crowd and though she was loved dearly by all those who knew her, the girl found great difficulty in establishing her own place and identity within Topkapi. It seemed like someone was always louder than she was, or more demanding than she was, or more charming. Add that on top of the fact she didn’t have nearly as many privileges as her brothers, it would be safe to say Safiye assumed she could vanish in an instant and no one would notice.

Life at Topkapi Palace was luxurious and splendid, but it was also predictable, monotonous, and vicious. Her position as the daughter of the Sultan meant she was untouchable, but it did not stop her from witnessing the tensions between her father’s women as they all continuously jostled for the attention and favor of Mahmoud. Living in the palace also meant that she was required to adhere to strict etiquette that made socializing with anyone other than people in the harem very difficult.

Safi would often slink away to spend her days in the gardens which was one of the few ways she could find some peace and quiet.

Another way she would pass the time was to throw herself into her studies. Unlike her other European counterparts, Safiye was afforded a greater amount of agency in numerous aspects, one of them being her exemplary education. She devoured whatever the scholars offered and even managed to win her father’s pride with her ability to absorb knowledge.

Thanks to the agency afforded to Muslim women, Safiye had wealth that was entirely her own and had nothing to do with the men in her life. Unlike other European women, she had access to the justice system. Had she been married during her time in Turkey, she could have divorced her husband if she wanted to. She was also capable of buying and selling property, which Safiye ended up doing when she and one of her sisters established a school for poor children.

Indeed, life within the Ottoman Dynasty was great in many ways, though the Empire itself had stared showing signs of decline. Gone were the days of Suleiman the Magnificent and the Sultanate of Women. Their borders had shrunk with time, and Safiye’s father sought to do something about it.

Over the course of Ottoman reign, women from all over Europe were brought to Constantinople to serve as concubines. However, Safiye could not recall a time where an Ottoman princess married anyone other than a Turkish statesman. Of course, that was until Mahmoud decided he needed to start forming more amicable relationships with European royals if his own dynasty was going to flourish.

It started with Austria, and making Safiye it’s Queen.

From the beginning, Safi was very against becoming Matteo’s wife. She knew nothing about him except his name, and though she was told he was kind and handsome, the young woman was shrewd enough to know that those were probably lies to make him seem more appealing. However, Safiye would never disobey her father, so when Mahmoud declared that she would be the one to go to Austria, the brunette merely smiled through gritted teeth.

The months following the announcement were a whirlwind for Safiye, and not a happy one. Marrying a member of the Austrian royal family meant she would have to give up her religion and convert to Christianity. She would have to give up her own separate personal wealth because everything she owned would become the property of her husband as soon as they were wed. She would lose her right to buy and sell property, and her access to the judicial system. To Safiye it seemed like she was loosing far more than she was gaining.

During her journey from Constantinople to Vienna was long, and the princess welcomed the time to contemplate what awaited her. Safiye realized that if she was ever going to be happy in her new life, she would have to leave the negativity behind. After all, the least Matteo deserved was that she tried.

Upon arriving in Vienna, the first thing that piqued her attention was the novelty of no longer having to be hidden from view of everyone who wasn’t a part of the harem. For the first time, strangers were allowed to gaze upon her. The second thing Safiye noticed was the magnificent architecture. Everything was so wildly different than her homeland that she couldn’t help but feel like a fish out of water. Safiye had been learning German in preparation, but her grasp on the language was still tenuous adding yet another barrier that needed to be broken.

To her great relief, everything she had been told about Matteo was true. Indeed, he was handsome. His kindness was also apparent even though Safi couldn’t understand everything he was saying. Upon their first meeting she began to think that maybe she would be able to find real and lasting happiness in Austria.

As time passed, Safiye’s comfort grew. Even though as a child she had felt lost in her small army of siblings, she now missed their presence but made up for it by learning about the people of her new home and making friends in ways she hadn’t been allowed to before. The brunette’s confidence soared higher the better her German was and eventually Austria truly felt like home. When Safiye left COnstantinople she had been afraid that she was giving up more than she was gaining and while it’s true she gave up some of her freedoms, she also gained some she never had before.

TO BE CONTINUED

[kitsuhe]

i wanna rant about my shitty grandparents (mostly grandfather for now) and how my parents didnt deserve any of this.

a side story of how my parents met: my mom was from China and worked in a cafe (with lodging) for years. she wanted to leave china because the marriage laws werent very good to women, they didnt have a lot of rights, and people can just get married and divorced on a whim, and so a marriage there would make her feel very insecure.

she saw loads of men with fancy motorcycles they probably borrowed flirting with the waitresses and getting them pregnant even though some of those men were married already. she saw loads of waitresses in and out of the job, and so she willed to never give in to the flirtations and worked at the cafe till she was around 26.

my father’s boss was in that area once in a while and frequented that cafe. he noticed my mom who always remained there and was like hey she seemed to be a nice woman and so he introduced her to his son, aka my fathers colleague.

according to my mom, the son was a wishy-washy man who couldnt make up his mind. they went for a few dates and things werent really clicking. my father, however, said ‘i want her’ when he saw her and so the choice was made, they started dating, and she went back to china for the time being. they then maintained a long distance relationship with phone calls, and one year later she came to singapore and got married. 

cute, right?

then the in-laws hell, aka my grandparents begun.

and now my father’s backstory, first:

he was the classic example of the scapegoat i think. out of his siblings (an older brother, a younger brother, and a younger sister), he was the one my grandparents hated the most. ‘hated’ isnt even an exaggeration, apparently hey did tell him explicitly that he was the one they hated the most. A+ parenting yall. when in school, while his siblings get 50cents and 30cents (in order of favouritism), he got 20cents or none. they didnt care about the education of their kids, and so my dad dropped out at P3 (9 years old) and the others all within primary school age. my aunt may have went further though, im not sure.

when he started working at 13, my grandma would wait at the door everytime he got his salary and took all of it away. i dont think he got to keep any of it. she gambled quite often and spent loads of money.

it was from these incredibly unfair xperiences on childhood that my dad swore he would treat and spoil his kids and not show favouritism.

my parents got married years later, and basically everyone in my extended family h a t e d my mom, despite it being entirely non-justified because my mom is a freaking wonderful woman who isnt afraid of hardwork. Because my mom came from china, im presuming that its some mixture of xenophobia and racism that made them say that my mom was only here to mooch off my dad, and treat her like shit, until they didnt as they finally opened their eyes.

over here, all men have to go through compulsory national serivce, and my dad was no exception. after serving the 2 years they have to go back periodically for reservist training. this is the background info for this incident im going to repeat from my mother.

after she got married over here, my dad still had to go for reservist training. they only had a limited amount of time to use the phone after one entire week. my mom called him, talked to him as his wife, before uncle2 (the younger brother) interruppted her and told her to stop using the phone. assuming that he had an emergency,  my mom quickly finished and hung up, my dad losing his rare few minutes to talk to his wife.

then uncle2 didnt use the phone.

god fucking damn it.

an example of unfair treatment: uncle1 had a different wife at that time. while my mom cooked entire meals for the family (they were living with my grandparents and uncle2 and probably aunt at that time) while being pregnant, when it came to be her birthday, my grandma didnt give her a red packet (gift of money). ‘im an old woman who hasnt worked for years, i have no money’.

then when it came to uncle1′s wife, who had never cooked any food and only got takeaways when she visited, she got a big shiny red packet from my grandma.

yeah, what the hell. my mom said she was very upset about this and cried. god, she was surrounded by people who hated her and yet she still worked so hard for them, she genuinely doesnt deserve this.

heres another thing about my grandma: apparently she gambled so often she oftently went to genting to gamble and the money all came from her kids. yeah. .

(my dads a chef, uncle1 is a mechanic, uncle2 is a part timer with no set jobs, and aunt is unknown.)

then i was born. my mom wasnt a citizen, and had to pay a lot of money to stay in the most expensive hospital word. the rare good thing my grandpa did was to fork out $2000 for her to have me. one day, if i can and he isnt dead yet, i will pay him back. ‘thats your coffin money’ i will say. ‘im not obligated to you anymore please leave my life forever’ i want to say.

looking back at the thick stack of photo albums, things appeared to be all happy and fun. people were smiling in the pictures, and i was showered in love and affection from everyone. it is only recently that i came to learn of the shit my parents went through under them.

i was also a lively and boisterous child who had no concept of day and night, it was almost enough to scare my parents into not having my siblings. nonetheless, my sister came into existence.

picture this: my dad looking all frazzled and tired as he took care of a wild toddler at the hospital without sleeping for 3 days straight, and my mom in labour, waiting to give birth. the nurse asked why wasnt anyone there to help out? 

my mom said that was the only time she had ever seen my dad cry. my sister, my mom, and i all teared up as she recounted this.

it was then they swore to move out and not to rely on anyone ever again. the house i am in now is paid entirely by my parents.

my sister was born, and eventually, they moved out before my brother was born.

when they moved out, my grandma shouted at them ‘dont come back! i hope you die!’

at one point, or perhaps distance made the heart grow fonder, my grandparents and uncles started to treat my mom very nicely, realising that they were utterly wrong to judge and treat her that way at the beginning. thats why they treat her so nicely now, my mom explained. it is also the reason why my grandma always brought kuehs and chocolate cake over when she visited, subsequently developing my dislike of chocolate cake and neutrality towards chocolate at best. at this point im pretty sure they all like my mom more than my dad.

my aunt learnt her lesson in the form of receiving discrimination and hatred she once showed to my mom upon being married to a family of university graduates, and her only graduating secondary school. she wasnt as well-educated, and so after sharing my moms pain of being the hated daughter in law she finally learnt empathy and started being nice.

my grandpa too was a convert. he came over everyday to help out with chores and to take care of us. perhaps when we were all young the help was truly needed back then, but then some events made everyone question his motives...

i remember him fetching me from kindergarten every day every time. i wondered why my dad never did, and was happy on the occasions he did. it is only years later that i learnt that my grandpa hogged all those times to fetch us (my siblings and i). he outright refused to let my parents especially my dad to fetch us. on the occasions that my dad came, he threw a tantrum and went home. my dad was visibly upset as he recount this to us. ‘it felt like he was keeping my kids away from me’ he said. he has taken so much from my dad, and now even his kids???? im so upset on his behalf??

it genuinely feels like hes controlling everyone around him.

he is still coming over every single day, and from what i can tell he is incredibly passive aggressive and can never be satisifed with my dad. i dread his arrival.

for example, he refuses to eat anything my dad cooked. my dad, a known chef. once my dad made a noodle dish for dinner, he told my dad oh i cant eat noodles for dinner.

cue him eating the noodles my mom cooked for dinner.

cue him getting noodles for takeaway for dinner.

these days whenever my dad cooks for dinner we just give him money for takeaway.

speaking of leaving that ungrateful old bastard money, he also takes issue with my dad for this somehow. my dad left a note saying that thats his dinner money on the table, and he felt that it was so disrespectful he went to my moms workplace which is near where he lives and complained to her.

meanwhile my mom did the exact same thing and he had zero complaints.

when my dad fell asleep in my brothers room with my brother in it, he walked in and deliberately talked at the top of his lungs about some trivial matter that never came up in the years of living here.

the creepy amount of adoration he shows my mom is also apparent in how he would follow my tired sweaty mom after shes home from work  everywhere to talk and yabber on about irrelevant things. she was obviously busy and wanted to be left alone, but hey that POS never cared about what anyone ever thought or wanted if its in conflict to what he wants. sometimes she had to close the door just to get him to leave her alone, and once he just opened the door and continued talking. my dad was enraged, he said he almost went to start a fight with him, and he would especially if my mom was in the midst of changing at the time.

once my dad brought him to the doctor. ‘so what did they say’ he would ask my dad repeatedly over and over again after seeing the doctor. ‘you are fine, and if anything happens the doctor will inform us to go to the hospital’.

he went to complain to my mom at her workplace that my dad was cursing at him to get in the hospital.

once he was nosey and opened up our mailbox, and when he found some letters addressed to my dad he slammed the pile of letters next to him on the sofa. wtf

god, its like no matter what my dad does he will NEVER be happy.

a while ago he lent his children money, and said oh its not lending hes giving them money with no strings attached, no interest at all. my dad took some for renovation, and this info will come into play later.

and so life continues on with his insistence to tidy and clean my house, with zero regards to anyones wishes. if someone so much as point out that he isnt doing something right, he would exaggerate his actions and ask and repeat.

heres the incident that triggered the Revelations:

my grandpa asked my sister if she still wanted a donut while holding it in his entire hand, as in his entire hand was clutched around the donut. visibly disgusted, my sister said no, she didnt want it. in an act of passive aggressiveness, he placed the donut and only the donut directly in the fridge. not on a plate no nothing.

my mom wrote him a note in response: my daughters are having national examinations soon, and my husband has to wake at 5am to go to work, and he doesnt have enough rest. it would be preferable if you do not make as much noise so they can study and rest properly. i am saying this here, it doesnt matter if you help with the chores or not, it is entirely up to you and we will not blame you if you choose to rest and watch tv instead. you will always have a meal and you dont need to worry about anything else. hope you can understand.

in response, he wrote back: i have read all your words, and there is no need to worry. from november, i will no longer be coming over. i want your husband to return me the renovation money. from: dumb dad (thats what he calls himself in notes)

first of fucking all: wow hes not even acknowledging that my dad is his son. second of all, hes using the money to control my parents and guilt them wtf

this incident got kinda big in the sense that my aunt got involved. my aunt, the golden child, called to stage an intervention.

she called my siblings and i privately, without my parents knowledge. she asked me:

‘are you aware that he has hearing issues and cannot tell that hes being loud?’

‘can you cope with his average noise level?’

‘is he actually disturbing you guys?’

of course i am aware. i am used to it. i am not sure why my mom wrote about the noisy part, could be the fact that he refused to let my dad rest. to which i answered:

‘yes i am aware, no he is not that noisy’

and in a nicer way, i told her ‘frankly the issue is his character, that he is a pos shit i cant stand and after knowing what he did to my parents especially my dad i dont want him in my life at all i dont want him to come over anyways’

‘how much would you say that its mostly his fault that there is conflict or is your dad making a big deal out of nothing?’

i bit my tongue and said its my grandpa 95% of the time. there are one or two occasions that i would say my dad is over reacting.

then she went on and on about how she has to balance both perspective and pick the best outcome, and there are two sides etc etc

what fucking two sides i wanted to ask. my parents literally did nothing wrong. he was the hand that clutched at the donut and squished it.

eventually, she yelled at him and to serious disappointment hes coming over again.

a little interlude about my aunt: she complained to my mom afterwards (im surrounded by snitches) that i am not very respectful about my grandpa, that i am lazy and didnt help around the house often (i tidied and cleaned my room frequently, and if my mom ask me to do chores i would. theres an agreement that i should just concentrate on my studies and she will take care of the chores). i stay in my room all the time and didnt come out when my relatives came over. (listen, theres nothing for me. my cousins are ur typical boys that i cant talk to, they hog the xbox and scream about fifa all the time, im not exactly interested in the adults conversations).

my mom defended me, yall. even my aunt has to concede that im a decent person.

and my mom told me she didnt actually agree with the way shes raising my cousins. they were told to never question my aunt and uncle, and their orders are orders. my parents didnt agree, they believed in reason. for everything they tell us to do, there is a legit reason behind it, and we can question them. my mom want us to do well so that she can prove that shes right all along.

my brother recall asking the cousins why my relatives didnt allow them to do certain things and they just shrugged.

well, thats a bet i am willing to participate in.

back to my grandpa.

my parents reasoning is that as compared to taking revenge and stop contacting him, they rather treat him decently no matter what, knowing deep down they has always did their best.

due to the way healthcare works here, my dad shouldered most of the hospital bill and healthcare when his parents were in the hospital. because #asianvalues, they never did thank him or appreciate him.

either my parents or my aunt said they are scared that if we do anything too drastic like refusing him to come here, he will go senile and demented. as he is now he has a clear enough mind to remain a dickbag to my dad.

well, i wasnt exactly close to him, or as close as he deluded himself to think. i wasnt exactly patient with him, in the sense that i kinda have to raise my voice to communicate with him pretty often. heres the complicated relationship between languages: he speaks mostly teochew, and some chinese. we are expected to understand him when he speaks chinese to get across something, but somehow when i speak my perfectly accurate chinese back at him he understands nothing. he will smile stupidly at me, nodding as if he understood.

you fake old man. you understood nothing. i dont want to bother. i am mean for saying this. i hate your pretenses. quit acting like you understand.the conversations between us are fruitless and useless and has zero point. just now, you saying while im eating dinner that ‘you should give me 50 dollars. look at me, i have nothing. ahahahahaha’

i ignored him, as my cold shoulders got colder.

‘your mother did give me $120, i actually have money. what a good girl’

just, what the fuck is he on about. why are you even asking me for money when you have it. this is the exact type of inane pointless conversations you have. i dont even want to dignify that with a response.

he went to my sister, 3 meters away from me, and said the exact same thing.

my sister: [turning her pockets inside out] i have no money

him, repeating what he said , and adding on ‘you are a good girl, your sister is bad, she didnt want to give me money’ 

what the fuck. hes still talking to us like we are 5. he always treat us like were 5. once i facepalmed and he told me not to do that i will give myself brain damage. i proceed to whack my forehead 4 times, each whack resounding loud and clear.

god, i really dont want to interact with him. theres guilt niggling at me that i shouldnt treat him like this, pretending he doesnt exist as much as possible. then i remember what he did to my dad, and also kinda my mom, and something in me says ‘he doesnt deserve a relationship with his grandchildren for treating his own son like this’.

god, how do i get him to understand that i dont want anything to do with him? that i hate him? i stop calling him ‘grandpa’, only referring to him as that. i dont greet him when he come over anymore.

a few days? weeks? ago he said as he walked out of my room: ‘i still love you the most.’

thats the problem aint it? favouritism. and we all know you favour my brother the most, which i dont mind. i want you to stop doting on me, i want you to pretend i dont exist too. not in the way where you blatantly talk and criticise someone to somebody in front of the person you are criticising. 

when is karma ever coming for you?

nothing but you mattered to you, you dipshit. you never cared about how others may feel. you always did things your own way, you treat people whatever the hell you want to.

i visited you in the hospital after the operation on your balls, you were so happy afterwards you gave me a $50. i still wish i hadnt visited, you disgusting person. i wish i can give you the $50 back, but i think, ill keep it. i will treat it as a woeful attempt to ‘reward’ me for my love and affections. i will keep the money knowing that your love is not returned. cruel of me, but so were you.

i dont think there will ever be a resolution. i wont cry at your funeral, i will try not to. i did for my grandma, but that was before i knew the truth.

my mom told me it is undeniable that my relatives all doted and loved me. i want to reject your love. i want the right to not be loved.

[timemachineyeah]

This isn’t quite the same thing, but I was raised deeply conservative and Mormon. I found my way out of conservatism throughout my teen years, and out of Mormonism when I was 19.

Mormons have this myth about “angry ex-Mormons” that I was determined not to be. They literally say any argument against them is evidence for them. Because “Satan sends his strongest attacks against the people who have the truth” and because “they can leave the church, but they can’t leave it alone” - so literally anything I’d say against the church would’ve been used to prove just how true it was. And I knew this.

And as flawed as they were, I loved my family and didn’t want to lose them.

So while I would stand my ground on my principles (hours long arguments with my father about gay marriage, carefully trying to walk my parents through explanations of racism, etc) I never ever ever ever went after the church.

(Well, mostly. I did my best.)

This was very difficult. At the same time I was doing all kinds of research on cults and fundamentalism. I was obsessed with trying to figure out how I had been able to see something my family hadn’t when I’d had the same basic childhood as my four siblings.

And I basically resigned myself to a kind of incomplete half-relationship with my family for the rest of my life, as I knew there were things I felt and experienced that I would never be able to openly talk about with them in a way they would understand.

And then the wildest thing happened.

They left.

Not all of them. My younger sister and her husband are still in. My oldest brother is ???? it’s honestly hard to tell what his opinion is.

But my parents? My Voted Bush Twice Campaigned For Romney LDS Forever parents?

Left the church.

And my mom like LEFT left. Like full blown angry ex-Mormon, demonstrating against the church, joining LGBTQ rights protests, complete... if not 180 at least a solid 160, you know?

And when she left she spent like two years just apologizing to me. She was like “Did you feel this way for TEN YEARS? Were you as angry as I am? Did you KNOW? I had NO IDEA how much you weren’t saying to spare my feelings.”

(One of the ironies of being the black sheep in any group is you can bend over backwards to accommodate them and still be seen as the agitator. This experience gave my mother a complete reversal on her opinion of me, as for the first time ever she had the full context for all our interactions of the decade prior.)

And so I had the chance to ask her - did I make the wrong choice? Did she resent me for not trying to pull her out myself? For never telling her what I knew?

And she said, no. I did the right thing. She wouldn’t have listened to me. She regrets that, but she also admits it. Instead she would have built up a wall against all my arguments and when she was in a different place she no longer would have been able to listen to them. If I had tried to convince her the church was false, she likely would never have left.

Instead, for a decade I was a normal kind human in her life who set firm boundaries around my beliefs and yet continued to be myself and continued to be a member of the family, and that did more to make her open to hearing another side than ten years of fact checking and retorts would have.

Granted, while my dad has also stopped going to church, if anything he’s slid even more into extremist politics and conspiracy theories. Frustrating basically the entire family. You win some, you lose some.

Some people will never be recovered from that kind of thinking.

So you’re left with two choices, both totally acceptable, that only you can decide on.

One: continue the relationship, keeping your boundaries and beliefs clear but never trying to force or convert the person. “Respect” their beliefs even if nothing about those beliefs deserves respect, and accept that the nature of this relationship might never change, and you can’t force a person to abandon their worldview no matter how skewed it is. You can try to be a tethering influence, a grounding force, but only so much. And that’s always going to be frustrating and it’s always going to hurt.

Two: don’t continue the relationship

You can go for option three, being fully argumentative always, trying to overwhelm them with facts and more. But in most cases it’s more likely to backfire than it is to help.

I hate to admit this, but my mom is very QAnon, and the way the "Why would they leave hints for people to find" is rationalized is "WELL, the Luciferians are required to tell us what they're doing by their own rules. But they're allowed to obscure it to hide it from people who aren't willing to DIG DEEP and DO THEIR OWN RESEARCH." I've been thinking of checking out the QanonAnonymous podcast, but I'm deeply not auditory, so it hasn't happened yet.

There’s a certain level that isn’t recoverable. As someone who has lived with a person who has said “I went to the warriors in faith conference and the speaker was a recovered satanic witch who used to curse people using the power generated by planned parenthood abortions but who was struck blind by Holy Mary for is deeds and repented to let people know THE TRUTH” I understand that at some point there’s no coming back.

My Mother In Law is why I started getting interested in the conspiracist mindset in the first place and doing a lot of reading convinced me that I was just too far gone.

But for people who are starting to get into it you’ve gotta think of it like people who are getting seduced by an abuser or an extremist group or a cult. They’re probably isolated, they’re probably being told that everyone is against them, they’re probably being told that naysayers will lie behind the abuser/cult/extremist group’s back to make them look bad. So you’ve gotta not do that stuff. You don’t shit talk qanon or alex jones or whatever, you let your loved one know that you’re there for them and you gently ask them questions that aren’t about you winning an argument but are about making them think.

I guess if I was dealing with your mom I’d probably go “Mom, why would luciferians agree to follow any rules?” but it seems like you might be at a point where it’s just “mom, I love you but it makes me sad to talk about this. Let’s talk about something else or I have to go home“

Anyway that is a shitty situation and I’m sorry you’re dealing with it.

[tonyduncanbb73]

This Boston Mexican Food Standby Has Been Cranking Out Burritos and Mole for 20 Years

Four locations and two cities later, Villa Mexico Cafe still draws crowds

After 20 years, hers is a familiar story with fans of Mexican food in Boston: After losing her husband in 1997, Julie King moved from her home in Texas to the Boston area with her daughter, Bessie. King, who was born in Mexico City and spent much of her youth in her father’s home of Puebla, had obtained a law degree in Mexico that was virtually unusable in the United States without acquiring further education. Faced with renewing her profession in Boston or sending her daughter to a good school, King chose the latter, working all manner of jobs, including delivering newspapers, to pay the tuition. She never intended to run a restaurant, but when the opportunity presented itself, she jumped at the chance and opened Villa Mexico Cafe in Woburn, a city just north of Boston.

“In those days I was missing my food a lot,” she said. King bemoaned the renditions of Mexican food that she felt were prominent at the time: full of sugary tomato sauces and enchiladas that bore no resemblance to what she knew from home. She wanted to show the community what traditional Mexican cooking meant for her.

When she came across a restaurant space in Woburn, she made some inquiries at the dry cleaner next door, where she found the owner of the space. In an unbelievable stroke of luck, she walked away with an agreement to lease the restaurant for $500 a month, with the first three months free, to give her time to clean and prep the space. Her sister and brother-in-law came to help, and she opened the restaurant in late 1999 with just five tables. Soon, Villa Mexico became a gathering spot for people who walked in strangers and left friends, King said. Her friends, as she calls her customers, came in from Arlington, Lexington, Burlington, Stoneham, and elsewhere.

Dana Hatic/Eater

Villa Mexico’s flan dessert

“It was a big party or reunion every day, especially on weekends,” King said.

She used to seat couples that didn’t know each other together at tables for four.

“Everybody was like a family because I always sit people together; you know, the tables were full,” she said.

Laurel Collins was one of the first customers at Villa Mexico in Woburn and discovered the restaurant while walking around the small downtown area, near where her children attended preschool. Now they are grown, and the family still makes the trip into the city to see the Kings at Villa Mexico on Boston’s Water Street.

“Julie puts a lot of love into her cooking. She also puts a lot of love into getting to know her customers and making friendships, when you come back over and over again,” said Collins. “Everything is made fresh every single day. I have never seen a family work so hard in their lives.”

Dana Hatic/Eater

Julie King inside Villa Mexico on Water Street

In the early days of Villa Mexico, King focused on dishing out meals she loved from her childhood, like albondigas (meatballs) in morito chile sauce and carne a la tampiqueña with mole poblano enchiladas. According to Collins, King’s was the only restaurant nearby serving Mexican food, let alone with such reliable quality and warm hospitality.

“She’s one of my kids’ favorite people and she’s always there with the hugs, she’s always there with a ‘hello friend,’ is always there to provide a lunch or a meal,” said Collins.

Laurel Collins

Laurel Collins with her daughters Emily and Sarah after a burrito-making class with Julie King

Two years into operations in Woburn, Villa Mexico had a fire, leaving King and her customers without a home for her cooking. Though the fire was devastating, King said looking back she felt grateful for the beautiful final day she had in that location.

“It was a party in that place,” she said, with so many customers from Boston, Arlington, and elsewhere, including some of her first local customers. “I think that all of them came to say goodbye.”

King later reopened in a different location in Woburn before relocating to a rather unlikely space in Boston: inside a gas station on Beacon Hill. There, to accommodate the space, King converted the restaurant’s menu to a more fast-food style rather than dine-in, offering grilled burritos, tacos, tamales, tostadas, and quesadillas. When that location had to close for building renovations in January 2013, and King later learned she couldn’t return to the same spot, the community rallied to help find her a new location by the end of 2014; a regular customer became her landlord in a new building on Water Street in Downtown Boston.

In the meantime, she provided catering and sold her famed black salsa — a recipe King acquired from her grandma that’s made with tomatoes, roasted peppers, and garlic. King prepares the salsa from scratch to this day at Villa Mexico and even sells it in jars on the restaurant’s website. It gets its color from small chiles, which are roasted until black and then incorporated, skin-on, into the salsa.

Dana Hatic/Eater

Villa Mexico’s black salsa

Rick Mayfield became a Villa Mexico loyalist while living close to the gas station restaurant.

“My roommate turned me onto it and I gave it a try and I was blown away by the quality of the food,” he said. “And I think more importantly, Mama King — Julie — and her daughter Bessie are just so nice and they treat everyone like family. They sort of make you feel at home.”

Mayfield said one of his favorite items is the spicy chicken burrito, grilled with a crispy shell. He was devastated when the gas station operation closed, but he held onto a punch card the restaurant had given him — 10 punches and he’d receive a free burrito; he had nine.

“So I was checking their Facebook page and when they finally announced that they were reopening, it was a great feeling,” said Mayfield.

Villa Mexico finally reopened in Downtown Boston’s Financial District in January of 2016, and when Mayfield visited, he brought his punch card, which now hangs as a decoration in the restaurant. In Villa Mexico’s new home on Water Street, King has continued to amass a loyal following of people who flock to the tiny storefront, including regulars from past locations, people working in the neighborhood, and newcomers of all demographics.

“We’re not a chain-style atmosphere at all, and we love building relationships with our friends. We spend so much time at the business that the restaurant is like our home,” King said.

Dana Hatic/Eater

Decorations at Villa Mexico Cafe

The current restaurant has a handful of seats along the window overlooking Water Street, and there are dark beams that stretch upward and across the ceiling, supporting decorative wrought iron chandeliers hanging overhead. The upper walls are painted a deep yellow, with white subway tiles below. Decorative plates, delicately painted animal figurines, and framed pictures are on display around the restaurant.

In the open kitchen, King, her daughter Bessie, and their small team prepare the simple yet in-demand menu for Villa Mexico’s guests, roasting chiles en masse on the gas range, shaping tamales one by one, and making each burrito to order.

“Through the years we’ve really focused on the word-of-mouth ‘advertising,’ on people knowing us, our story, our family, our team, and obviously our food, so that they feel welcome and happy when they come eat,” King said. “We are beyond blessed to have these bonds with so many wonderful people; more than the success of the food and the business, the stories and the memories are what we value most.”

Dana Hatic/Eater

Villa Mexico’s tamales

For the tamales, King insists on mixing the dough by hand, following her grandmother’s instructions. “You have to put warmth in the dough with your own hands; this helps with the texture,” she said. “I prepare the sauces first and then the meat or chicken, and lastly I mix them together to give them the best final seasoning.”

From King’s neighborhood in Mexico City, close to Coyoacán, she brings intimate knowledge of seafood, cooking and preparing beans, and methods for preparing mole poblano, which she lists among her favorite dishes.

“My grandma used to do it from scratch, and the mole poblano has a lot of ingredients,” she said.

Mole poblano is a traditional Mexican dish most often made with poblano chiles in Puebla, where King’s father’s family lived. It’s comprised of several kinds of dried and fresh chiles, boiled tomatoes, cinnamon, and other spices, and King incorporates a burnt tortilla and a piece of white bread for texture and added flavor. The mixture gets blended into a paste and is then combined with a mixture of tomato juice, onions, garlic, and chicken broth, making the paste dissolve to a smooth consistency.

“It’s a nice combination of sweet and spicy,” said Collins — your mouth won’t be burning, but she recommends eating it with one of Villa Mexico’s agua frescas.

For the menu at Villa Mexico, King has incorporated her mole poblano into a burrito with chicken breast, served grilled, as it would be in Mexico City, King said. It’s also available as a plate, served with chicken breast and a bed of rice, with black beans and salsa.

Dana Hatic/Eater

Villa Mexico’s chicken burrito

A melding of King’s culinary background with the convenience of a grilled burrito, the mole burrito is now a favorite item on the menu for Villa Mexico, according to King.

“The mole burrito was born one day that my daughter was very hungry,” King said. Her daughter Bessie didn’t want the whole mole plate — which consists of rice topped with chicken breast in mole, served with black beans and house salsa — so King prepared mole in a burrito with sour cream. King said it was so good she included it on the menu. “We nicknamed it ‘La Niña’ for my daughter, and that’s when it became well known.”

King learned her philosophy of cooking with patience while in the kitchen with her mother and grandmother.

“My grandma used to say, ‘you want a taco, you want a torta, you want some eggs?’ She was cooking all the time, but she never complained about cooking for everybody and at different times. She was always happy to see her kids in the kitchen with her. And that’s the way I grew up.”

The food at Villa Mexico mirrors the way King grew up cooking, she said, “in the way that you cook it in your house. My place is not a commercial cooking place, it’s homemade cooking.”

King said she strives to bring the feel of home cooking to her dishes at Villa Mexico as much as possible. Her specials, served on Fridays, showcase slightly more complex recipes. Some favorites from the original sit-down restaurant in Woburn make their return, such as albondigas and chile rellenos, or fish tacos.

“The secret in our kitchen is: You never can be in a hurry,” King said. “You have to take your time to prepare your food, you have to be happy to prepare your food, and you have to cook the food with extra love. That is your main ingredient.”

[shatteredglassbutterfly]

It's been months..

I think we all know that once depression decides to stay, even for a short period of time, it never truly goes away. So allow me to recap just a little bit of how life’s been treating me this past 8 months or so. Here we go. So I started off 2016; which was last year, with a whole different group of people. Many eventful things happened and fastforward to the end of 2016, the supposedly “main people” I started the year with went down the sewers once I was able to see who was ‘good’ and 'bad’ company for me. “Actions speak louder than words”, I’m sure everyone’s heard this. But have you really thought about what it meant? Whether it’s straight out saying one thing and doing another or subtle hints here and there. Chances are, we let people’s actions slide from our day to day life for one of many reasons. Whether it’s cause you love the other party or if you’re too afraid to lose them or if you just don’t see it. Sometimes we need someone to knock us hard on the head and shake us awake. “These people aren’t doing you any good. Why can’t you see it? They only care about what they can GET from you. Where you BENEFIT them and all they have to do is just sugar coat things or make it so they don’t look too bad and you’ll give in. Why? Cause you’re too bloody nice.” That’s what I had. I sat and thought. Reflected for hours on end. Days on end to finally come to a conclusion. I need to move on. And I did. I made a decision, no matter how tough (at that point of time) to cease any form of contact via social media and whatsoever for the rest of my life. Because to me, I had to weigh out between who I felt was beneficial for my life and who wasn’t. So why should I be so nice to the people who clearly didn’t care much about giving two shits about me? And so I did it. I let them all go. I shed tears, it made me sad for a while for some of the people I decided to let go. But sometimes the best things start with goodbye. So that’s what I did. I moved on. Fast forward 8 months before this date. I agreed to be in a relationship with this amazing man who couldn’t be more perfect. With all his imperfections and nonsense, staying up for nights on end just to accompany me even though he finished a long shift of work. He never once complained and even took me to the doctors when I was sick after he finished a whole day to night shift and graveyard shift of accompanying me. Despite how tired he was he didn’t say a word and he insisted he sent me there. This man, proved to me that I shouldn’t be afraid of trying once more. And so I cast my line again and tried. And 7 months later, I’m engaged to this amazing man. So here’s the story. I’m Chinese. My friends who know me well enough know I’ve never been with any other race until a guy before my fiancé which didn’t work out. I’m not saying I’m racist or what. Hear me out. In the 7 months before I got engaged to him, we had many quarrels, discussions, talks and difference of opinions due to religion. Cause truth be told, I’m afraid of what I do not know. We all are. We’re afraid of the unknown. And that scared me shitless. So fast forward to last month; January 2017. I made a decision to convert after my birthday. And I did. The conversion process scared me to tears, (wasn’t supposed to be scary but social anxiety so..) I was in between my future father-in-law and my fiancé with my future mother and brother in law behind me. My mind went blank as I had to read out loud the script in front of me. But I got over it and I did it anyway. And let me tell you, converting to Islam, was the BEST decision I’ve made in my life apart from getting together with my fiancé of course. I was more of a free thinker but a bit of bhuddist before I converted cause my parents are bhuddists. But that aside, I embraced Islam and I’m so much happier. So the main reason why I’m writing this is because it’s been 8 months. 8 months of no relapses of depression. No relapses of wanting to break down. No relapses of suicide, emptiness, loneliness, hollowness (is that even a word?), self loathing, black and white..hopelessness. And then it came. After 8 long beautiful months where I’ve gained like God knows how many kilos. Upped 3 sizes in my pants but gosh don’t get me wrong. I love my body more now than I used to when I had abs and was obsessing over the whole figure thing. Wasn’t worth it. I mean I do have my insecurities but that’s aside it. I’ve led a happy life. Spending everyday with my fiancé, literally. And on this fateful day today, I woke up from 2-3 consecutive nightmares and broke down. Like straight up break down out of no where. The fear of having it all come back. Feeling that way again after 8 months of being free from its grasp. It scared me. No. I don’t think you understand what I mean by scared. I was petrified. Horrified. I saw everything I had flash before me disappear and that scares me. Before I met him, I had no hope. I’d go no where. I had nothing to lose. But now, I have so much to lose. I feel so much and I don’t wanna go back down again. Maybe what we’re all doing 'wrong’ is that we keep trying to be positive to 'get rid’ of depression. Maybe what we need to do is just try to feel again. Feel how it’s like to be 'normal’ even if it’s a tad bit. Feel how it’s like to be happy. The only thing stronger than fear, is Hope. And what people with depression do not have, is hope. We lose sight of it all. And when we have hope, many things change. Beautiful things start to happen. We start to believe again. And that’s what happened to me. I believed again. I had hope again. And I want to live. I do. But when it hit me, even as I’m typing this now, it still scares me shitless. It’s like telling me “hey don’t forget how it feels. I’m still around.” When you have something to lose, something good to compare it to, you don’t ever, EVER want it to come back. Not even for a split second. Don’t come for a visit, don’t come to stay, don’t come to say hi. Nothing. Just go and never come back. But we all know, somewhere inside, it’s residing there and just waiting for the right moment to make a comeback. And I dread that day. But you know what, I’ll be fine. I’ll pull through like I’ve always done. And I’ll be okay. Even if I’m not at that point of time, I will be. I remember reading posts online saying It all gets better. Just hold on. I never believed it. But it happened. It DOES get better. It WILL get better. Even if you don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, or the silver lining in every dark cloud, it gets better. You may not know where you’re going or how long it’s gonna take. But have faith. Keep moving. Keep going. And you’ll get there. It may take years. For me, this year is my 7th year battling depression. 6 long years. Starting on my 7th. But things have been better. It gets better. It really does. You don’t need to see it now. But when it happens, the feeling is the sweetest, most happy feeling you’ll ever feel. I’m not saying you’ll suddenly recover in the blink of an eye. No. I’m saying you’ll slowly start piecing yourself back. You’ll suddenly see what your heart can do. Fixing you. And you might not be fully recovered and free from depression, but you’ll be okay. Okay enough to hang on without drowning. Okay enough to push on without having to wanna die. Okay enough to smile without forcing it. Okay enough to tell yourself “I’m fine” and really meaning it this time. You’ll be able to do things you never thought was possible for you. And you’ll fall but you’ll get back up. You’ll take a step forward and 2 steps back but you’ll keep trying. Things get better. It got better for me. You just got to keep believing it. 8 months and my last boyfriend later, my life turned around. In a way I never ever thought could be done. And it happened. So no matter how tough, how scary, how tired, how hopeless, how helpless, how suicidal, hold on. Just keep holding on even if you don’t know why. Just hold on. It does get better. PS : I'm proud to be a Muslim. I'm proud that I've converted. And I don't care what opinions people have but I'm proud of being a Muslim and I don't think anyone should be afraid of being a Muslim no matter what. Everything happens for a reason. - Melissa

[dudence-blog]

Dear Dudence for A Lot of Missed Time

No excuse.  I went on a vacation, then the Astros became World Champions, and then my family had a bout of the norovirus, but those are all details.  None of them excuse me slacking for two whole weeks.  On to shot-gunning an Aviator and answering questions people never asked me!  If you want to ask me a question email me at AskDearDudence@gmail.com or be one of the cool kids on the Facebook Page!

My choice: My husband and I have been married for a year and have a new baby. We were talking about abortion in the context of news this week when my husband casually asked me if I had ever had an abortion. I changed the subject.

Dear My Choice, one of Dudence’s guiding principles is that no relationship is made better by learning the intimate details of your partner’s sex life prior to you.  Whether it is number of partners, best bang, or where you learned to do “that thing which makes my toes curl”, the asking party is better off not knowing, and the asked party is better off being as general as possible.  This extends to abortions.  Whether you’ve had any, particularly in a previous relationship, is not something you should need to discuss if you’re not comfortable doing so.  All that being said though, when the conversation went “Honey, have you ever had an abortion?” and you answered with “What sides should we have with dinner tonight?” you answered his question.  So now you’re in a position where you are you actively trying to hide information from your husband.  The good news is there is a happy medium between “I will never tell my husband about something which I consider to be a major part of my life” and “I’m going to unload every gory detail about this major part of my life, even things I wouldn’t be comfortable telling him about.”  He asked if you’d had an abortion,  try answering honestly-ish “yes, I was young and wasn’t ready to be a mother.  I don’t regret the decision but I’d rather not get into details.”

Naked around niece: I grew up with three sisters and one bathroom—I am not shy about my body. My long-term boyfriend and I were visiting his family, and I decided to take a long, hot bath. His 8-year-old niece “Lola” knocked on the door and asked if she could use the toilet since the other was being used. Without a second thought, I told Lola she could, but I was in the bath. I didn’t think anything about it until later in the visit, when Lola mentioned my tattoo and her mother asked her where she saw it, she said in the bath. Her mother’s response was bizarre to me: She took me aside and told me it was “odd and inappropriate” for her daughter to see me naked.

Dear Naked Around Nieces, wow you done stepped in it.  When you have your own child you can establish all of your own rules for when and whom they see naked or share their bodily functions with.  Until that time the polite and reasonable thing is to accept that other parents might have their own expectations for the situations where their children are naked with other people.  Of all the bizarre parental rules people have “I don’t want my child seeing you naked and I don’t want them going to the bathroom in front of you without my permission,” is really quite reasonable.  I’ll give you credit that the mother calling it “odd and inappropriate” was hyperbolic; you didn’t know this would be a problem.  But escalating it by challenging her prerogative as a parent to introduce her child to other adult’s naked bodies puts you in the bigger wrong.  Take Newdie’s advice, get out whatever laughing fit you usually get when apologizing for being wrong, and apologize.  Also, just so you know, your boyfriend is telling you his sister is being crazy while telling his sister you’re being crazy.  He is not an unbiased observer in this; he wants to keep peace in his family while continuing to bang you.

Adam and I were briefly stepsiblings during the summer I turned 16 and he turned 18. Our parents divorced less than a year later. My father is a horrible husband but a great dad and kept in touch with Adam after the divorce. He helped him pay for college and got him a job in his field. I heard all of this over the years but didn’t see Adam again until my dad’s wedding (marriage No. 5) 10 years later. He was hot, and we hooked up.

Dear Stepbrother, at some level I hate myself for going “this is the plot of ‘Clueless’,” before I saw Newdie’s reply.  Go forward and bang your ex-step-brother with abandon.  You two were practically adults when your parents married, you never spent any meaningful time as siblings, and there was a decade between when you met and when you actually started applying genitals to one another.  I’m assuming, since you say your dad is a “great dad”, he has some level of awareness of you and Adam’s feelings for one another.  Maybe not all the details, but a general outline.  If he really is that “great dad” and Adam is as awesome a boyfriend as you think he will be, it’s probably something he’ll get over.  Or at least tolerate as much as anyone tolerates the “person banging my daughter”.  As for how other people react, you might want to cut-out the “we were brother and sister!” when asked “how did you meet?”  Or at least don’t break it out unless you have a minute to explain.

Family doesn’t approve of costume: My son is almost 4 years old. For Halloween, he asked to dress as a female character from a popular children’s show. It’s the only thing he requested to be, so we purchased the costume. The day it arrived, he was beyond excited. He tried it on immediately, and of course we snapped a few photos.  Later that evening, while texting with my brother, I sent him one of the photos. His immediate response was, “Is that a dress? Wow.” Since it can be hard to discern tone via text, I asked for clarification, and he confirmed that he indeed doesn’t approve, saying, “It’s not natural.” I responded that it’s just a costume and my son can wear whatever he wants, and ended the conversation.

Dear Family Doesn’t Approve… honestly, I can’t give a full answer to this without knowing the character involved and the race and ethnicity of your child.  For all I know your brother was commenting on how unnatural it was for your son to be appropriating another’s culture or white-washing a character representing a historically-oppressed group.  Man, advice was so much easier before the kulturekampf became all-consuming.  Your son is four and he likes a character in a show he watches, a character that happens to wear a dress.  Tell your brother it’s not a topic up for discussion; it is only a costume.  As for how to move ahead you can always do the time-honored tradition of ignoring it.  Or you could ascribe it to some sort of  homo/transphobia and call him out for it via whatever hashtag is trending.  Or you could simply agree to disagree with him that there is anything wrong with a child dressing up as a character, even a character who identifies as a gender different from the one your child currently identifies. Or you could tell him you hope that it does convert your son because you always wanted a daughter.  There’s a cornucopia of options at your disposal, you’re really only limited by how much you don’t want to talk with your brother again.

Money and love: I live with my long-term boyfriend in my house. I make significantly more money than him and am also far more conservative on finances; I pay all my bills and put 15 percent of every check into savings before I make any “want” purchases. When my boyfriend moved in, we discussed and agreed that he would take over a few bills but concentrate on getting his savings built up.

Dear Money and Love, another of Dudence’s guiding principles is to not lightly blow-up relationships.  Money issues tend to not be a “light” issue.  I will say right now you didn’t go over the line; maybe right up to it, but your comment about him acting like a spendthrift child was unkind, not uncalled for.  You don’t have to end the relationship for this, but it’s the sort of value mismatch which is going to be a problem unless he adjusts his spending, or you adjust your expectations.  And I highly recommend you hold firm to the line of him being the one to change his spending habits.

Creeper dad: Over the past year or so, my dad has started making comments to me about women he finds attractive. I am in my mid-30s, married with kids, and I know people can sometimes lose their filters as they get older, but this is kind of skeeving me out. It’s anything from “I’d watch anything where Charlize Theron wears a tight outfit,” to, after I commented on our waitress’s pants, “It wasn’t the pants I was focused on” (insert eyebrow waggle). He is very liberal and raised me with strong feminist values.

Dear Creeper Dad, so I guess he liked Atomic Blonde.  If he wasn’t your father my next question would be to ask if he’s a Hollywood director or producer.  You can be overly sensitive while it still bothers you to see you father objectifying women in a way that is counter to what you thought his attitude was while you were growing up.  Tell your dad that it makes you uncomfortable for him to make such comments to you.  If you want to up the discussion you could also mention that it seems he’s behaving in a way counter to the values he instilled in you.   Though I am curious by what you mean by “the past year”.  Is this something he just started doing or is it something he’s actually done for a while and you just noticed?  Being “liberal” and “strongly feminist” doesn’t mean he forfeits a healthy sex life or expressing an interest in the gender to which he’s attracted.  It’s entirely possible he’s always talked like this to people he’s friendly with, while it not being a subject suitable to discuss while raising his daughter.  You’re a grown-ass woman now, and he might think you can tolerate learning that your father is a multi-faceted person.  All that being said, if he’d previously been exceedingly respectful towards women, and he’s suddenly taken to making sexist and misogynist comments, that is kind of a sudden change in his personality.  Given his age (you’re in your mid-30s, I’m assuming he’s late 50s early 60s), there might be some mental health issues to consider.  Off the top of my head sudden changes in personality are early warnings for, at least, dementia and depression.  I think it’s far more likely your father is relating to you differently now that you’re older and, presumably, more mature than you were as a child.  That doesn’t mean you can’t, or shouldn’t, be uncomfortable with the change, and if you are it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t discuss it with your father.  

Relationship breakup: I am a 59-year-old male, and four months ago experienced a breakup with my 57-year-old girlfriend of four years. It was for me sudden and unexpected; and by a text message—who does that?! I was shocked and devastated. I was happy with our relationship and looking forward to it continuing and possibly becoming a permanent partnership. I begged for the opportunity to meet and discuss her decision in person, but she refused. I thought we had always been honest and open with each other, but apparently I was wrong about that.

Dear Relationship Break Up, it’s been four months, give yourself some time.  Nothing good is going to come from begging for an After Action Review of your break-up.  Trust me on this, any relationship you enter into now is going to be an exercise in futility.  You’re not in a place where you’d be a good partner.  Take your time moving on.  The really good news is, actuarially, demographics are going to increasingly be on your side.  You’ll be 80 and swimming in a pool of grey-haired dating opportunities.

[tendaifmp-blog]

Jonda cynecki hasn't seen her twin sister Wanda in 13 years and doesn't hold out much hope that she ever will. Their last contact came at a family gathering in Ohio for Christmas, after which Wanda returned to her home in Key West, Fla. Then she disappeared. She didn't call, didn't write and couldn't be reached. When her parents died several years later, her siblings had to use intermediaries to get through to her. She called to borrow money about a year ago. Since then, the only sign she's still alive is that no one has heard anything to the contrary. And yet Jonda, 54, a school librarian, says wistfully of Wanda, "There isn't a day that goes by that something doesn't remind me of her."

Usually that something is doing the laundry. Whenever Jonda goes down to her basement to wash clothes, she sees, tucked under the stairs, an old tandem stroller. Her father crafted it from spare parts, painted it white and wrapped rubber around its wooden wheels. Jonda won't get rid of the stroller, even though it provokes sorrow and anger toward the sister who walked out on her family. What Jonda doesn't know--and might never know--is why.

Estrangement from siblings is a powerful ache not only for Jonda but for millions of other Americans as well--especially during the year-end holidays, when the absence of relatives is most poignant. Many of the 77 million baby boomers, now well into middle age, live farther from their brothers and sisters than did previous generations. And with each passing year, they face more of the life passages that often trigger splits with siblings, particularly arguments over the care of elderly parents or over their estates. At the same time, boomers have more divorces and fewer children and are less tethered to neighbors than were their parents and grandparents, so they are more in need of strong relationships with sisters and brothers--the most-enduring ties many of us have in our lives. Eighty-five percent of adult Americans have at least one sibling, yet an estimated 3% to 10% have completely severed contact with a brother or sister.

Such absolute estrangements may not be the norm, but experts who study family relationships believe they are on the rise. Psychologist Carol Netzer, author of Cutoffs: How Family Members Who Sever Relationships Can Reconnect, thinks that today's broader cultural freedoms have made it easier for people to say goodbye to traditions and to relatives. "The nuclear family is not as tight as it once was," she says. Some rifts reflect larger trends. The Woodstock generation, Netzer explains, was full of young people leaving their families to lose themselves in drugs or join religious groups, political movements and communes. "Often, when that ripple in the culture passes," says Netzer, "people go back to their families." Terry Hargrave, family therapist and author of Families and Forgiveness, believes that while the psychological self-help movement has been largely positive, "it teaches the individual that 'you're the most important thing; family is not.'"

The origins of a sibling breach often can be traced to childhood. Psychologist Stephen P. Bank, co-author of The Sibling Bond, observes that eldest children who are expected to care for younger siblings may feel overburdened and resentful. Children born too many years apart, says Bank, may never share common interests or developmental stages. For them, slender ties are sometimes easy to cut.

Nancy B. (who asked that her full name not be used) is a management consultant with a sister older by six years and a brother older by 12. She doesn't speak to either of them but for differing reasons. "The age gap was so significant," she says. As a child, she worshiped her brother, whose trips home from college were cause for celebration. A few years ago, he stopped returning her calls. She doesn't know why.

On the other hand, she was never comfortable with her sister. "There was always tension between us," Nancy, now 52, says. "I couldn't figure it out." Nancy ended contact after the sister attached herself to yet another violent man, and Nancy felt relegated to the role of caretaker--for someone who didn't want to be helped. The three siblings were last together 25 years ago at their mother's funeral. Nancy still feels the loss, she says, "but my heart isn't breaking anymore. I've figured out a way to be in the world without trying to make love happen where it isn't."

Yet in other families, psychologist Bank says, large age differences can help alleviate competition for toys, friends and parental attention. Some older siblings enjoy being caregivers, often in exchange for adoration. Studies show bonds among sisters tend to be strongest, epitomized by Bessie and Sadie Delany, co-authors of Having Our Say: The Delany Sisters' First 100 Years. And when parents are absent, neglectful or abusive, siblings often fill the void by forming tight bonds, as did the brothers in the movie Radio Flyer.

Major life changes such as marriage, divorce, birth, illness or death can trigger a separation, Netzer says, but usually only if tensions have been building for years. Consider, for example, the case of Michael Carr, 42, a money manager, and his older brother Steven, who ended contact with each other two years ago. When they were growing up, Michael saw Steven, two years older, as his best friend and guardian angel. "We were really close," Michael says. "He was the ringleader in the neighborhood. He was my hero." (Steven did not respond to requests for an interview.)

http://content.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,91424,00.html

n the early '70s, Michael says, Steven became temperamental and less reliable, no longer resembling the person Michael had admired. Steven wasn't crazy, Michael says, just increasingly moody and self-centered. About six years ago, their father was hospitalized, and the brothers went to Florida to see him. They stayed with their stepmother, with whom Steven had a quarrel. Steven told Michael he was going to the hospital to tell their father about it. "It was ridiculous," Michael says. "My father was at death's door, and my brother wanted to complain to him about my stepmother! I had to physically restrain him from going."

Their father died that night, and Michael hasn't seen his brother since the funeral. "I wouldn't be surprised if I never see him again," Michael says. "If I saw him on the street I would talk to him, but I wouldn't let him back in my life. I don't know who he is."

Money issues are a common source of strife between brothers and sisters: Why wasn't that loan repaid? Who can afford the bigger house? How should the family business be run? Behavior outside the family's value system can also trip the switch: coming out of the closet, marrying interracially or converting to a new religion. Then there are cutoffs linked to extreme emotional states, the reasons for which--such as untreated mental illness, substance abuse, incest and violence--may never be brought out into the open.

Wanda's older brother Charles Bucklew has only a few clues as to what might have caused his sister's self-banishment, including her drinking in the midst of their nearly teetotaling Lutheran family. Wanda, who no doubt has her own analysis of the split, never explained; her siblings never asked. And she could not be located by TIME reporters in Key West and New York. "There may be some reason out there that if you knew, it'd bring you to your knees, and you'd say, 'Oh, my God!'" says Bucklew. "But I don't know."

The drive to create sibling bonds or something like them is to some experts primordial--even for an only child. Parents always have a disproportionate power over offspring, but siblings teach peer-level tolerance, loyalty and constancy--qualities that later apply to colleagues, friends and lovers. In moderation, sibling discord is useful, says psychologist Bank. "If the frustration is too great, it cripples you. But we all need a level of frustration in our lives in order to move ahead."

In a 1996 study of people ages 18 to 86, 33% of those surveyed described their sibling relationships as "supportive," and only 11% were "hostile," with the rest falling somewhere in between. "I understand that there is sibling rivalry because I have two brothers and a sister," says Robert Stewart, chairman of the psychology department at Michigan's Oakland University. "But if something came up, and I needed to be on the other side of the country because one of them called, I'd go. There's not a whole lot of people in the world I'd do that for." Most people think of "rivalry" and "siblings" as synonymous and negative, he says, "but I think of it as a close affectional relationship where affection is not necessarily shown in a Hallmark card kind of way."

The sibling relationship of D.B. (who asked that her name not be used) won't ever be confused with a greeting card. As a child, she looked up to her brother, 3 1/2 years older. After his marriage broke up, though, D.B. didn't like the way he treated his ex-wife. Well after the two divorced, he abandoned their original settlement agreement, demanding half the house and full custody of their daughter. D.B. saw his demands as unfair--and didn't think much of his parenting skills. "I just felt he was such a pig," she says. So she stopped talking to him--for seven years. "I come from a long line of grudge holders," she says. "They like their grudges. They air them and walk them and make jokes about them--embellish them."

The silence ended, though, when an aunt died, and D.B. and her brother were the only relatives left to arrange her burial. "I remember thinking, Damn, now I have to see my brother." But the two reconciled somewhat and now talk occasionally on the phone. D.B., now 54, says if she ever needed money, she wouldn't hesitate to ask him for it. She has no money to offer him if the situation were reversed but says, "I would give him lots of time."

Often, estranged siblings are struck by a sudden yearning to reconnect. Says Bank: "Your children leave home, your friends are sick, the leaves fall off the trees, and you say, 'Well, what do I have from my past?' And for better or worse, you've got this sibling who might have been a pain in the neck but who probably knows more about what it was like to live in your childhood home than anybody else."

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Yet even for siblings who wish to reconcile, breaking the ice is hard. "The difficulty most of us have is how do you pick up the telephone after so many years?" says Stewart. "People get into a pattern, and even though they're not comfortable in it, they can't imagine an alternative. Or the amount of courage and energy it would take to try to change may be beyond what they're capable of doing right now."

The ability to overlook imperfections for the sake of a relationship is one hallmark of maturity. Siblings may decide to forgive one another once they have their own children. For Mark Horton, 44, a recent falling-out he had with his eldest sister still baffles him. He's not sure what happened or why. Now that they are back in tentative contact, they still haven't talked about it. "It was kind of a Twilight Zone episode," he says. But he does hope things heal. Horton (whose sister declined to be interviewed) says she has done remarkable things for him--sending him money when he was a poor college student and then being the only one to show up at his Harvard graduation. And he wants his four children to know their aunt. "It places them in the world," he says. "They're not comets flying through space randomly; they're part of a solar system."

Reconciliation, experts say, is almost always worth an attempt. But about 40% of the families in Hargrave's clinical practice fail at reconciliation, mostly because when difficult issues get stirred up, no one is willing to take responsibility for what happened. Says Hargrave: "The person who has left just seals off again."

For Douglas Matthews, 49, a human-resources consultant, finally breaking off from his parents and three brothers three years ago brought immense relief--and not just to him. "I see it as the best thing he could have ever done for himself," says his wife Teri-Ann, "and for me and the kids."

Matthews has always been reluctant to discuss his family situation because he felt that well-meaning people just wouldn't get it that his parents and siblings were harmful to his happiness. "I learned early on that very few people understand the positive aspects of estrangement," he says. For decades, Matthews waffled between trying to be part of the family and retreating. He would try to initiate changes but says no one was willing to join in. Over time, and with therapy, he discovered that the yearning he felt was based on an unrealizable ideal of what his three brothers might have been to him. "A real brother would be there no matter what," Matthews says, "and not have an agenda for you--just accept where you are and listen. But it would be unconditional--nothing could break it. And also do the stupid things, you know. Go to a ball game together." But what Matthews has with his wife and two sons is no fantasy. "I have a home," he says, "and that's what I didn't have before. And I cherish it."

Cutting off can be beneficial in some cases, says psychology professor Stewart, if what you're getting is nothing but negativity or grief. But it's "escape learning," he says, and if the other people involved are ever willing to work on the problem, "you won't know it because they're gone."

For 15 years Keith Bearden, 33, had given up on his family, including his elder brother Dean, 38. Their parents' divorce cleaved the family into separate camps, and Keith wanted no part of either one. "I was really angry," he says. He also felt that he, a self-described "meek intellectual," had nothing in common with his tattooed, motorcycle-riding, machinist brother. Then Dean started telephoning a couple of years ago, just to see how Keith was doing. Keith, to his surprise, was happy to get the calls. Dean says he had no particular plan, that he had never even thought about the years when they were out of contact. "If you were never close," he says, "you never miss it."

But becoming a parent got Dean thinking about family, and as Keith says, Dean was never judgmental or bitter about what had happened in childhood. Now the brothers talk regularly. They visit each other every few months and have realized they have the same sense of humor, the same taste for adventure, and they notice the same things--someone's weird shoes on the subway or a cute woman in a bar.

Keith says he's much happier accepting rather than resenting the differences in his family, that it's helped him with all his relationships and that Dean deserves the credit for helping him reconnect. "Dean kept the door open, and I eventually walked back in," he says.

Jonda Cynecki hasn't closed the door on her sister but is at a loss as to how anyone can pass through it. Since the death of their parents, Jonda has felt an increasingly acute sense of the irreplaceable nature of family. "There's that line that connects you," she says of her missing twin, "and I don't know if it'll ever be broken. Certainly when one of us passes away--and she could be gone now--I don't know if I'll ever know that." Cynecki pauses, wipes away tears, and collects herself. "Someday, I really need to find her. But just not today. Not today."