#I had to really go halfway down the search page to find a news site that didn't look sketch and/or didn't have a dumb paywall or TOS

[styrofoam-chromosome]

here's an article to substantiate

heard the news about john riccitiello and literally ran to go make this meme

[yellowocaballero]

Human Relations Snippet: Tim teaches Jon the internet and odious goats are sacrificed to the cult of Bezos

There’s no reason for this to exist. I was rereading a bit of HR and I saw a throwaway joke about Jon wanting to buy Martin a Portal Gun. I started wondering about how that would even work. The answer is, obviously, a 200 year old man squinting at a computer screen wondering why there’s so many horny singles in his area. I get possessed by demons easily, so I took three hours out of writing my daemon au and wrote this instead. Bon Appetit. 

(Edit, quick clarification: I think that Jon would refuse to use the name for the Beholding that Smirke made up, and although all of this exists in my head and you guys don’t know this, there was a lot of tension between Jon and Jonah’s ‘circle’. So Jon hated Smirke and thought he was a hack. He uses Smirke’s terms to others sometimes for ease of understanding or in deference to Jonah (:/) but I think that mentally he mainly calls the Beholding his own name, The Witness. It rings of that personal and intimate connection Jon and the Beholding has. Anyway, onto the story.)

After one hour in anguished uncertainty, fifty popups that advised Jon of very many ‘hot singles in his area’, six separate sites that Jon’s God had to inform him were covers for thieves that stole money from you, and a very confusing retreat to Jon’s favorite internet page ‘Wikipedia’ as to what an Amazon was, Jon had given up.

Normally this was where he asked one of his personal assistants for help. Normally, he wouldn’t even be trying, and he would have just told one of them to do it. This was how Jon had cunningly mostly avoided using computers for the past twenty years. Some endeavors were unavoidable, and Jon was proud to say that he mastered email in 2010. Or was it 2008? He liked to think it was 2006, but it was possible...never mind. If it was important, the Witness would tell him. 

After one hour in anguished uncertainty, fifty popups that advised Jon of very many ‘hot singles in his area’, six separate sites that Jon’s God had to inform him were covers for thieves that stole money from you, and a very confusing retreat to Jon’s favorite internet page ‘Wikipedia’ as to what an Amazon was, Jon had given up.

Normally this was where he asked one of his personal assistants for help. Normally, he wouldn’t even be trying, and he would have just told one of them to do it. This was how Jon had cunningly mostly avoided using computers for the past twenty years. Some endeavors were unavoidable, and Jon was proud to say that he mastered email in 2010. Or was it 2008? He liked to think it was 2006, but it was possible...never mind. If it was important, the Witness would tell him.

Peter Lukas was right on almost nothing, Jon thought disgruntledly as he slammed his laptop shut - including in his taste of men, company, philosophies, men, patron deities, professions, and men - but he was right in his proclamation that the internet was the degradation of society. Not that he hadn’t sacrificed his morality and sold out, feeding his patron through something called “incel forums” and “Reddit”. Between him, Jonah’s “Excel spreadsheets” and “TurboTax”, and Annabelle Cane’s ridiculous “MMO guilds”, the Society was filling with computer geeks. Jon could always read the wind: he had to keep up, and quickly. 

Besides, Martin had kindly educated him on how it was almost unheard of for a young man like Jon to not understand how to work that Goggle thing. Giggle? Martin was very streetwise and was one of the most insightful people Jon had ever known, he was definitely right. 

Which is why he had to buy him this “Portal Gun” that he wanted. He had even shown Jon the website! And if Jon was in desperate times trying to navigate these confusing webpages entirely with URLs he memorized, then he would take desperate measures!

“I’m going down to the Archives,” Jon said, slithering off the couch and clutching his laptop to chest. Jonah had bought it for him. He appeared surprised that Jon was using it. “I may not be back for a while. I need...a book.”

Jonah didn’t look away from his own infernal machine. It seemed he was on that ‘Excel’ program again. Was it one of those ‘video games’ he kept hearing about? “Do I want to know what you were doing on that laptop.”

“Reading Wikipedia,” Jon said immediately, and somewhat defensively. Jon had discovered Wikipedia in 2001 before promptly funding it and throwing his weight behind its development. He had spent a solid five years convinced a computer was a kind of electronic screen that let you read digital Encyclopedia pages, like in Star Trek. He’d seen Star Trek. Georgie made him. “Did you know that -”

“Yes, yes, have fun. Haven’t you read that entire site already?”

“Not even,” Jon said defensively. “I can’t just sit and read through entire Encyclopedias anymore, Jonah. We know more things now.”

“What a way to describe the last two hundred years,” Jonah said, not even looking away from his computer. “We know more things. Never change, Jon.”

“You’re the one who never changes,” Jon grumbled. But it was a weak comeback, and considering his brand new delightfully short stature somewhat untrue, so Jon breezed out of Jonah’s office with full knowledge that he’d think of a better comeback halfway down the steps to the Archives.

In fact, it wasn’t until he was at the door, and by then he felt stupid for losing a point against Jonah anyway. He easily opened the door, stepping inside and quickly bee-lining for Sasha’s office. Her burgeoning powers were wonderfully flowing in the shape of access to and understanding of technology. He had never seen such gratuitous breeches of privacy as she casually committed. Every day Jon was validated in his decision to save her from the Stranger. A balance, an equal yet opposite Archivist from Jon, would be invaluable. Not that Jonah and Jon weren’t their own yin and yang, but Jonah’s powers were paltry and out-of-date. Mind reading and spying through iconography was so 1960. They needed fresh blood. 

Sasha had been a wonderful choice, and Jon didn’t regret choosing her to act as saviour. Most of the time. Some of the time she -

“She’s not in.”

Jon’s fist halted in front of the door, about to sharply rap on her office door. He turned around to actually look through the bullpen, only to see that Timothy was sitting in his chair chewing a sandwich. Somehow angrily. Definitely suspiciously. 

“Are you sure?” Jon asked dubiously. “Because you’ve lied about this before.”

“Because you should stop coming down here and bothering her.” Timothy balled the saran wrap in his hand and dunked it in the trash can, somehow undoubtedly giving the impression that he wished it was Jon’s head. “Just bugger off.”

Someone was in a snit. Normally Timothy wasn’t this hostile. Jon had thought that learning his name might make him less mean, but it did little to help. But when Jon looked around he didn’t see Martin, and a quick check assured him that both Sasha and Martin were having lunch at their favorite deli and engaging in that plotting hobby they both enjoyed. Timothy had elected to stay behind, stewing in his own angry and paranoid juices. 

He would have to do this with Martin out of the Archives...and he really wanted to take care of this now so Martin would get it before the weekend...and it wasn’t as if Jon was scared of this boy he was one hundred and seventy years older than…

“Uh,” Jon said intelligently, “can you help me with...something…”

Timothy’s face twisted in a novel combination of surprise and disgust. “What,” he sneered, “your evil fear god or whatever can’t figure it out for you?”

“I don’t need others to think for me,” Jon said stiffly. It was something he’d had to say far too many times. “The Witness is less helpful with...troubleshooting...look, do you know how to work a computer?”

Timothy stared at him blankly. “Like, at all?”

“I’m trying to buy Martin this toy he desires,” Jon said desperately. Fuck it all, he walked over and sat down in the chair next to Tim’s desk. He pulled a little bit closer, placing his laptop on Tim’s desk, and ignored the way the other man leaned away. “But whenever I try I keep on seeing alerts about hot singles. I’m not interested in young women, I just need to buy a ‘Portal Gun’. Do you know what a Portal Gun is?”

Timothy continued staring at him, eyebrows raised. Clearly involuntarily, so quick that he may not even have noticed, one corner of his lips was ticking upwards into a smile. 

“How many credit card scams have you fallen for?”

“Absolutely none,” Jon said, very quickly. He pulled out his credit card, placing it on the table. He knew a credit card was involved, although he didn’t know how. “What do I do? Do I swipe it? Is there a port?” He picked up the laptop and squinted at its sides, looking for a port. “I wanted to ask Sasha for help, since she’s the expert in hacking, but surely you know the basics?”

“I mean...I can’t, like, code, but yeah, I can work Amazon.” Timothy carefully opened the laptop, watching the display light up. He effortlessly navigated to an icon on the screen, clicking it open. 

“That’s not right,” Jon said urgently. “You’re supposed to press the E.”

“I do not want to know how many toolbars you have,” Timothy said bluntly. “We’re using Chrome. That’s another way to look at the Internet.” He rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, I got a grandmother, we can do this.”

Jon perked up. “So you’ll help?”

Went unsaid: even though you hate me?

“Whatever,” Timothy grumbled. Jon decided not to press his luck. 

Jon decided that he liked the Chrome better than the Internet Explorer, because it was simpler and Google was on the first page. Tim rapidly typed on ‘Amazon.com’ into the search bar and easily scrolled through the very busy and picture filled page that immediately popped up. Why was everything so fast? Maybe this was why the young people had no attention span: these pages just came up immediately. No flipping for indices for finding anything in phone books. 

“Right. What was it, a Portal Gun? Like from the game?”

“A board game?”

“Video game.”

“Like on a VHS…?”

“Right.” Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, Sasha said that you’re one of the most famous sociologists and anthropologists in British history.”

“I am extremely intelligent, Timothy, and I won’t abide any insinuation otherwise,” Jon said curtly. “I cannot be expected to keep constant track every time there’s another - iPhone or whatever. You have teenagers in your family, correct? Do you always know what they’re talking about? That’s, what, a twenty year age gap? Multiply that by ten.”

That shut him up. Timothy sighed again, much more aggressively, but he clicked the white bar and typed in ‘portal gun’ anyway. “Right. Not fucking apologizing, but right. I still don’t fucking know what ‘Twitch’ is.”

“It’s a brief spasmodic contraction of the muscle fibers,” Jon said helpfully. “Fascinatingly, this phenomenon was first observed in frog’s legs before I was even born in 1780, by Luigi Galvani. Erudite man, by the way, but he couldn’t hold his liquor. It was the birth of the study of bioelectricity, although the exact mechanism of muscle contraction eluded scientists for years.”

“Never mind.” Timothy sighed again, the perfect mix of aggravated and long-suffering. It seemed to be the man’s two favorite emotions. “My grandmother has a PhD and she still can’t figure out her cell, either. We had to get her a Jitterbug.”

Amazon, as Timothy explained, was a kind of shopping mall, except you could pick out what you wanted by its picture and have the shopping mall pack it up and send it to you. Jon didn’t quite understand why people preferred this to just going to a shop yourself, seeing as you could get it immediately instead of with a three or four day turnaround, but Tim explained that Amazon was cheaper, had a wider selection, and didn’t make you get off the couch.

“Oh,” Jon said, finally getting it, “this follows the economic model of large scale businesses underpricing their products to undercut smaller businesses in the area, driving them out of business until they hold monopoly over the market and can raise their prices without worrying about staying competitive.”

Timothy stared at him. 

“I mean,” he said, “I guess?”

“This explains why my Alexa project was successful so quickly,” Jon mused. “With a lack of competition or alternatives, consumers are more likely to accept the dramatic invasions of privacy as normal. Normalizing intrusions into privacy took ages, but my early efforts paid off very well. The Ring doorbell was even better, along with the line of security and home protection systems. We’re now working on live streamed 24/7 surveillance to social media platforms.”

Timothy stared at him further. 

Finally, he said, “Alexa was...you?”

“Of course,” Jon said, baffled. Who else would it be? “I gave Jeff the idea and convinced him it would be profitable. I didn’t understand the whole mechanics of it, but once I gave Jeff a vision from the Witness he was eager to implement the divinely inspired spyware.”

Timothy continued to stare. 

“The evil fear god controls Jeff Bezos.”

“He thinks I’m a prophet, actually,” Jon said helpfully. “I let him become Cardinal of the imaginary cult in exchange for funding some of my more esoteric programs. Had him sacrifice a goat and everything, it was great.” At Timothy’s alarmed look, Jon was quick to elaborate, “It was the most evil goat you’ve met in your life. Morally odious.”

“...for my sanity I’m going to pretend that you said none of that.”

In retrospect, although Timothy had worked at the Institute for a few years, it did take quite a bit of time to acclimate to the fact that the Avatars permanently shaped the shape of human existence in order to better feed their gods. Jon knew better than anyone: when humanity made gods, and gods made man, and man made gods...the feedback loop could self-perpetuate for years. Eternity, if needed. 

But they had no luck on ‘Amazon’. With Jon’s eidetic memory he was able to easily pick out the one that looked most similar to the one that Martin had showed him, but all of the little toy guns were for someone named ‘Rick’. Then Timothy took twenty laborious minutes explaining the entire plot of ‘Rick & Morty’ to him, which Jon patiently sat through. 

“I think young people today deeply enjoy explaining media,” Jon said, once Timothy finished telling him the funny jokes. “I’m very interested in your interests, Timothy.”

“You are so fucking condescending. And please call me Tim, you’re sounding even more like my grandmother.” When Jon brightened, Tim - Tim! - quickly said, “This does not mean we are friends.”

Granted, Jon had never once in his life gave a shit about making friends, but he felt as if he should be making more of an effort with Tim. He was a sort of supernatural brother in law, wasn’t he? Although Sasha perhaps Sasha was more of a favored niece. At least, he would be, if today’s generation found some morality and stopped living in sin. 

Good lord. Now he was sounding like Jonah. Georgie used to joke that he was born in the wrong generation - he should have been born a 17th century Puritan instead. Jon found it a very funny joke. Jonah did not. 

“Are there any other shopping websites?” Jon asked finally, after Amazon failed them. He’d have to call up Jeff later and complain. “Or is this the only one?”

Tim sighed. “Let’s check Google.”

Quickly and efficiently, yet with many lightning fast detours, Tim found another site called ‘eBay’ - pronounced ‘e-Bay’, not ‘ehbay’ - that listed off exactly what they needed. They weren’t under the toy section, instead listed as something called ‘cosplay’, but Tim seemed highly resistant to explaining that one, so he dropped it. 

They picked a likely looking white toy gun that looked the most similar to the one that Martin had liked and Tim talked Jon through punching in the numbers on his card into the website and sorting through the billing and shipping information. Tim helpfully took down the numbers on his card to file later. 

“And...done!” Tim said, pressing a button and leaning back. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“It was ten times as complicated as I thought it would be,” Jon assured him, “but also much more fun. What else can you buy online?”

“Oh, god. What can’t you buy.”

Jon brightened. “Can you buy books?”

“Old Gertrude used to buy Leitners on eBay,” Tim said dully, “so yeah, sure, why not.”

Jon stared at his computer. He carefully navigated the mouse to the big red x and clicked out of the internet browser. “That’s enough of eBay, then, I think.”

Guess he would have to stick to buying Leitners in person. It was no good buying fucked up books from sketchy sources. Always stick to people you trusted, or at least trusted to be themselves. Mikaele was Jon’s favorite supplier since the kid Leitner disappeared, and they had a pleasant working relationship. Mikaele shared his grandfather’s stories about the history and culture of the Maori, and Jon told him which of his haunted artifacts would be the most helpful in the imminent apocalypse. 

“Well,” Tim said finally, gently pushing Jon’s laptop away, “that was...something, great bonding session with my local supervillain, please run back to Elias and bother him instead.”

“You were very helpful, Mr. Stoker,” Jon said, as professionally yet paternally as possible. Tim was six years older than his body, so he’s not sure how it came off, but the touch of grey at his temples helped with the dignified air. “And as soon as you start acting like a man and propose to my Archivist, you’ll make an excellent brother in law -”

“Uh, excuse me?”

Jon spun around in his chair to see Sasha and Martin standing at the door, holding doggy bags and looking somewhat flummoxed. Probably confused at the sight of him and Tim having a civil conversation, which admittedly had never happened before. Possibly also confused at how completely mortified Tim looked. 

“Who said anything about proposing?” Sasha asked incredulously. “Tim, are you -”

“No! No, god no!” Tim stood up quickly, holding his hands out as if he was placating a raging bull. “Nobody’s been saying anything - I would never do that to you -”

“Oh,” Sasha said frostily, crossing her arms and letting the bags swing, “would you.”

That was a domestic Jon should stay out of, even though he definitely caused it. He and Martin sidled away in tandem, huddling near the back of the Archives as Tim frantically pled for his life. 

Sneakily, Jon glanced at Martin out of the corner of his eye. He looked happy. Happy, and just as stressed as he always looked - Jon had never known Martin when he wasn’t constantly stressed out, and he was more than aware that it was his fault. 

He looked good, too. Really nice, broad jawline that gave his face a friendly round shape. Just friendly and round in general, it was really handsome. His hair was as nicely short and ruffles as ever. The big glasses were super stylish, and really framed his face well. Really big, broad hands. Jon, who had always been so poky and tall and thin and gaunt, like some kind of haunted scarecrow that lurked through the corners of time, was envious. He wanted some of that softness and gentleness. Really, he wanted some of Martin’s -

“So what were you and Tim doing?” Martin asked. “I didn’t know you knew he existed.”

“You told me his name,” Jon said anxiously. “I don’t forget the things you tell me, you know.”

Martin smiled shyly and him, and Jon found himself smiling back. “It’s pretty good for my ego to hear that I have something to teach the immortal genius.”

“I don’t know,” Jon said, as Sasha yelled in the background, “I’ve been learning a lot lately.”

“Really?” Martin teased. “Anything interesting?”

“Oh,” Jon said, watching the yellow fluorescent light cast Martin’s dim smile in soft relief, “I can think of a few things.”

[sleepylixie]

Cupid’s Arrow-1

Boxer! Lee Know x fem! Reader

2k words, Romance, College AU(Imperium Universe-4) 

Songs: Tiger Inside- Super M

A/N : Y’all heard right. Part-1. Tumblr deleted the draft i was working on here, leaving me only with the first half of the fic that I wrote on Docs. I'm so sorry for the delay @delicatewerewolfsoul I'll make sure to get that posted asap 🥺💕 This fic can be read individually, of course. :) Do let me know what y’all think about this story!! ONTO THE FIC. - Elliana

Imperium Universe: Jisung || Seungmin ||Lee Know || Chan

“Who the everloving heck are you?!” You yell, hands banging roughly against the surface of the table. Assorted shushes and glares were instantly directed towards you, the closest being the admonishing stare of Mark Lee, your best friend.

“You do realize we are in a library?” He hissed, a mess of dark brown hair swinging over his brow as he shook his head at you. You rolled your eyes at him, only turning your attention back to the source of your annoyance- your laptop screen.

“This is the 13th ask I’ve received about the same M in this semester.” You retorted, albeit quieter than your initial outburst. Mark’s brows furrowed, lips pouting in a frown as he absentmindedly turned over a page of his book. “How do you even know it’s the same M? It could very well be one person sending the same ask 13 times.”

“You were the genius who put together the one-ask per account rule in the first place!” You threw your arms up in exasperation, the volume control still proving to be a bit of a struggle. “Besides, they’re all worded really differently, look-” You turned your laptop to face Mark, who leaned forward to scan the words on your screen.

A sleek red website sat open in an incognito tab, punctuated with assorted dove-grey boxes full of questions and curiosities, the sidebar flashing a pretty name- Lovelorn Secretkeeper(LLS). Your best friend chuckled as he read the questions on the site. “People have it bad for this dude.”

“I know! They even say the exact same thing, that he’s too out of their league to even try, but he’s too handsome and talented,” punctuating handsome and talented with exaggerated hand movements, “to not try- What do they expect me to tell them!?”

As cliche as it sounded, Lovelorn Secretkeeper was your university’s anonymous love-guru and wine aunt, meting out advice about crushes and heartbreak solutions like over-the-counter pills. People caught wind of it days after the website mysteriously popped up on the informal forums, impossible to trace altogether. Tens of questions poured in by the day, all questions from lovelorn souls asking for the help of the elusive apparition running the site.

If only Everlark University knew that LLS was run by not one, but two apparitions- both of whom were currently puzzling over the identity of a certain M who had turned up on their list of secrets once too often.

“How difficult do you think it would be to find out who M is?” Mark mused, pushing the laptop back towards you. “I mean, you know he’s a dancer and he’s handsome, so why don’t you, I don’t know,” a nonchalant shrug moving his shoulders, “ask the girls you know, I guess? I’m sure word gets around fast if he’s as hot as these questions scream he is.”

The cogs in your head began to turn, albeit rather unwillingly. You weren’t the most social person despite being aware of status quos your university’s student functioned on- was this Dora-the-explorer-esque expedition to find the elusive M absolutely necessary?

No, it wasn’t, you realized, but your own curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied until you found out who it was that had managed to enamour these many people all while looking evidently unavailable.

“Yeah, I’ll probably do that.”

//

“Hey! Y/N, Right?” A pretty girl sidled up to you on the other side of the bar, her fingers slightly awkward around the glass she was cleaning. New to the trade, you thought belatedly as you smiled politely and nodded at her.

Imperium Bar was just beginning to fill up with students and teacher’s assistants, ready to celebrate the end of yet another week with some cheap alcohol and good times. It was barely halfway through the semester but people inevitably ended up drowning in work- such was the life of a normal student in university, always busy and bustling with full checklists-

“You’re looking for Minho, I heard.” she grinned setting down one glass and picking up the other.

“Yes, I am.” You responded lightly, your eyes still grazing over the slowly filling booths and tables from the corner of the counter you were sitting at.

“He is pretty handsome, really good in the ring. You have a good eye.”

By ring, you could only assume that the new bartender of Imperium meant the stage. You’d spent the past week asking around for a possibly new admit to Everlark who happened to be a dancer and unattainably handsome. To your surprise, your search was cut short in the matter of days when Yeji, a junior in your class pointed you to Lee Felix from her class who knew a Lee Minho. Lee Minho, a transfer student from Everlark’s sister university on the other side of the city, with an express acceptance into the dance club Felix was a part of.

“You’ll find him in Imperium on Fridays,” Felix had the sweetest disposition, a warm smile on his face as he divulged information about his seemingly old friend with great ease. “You should drop by if you want to see him!”

Your better judgement yelled at you to forget the chase- you knew his full name, it was just the matter of a social media stalk before you found out what you needed to know for your 13( now 16) askers. However, you found yourself pulling on a dark hoodie and slipping into the bar on Friday evening, shivering slightly from the cool breeze. You were just curious, you were sure. Just curious.

“Felix! Over here!” The bartender raised an arm in greeting to somebody behind you and moments later, Felix’s dark mane of hair made its way into your line of sight. His eyes were slight crescents on his face as he smiled, the sunny amiability prompting a smile to creep over your face as well.

“Hello, Felix.”

“Sorry for making you wait!” Felix pulled you into a quick hug, before cocking his head towards the back of the bar. “Let’s go, he’s already down there.”

An eyebrow raised in curiosity, you dragged your eyes between Felix and the bartender as you hopped off the stool. “Down...where?”

Felix’s eyes widened, the bartender letting out a gasp of surprise. “Uh…” Your new friend’s voice trailed off in uncertainty, wide and beseeching eyes immediately darting towards the bartender for help. “Oops.”

“Your access should really be revoked, you troublemaking gremlin.” The bartender accused, tossing her dishcloth at him and reaching over to smack him across the head before turning to you.

“There’s been a misunderstanding, Y/N. Junior moron here-” waving indistinctly in Felix’s direction, “is talking about the cellars. Minho works part time here, so he’s usually getting into the stocks in the cellar downstairs. Felix forgot about the rule stating that patrons can’t-”

“At least try to lie convincingly.” You cut through her tirade, a choked laugh from Felix punctuating her surprised silence. Possibly not the most polite thing to say, in hindsight, but her attempts to cover up whatever was going on in the cellar was just getting difficult to hear. You smiled quietly, eyes dragging between Felix’s eyes, alive with mirth to the bartender’s, flat with suspicion.

“It’s not illegal, is it?” You let the question slip loud enough for the two of them to hear. The bartender nodded the exact moment Felix shook his head. A giggle bubbled up your throat at the instant glance of betrayal that passed between the two of them.

“I’ll keep silent about this if the two of you will.” You grinned, shrugging slightly as you pushed the strap of your bag further up your shoulder. Felix let another crow of laughter, twining his arm with yours as he steered you towards the dark back door of Imperium, waving off the bartender’s expasterated shouts to be careful, for fuck’s sake-

“You seem like such a cool person,” Felix giggled as you followed his lead, making your way past the tables and groups of people and back into the cool air outside. . “I was a little intimidated by you at first but you’re actually really cool.” You laughed aloud as Felix knocked thrice on a door next to the bar’s back door in a neat pattern.

“Good to know you think so, junior.”

Just then, the door swung open to a set of stairs and a wave of noise much louder than what you were used to.

“Welcome to the real Imperium.”grinned Felix.

//

You did not think this was where you’d be spending your Friday night- in the basement of a bar with higher ceilings than you thought was possible, the roar of voices settling you more firmly into reality than anything else you’re ever experienced.

The second you and Felix reached the bottom of the stairs, you could see the crowd gathered around the center of the space, the flood lights pointed towards whatever was going on in the middle. There were sparse groups of people scattered throughout, a makeshift bar and couches spread haphazardly around one side while the windows at the top of the walls were left open for some semblance of ventilation. Despite the number of people in the underground space, it didn’t feel… suffocating.

“Do you mind blood or gore?”

Your eyes narrowed; what even was this place? “No.”

Before you could question it, Felix was pulling you towards the crowd and into it, easily slipping between the spaces towards the attraction in the center. You allowed him to lead you, as you had the entire night, until the two of you re-emerged at the edge of the-

The ring.

It looked very much like a boxing ring, but on the same floor level as the audience. Inside were two guys circling each other, breath heaving in puffs of smoke against the chilled air through gritted teeth. They were both dressed in contrasting red and blue, their clenched fists enclosed in hand-wraps. The two guys slipped in and out of the stark shadows that the criss-cross of the floodlights created until one of them caught your eye-

Lee Minho. You didn’t need the yelled introduction Felix was giving you because there was no other way to describe that other than unattainably handsome. Suddenly, the 18 askers in LLS made sense- of course, of fucking course this face seemed impossible to match up to.

You watched in bated curiosity, your eyes scanning him and his opponent- and Minho made the first move. The crowd dissolved into roars of encouragement as he went in for a clean right hook, his movements smooth and feline-fluid. He was confident, you realized as you watched him dodge and block and strike with an almost bored, practiced ease. No, he was good at looking confident. The set of his jaw was nothing but confident, his teeth bared in a snarl of fake amusement as he lunged at his opponent, the fight dissolving into a tangle of arms and legs rolling against the concrete floor.

“He’s one of the best this season.” Felix yelled over the din of the crowd, but your eyes were still trained on the match. “You don’t say.” You shouted back, catching yet another glimmer of amusement light up your companion’s face before turning your attention back to the fight.

Yes, he truly seemed like the best- your breath caught in your throat at Minho’s unhesitant, almost instinctual manner of moving, already on the other side of his opponent before he could even throw a swing. His poor opponent was almost effortlessly pummeled to the ground soon after, a grin of triumph pulling up his lips and the nasty looking bruise high on his cheekbone as he was announced the winner.

His eyes scanned the exultant crowd, catching on yours for a split second before moving away-

You let out a long breath as he hopped out of the ring and into the dark of the surroundings. So it was him.

This was the M your askers were going on and on about-

For the first time, you were in agreement with them.

Lee Minho truly did seem unattainable.

//

Taglist/Interested Parties 🥴: @aliceu @decembermoonskz @rebecca-noona @skzctnightnight @fylithia @illicit-roses @cotccotc @straykidsownmysoul @soya-zz @stellarmonsterr @seraplantery @jl-micasea \\ @inkidz @starryktown @districtninewriters @stayhavens​  

Do let me know what you think! - Elliana

[crashdevlin]

Crashing 1- Drowning

Crashing Masterlist

Author’s Note: Originally posted to ao3 (This is an edited and improved version) Part Four of the Red Queen Chronicles!

Summary: When Loki pulls Cassandra Campbell out of cryo and uses her trigger words against her, the memories that have been hiding from her since she was ten years old finally crash down on her completely.

Word Count: 3686

Pairing(s): Clint Barton x OFC, past Loki x OFC, past Bucky Barnes x OFC, past Steve Rogers x OFC

Chapter Warnings: mentions of brainwashing, mentions of murder, violence and anger, mentions of cheating

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Loki asked, setting his hand against the glass of the tank. The terrified Wakandan scientist nodded nervously. “Gives off an air of regality, even asleep.” He scoffed. “Especially asleep. There’s no fear on her here. No contempt. No attempt to run from her king,” he mused before turning to the scientist. “You can speak German, yes?”

“Y-yes.”

Loki produced a red notebook from his breast pocket and handed it backward to the man without looking away from the frozen woman. “Halfway through. Labeled ‘Kind’. Open this and recite those words.”

The man hit several buttons on the console attached to the tank and it filled with a chemical. Cassie blinked her eyes open, green orbs filling with confusion. The blur of confusion cleared out of her eyes and it was replaced with fear. “Loki?” she squeaked, struggling against the binds as the tank opened.

“Junior. Vierhundert.”

“No! Don’t read that!” Cassie struggled harder, but she didn’t move. “Please!”

“Keep going,” Loki ordered, smiling at her as she fought against the binds.

“I’m sorry,” the man said. “Rot. Tochter. Vermächtnis. Fünfzig. Messer. Schädel."

“No! God, please, no! Please! Please, stop!” she begged over the trigger words.

“Johann. Zwei,” the scientist said, shaking as the woman blinked slowly...as if everything were suddenly clear.

“Undo her restraints,” Loki demanded, and the man rushed to release her. Cassie stepped down from the tank and looked around like she had new eyes. “How do you feel, Joanna? What’s different?”

“Shut up, Loki,” she bit out quietly before turning to the Wakandan man. “Run. Now. Go.”

The Asgardian watched in amusement as the man ran from the lab. “Now. How do you feel, my queen?”

“Not as different as you would want,” she snapped, leaning against the tank and looking up at Loki with disdain. “You really thought I’d come out on the other side of this ready to be your bride or something?”

“I wasn’t sure how you’d come out of it, Joanna. I was actually hoping you’d be ready to take directions as the other one does.”

Cassie scoffed and shook her head, scornfully. “Someone’s feeling a little flaccid without his scepter.”

Loki’s eyes went wide. “How dare you talk to-” he started, indignantly.

“Don’t start, Loki. Let’s just go. We don’t wanna be here when the king and the Doras get here,” she said, grabbing his coat and pulling him out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

T’Challa sent word to Steve as he was mounting his offensive on the Raft that Cassie was kidnapped out of the cryo lab by Loki, so when they were safely away from the prison and sitting in the cargo hold of a ship on its way to America, Steve sat next to Clint. “You know, Cassie was the one who gave me the information I needed to get you out.”

Clint nodded. “Yeah? When did she talk-”

“She didn’t go home after she got out. She found me and Bucky and she helped us get to Wakanda. She was instrumental.”

“Wait, but she was--what about the…” Steve looked down and Clint’s whole body slumped. “No. What happened?”

Steve shook his head. “She said she lost it, but...she also said she had some interaction with Loki after she left the Raft so...he may have...I’m not sure.”

“She must be devastated,” Clint whispered.

“Um...there’s...more.” Steve pulled the letter out of his inside pocket, but he didn’t hand it to the archer.

“Wh-”

“And before you read this, you need to know...Loki found her in Wakanda.”

Clint’s eyes went wide. “What?! What do you mean? Why did she stay in Wakanda?”

“She had them freeze her. She said that the letter would explain.” Steve set the envelope on Clint’s lap and stood.

Clint’s stomach was in knots as he slid his finger across the envelope and pulled out the letter. A weight in the envelope had him shaking out a white gold ring that he recognized. He cleared his throat to deal with the sudden dryness.

My Dearest Clint,

I’m so sorry that I cannot do this in person, but you’re in prison and I’ll be frozen by the time Steve gets you out. Loki is looking for the red book, the one that Zemo used to activate Bucky as the Winter Soldier. I’m 90% certain that my words are on those pages too. What I’m not sure of is who I will become when those words are said. Since it means I’ll be who Hydra wanted, I can’t imagine anyone would enjoy finding out. That’s why I’m going into cryo, because I can’t hurt anyone if I’m frozen. I decided it was the best course of action...and I know you’re thinking that I would never hurt anyone, but you have never been more wrong. I’ve been remembering things and I know that I have killed. I killed two SHIELD agents when I was a child and I killed a man just a few days ago. Who knows what else is hiding in my head?

I’m sorry to send the ring back like this, but it’s what you deserve. I never should have said ‘yes’. It was selfish of me. I wanted my happy ending so much that I lied...to myself and to you. But I’ve been pretending for so long and I can’t anymore. I can’t keep putting up this facade for you. I kissed Sgt. Barnes. He saw the real me, those parts that I’ve been hiding from you and something about that drove me to break your trust. You deserve better. You deserve the woman you thought I was.

Despite it all, I love you. Be well.

Cassandra Campbell (R.Q)

Clint crushed the letter in his hand, anger almost palpable in the small space. “Let me get this straight,” he snapped as he stood, stomping up to Steve as the others stared on in confusion. “While I was in prison for helping you, your buddy made out with my fiancée and then one of you convinced her to freeze herself, leaving her completely defenseless when Loki showed up to get her in the supposedly impenetrable fortress that is Wakanda?”

Steve looked up at the ceiling. “It was Bucky’s idea to go into cryo...and he isn’t the only one that she kissed,” he finished quietly.

Clint’s fist smashed into Steve’s left cheekbone, groaning as he pulled away cradling his hand. “Worth it!”

“You kissed her back?” Sam asked, as Scott tried to not look impressed and Wanda made no effort to hide her judgment of Cap.

“I…” Steve rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat. “She...I didn’t know she kissed Bucky first and...she did say she was breaking up with you, Clint, and...I didn’t know if I was ever going to see her again. I’m sorry, Clint.”

“I know what you are thinking and she is not,” Wanda practically growled at Scott. “I could feel your judgment. You don’t know her like I do, like we do. She isn’t promiscuous.”

“Oh, really? ‘Cause, I mean...evidence to the contrary, Wanda. How many other guys does a woman have to kiss before she gets labeled a slut?”

“Shut the fuck up, Lang,” Clint growled.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Get angry with me.”

“So what are we gonna do about Loki taking her?” Sam asked.

“We’re going to go to the U.S. and we’ll go from there. Coulson gave me the location of an old SHIELD black site where we can hang our hats. We’ll search for them from there,” Steve responded.

“Screw that,” Clint snapped. “I’m going home. You can find me on the farm.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clint stood in the barn, launching arrows into a target made of hay. He was furious. He was dismayed. He was taking it out on the wall behind his target.

“What’d that wall ever do to you?”

Clint turned to the voice, immediately dropping the bow and bounding for the small blonde woman. “How’d you get away from Loki?!” he asked, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight.

“I fought back,” she answered. “Did you expect anything less of me?”

He pulled back, eyeing her warily as a feeling of unease settled in his chest. “You...you wrote me a letter. You said Loki was looking for your trigger words. It’s the whole reason you let yourself be frozen. You didn’t want him to let out the sleeper-”

“You think Loki’s controlling me?” she asked, incredulously. She scoffed. “He’s just an alien without his fancy scepter. I’m a super soldier.”

Clint drove his fist into her jaw and stepped back into a fighting stance. “You might be, but Cassie hates being called that. You’re Joanna again,” he accused.

She smirked as she straightened, her tongue darting out to lick at her busted lip. “Actually, Clint, I prefer ‘Cassie’. Joanna Schmidt is an obvious Nick Fury construct. It evokes uncomfortable feelings and images of the noseless abomination my father became.” She wiped at the blood leaking from her lip. “Cassie, though, that gives off a feeling of hope and love. It evokes images of a young woman crying over a holiday dinner because she finally has a family to share Christmas dinner with.”

She sighed and shook her head. “I was afraid you were going to be a problem. That you were going to see the change, recognize.” She hummed sadly. “Sad. I was praying to fool you.”

“You could never fool me,” Clint spat out.

“Because you love me,” she finished for him. “You, the man who watched through a scope as I tried to piece together some semblance of a normal life. But I couldn’t, could I?” She chuckled ruefully. “Not with Phil’s help. Not even with your help. It’s like I was trying to put together a puzzle with half the pieces gone. Joanna...she was a completely different puzzle, but she was missing the same number of pieces.”

“And you, what, you’re the missing jigsaw pieces?” Clint asked as his hand went to the tactical blade clipped to his belt.

Cassie lurched forward, grabbing the knife from his hand and punching him in the mouth with the handle. “The words are the pieces, you idiot. I’m the big picture, Clint. Pay attention,” she snapped. “I’m the image we’ve been trying to get to but haven’t been able to because we didn’t have the words to trigger the memories. The memories that Hydra and SHIELD decided I’d be better off without!” She kicked Clint in the chest, sending him backward into the barn door. She let out a satisfied sigh as the sound of cracked bones hit her ears.

“Because what good could come from me knowing that I killed my first enemy agents at nine years old?” she asked, with a bitter laugh. “Fury said he was afraid I’d look in the mirror and hate myself but he was terrified that I’d like it...and you know what, Hawk? I don’t.” Her smile faltered for a moment as a nauseated look took her face. “I don’t like it...but it feels right to be me. The ‘me’ I was bred to be.”

Clint coughed painfully and moved to sit up against the barn door. “This isn’t you. This is Loki.”

“Loki has nothing to do with this! I sent him packing a week ago! He wanted nothing to do with Hydra and since I am the future of Hydra, I sent his ass back to Asgard.” She squatted down in front of him, a sincere sadness gracing her pale features. “I knew this was going to be difficult for you to understand, Clint. Even before Loki made me...complete, I knew you’d hate this. I knew you’d hate me if I became this.”

Clint glared at her. “We won’t let you-”

“I know,” she interrupted softly. She nodded as she stood. “All of you would fight tooth and nail to get me back to being the person you think I should be. You’d send me off to SHIELD to be erased again. So, I guess I’ll just have to kill you all.”

Clint’s lip twitched into a sneer. “Harder villains have tried.”

“You’re right, they have...and we’ve overcome them all, but...see, Zemo had the right idea and he did half of the work for me.” She ran her hand through her hair and licked her lips. “The Avengers are strong because we work well to balance each other’s faults. The powered and the nonpowered, tacticians and geniuses and just plain strong heroes...but right now, we’re fractured. Those of that signed can come and go as we please and the rest of you, fugitives, you’re scattered. I heard Scott is even on house arrest. Are the rest of you even in contact with each other?” She shook her head. “I’ll have marched through the hidden Avengers before you all realize the rest of your team is gone...and then I’ll take the Compound.”

“You’ll never make it through all of us,” he groaned. “Even separately.”

“See, you forget, Clint, that I’ve known you all for quite a while now, so...I know your pressure points. I know your buttons, Clint. Like I know that just mentioning Bucky makes Steve stop in his tracks.” She smiled cruelly as Clint swallowed heavily. “I wish I could have been there to see his face when the Winter Soldier showed up at Fury’s old black site.”

“You didn’t,” Clint whispered.

She chuckled. “Of course I did. Why would I leave such a powerful Hydra asset on ice?”

“Why would you send him after Steve?”

“Why wouldn’t I? He’s Steve’s weak spot. I would be a fool to not use him. Especially since I know Soldat’s trigger phases. It’s the only Russian I know. Strucker taught me a long time ago. Did you know that Winter Soldier was supposed to be my right hand man when I came of age? When they put me at the head of Hydra, Bucky was going to be standing next to me.” Cassie examined the knife in her hand and smiled sadly. “I remember that now. I’m finally the person I was created to be, Hawk. I know you can’t be happy for me about that and...if it’s any consolation, killing you is really gonna hurt my feelings.”

A shock went through her as something hit her back but it didn’t put Cassie down. She turned to the redheaded intruder with rage in her eyes, then forced a tight smile. “Natasha! How unexpected. I didn’t think you’d be here. Did you know she was coming, babe?” she asked, stomping her booted heel down onto Clint’s hand.

“Steve sent me,” Natasha said, hand resting on the stingers on her wrist.

“Really?” Cassie growled.

“Bucky showed up at Steve’s new base and tried to kill him. Luckily, Sam was there. They were able to subdue him. When he came back to himself, he told them you sent him. He was adamant it wasn’t your fault though, so Steve called in to get you some help.”

“And you’re just here to stall until the help gets here, right?” Cassie rolled her tongue along the inside of her cheek and scoffed. “Let me guess...my help comes in the form of Phil’s Zephyr 1, which will take me to Fury to be erased again.” She shook her head as she twisted her heel until she heard the crunch of Clint’s bones. Her lips twitched, attempting a smile as Clint screamed. “Someone’s not drawing a bowstring anytime soon. Something to remember me by, Hawk, since I won’t be able to.”

“It’s better this way,” Natasha said, matter-of-factly.

Cassie took her foot off of the archer’s hand and squared herself off with the Russian. “Says you. You’re not the one who has to walk around with a giant hole in your personality. You aren’t the one who gets to feel wrong every day and not know why.”

Clint cradled his broken left hand in his right and stood with a wince. “You don’t even like yourself like this!” he argued.

“I hit a wall, Clint,” she growled through clenched teeth. “I couldn’t deal with fighting myself anymore. Since Sokovia I’ve been trying to convince myself that this isn’t who I am, that remembering wouldn’t change me, but it did. I changed...and when I woke up, when Loki said those words, everything clicked. Who I really am flooded into me...so I let myself finally drown.”

“What, you’re tired so you just stop fighting? What happened to the strong woman I wanted to marry?” Clint snapped.

“She died in Africa,” Cassie snapped, looking from Natasha to Clint to the barn door to the hayloft. “About the time she killed a warlord and threatened to drown a little boy in the blood of his friends.” She bent her knees and vaulted herself over Natasha, landing on the ladder before jumping to the loft. “I can’t let you take me back, sorry.” She started toward the hayloft door but stopped in her tracks when an arrow hit her right thigh.

“Barney! What the fuck? You shot my-” Clint yelled as Cassie pulled the arrow from the soft flesh of her leg.

She turned and flung the arrow at the tall ginger man, who grabbed the arrow from the air. “What? You can’t shoot her so I did.”

“Barney Barton! Nice to finally meet you!” she said with sarcastic enthusiasm. “Unfortunately, I can’t stick around. You understand, I’m sure,” she said before jumping out the loft door.

Barney handed the arrow shaft to Clint’s good hand. “Great taste in women, bro.”

“That wasn’t Cassie,” Clint defended as Barney walked out the door. He threw the tracer-arrow shaft to the ground and followed.

“Yes, it was,” Natasha said, pulling up a map on her tablet and watching the retreating dot.

“How can you say that, Nat? You know Cass. You know she’s not-”

“Clint, I know what you wanna hear, but I can’t say it.” Natasha shrugged. “She was one person with those memories gone, but she is someone different when she has them.”

“Yeah, okay, but...you remember your-”

“And I fought to become someone better than what they made me in the Red Room,” she interrupted, following the Bartons across the field to the farmhouse. “Cassie doesn’t wanna fight so unless we can get her to Coulson to get those memories erased, your fiancee is gone.”

“Do you even want her back, Clint? Bitch just broke your hand.” Barney threw the bow on the porch swing as he walked through the door. “I mean, even if you got her back to being...what’s her name? ‘Red Queen’. Even if you get rid of the homicidal tendencies the Nazis gave her, she tried to kill you. It’s gonna change how you see her, how all of you treat her.”

“And we won’t be able to tell her why,” Natasha added.

“What does that matter? How many times have you tried to kill me, Barn? Nat was trying to kill me when we met!” Clint exploded.

“Different,” Barney said, pulling a beer out of the fridge with one hand and grabbing an ice pack from the freezer with the other. “This is the chick you said hadn’t ever killed anyone, right? That actively avoided doing more than incapacitating the bad guys, ‘cause her dad was a huge dick?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Now we all know that’s not true, don’t we?”

“You don’t seem too surprised by that, Natasha,” Clint said suspiciously as he put the ice pack over the back of his hand.

“I read the file. The Projekt Kind file. I knew she killed the agents in ‘99 before she did,” Natasha said, sighing as the signal on the tracer dulled. “She’s blocking the transmitter.”

“She’s a scientist,” Clint growled. “I coulda told you a tracker wasn’t going to work.”

“Shut up, man. I had to try something.” Barney popped open his beer and took a drink. “At least you know which direction was heading and she’ll have to pull whatever’s dampening it eventually to cut out the chip.”

“If we even want to find her,” Natasha reiterated.

“Of course we do! What kind of-”

“Exactly what memories do we take, Clint?” Nat asked, calmly. “Just her childhood or do we take her memories of the things that made her start remembering? Do we take away Loki’s second attack? Do we take Austria? What about Wanda? Where do we stop?”

“Wherever we need to to get her back!” Clint’s hand reflexively started to clench, causing him to hiss in pain.

“But if we take everything, she’ll barely know you. She’ll still be terrified of Steve. She will be drowning in a bottle of whiskey and pining for Phil, who kinda still loves her and is currently very unattached.”

“Coulson wouldn’t.”

Natasha shrugged. “Man’s lonely. His last girlfriend was shot and bled out in his arms. He might.”

“And she’d have no memory of playing Avenger with you,” Barney said from behind his beer can.

“Why don’t you just turn the new Cassie?” Laura suggested as she entered the kitchen and all eyes fell on her. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to listen in, but Cassie’s a friend.”

“It’s not that simple, Lore. She’s gone over to Hydra. It’s not like we can just convince her to come be an Avenger again.”

“Also, Avengers are less a thing now,” Natasha finished.

“She loves you, Clint. You know she does.”

“She woulda been really sad about killing you, right?” Barney set the can on the counter and turned to his wife. “She may not be fixable.”

“But...you just bring her in, help her,” Laura argued. “She doesn’t have to be bad just because she was made to do some things when she was Hydra...right?”

Clint looked between Barney and Natasha. He sighed loudly as he heard the sound of a Quinjet landing in the yard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Kitchen Sink - @emoryhemsworth​​​ @flamencodiva​​​ @wasabiwitteks​​​ @rainbowkisses31​​​ @rissbennett @mariekoukie6661​​​ @officiallyunofficialperson​​​ @dolphincliffs​​​ @mrs-meghan-winchester​​​ @gayspacenerd​​​ @foxyjwls007​​​ @ilovefanfic86​​​ @marvelfansworld​​​ @f-yeahfandoms​​​ @wonderlandfandomkingdom​​​ @hhiggs​​​ @sev3nruby​​​  @hobby27​​​ @paintballkid711​​​ @divadinag​​​ @thewhiterabbit42​​​ @fantasymyth-1 @queenoftheunderdark​​​ @cosicas-cuquis​​​ @superfanficnatural​​​ @letsby​​​ @supernatural-bellawinchester​​​ @onethirstyunicorn​​​ @swinchester27​​​ @chalicia​​​ @sunnyroadtrips​​​ @screechingartisancashbailiff​​​ @death-unbecomes-you​​​ @dayasvalkyrie​​​ Hero Tags - @atc74​​​ @winchesterxfamilybusiness​​​ @holylulusworld​​​

[hegglespeggles]

How to write an essay you could not care less about in 10 steps

Hello. I have an essay to write.

I am also, (unfortunately) the kind of lazy, apathetic burnout who will only do my FUCKING work if I get really worked up. Usually that ends up meaning all of my papers are spite-fuelled tirades but my profs seem to like them so fine. I hope you find this particular raging tirade useful.

Today, I would like to educate the 4 of you that will actually see this on a fine art I have perfected over the years. Writing a paper, about which, you do not give a single, solitary, crumb of a fuck about. This is (you may have guessed) and excellent way for me to procrastinate doing a paper that *I* do not give a single solitary crumb of a fuck about. For best results, I recommend doing this NIGHT-BEFORE-PANIC like, a week in advance so you can fix all the NONSENSE that your more reasonable brain will undoubtedly find. But if it’s the night before and you are shit outta luck, this will get ‘er done. And with practice, you can even pull good grades outta these bitches.

 Dissociating? I gotchu. Woke up the day of the deadline to feel like absolute utter garbage? Search no more friends.  

  FAILING GRADES ARE BETTER THAN ZEROS JUST FUCKIN DOOOOOO ITTTT

1.    Go get the prompt.

I fucking mean it. Even if you are like 1000% sure you know what the prompt is asking, go to the FUCKING assignment, and copy that shit into your word document. Got the assignment on paper? TYPE THAT SHIT UP MOTHERFUCKER.

(Do you see what I fucking have to deal with)

Boom?

BOOM.

Congratulations, you now have a document, and whats more, there are WORDS in it!! You aren’t starting from scratch anymore kiddo. Fringe benefit, you always know EXACTLY what the assignment wants because its fucking Staring You Down. Not saying you have to do exactly as it says, mama didn’t raise no BITCH and I aint scared of fuckin CALLING PROFS OUT but if you wanna break the rules you gotta know what they are first

(Disclaimer: I have also been kicked out of class on numerous occasions for fighting with the prof and had full classes where the lecture WAS me arguing so maybe take my opinions of conformity with a grain of salt.)

2.    Math THE FIRST

I know, this is an essay and not a fucking calculus test. But some of this shit is USEFUL OKAY

Take the paper in question. How long does it have to be? Mine is 5 pages. A page is generally accepted to be 250 words (double spaced because we FUCKING LOVE OURSELVES) so 5 x 250 = 1250 wds. That’s the goal. That’s the pinnacle. That’s your new holy grail.

Time to split this bitch up

  3.    Yarrrrrr, CONTENT

And finally, we get to the part that is the reason why you are being an absolute bitch baby about this essay (maybe. I might be projecting. Your life is your life and im sure youre doing your best.) I Hate this part, but now with our magic number we don’t need to pull 5 pages out of the ether.

This part really requires you to know your vibe. Is this something that you have a lot of little opinions (read: evidence) about or like, only 2 or 3 big bois? Look deep into your soul and figure out which is the easiest for you to shit out, a rant or a list. a  great way to do this is to WRITE ANYTHING YOU GOT OUT

Here you can see I’ve put all of the thoughts I have about the question into a list, slapped some standard “opening” and “closing” shit around it so I can FUCKING FIND IT AGAIN and given it a good hard look. Whats the common thread in all of my opinions? That the prompt is fucking stupid and makes no sense is asking 2 different questions. Congratulations: you found your thesis. This essay, like many of my essays, bears the thesis “this is a weird question to be asking” (which falls under my broader category of “bitches aint shit” essays.)

Congratulations you have the bare bones of your skeleton.

  4.    MATH THE SECOND

 The magic number returns. All hail our glorious leader. 1250 right?

So heres how I break this down. Break off a small chunk at the beginning. For this essay im gonna split off the 250. Split that baby in half. Congratulations, now you have a word count on your opening and closing. Personally, I know I like a lil extra space at the end to get all ranty, so Imma split this puppy up 100 for my opening and 150 for the closing. WARNING: You will think that you will be able to write enough in your opening and closing to take up lots of space. You will feel the urge to give them both the same amount of words that you give your points. This is misguided and foolish. Not only will you 1) not be able to do it but 2) even if you did, that’s like getting a sandwich which is all bread. No one wants that. Don’t be that dude. Fight the urge.

 RIGHT SO. We’re still left on the other 1000 words.

If you have an idea that like, is bigger than the others, go ahead and give that puppy more of the word count than the others, fractions are your friend here and you wanna think about how much of your final product each of these babies will be. If you, like me, are an utter buffoon with no clue what youre doing, open your calculator up. Divide the remaining word count by the number of points you have. Congratulations. Youre doing the essaying.

If this is enough to get you started, GREAT! See you at step seven. BEFORE YOU GO I would like to give you this tip

5.    CITE YOUR INFORMATION AS YOU ADD IT IN.

It doesn’t need to be a full citation, just literally a footnote with something that will help you remember where its from and for the love of god WHAT PAGE IT IS ON. The you of 3 hours from now will thank you.

  6.    Filling in the skeleton

 I don’t know about you, but I cant exactly riff off of a single sentence. Like, I know what the VIBE of my point is, but like, I cant pull it out of a hat. The name of the game here is whittling down your arguments into thinner and thinner chunks that are easier and easier to bullshit. This is how you avoid that “burning building found in flames during Brooklyn fire” bullshit that memes. You don’t wanna meme. You wanna pass. So, figure out what the things you are gonna say and in each bit, keep track of how many words you are gonna write. EITHER

a)      You put how many words you think you can write on any point beside the point as you go and just keep developing points and shuffling word counts around until it matches the total for that section

or

b)     You evenly breakup the word count between all the points and keep breaking them down until you look at a subject and a word count and go “yeah that’s doable. I can do that.”

I prefer the second so LEGGO.

Ta-Da!

7.    Write ‘er up

Ahhh glad to see we’re all back together again. Try-hards who can ACTUALLY bullshit papers, glad to see you’ve rejoined us! This is the part where you take all that shit you’ve broken up into nice little chunks and you turn it into something worth reading. You can do it. I believe in you. Try and keep your citations in place.

I like to do this as a question answer thingy, like an exam, so halfway through writing mine is gonna look like this

 The handy part about the numbers is that it gives you a frame of reference for how your bullshit is going. Realized you had a lot more to say here than you thought? Dope! Less bullshit somewhere else, take it out of a weaker point. This point didn’t give as much as you thought it would? Split the difference elsewhere! This way you have checkpoints and you can see how your essay is going

And then you can go ahead and delete your skeleton work. Its time. Its served you well. For extra drama, whisper menacing nothings to it as you send it into the darkness. Personal favourites include “no one will mourn you,” “your fate belongs to me,” and “so this is what you have come to”

  8.    Citations

Theres like a million ways out there to find out how to do your citations and its gonna depend on what kind of a paper you are writing. I use Chicago most of the time, including here. My advice? Use a site like, bib.me or something to do your bibliography, and then plaster that in the bottom of your document. Use that as the building blocks to do your footnotes. Let Purdue Owl be your guide. Purdue Owl Style Guide Is A Mighty Friend Indeed.

 Also your welcome for that, “putting the page numbers in as you put the info in” shit. That took me alarmingly long to figure out. It’s a wonder theyre giving me a degree.

  9.    Proofread that shit, ya bougie bitch.

If you wanna be time effective, getting a friend to proofread while you do your citations is a great way to go. If you have a few days, put your paper away and come back to it. If you are out of friends and time then https://www.paperrater.com/ is your last hope.

  10.       Slap a title page on that shit and GET IT SUBMITTED

 No joke, I have been using the same template for a coverpage all through highschool and my undergrad. There is only one title page and every time I write an essay I take the title page from the last paper I wrote. There is no beginning. Only title page. Title? Topic of paper: point of paper. For example, If I had to title this screed I’d call it Essay Writing: An exploration of mediocrity. slap the date and your name and the course and instructor on there and BAM. YA DONE.

 Anyway submit that shit an go to bed youre done goodnight

EPILOGUE

I’ve gotten this essay back, and when I wrote it, I was barely a human being. Barely capable of human speech let alone a coherent argument. I would forget the end of the sentence by the time I typed out the beginning. But I still for a 70%! is it the best mark I’ve ever gotten? no! but it is a hell of a lot better than the 0% I would have gotten if i hadnt done this. I get it. And i hope this helps. 

[beermanoftana]

(infinity) days of snow // c. 1 [tom hansen]

a repost, originally posted in my former writing blog

ship: tom hansen x oc

warnings: swearing; edited thrice in a span of…a few minutes so mistakes may be present

notes: i really enjoyed writing this before, super fun

summary: after summer is autumn, .after autumn comes winter. and during winter, there is snow.

(874)

“How’s the job hunting coming along?” Rachel asks. She ties her hair in a ponytail and looks out at the field. It’s the fifteen minute break from soccer practice and she decides to hang out with him instead. “Was working in Highland really giving you a break?”

“I’ve gotten a lot of callbacks,” Tom answers, not taking his eyes off his sketch-pad. “So yes, I’d like to think Highland gave me something. The ones that are accepting me are giving me a time period to think about it, I told them that I had other options and wanted to finish the prospects first. I’m having another interview tomorrow. It’s the last and the most important.”

“Impressive. Sounds like you aren’t even a jobless guy.” Rachel sneaks a peak at what he’s drawing. It’s a girl. “Which firm?”

He takes a deep breath and looks at the younger girl. “Avalanche Corporations.”

*~~*

(858)

Paul puts down his bottle of beer. “You’ve got an interview with Avalanche Corporations?” His jaw drops and his eyes look for any signs of a trick. “That's…huge!”

“That’s why my interview isn’t until two weeks from now. And that’s just me being lucky because someone was too chicken and had to cancel his appointment.”

“Why would anyone want to back out from their appointment in Avalanche?” McKenzie shakes his head. “They’re lucky enough to get an interview.”

Tom shrugs. “Right now, I only care that I’m able to have an interview. Now that I have a chance—”

McKenzie cuts him off, “An interview isn’t a chance.”

“—I might actually be a part of something bigger.”

*~*

(856)

He’d see her on the train sometimes, most of the time she’s looking around, as if she’s hiding from someone. He’d see her in the diner, too, eating regular meals as if they’re the most delicious things in the world. Sometimes at the karaoke bar, he’d find her drinking beer alone. He sees her in the park lots of times, too. But he never gave her much thought. She’s just a very pretty stranger that he regularly sees.

So imagine his surprise when he sees her in the entrance of the theatre talking to strangers who stop to listen but eventually leave her. He sees her sigh with disappointment and put her hands in her pocket. His legs take him to her and he asks, “Are you okay?”

She looks at him and shrugs. “Yeah. Just…,” heaving a breath, “would you like to watch Inception with me? I know you’ve probably seen it already but this theatre does show reruns and I have an extra ticket and I’m not very…I’m not really up to watching it by myself since I was supposed to be with someone and—”

“Sure,” he says, “why not? I was planning on watching that anyway.”

*~*

(858)

“And did you enjoy it?” McKenzie asks.

Tom looks away from the window and to the person in front of him. Paul is waiting for an answer, too. He hesitates and then nods, a small smile forming on his lips. “Yeah, I did.”

*~*

(856)

The night was going greater than he expected. She brings him to Sundae’s Best, an expensive ice cream restaurant, and she orders a treat without even looking at the menu and acting like it’s no big deal. She even asks him to get whatever he desires. “Just get anything,” she urges. And he gets a parfait he has always wanted to try.

He suddenly blurts out to her that had broken up with his girlfriend, Autumn, about a week ago and resigned from his job earlier that morning. She asks him why. “We were both the only candidates for a really big promotion. She’s always wanted it and so I let her have it. Everything was okay but I noticed the changes. I talked to her about it and when I told her she was my girlfriend…she told me that she’s also my boss.”

His companion cringes. “That really stings.”

He agrees. “Broke up with her the next day. My sister liked her but even she noticed that she was too work-oriented.”

“Do you have any job prospects?”

“A lot, but,” he looks out the window and eyes the tower with shining lights that says Avalanche Corps., “I’ve always wanted to work there,” he sees her look at the tower, too, “and I’ve been trying to get an interview but slots are always filled.”

“Will you promise me to try calling again?”

He raises his eyebrows but realizes that there’s nothing he would lose if he did. “Sure, one last time.” He shrugs. “What were you doing alone in the theatre and asking random strangers to watch a movie with you?”

“I was supposed to be watching with my dad but he…um…had a last minute business call and had to go back to work.” She smiles and takes the last bite of her ice cream cake. “I never asked you your name.”

“Tom. Tom Hansen.” He smiles at her. “I just spent a night with a total stranger. I’m just lucky she’s cute,” he flirts and notices her blush. “What’s your name?”

*~*

(858)

Paul raises his eyebrows and leans forward. “Well? What’s her name?”

“What’s her name, man?” McKenzie joins. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get it.”

“Did you get her number?”

“Are you going to see her again?”

“Tell us you’re going to see her again.”

“Can you at least show us how she looks like?”

“Yeah, surely she has a social networking site.”

“How many beautiful girls do you see and compare them to what that girl did to you.”

“Dude, you’ve got to go and get her.”

“Forget about Autumn! Didn’t you tell us that you expected something like that would happen?”

“She’s a career-oriented woman.”

“And they are not your type.”

Tom blinks and nods. “Right, her name. It's…”

*~*

(856)

“Snow.” She grins. “Snow Lanché.”

After taking that in for a few seconds, he grabs his jacket beside him and leaves right away, ignoring her when she asks what’s wrong. “Tom!”

*~*

Back to day (1)

(1)

He isn’t fully over Autumn. But he got the job at Avalanche and is now starting his first day. Rachel, who had wanted to wish him good luck on one of the most nerve-wracking days of his life, smiles at him. “You got this.”

*~*

(456)

He’s been working for Avalanche for a year and a few months and he loves it. He’s made friends, he’s gone out with a few women and has even become friends with his boss. “I like you, Tom,” he said once, “your ideas are different and I like that.” Mr. Lanché had been consulting with him personally since then. “I think you and my daughter, Ava, would be good friends.”

The only thing that sucks is that he hasn’t seen Snow. Not on the train. Not in the diner. Not in the karaoke bar. Not in the movie theatre. Not in Sundae’s Best. Not in the park.

During his free time he would draw her. However, there’s always something wrong with it, always wondering what he’s missing. So he’d flip onto another page or grab a new, clean sheet and start drawing again. When Paul and McKenzie noticed, they think that the excuse he gives them, “It’s not perfect,” he would say, is a lie.

*~*

(489)

With his headphones on and his bag stuffed with all he needs and a little too early for his liking, Tom is ready to go up to his desk and finish his endeavors for the day. When he reaches the building, he’s not entirely surprised that the elevator quickly opens and no one else is waiting but him. He goes in, punches his floor and waits for the doors to close as he tucks his headphones down. Already closed halfway, someone calls for the elevator to be put on hold. He does so and waits for the lady to come in.

She arrives, her head bent low as she’s rummaging inside her bag. “Sorry,” she says and then thanks him. “Usually I’m alone and I don’t normally care about getting the first ride I see, but I have to go upstairs and—” she looks up, “oh. Hello.”

He blinks. It’s the same pale face, her brown locks being held up in a bun, her brown eyes staring intently at him. It’s the lips, the smile, he can never perfect. “Hi.”

“You got the job,” she says, smiling. “I’m glad.”

“Do you work here, too?”

She laughs a little although it sounds as if there are undertones of irritation. “Well, of course. I don’t want to but—” she stops herself, “because I’m just…I’m the…I’m…a trainee! Yeah. I’m a trainee in the…um…research department.”

“Oh,” he nods, trying to search his mind for any news about new recruits, “you’re early.”

“I…left some files and I need to get them for my…report tomorrow…thought I’d sneak in and get them before anybody notices.”

“You haven’t pressed your floor,” he tells her.

She looks at the buttons and takes her time before pressing twelve. “You didn’t press close yet, either.” She presses the button a few floors below him and up they go.

*~*

(489)

“Is the company hiring again?” he asks Butch, one of his co-workers.

Butch shakes his head. “We’re a full house. You’re still the latest addition. Why?”

“I met someone in the elevator this morning. I kinda know her. She said she’s a trainee in the research department.” He cocks his head. “Was she lying?”

“Probably,” the other guy raises his eyebrows, “but you said you know her.”

“Yeah, we went on a sort of date once. She’s the reason why I called the company, actually,” he tells him. “She’s why I’m here.”

“Interesting.” Butch moves forward. “And how does she look like? I might have seen her around.”

Tom begins to describe her but something else catches his eyes. By the door, is the woman he had gone with to see Inception. “Like her.” He gestures.

Sasha, another of his co-workers who he’s a little close to despite his distaste of her eavesdropping habit, suddenly appears in between them. “Her? A trainee in the research department? That’s crazy, Tom. Are you sure?” She takes another look. “Are you very sure?”

“I’m very sure, Sasha,” he replies. He tries to catch her eye but she’s talking to the boss. When they finally make eye contact, her eyes widen and she turns around, talking once again to Mr. Lanché, he nods and immediately turns away. “She’s already close to the boss?”

“She’s a Daddy’s girl, Tom,” Butch says. “That’s Ava Lanché, dear boy. The Ava Lanché. Heiress to this very company. Daddy has a daughter and can’t resist naming her Ava.” He chuckles. “What were you saying about her being a trainee in the research department?”

“She said her name’s Snow,” is his reply. Lanché, he didn’t make the connection.

“That’s her nickname. She’s pale faced, beautiful and sweet. Like Snow. When she was younger she was a little on the chubby side and everyone made fun of her, with her name being something destructive and all, you know, avalanche, and there’s a resemblance on the physical side, you can imagine all the teasing. One day, during the start of a new academic year, she came to school looking all brand-new and became the ice princess. Cold. Like Snow.”

“She’s…the president’s…daughter,” he says quietly.

*~*

(490)

The sun wasn’t even up yet when he started getting ready. He was outside before the building was even open. He’s been waiting for about an hour now. The security guard and April Marie, the keeper of the front keys, greet him “good morning”. While opening the door, April Marie says, “You’re early, Tom.”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

And it all pays off. After she gets in an elevator, he rushes inside and waits for the machine to close before putting it in an emergency stop. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says without looking at him.

“Did you ask your father to hire me? The position I have now? My relationship with your father? Did you have anything to do with any of this? Be honest, Ava.”

“I only asked him to give you a chance, that he’d tell his secretary that if anyone named Thomas or Tom Hansen called for an interview, she should set up a schedule. It was just a coincidence that someone backed out and you got the slot. But I have nothing to do with all the other accusations. I swear. I didn’t even ask him to hire you. That was his choice.” She pauses. “And I don’t want you to call me Ava.”

They remain silent for the rest of the time until security and IT experts open the elevator. “Miss Lanché,” one of the men calls out to her, “we saw you in the camera footage, we thought you were stuck and—”

“My colleague and I were having a discussion, emergency stop,” she tells them.

“Oh,” they say. “Do you want us to close the doors again?”

Tom raises an eyebrow. Snow smiles a little. “No, it’s fine. We’re done talking.” She presses the last floor, just a floor above Tom’s, and thanks the workers. “We are done…aren’t we?”

He doesn’t reply, instead, he watches the numbers go by the elevator. When it dings and opens for him, he walks out but stops when Snow calls his name. “Do you wanna go out for coffee later? I’ll pick you up at around five?”

He turns around and sees her smiling hopefully. “Sure. Why not?”

*~*

(490-855)

The two had become very good friends. Tom looked past what had happened and they started anew (he did ask her how she managed to dodge him for a year, she replied that she memorized the building and could use her all-access ID to enter shortcuts). He never once called her Snow and continues to call her Ava. She had asked why once and he told her the reason, including why he ran out of the restaurant during their first meeting; she understood.

She explained to him why she didn’t want to take over the company and would rather be a teacher.

He brought her to the karaoke bar and helped her have fun; he even got her to sing a lot. And they go to his favorite spot in the park frequently.

They talk all day, constantly IM-ing each other during work hours and texting or calling when they’re free. Once she convinced her father that she could go home by herself during certain days, he never fails to bring her home and she insists he calls once he gets back to his own apartment. On weekends, despite having work to do—Tom with clients that he has to help and Snow with her father’s orders—they’re on the phone all night and would meet up during the day; sometimes, they’d abandon their work and have fun.

At one point, Snow had confessed to him her feelings, and although his feelings for her have also started to grow, he wasn’t prepared for another relationship and he didn’t want to ruin their friendship. “I’m sorry, I don’t…feel the same way.” She smiled and nodded, understanding. It hasn’t affected them at all. Until Zachary Williams.

[fandom-of-the-day]

it was real and it was beautiful

Chapter 3 on AO3

The monster stumbled into the safehouse, swaying with each step.

Seeing the monster, Quentin fought back the visceral reaction he had every time he saw it. That was Eliot’s face. Before he knew, he was able to block out what the Monster looked like, pretend it was another weird magic thing or a shapeshifter or something. But that illusion was gone the minute he found out Eliot was alive in there. That body was Eliot’s body. Q tried not to remember all the ways he knew Eliot’s body. That monster was violating him and there wasn’t anything Q could do about it. All he could see is Eliot when he looked at the Monster and he hated the Monster for it.

Eliot was trapped in there and the only way Q knew how to save him was to help the Monster get a new body.

“I almost got his by one of those...what do you call them? A big moving box.” The Monster said this offhandedly, as if he were commenting on the weather or another everyday, normal occurrence.

Quentin wondered for a minute what the hell a moving box was before it hit him. He felt the blood start to drain out of his face. Shit. The Monster had almost gotten hit by a bus. Eliot had almost gotten hit by a bus. The Monster had left the safe house for who knows how many hours and had done something that nearly got Eliot killed. An urgency started to form in Q’s gut. Something even stronger than what he’d felt before.

Q couldn’t stop himself from speaking. “You have to be careful!”

The Monster looked at him, like he was trying to determine if he was a threat. He had been extremely warm to Quentin, a weird imprint that must have come about after Q offered to stay with him.

“Why would I stop if it makes me happy?” The Monster spoke like a child, and not for the first time, Quentin wanted to scream. The Monster was an actual child. A murdering, all powerful child. Who had stolen Eliot from him.

“We found a lead!” Julia rushed into the room. She touched his back gently before looking at the Monster. She held her book out towards him gently. He took it carelessly and barely glanced at the pages.

“What do these words tell me?” He tossed it to the side.

Julia winced. “There was an ancient tomb that the locals said was a source of great healing magic. If the gods sealed part of your body away, this sounds like a good place to start.”

It was grasping at straws, but what else did they have?

“Hmmm.” The Monster finally glanced at the content of the book. Then he vanished.

“God, I’m thankful you found something.” Q sighed. Even if it was a longshot, if it panned out it took them one step closer to saving Eliot.

Julia grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the living room. She was saying, “Who knows how long we have until he gets back. We need to use this time to see if there’s a way to stop him.”

She sat down on the couch and opened one of the dozens they had laying around.

Quentin plopped down beside her. “We need to figure out a way to get him out of Eliot. Maybe other methods besides this building a body one.” He picked up a different book, Magicians and Zombies. He tossed it back in the pile. “We can worry about stopping him later.”

The Monster was starting to get careless. Every second Eliot’s life could be in danger and they couldn’t afford to waste time. The had to free him soon.

“Well we can’t exactly look up ways to stop him while he’s standing over our shoulder. We tried that. It didn’t work.” She wasn’t saying he ruined the plan, but he knew what they all thought. They had a perfect opportunity to permanently banish the Monster and he’d stopped that plan. But that plan was created when they thought Eliot was dead. Q could not stand to think about what would have happened if he didn’t jump in front of Eliot when Alice threw the stone’s blood at him.

“Come on, Q. You know we need to do this. Stop wasting time.” Julia said. She didn’t sound unkind, but Quentin sat back in shock at her words.

Wasting time? That was the lastthing he wanted to do. Now more than ever he felt the seconds as they went by. He wasn’t wasting time.Eliot was the priority here. He was the one on a time table. If they didn’t save Eliot soon, who knows what the Monster would do. They could worry about stopping the Monster once Eliot was safe.

Before he could say anything more, Julia grabbed his arm. “Wait!”

He looked at her expectantly. But she jumped up and hurried to the next room. Q followed her. She rushed over to the book and then pulled out her phone.

“That’s what I thought!” She exclaimed.

“Mind telling the room what it is that’s going on?” Seriously, what could she have found in such a short time?

She opened up the book first and pointed to a paragraph. “It talks here about an ancient tomb. The name sounded familiar but I couldn’t figure out why. Then I realized I saw it on the news a few months ago. That tomb was excavated and the artifacts brought here! We can get there in half an hour if we take a cab.”

“You mean we sent a monster halfway across the world and it turns out the next possible stone could be here?” What kind of luck was that?

“I wouldn’t wait around for him to get back.” Julia threw on her coat and made for the door. Quentin followed her out.

It was a quiet ride over as they both pored over their phones, searching for any details on the exhibit that would help them. It wasn’t open to the public yet, which meant they’d have to sneak in. They could probably manage that easily with magic, but what were they supposed to do when they found the room? What were they even really looking for? He hoped he’d know it when he saw it.

Sneaking past the guards was surprisingly easy. They almost didn’t need magic at all. Perhaps after the bank heist everything was easy to break into. There were no super secret magician wards here.

It took over an hour to find the right room. They quietly shut the door behind them and stared into the poorly lit room. The artifacts were scattered all over the room, but the casket sat at the center, it’s closed lid undisturbed. Q and Julia looked at each other and they both knew; they were going to have to open that.

“Quentin.”

They both jumped back. Quentin bumped into a crate and the vase sitting on top of it fell to the floor, breaking. Shit, he’d really just broken a thousand year old artifact.

The Monster was smiling at them. “You found it too!” He exclaimed. “I found the tomb but it was empty. I was sad so I found some playthings. Then they told me it was here!” His speech was slurred as he spoke.

“Are you drunk” Julia asked.

“This body hearts tequila.” The Monster took a swaying step. “When I’m happy. When I’m sad. When I’m bored with how long this is taking.” Could godlike creatures get drunk? He knew Eliot was certainly capable of it.

“And do you have any idea where we can find the next stone here?” Julia asked.

He placed his hand on the casket. “Why don’t we just ask someone who was there.”

Watching a resurrected mummy write in hieroglyphics was not the weirdest way Quentin had ever spent his afternoon. For a moment, Q felt productive. Watching the mummy and piecing together his writing was something he could finally do. Of course it turned out Heka’s burial site had also been looted, so the stone was still gone. They were no closer to finding it than before. He had needed this to be a win.

He glanced over at Julia. She had been helping every step of the way, even if sometimes it was done reluctantly. She didn’t agree with his priorities and didn’t seem to understand why they needed to focus on saving Eliot first. She didn’t understand how important this was, yet she was still here. He felt grateful to her, but also frustrated. They needed to save Eliot. Letting him die wasn’t an option.

After dealing with the mummy, the Monster whisked them back to the safehouse using his magic. Funny name for this place. A safehouse. There had not been a moment in this house when they were all safe.

They had two pieces, but no leads on how to get the third. And who knew how many there were total? The weight of the day and their task sat heavy on him. Had he really put all this effort into today, into getting into the museum and decoding the mummy’s words, only to be no closer to saving Eliot? Each second they were closer to something bad happening, he could feel it. They needed to save Eliot fast.

The Monster had disappeared again, off to look for more clues on Heka Quentin was sure. Everytime he left now Q felt a pang of uncertainty. Is this going to be the last time he sees Eliot? The Monster was getting careless and the only person in danger from that was Eliot. At least when he could see the Monster, he knew that Eliot was alive in there.

He only had a moment to his thoughts before Julia was pulling him by the arm. “We need to read.” Unlike before, she left no room for argument. Q wasn’t going to waste time either. If she wanted to look up ways to stop the Monster, fine. But he was not going to be distracted from finding the next stone or a way to save Eliot.

Usually when he and Julia worked they could either do so in comfortable silence. They could do this for hours unless one of them was in a stupid mood and decided to annoy the shit out of the other. That had made up many of their college experience before Brakebills. But the silence they had between now was awkward and uncomfortable. Somewhere in the past few days a tension had started to grow. They didn’t agree on the next steps to take, so they both sat on the couch, reading different books with different views. Quentin tried not to grow bitter at Julia’s refusal to acknowledge that saving Eliot was the most important thing and should be their number one priority. Even if she kept saying that, she was also doing what she could to help and that was more than any of their other friends.

He couldn’t handle the silence any longer. “Look...I just. I just need to focus on one thing right now. That’s all I’m saying.” He couldn’t say more. That would be saying too much.

Julia looked up at him, surprised he’d broken the silence. “Q.” She started, but he interrupted.

“There’s just been so much going on and I think we always do better when we focus on one problem and not try to solve everything at once. Like with the keys we kept to the quest, right?” Well not fully, but close enough. He just wanted her to know he couldn’t focus on stopping the Monster. Not until they had Eliot back.

“We need to know what to do when the Monster gets his body back.” Julia pointed out. She wasn’t wrong.

“Of course we do. But we can’t do that until we save Eliot.” They’d have to worry about stopping the Monster eventually, but it was pointless to come up with that plan until they knew Eliot was safe. “We also need to find Heka and this stone.”

“We’re going to find the stone.” Julia put her hand on his arm reassuringly.

The sound of rummaging drew their attention. Someone was going through the drawers in the next room and if Q wasn’t so used to people coming and going from the penthouse apartment, he’d be more concerned. As it was, he stood up and made his way over to the next room, opening the door to see the Monster digging though drawers. Julia was right behind him.

***

Julia watched as the Monster pulled the drawers aparts. His movements were wild and frantic, so unlike anything she’d seen from him before. Since the start of the day she’d been noticing his uncoordination, but he’d still acted slowly and methodically. Now he was frantic, his movements rushed.

“What are you doing?” Quentin asked loudly.

The Monster was shoving things to the side, digger into more drawers until he found a bottle of pills. He held it up triumphantly before Q snatched it away.

The Monster barely had to lift a finger to send Q crashing against the wall. Fear crept into Julia as she ran to Quentin’s side. She knelt down beside him, looking for injuries.

He panted against the wall. “Those pills can kill you!” He said, his voice trembling with emotions.

The Monster started to pick up the scattered pills from the floor. “I’ll take a new body.” He said apathetically. His frantic movements, his sudden drinking, the pills, all of it suddenly made sense. Eliot had struggled with addictions and now his body was giving the Monster those cravings he’d started to fight.

“You kill Eliot,” Q spoke as he stood up against the wall, “you can forget about us helping you.”

The Monster dropped the pills. He stood up and walked menacingly towards them. Julia felt the fear grow stronger. While she might be indestructible, this creature could kill Q without a thought.

“Eliot, Eliot, Eliot.” He didn’t blink as he came closer. “Why do you care about him so much.”

“Because I do.” Quentin stared at the Monster, never breaking eye contact. “You kill him and we’re done. I swear to god I am serious. I will abandon you and I will die trying to burn you to the ground.” Q wasn’t speaking as if he were afraid. He was staring at the Monster and his words were so passionate, Julia knew he meant everyone . Oh god.

She started to see what was going on.

“That’s cute.” The Monster was in Q’s face now. He placed a hand on Q’s neck. “But I’m strong.” Another hand. “And you’re weak.” He squeezed.

Julia was terrified. She had not magic and nothing she could do would save Q.

“Break my bones.” Q started talking through the Monster’s grip. His voice was hoarse. “Strangle me. Too tired to care anymore.”

“Q…” Julia couldn’t breath. She couldn’t do anything.

He wasn’t done. “You hurt him, you take one more pill, and you can build your body on your own.”

For a second, Julia thought this was it. Her body was frozen in place and she was going to watch her best friend die. The Monster’s grip tightened on Q’s throat. Quentin never flinched.

After what felt like an eternity, the Monster let Quentin go. “Fine. I’ll take better care of the meatsuit. You don’t have to be such a baby about it.”

The Monster took a step back and turned to walk away. It was like the scene had never happened. Except Q’s neck was red and his words were ringing in Julia’s ears. They needed to talk.

She took a step towards Q, but he turned to her and gave her a look. If she had known him any less than half her life she would have wilted back. As it was, she took a step closer and gently touched the side of his neck.

“It’ll probably bruise.” She spoke softly.

Quentin shrugged. “Oh well.”

She struggled to know what to say. There were so many things he’d revealed in the last few minutes and they each felt important. They needed to be addressed and he needed to know she was there for him. But she could see from the look in his eyes that he was not going to address the last things he’d said. She was scared. She’d known him all her life and had seen him in bad episodes before. But somehow she had missed how bad this one was. What kind of friend was she? She’d known he wasn’t doing well but hadn’t taken the time to actually ask him how he was. She shouldn’t made time.

A voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she had known, but had also seen he wasn’t willing to talk right now. She ignored it to focus on what she could do right now.

“Q, we’re going to save Eliot.” God, that was the other thing. It finally made sense, Q’s desperation to save Eliot. She had thought it was because Q considered him a friend, and of course Q would do anything for his friends, but this was different. This was so much different. She heard it in what he didn’t say. It made sense now. It was like the final piece that was missing was found.

“I know.” He said weakly. All his conviction from earlier was gone.

“How long have you…” She trailed off. How was she supposed to ask him this?

Quentin pulled back from her quickly. “How long have I what?” His voice was hard, his eyes narrow and flitting around. He wouldn’t make eye contact.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Q. What Eliot means to you, I get it.”

He let out a derisive laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let’s stop wasting time, we have books to read.” He turned his back on her. “Since we’re the only ones actually looking for a way to do this, I’m not going to waste my time talking about something that doesn’t matter.”

She walked behind him back to their workspace. Doesn’t matter? Of course Q’s feelings mattered. And Eliot clearly mattered to him, more than she had even considered. “Well,” she spoke slowly. “They might be more willing to help if they knew more of what was going on.”

Q looked up at her. “They’re all working on their own little quests right now, right? Alice is doing god knows what, Kady hasn’t been around but to eat every few days, Penny’s playing a disappearing act, and Margo was sent Fillory.”

Julia and Q froze at the same moment. She watched as his eyes widened in horror along with her own. “Margo.” They breathed out.

Shit. She didn’t know Eliot was alive.

[roseymoseyberry]

Hey.. I need your help. So I've been writing fic for awhile now but have never posted them online until recently. And i got positive feedbacks right which made me love writing even more. My readers are all so nice and they're patiently waiting for updates which i had written halfway. Anyway life kept me busy for awhile buT now i can't get back into fics.. Rereading my fic i only see flaws and now with each new comment i received i just get overwhelmed. Kinda wanna delete my ao3.. What do i do

I’m so sorry it took my a couple days to get back to you anon. Life has been... well, life, lmao.

But ok, listen. I absolutely feel you. I went through a writer’s block as recently as this past summer/early fall for... I want to say two or three months at least? It was rough. I hated reading over my own stuff because it all just read as terrible to me, the pace rushed and dialogue bad, etc etc etc. (and lord almighty, don’t get me STARTED on how I felt when I realized I was abandoning a fic from an old fandom oops)

It’s hard to get out of that. And ultimately every writer is a little different, so I can only tell you how I get out of ruts.

Before we get to how to start writing again though, I want to say that if you’re overwhelmed by the stress of thinking of reader’s waiting for more? Officially put the fic on Hiatus. Edit your summary to say “This fic is on Hiatus” so that you know that anyone reading it knows it could be a very, very long time, if ever. I have only really needed to do that once, but found it helped to take the pressure off. If you receive email notifications for comments, maybe turn those off for a while. Come back to them later.

Ok, and now. My big, fancy, all important advice:

For me, the number 1 objective is to force yourself to get words down on the page. To get yourself writing again, you need to fucking write.

There’s a couple different strategies I’ve try when I’m stuck.

One of the first is to reread the story I want to work on. That usually works if it’s the kind of block that isn’t about hating my writing so much as just staring at the page and not knowing how to word. In your case and with that specific kind of feeling though, it may not be so relevant because yeah. Right now your writing feels like shit to you. So this is something to consider for future blocks.

The next thing I’ll usually do is just. Brute force it. I force myself to write a sentence, and won’t let myself delete it. And I’ll keep forcing myself to write until I’ve got at least a paragraph or two. It’ll be slow, and it will be painful, and it will feel like I’m writing the worst writing in the world. Just absolute garbage.

But a paragraph or two will eventually roll over into more, and usually when I reread over it later I’ll realize it wasn’t nearly as bad as it had felt like it was at the time. And the most important thing is I’m getting back into the flow of the fic. Often from that point the rest just falls back into place.

Brute forcing it by yourself can be tricky though. If you’re not sure how to get yourself to do that, look into some writing tools to motivate you to just get down words as fast as you can! A couple suggestions I have are:

Word Sprints: This website is just one way to do this particular exercise, but I found it super helpful in the past! Word sprint/word wars/speed runs/etc are basically a game-like situation where you and other writers have a set amount of time to write as many words as you can. The Word Sprints website has 25 minute spans with 5 minute breaks, and you can either join the global one (which I don’t recommend lmao) or you can make your own group and invite other writers to it. This specific site allows you to see how many words the other folks in the group have written in real time, so it can help motivate through fun competition if that’s something that appeals to you.

You don’t have to be constrained by the site though. I’m part of a TF fan content creators discord where folks sometimes just run our own, usually with more like just 10 or 15 minute long sprints and then everyone shares how many words they wrote at the end of the sprint. It can be a really nice way to change the focus away from the quality of the words your putting down to the quantity. Because listen -- you can always go back and edit lower quality writing, but you can’t do anything with no writing to work with at all, you feel?

(If you happen to be in the TF fandom and feel comfortable messaging me off anon, feel free to do so and I’ll definitely send you an invite to the discord. It’s really nice to have a space to talk with other writers and problem solve with folks who know the pain, haha)

Fighter’s Block: If something that involves other people doesn’t appeal, no worries! This web app is basically a simple little rpg style game. You put in a word count that you want to reach (so maybe something as little as 100 or 200 words) and then you go into a fight. In this case you’re motivated to write fast because your health goes down while you’re idle, and the enemy’s health is your word count, so you defeat them by reaching your word count. It’s a fun little game and is a great alternative to word sprints.

I know there’s other similar sites, so don’t be afraid to search for a tool that fits you.

Another way you might be able to get words out is by abandoning where you left off for now and writing another scene that you’re excited about. I personally don’t do this because I have to write in order -- I just have to!!!! -- but I know a LOT of writers who bounce around and then knit the scenes together.

Or really, just mix it up in general. Do you always write at home? Try taking your laptop to a coffee shop for the express purpose of writing. That’s something I do a LOT. Always write on a computer? Try writing on your phone. I’ve even seen a post going around about changing your font to comic sans and that helping! Shake things up. Try something new. You might find something that works better for you!

Mmmmm I think that’s about all the advice I have personally since those are my go to’s. But keep in mind it’s not the end of the world if that doesn’t work for you -- all writers are different!! If I’ve learned anything from talking to other writers, it’s that we all have different ways we do it, different tools and formats and styles and all of it.

And ultimately? Don’t forget that fanfiction is about self-indulgence. It’s about you! If it’s stressing you out way too much, take a break. Put that shit on hiatus. Turn off notifications from ao3. Leave it alone for a while. You do you. Ultimately, while it may feel cruel, you don’t owe your readers anything. You’re doing this hobby because you like to, and you shared it with them by choice.

If the need is strong enough that you want to delete, look into orphaning your works. That way it’s no longer connected to you in any way, but it’s still available to readers.

I wish you only the best, Anon, and can only hope I was of any help at all, haha

[bluerose5]

In the Aftermath

("In a Past Life" excerpt. Will be on ao3 later. Warnings mainly because the androids' legal status/lack of rights is mentioned briefly, so references to racist/homophobic themes is the best way I can describe it.)

"Hey!"

The exuberant voice comes out of nowhere, loud and proud and demanding to be heard.

It's enough to attract a considerable amount of attention at least, so much so that almost all androids in the immediate vicinity turn to see what's going on. Some of them tense up, their eyes darting around, searching for the next line of fire. Others simply stare, cold and distant, their eyes promising a fight, should they be attacked again.

Hours have passed since the call for an evacuation, yet that feeling of dread —that stubborn, suffocating feeling of "what next"— still lingers in the air.

No one has faith that the humans will keep their promise, and what once was the site of their final demonstration is now an area of refuge.

For the time being.

Trying his best to peel away the layers of tension that still cling to him, Markus stands from where he was tending to the wounded, shrouding himself in a confidence that is only superficial at best.

As long as no one can see the truth, then he'll be fine.

He meets the young android halfway there, and the boy's eyes light up when they land on him.

Nodding to himself, he sprints over to Markus with a crumpled up piece of paper in his hand. Once he skids to a stop in front of the RK200, he puffs up in pride, trying to appear taller in the presence of their leader.

Markus' lip quirks up ever so slightly, but the surrounding fog of death and loss only serves to mute whatever joy or amusement that he might have felt.

Not to mention how, even now, he can sense those beautiful eyes on him, watching his every movement, burning a hole through his skin.

So much to discuss, so little time.

The kid calls his attention back by noisily clearing his throat.

Markus musters up enough strength to give him a smirk. "Got something for me?"

The boy bobs his head, practically shoving the paper at Markus in his excitement.

"This guy told me to make sure that you got it. He said it was super important!" he rambles, jumping up and down on the balls of his feet. "Said that I would be helping out, and they said that I was too young to march with you guys earlier so I-I wanted to do something!"

Curiously, Markus tests the weight of the folded scrap of paper in his hand, hearing something jingle within. A quick scan confirms that nothing particularly dangerous is hidden there, so a deep furrow finds it way onto his brow.

What the hell?

"You did a good job, kid," Markus tells him, forcing his smile back into place. "Any chance you know who sent this?"

The boy shrugs. "No clue. He was human, though, out next to where the reporters were earlier." He points to where he found him. "Didn't want to stick around, but he seemed —I don't know— pleased, maybe."

"Huh..." Markus taps the paper against the palm of his hand, thinking over who it could have possibly been. Of course, he doesn't really need to take long before it occurs to him exactly who it was. "Thanks anyways. How about you go find North, and I'm sure she'll find some other ways for you to help."

"Of course!" the boy shouts, already taking off on his new mission.

Markus looks around, waiting until all eyes focus on their former duties before he unfolds the paper.

Out falls two rings and a lone key. And on the page, there lies Kamski's familiar, sloppy handwriting, scribbled in black ink.

You lived up to your promise, Mr. Williams. Figured that I should return these to you and your husband at my earliest convenience. If you have any questions (which I'm sure you do), then I'll be looking forward to meeting you again.

Best of luck,

E.K.

Markus snorts at that, shaking his head in disbelief. He pockets the note and the key to their old home, scrutinizing the white gold bands that rest within his palm.

Well, time to face the music.

Searching throughout the crowd, Markus looks up and around, sending out his feelers while he searches for Connor. Thankfully, it takes a little less than a second to find him, brown eyes already trained carefully on Markus.

Clenching his hand around the rings, Markus jerks his head in a way that clearly says "follow me," turning on his heel before Connor can even respond.

Soon enough, the sound of a crisp, steady gait falls into place at Markus' side, and Markus' heart throbs in response, wanting nothing more than for them to close the distance.

Hesitantly, Markus decides to test the waters between them, deliberately brushing his fingers against Connor's own.

He releases a trembling breath when Connor brushes back, ducking his face away from Markus' view. They wait until they are well enough away from the crowd before they finally stop, taking a few different paths until they are out of sight and out of mind.

No life of any kind is to be found, which gives them the exact privacy that they need.

Before Markus can speak, Connor beats him to it.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, staring dejectedly at the ground.

Markus waits for him to say more, swallowing thickly when he doesn't. "Yeah, you're not the only one." Markus rubs at the back of his neck, ashamed with how he acted before. "You didn't deserve how I treated you. I was stressed and pissed, and I'm sorry for taking that out on you."

"I'm just—" Connor huffs out a breath through his nose, frustrated with himself. "I'm just overwhelmed. To have all of these memories and these emotions rushing in at once. It's a lot to take in."

"Do you need time?" Markus asks. "You know, without me around?"

"Think I've had enough of that," Connor says, chuckling bleakly. "And I do want to, well, you know."

"I think I have an idea." Markus sidles closer to Connor, bringing his hand up between them. "But only if you're sure."

Markus spreads his fingers wide, exposing the glinting metal to the streetlights around them.

Connor's expression turns bitter, his shoulders curling in on himself protectively.

"You know that we don't even have a legal status of personhood anymore, right?" Connor asks. "I highly doubt that they will be recognizing two androids' claim to marriage anytime soon."

"Then we'll change that. Together," Markus promises, reaching out for Connor's hand. When Connor accepts the offer, Markus' thirium pump goes haywire, but he somehow gathers enough composure to slide the ring onto Connor's left hand, his grip shaky and uneven.

Connor isn't much better when he returns the favor, sliding the other band onto Markus' finger.

With a soft smile, Connor finally meets those mismatched eyes, leaning in.

"I'll hold you to that," Connor breathes, and that's all it takes for Markus to fall into old habits, drawn in by that undeniable force between them.

"We have a lot to talk about," Markus reminds him, but Connor only reaches up, dragging him forward by the fabric of his shirt. The material strains under his strength, and Markus chuckles. "Still as pushy as ever, I see."

The resulting grin that Markus receives sends warmth shooting through systems, and the outer skin on his left hand unexpectedly retreats, exposing the shiny, plastic surface that rests beneath.

A bright, blue light emanates from his sensors, and Connor blinks at the sight in bewilderment, only for his own hand to mimic the motion.

Neither of them quite knows what that means, but Connor makes the first move, aligning their hands so that they connect for the first time.

What Markus experiences is a complete immersion, a face-first dive into all of what makes Connor himself. Past and present, then and now, it doesn't matter. Markus sees it all, feels it all, human and android life alike, spread out for him to uncover. Like a flower blooming, exposing himself to Markus in a way that neither of them has ever done before.

Despite some of the limitations that accompany his new body, Markus has to admit that he never expected to feel so much fulfillment in one act.

It almost makes him pity the humans who will never get the chance to experience that sensation firsthand.

The sensation of being truly connected with the person you love, knowing them piece by piece, inside and out.

Connor interrupts Markus' thoughts by yanking him forward, sealing their lips with a heated kiss. It take a few seconds for Markus' mind to catch up with their actions, but Connor is nearly climbing him by the time that he responds.

When they pull away, panting more out of habit than necessity, Markus leans his forehead against Connor's, their breaths mingling in the space between them.

"We still need to talk," Connor sighs, wrapping his arms around Markus' neck, "but I want you to know that I'm willing to try and... pick up the pieces."

Markus smiles against his lips, pecking him once more.

"That's all I could ever ask for."

[rachelminetti]

inspired by harkive

i was scrolling through tumblr, decided to go through my recent likes and organize things into my different blogs. listened through some of velvet-seas, enjoyed a mix by dj lance lockarm, went to look them up on spotify, couldn't find anything so i turned to google. on google i scrolled until i landed on their discogs page and then a review from FreakyTrigger, which then led me to explore their website until i opened enough tabs to satiate my curiosity. i browsed their music section, found an article about documenting the writer's music listening history for a day, which was inspired by harkive.org.

and after doing a brief skim of their site and discovering that their annual review day is coming up on the 21st, i decided that i will do a quick rundown of today's day in music. i'll get back to reading more about the project and jotting down ideas, but i want to get this typed up before i get in too deep.

so what have i listened to today, thursday july 15th, 2021?

on my way to see george, i started where i left off on my camp 2012 playlist. i can't remember when i created this playlist on itunes/apple music, i wonder if it was before i even started streaming music? though, i find it hard to believe that i would have made it right after camp that summer. i'm going to do a quick google search and see if i can find out if there's a way to see when playlists in itunes/apple music were made like they show in spotify. so i'm not finding anything. oh well. last evening, mom and i went to the mall, parked by nordstrom. it was raining all afternoon, so the sky was still grey and it was heavy outside. late summer afternoons in the mall parking lot hold a particular weight for me so i decided to queue up my camp 2012 playlist, starting with silver lining by rilo kiley. this morning, the playlist started back up halfway through some devil by dave matthews, a song i probably haven't heard in at least 5 years. i graduated high school 6 years ago. i was in a daze in the car this morning, so i wasn't really listening or singing along. on swann, the shuffle played 3 consecutive red hot chili pepper songs (by the way, universally speaking, snow), i wanted to go back to my 2012 self. IF I MAY by pete francis made me nostalgic, dog nails tap the kitchen floor. while i waited in my car, hey hey hey and for the summer set me back a few years while i scrolled through tumblr and eventually tried to read a few pages of the spotify play. i shut the car off halfway through tutim techno.

at george's, i can't really remember the music he played. we talked about annoying tiktok songs and his love for die antward. we talked briefly about fiona apple while paper bag was playing. i saw something about the new john mayer album while scrolling through something and tried to find a leaked version of wild blue. queued up his interview with zane lowe on apple music to listen to on my way to rollin oats.

listened to that on the way there, can't remember if any music was playing while shopping. finished the interview on the way home, excited for the record to drop tomorrow. he talked about the construction of fake memories, i conjured up thoughts of making up memories from camp in the 90s, moments that are so fancifully constructed, they could never be real, and yet they feel so tangible. but i will continue to live in this secluded part of my mind that allows them to exist as if they not only actually happened, but i was actually there to experience it. this cannot be mentioned without acknowledging the role that exploring the camp coleman alumni group pages played in 2011-2012.

i didn't listen to music again until i went to go take a nap in my room after i was no longer satisfied with any of the comedy central stand up clips the youtube algorithm was feeding me. last night i fell asleep to a live performance by katy j pearson, thinking how wonderful her voice is. i shuffled the vicarious voyage playlist by jdavfromtheblock on spotify, adding some songs by adron to the queue and to my liked songs.

woke up and continued to listen to the playlist. after dinner, i sat on my bed while doing some GRE practice tests and continued to listen to the playlist. got distracted when i hit full moon by mitch margo, recognizing it from the seafaring stranger compilation by light in the attic i added sometime last year to my apple music library. i went through and queued some yacht rock songs (peter gallway, ned doheny). made it further along the playlist until it reached bumble buddies by jacob mann, which reminded me that jonwayne existed and didn't satisfy my expectations all over again (though, i did enjoy 40 winks).

at this point i had made it to scrolling through velvet-seas and started queuing up stuff i reblogged on there. listened to some cleaners from venus, unsure where i stand on that kind of music. it's not my vibe right now, but it has been and will be at some point.

somewhere between that and azealia banks, i hopped onto the dj lance lockarm mix which is ultimately what led me to typing these words right now. from his discogs, i found a 6 hr mix, people like us - a brief history of sound collage, he was featured in and then started listening to that on some random website google brought me to. i liked the third song, deck the hall by akufen, which i could only find on youtube. this of course led me down a little bit of a spotify hole and i added some recommended artists to the queue, none of which i really loved. i was ready to settle into another playlist, but i was still in a dance vibe, so i skimmed kelly's work from home playlist which then reminded me that not my boss! by blue hawaii existed, so i enjoyed that. somehow landed on tokyo ghetto pussy, which is what i was listening to right before i decided to listen to deck the hall by akufen again. going to have to download this one. ok just downloaded it and did a quick skim of his discogs. i have successfully stressed my spotify out, so i just quit and reopened the app.

so that's where i'm at. after this i am going to add music to apple music from my liked songs on spotify and then finish reading some tabs. this ended up being a lot longer than i anticipated, though i'm not fully surprised because i know that i can write forever about this stuff. this was really cool to see and i'm interested in potentially making this a daily habit.

[anchorsandadderall]

Save Net Neutrality or the Vampires Win

February 2nd, 2018

Time: 1:30 PM

Stiles swears fitfully and slams his hand down on his desk. He’s hit the computer one time too many already, and one more good one will probably kill the monitor. It also doesn’t make the stupid thing run any faster. He grabs his phone while the hourglass turns endlessly on a half-loaded webpage with a black background and white text. One of the old Geocities pages, and it looks promising. A lot of good information got dumped onto the web, hidden behind the shitty programming and the glut of amateur content all coming online at the same time. But the midi music and the little animated bat that replaces the cursor are killing what little internet speed he had these days.

Stiles grabs his phone and dials Scott, wiggling the mouse around so maybe the page won’t crash while it’s loading. The little bat shivers in one spot and then follows his mouse in a jerky, broken line.

“Yeah?” Scott asks, picking up on the third ring.

“Scotty! No time for questions. I need you to get on the internet and check something for me,” he says, grabbing a notepad. “I’ll tell you exactly what to put in Google.”

“Uh… I’m on Verizon, so I have to use Yahoo! to search,” Scott says, keys tapping on the other end.

Stiles tightens his fist. Goddamn it, FCC. “Okay. Well, this was on page 33 on Google, so you’re gonna have to skip ahead as quick as you can. Put in ‘Vampirism cure, obsidian rune circle, foxglove syrup recipe.’”

“Wait… what?”

Stiles groans. “Scott!”

“Stiles! You can’t just have me searching something like that and not tell me why!” Scott protests. Stiles can hear him typing again and reminds himself that yeah, that probably sounds really fucking scary coming out of nowhere. Although it’s also really fucking scary no matter what.

“So Isaac got bitten by a vampire. We have him chained up right now, but we only have until sundown to either cure him or feed him or he starves to death. Deaton said to check for rituals that use obsidian as a grounding agent, so-”

“Isaac got bi… what?? Stiles, what? Derek said vampires are bullshit!”

“Scotty, focus. Start scrolling through the search pages. Go to page 30 and start looking for a Geocities site called Penny the Pretty Pagan.” Stiles slams down on the F5 key as the page gives him a loading error. The screen blanks and gives him back the hourglass.

“Stiles. I thought-”

“Yeah, Derek thought vampires were bullshit. Apparently they’re not. Or there’s some other creature that infects people by biting them and sucking their blood.” And if there was, Stiles’ internet was way too slow right now for him to try and research a distinction.  He shakes his mouse in frustration at the scant two inches of black page that have loaded.

“I’m gonna call you back. Keep searching. Penny the Pretty Pagan.” Stiles hangs up and dials Lydia. Her voicemail picks up, so he hangs up and dials again, bracing himself for the onslaught.

“Stiles! I was in class!” she hisses into the phone when she picks it up, making Stiles wince a little. He owes her huge for stepping out of a class she found important enough to attend.

“I know, but it’s an emergency. I need obsidian and foxglove. Go to the library and find out where I can get some. Today, in Beacon Hills. Nothing on etsy.”

“Obsidian?”

“Vampire cure,” Stiles says, checking his phone as it buzzes. “Scott is calling. Let me know what you find.” Stiles drops Lydia’s call and takes Scott’s. “What are the ingredients in the syrup?”

“I dunno, I can’t access the website,” Scott says sheepishly. “It’s not included in my internet package.”

“How is a Geocities page not included?”

“I dunno, man! It was super expensive, so we cut back to the Netflix and email packages.” Stiles can almost hear the helpless shrug because he knows what Scott sounds like when he does that helpless shrug. “I don’t know how they pick what counts. Want me to call Verizon?”

Stiles checks the time. 2:12. “No time for that. Um… okay, see if you can Google florists and crystal shops in Beacon Hills. Call them and see who has obsidian and foxglove.”

“I have to use Ya-”

 “Yeah, Yahoo. Just search it. If you can’t open the page, use the phone book and just start calling places.” Stiles hangs up and immediately dials Lydia.

“I want you to know I’m getting super dirty looks for commandeering a computer for this,” Lydia whispers into her phone. “Seriously, everyone has to use the library computers for everything now. I had to pull rank on someone to get their computer.”

“There are ranks at MIT?” Stiles asks, then shakes his head. He’s gonna ask about that later. Right now… focus. “Never mind. Scott is looking for the stuff. His internet package sucks for research. I need you to find a Geocities site..”

 ~~

 February 2nd, 2018

Time: 4:00 PM

Stiles has a paper bag full of wine-red foxglove flowers in the backseat. He has half-written, half drawn directions to a new age shop just outside of town. The paper crinkles under his fist as he steers the Jeep with one hand and dials a number he hates dialing with the other.

Peter picks up halfway through the first ring, like he knows Stiles doesn’t actually want to talk to him. “Stiles. What a surprise.”

“I’ve got a recipe I need you to translate out of Latin,” Stiles says, in lieu of a greeting. Greetings are for when time isn’t almost gone. And for people he likes.

“How old is the Latin that you need me to translate it?” Peter asks, doing that thing where he’s interested and trying to sound really uninterested. “Some lost page of the Bestiary?”

“Newer than that. My internet is being stupid. I called my provider and they said my searches were flagged as suspicious and now the pages won’t…” Stiles eases his grip on the steering wheel when his fingers begin to lock up from gripping the wheel too tightly. Calm. Calm, Stiles. “Look. I’m sending you two pictures. The ingredients were in English but the instructions are in Latin. Just tell me what they say. It’s for Isaac.” Not that that means anything to Peter except that Derek will owe him if he helps his Beta, and Peter likes it when people owe him. Stiles sends the photos at the next red light and sends Derek a short text, apologizing for indebting him to his psycho uncle. Derek doesn’t answer because he’s trying to contain a half-formed werewolf/vampire hybrid.

It takes Peter less than two minutes to call him back. “I hope you don’t need this tonight.”

Stiles feels his heart sink down into his stomach. “Uh… I need it in about an hour, actually. I got the flowers, it won’t take that long to boil them down, right?”

“The syrup has to be brewed when Mercury is in retrograde.” Peter pauses like that means anything in the world to Stiles. After a few seconds, he sighs. “When Mercury is in retrograde, it’s a period that’s astrologically sound for making preparations on-”

“Okay, but when does it go into retrograde?” Stiles asks, but he kind of expects the answer isn’t ‘in the next twenty minutes.’”

“March 22nd.”

Stiles lets out a long string of curses that have built up over the last four hours. “Okay… so we have until sunset to find another cure for vampirism. What internet package do you have?”

“Just Facebook. What else does one need?”

Stiles pulls over and rests his forehead against the steering wheel. His brain hurts. It feels like he turned it inside out and wrung it dry. Come on, Stiles. Just… think.

“Have you considered robbing a blood bank?” Peter asks cheerily on the other end, sounding like this is all quite enjoyable for him.

Stiles gives his brain one last thorough scraping, then turns his head just enough to see the dashboard clock. 4:21. 90 minutes to cure a condition he’s still kind of surprised exists. 90 minutes for a Hail Mary miracle pass. Just one little miracle.

 ~~

February 2nd, 2018

Time: 5:25 PM

The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon. In the bowels of the abandoned train station, Derek can’t actually see the sun, but he can tell. The wet, base snarls Isaac has been making from where he’s chained in the rail car (the trick proved to be chains and piling debris on him, then adding more debris and more chains when he begins to pry free) are changing to something that sounds more painful. Derek flexes his fingers anxiously, claws flicking in and out. He checks his phone again.

[Where are you? -DH] -sent 5:10 PM

[Stiles. Answer me. -DH] -sent 5:18 PM

[What’s going on? Where are you? -DH] -sent 5:20 PM

Still no answer. He looks at the time and forces in a deep breath to tamp down the panic. There’s still… time. A little time. But there’s still…

“Derek!” Stiles half runs and half trips down the stairs into the crumbling lair and brandishes a blue lunch cooler at him like a trophy. “Here!”

“Is this that syrup you were talking about?” He pushes open the cooler and snorts harshly, turning his head at the rushing smell of copper from inside. “…blood bags?”

“If we can’t cure him, we have to feed him, right?”

Derek frowns, instantly disliking the idea, but… the sounds Isaac is making are turning from enraged pain into something weaker. More piteous. “What about the ritual you found?”

“Didn’t work out.” Stiles pulls out a bag. “Can he drink it cold? It’s probably gross either way, but he sounds hungry enough not to care, right?”

“I saw in an episode of Buffy once that crumbling crackers into it makes the texture nicer,” Peter says, using the stairs far more effectively, carrying another cooler in each hand.

“So… the backup plan is that we keep Isaac as a vampire?”

“Werepire,” Peter offers helpfully.

Stiles scowls and shoves the bag into Derek’s chest. “Like you can talk. You said vampires were fake and you don’t even have internet anymore.”

“I didn’t understand the-”

“Yeah, I know!” Stiles snaps, grabbing Derek’s shoulder’s and turning him towards the train car. “The internet sucks now. Make your angry call to the FCC after you get Isaac turned into a werepire. And make sure he won’t kill us all.”

 -End

[maychorian]

Get to Know the Author

Tagged by @eastofthemoon. Thank you!

1. How did you come up with your username and what does it mean?

“Maychoria” was the name of the main country in the fantasy novel I wrote when I was thirteen and fourteen. It means “happy land,” based on two words I found in a Greek dictionary we had in the house. So “Maychorian” basically means “inhabitant of the happy land.”

2. Which fanfic of yours has the most feedback? (bookmarks/subscriptions/hits/kudos).

On AO3, A Split-Second of Violence still has the most views and kudos and bookmarks, over 46k hits and almost 2500 kudos and 762 bookmarks. The first and second Boom Crash stories combined beat it, though, and Sell Me Your Nightmares beats it for comment threads. Over all platforms, I’m pretty sure my most famous fic ever is still Entertaining Angels, a deaged Castiel fic I wrote at the cusp of Supernatural fandom, just as Castiel was starting to get popular. I  happened to write that story at the exact right time, in the mid-season break when everyone was hungry for more of the intriguing character we’d just been introduced to, and cute deaged angel boy trying to help Sam and Dean with their respective traumas was bound to be a hit no matter who wrote it. Plus I gave him pneumonia. It’s a thing I do.

3. What is your AO3 profile icon, and why did you choose it?

Same as my current tumblr icon. Cuz Lance has the best expressions and he’s the cutest and the best.

4. Do you have any regular/favourite commenters?

I do, and I love them and appreciate them so, so much. If you comment on a lot of my fics and/or chapters, you’d better believe I notice, and I love you, even if I don’t respond.

5. Is there a fanfic that you keep going back to read again and again?

Basically anything in this tag: https://maychorianrecs.tumblr.com/tagged/personal-favorite.

6. How many stories are you subscribed to? How many do you have bookmarked?

Oh, golly. My work subscriptions at AO3 is currently at fifteen pages. A lot of those are completed or abandoned, though. No idea how many fics and authors I’m still subscribed to on ff.n, mostly in dead fandoms. I have 80 bookmarks on AO3 at the moment, but that is not an accurate representation of the fics I like and recommend others read. That would be @maychorianrecs, which currently has 681 posts and isn’t even complete even for the Voltron fandom, let alone the other fandoms I read now or have read in the past.

7. Which AU do you find yourself writing the most?

The Dream Seam ‘verse is definitely the one that owns the largest part of my brain right now, but I’m also looking forward to getting back to my DnD AU once I finish my current big projects. I tend to write more canon-divergence AUs than alternate realities, in most cases. I like exploring how things can differ across time if one small (or large) change is made in the setting we know and love. Like what if Castiel went back in time and ended up as Sam and Dean’s older brother? Love that one.

8. How many people are subscribed and bookmarked to you in total? (you can view this on the stats page)

User Subscriptions: 617 Kudos: 27064 Comment Threads: 5019 Bookmarks: 5631 Subscriptions: 2713 Word Count: 1169905 Hits: 325489

That’s insane, and it’s only in the last three or four years, since I didn’t really start using AO3 until mid-2014. I have a lot more before that on ff.n and other sites.

9. Is there something you’d like to write about but are afraid of people judging you for it? (Feeling brave? If so, share it!)

If there’s something I want to write and share, I will find a way.

10. Is there anything you would like to be better at? Writing certain scenes or genres, replying to comments, updating better, etc.

I wish I was better at action. It always takes me a lot time to sort of choreograph it in my head and then describe it in a way that makes sense. I also need to work on writing believable romance, since I want to eventually write more mainstream fiction, and it’s pretty normal for characters to have romances. I can’t just write everyone as being aro/ace or siblings, though I kind of want to. I wish I wasn’t such a procrastinator and had more energy to spare on responding to comments, because I really do love them and appreciate them.

11. Do you write rarepairs or popular ships more often?

Only if you count gen as a rarepair, which it kind of is. Otherwise, no ships for me, ever. I tried it. Didn’t much like it.

12. How many stories have you posted on AO3 to this day (finished and unfinished)?

70. Some of them are reposts. Eventually I need to get all of my fics over to AO3. It’s definitely the superior platform nowadays.

13. How many stories do you have saved in/with your writing program?

Unposted? Mm, more than five, less than a dozen. I tend to post things as soon as I’m halfway satisfied, because I crave that sweet, sweet feedback.

14. Do you write down story ideas, or just keep them in your head?

They’re mostly up in my head. If it changes by the time I start to write it, that’s fine. And if I forget an idea, a new one will come along sooner or later. I write in the now.

15. Have you ever co-authored a story?

Yes, a few times, most recently with ardett for Sewing Patches. It was a great experience.

16. How did you discover AO3?

Back when it was just getting started, I got an invite to the beta from an LJ friend. It wasn’t until years later that I got into sports anime fandom and decided I wanted to start using it, so I searched my email to find that years-old invite and used it.

17. Do you consider yourself to be a popular or famous author in your fandom(s) on AO3?

I’m well-known in the gen corner of my fandom, which is not the same thing as being a BNF in the fandom as a whole. I have no doubt that 99% of Klance fans have no idea who I am, and Klance basically IS the Voltron fandom, much to my annoyance. But I’m fine with the way things are. I interact with cool people all the time and get to show them awesome stuff and get nice feedback when I post fics, and that’s what I want.

18. Do you have a nickname or fandom name for your readers?

Nah. That seems kind of pretentious and arrogant.

19. Was there an author who inspired or encouraged you to write?

I’ve wanted to write since before I knew how to read, as far back as I can remember. As soon as I understand that those scribbles on a page meant something and told stories, I wanted to tell my own. Certainly in my teenage years I was very inspired by the fantasy and science fiction authors I adored, like Tolkien, Lewis, MacDonald, Orson Scott Card, Stephen King, Tamora Pierce, etc. I have been encouraged along the way by many, many fellow writers, as well. But as far as an instigating person at the very beginning, I can’t think of one. I just always knew that this was what I wanted to do with my life.

20. What writing advice would you give to a beginning author?

Just do it. Post it if you’re brave, keep it to yourself if you’re not. Make yourself happy first. Find one person who will read and enjoy your stuff, otherwise it will get stale writing only for yourself. But first and foremost, stoke the fire in your own belly until you have no choice but to use it, to let it fly from your fingers in words and paragraphs. Once you start, keep going, even when the fire burns low. Discipline is more important than inspiration in the long term, but inspiration is how you start.

21. Do you plot out your stories, or do you just figure it out as you go?

Mostly the latter. I’ve written from outlines in the past, and I sometimes do extensive freewriting before I start something to give myself some semblance of structure, but working from a strict outline isn’t really fun for me. I’d much rather  discover the story as I go. I subscribe to the Stephen King school of writing, the idea that a story is a boulder you dig up with a lot of hard work and exploring. Granted, that doesn’t always work perfectly, and it can lead to stories that are overlong and oddly structured or dissatisfying, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take in order to enjoy the process as much as possible.

22. Have you ever gotten a bad comment on a story? If so, what did you do?

Occasionally, mostly not on AO3. My feedback there is by and large very kind and enthusiastic. Every once in a while I’ll get a weird comment on ff.n complaining about some choice I made or chastising me for not doing what they wanted or expected with the story. Mostly I just laugh and let them go, though they used to bother me a lot. Once in a while they’ll make a solid point, and I’ll think about it, and maybe change the story a bit to satisfy the issue that’s bothering me, not for their satisfaction but for my own. That’s exceedingly rare, though. I think I’ve done it twice.

23. Is there a certain type of scene that you have a hard time writing? (action, smut, etc..)

Action is hard, yes. Dialogue and emotional scenes come easily, so naturally that’s the bulk of my stuff.

24. What story(s) are you working on now?

My ongoing series and stories are all currently in posting. I have some ideas on the backburner that I haven’t started working on yet, but I’m not the kind of writer who finishes a project before posting, so there’s nothing going on that my readers don’t already know about.

25. Do you plan your next project(s) before you finish your current ongoing story(s)?

Often as I’m finishing up a long project my mind will already be working on what’s next, yes. Not really planning so much as just daydreaming and working out scenarios in my head, but I do like that I never run out of things to do.

26. Do you have a daily writing goal set for yourself?

I try to write at least 750 words every day. Not always fiction, though, sometimes it’s freewriting or a diary entry. This post will probably be my writing for today. 

27. Do you think you’ve improved as a writer since you first started?

Indubitably, since for the very first story I wrote I asked my mom how to spell the word “fan.” I was five.

28. What is your favorite story that you’ve written?

Oof, that’s hard. In Voltron, probably Bury the Sun. I keep going back and re-reading that one. It just…hits my buttons. On purpose. I did that. In all of my fandoms ever, probably Coming Down on a Sunny Day. It came together in an extremely satisfying way, and I’m very proud of it, even though the last part never got very much feedback since the fandom had moved on by the time I wrote and posted it.

29. What is your least favorite story that you’ve written?

I started writing an original fantasy fiction called Cat by Night with the idea of posting it on Amazon and making money with it. But I started it out in very YA fashion with an incipient romance, and it just bored me to tears. I hated it. I couldn’t do it. Romance is not for me.

30. Where do you see yourself (as a writer) in 5 years?

I would love to develop my original fiction and discipline myself enough to actually start publishing stuff on Amazon and eventually make enough money to live on, maybe with the help of Patreon. RIght now, though, fanfiction takes up all my creative energy, and I don’t know how I would justify making a living off that.

31. What is the easiest thing about writing?

Making characters cuddle.

32. What is the hardest thing about writing?

Getting characters to the point where the cuddling makes sense and feels in character.

33. Why do you write?

For the sake of the cuddles, mostly. Also because I can’t imagine not writing.

No tagging today because I’m exhausted, but feel free if you want to do this. 

[spamzineglasgow]

(SPAM Cuts) The Noughties, by Dom Hale

Attending to the poetics of lightspeed capital, everyday internet phenomenology and aesthetic refusal, Mau Baiocco explores Dom Hale’s ‘The Noughties’, a poem taken from Hale’s debut collection Scammer (forthcoming, the 87 Press). 

> On February 1 a long poem, ‘The Noughties' drops into my inbox. 'I appear / to have failed to purge / my poem of evil' it reads roughly at the halfway point, '502 Bad Gateway / nginx / The literal just lost to me / Nostalgics / for toujours.' ‘The Noughties’ was first circulated as part of Dominic Hale's early 2020 edition of the file/pamphlet Scammer and at 44 pages takes up half of its contents. It is an experiment in serial and durational writing initially taking place between July 2018 and July 2019. Its form as well as composition are fragmentary, with short lines of unevenly indented text cascading down text boxes, an appearance that on the page bears a superficial resemblance to code, but when read aloud has all the jutting immediacy and scattered rhythms of something that cannot be compiled as a program or finished. And though I will attempt to trace questions around the relation between the internet, politics and poetics as they arise in ‘The Noughties’, a new and unprecedented arrival on something that might appear done to death (the ~internet~ poem), it should be noted from the outset that this poem is avowedly provisional, open to alteration and as much a mechanism of response to other poets and events as it is a finished work. Sitting down to appraise it, almost as a private inquiry, feels like refusing some of the poem's own motivations. If ‘The Noughties’ is about anything, it is about exchanges and modulations to be made outside the formal circuits of publishing, the commodity and ultimately capitalism. When read live—as I was lucky to witness twice in 2019—the poem is delivered at a rapid and at times overwhelming speed, straying far from considered intonation and 'poet's voice' but in an oppositional  mode long explored by various poets such as Verity Spott, Tom Raworth or Peter Manson. Its text is a camaraderie, in all the inviting and indulging senses of the word.

> To admit the internet into history is to arrest the entirety of its internal logic, its drive towards immediacy and delivery of information on request—or even before we request or begin a search engine lookup, as algorithms quietly dispense tailored content, autoplays and preempt any personal vicissitudes we might have at a given moment. As being online ceases to be a specific activity and becomes the very basis of our lives (and dramatically more so following Covid-19), the internet takes on a phenomenology identical to encountering everyday life: the external world, its colours, the weather, a sentiment, an object. Our words for being online can paint an entire life-world as it is really being experienced. I couldn’t stand it, the internet was so annoying today. This transparency is only superficial: what appears to be truly memoryless, debugged and free of glitches is owed primarily to the quiet labour of developers, data centre workers and content moderators—industries rife with overwork, exploitation and even trauma at the exposure to daily streams of violence and hate. Behind every phenomenal seamlessness is a world of labour and agency that has been wrested away from the internet’s users and makers. This is far from the resource that would remake the public sphere, the heroic age of the developer-hacker-blogger-writer. At some point in our lifetime a transition occurred between accessing a resource and living through its infrastructure. Had it happened any more dramatically we would rightly call it a revolution on par with any other that came before it, with political and interpersonal consequences no less significant than those of any other revolution.

> The critical internet poem, the post-internet long poem, the always-online poem has to account for such a revolution: the gap from Web 1.0 to Web 2.0. It has to account for it as a real event where political and affective possibilities were seized by the powerful and online spaces sequestered and rerouted into sites of economic capture. Hale's 'sorry for cross-posting / stupidly nostalgic for the fucking noughties' is poised at the aftermath of this revolution, speaking back to the first decade of the 2000s through a relentless clash with the proper names for corporations and individuals (Bezos, Cuadrilla, G4S, Bill Gates, Northern Rock, etc) who have shaped the current world we inhabit. Arrayed against them is a belated deference to modes of grassroots management of online spaces (apologies for the cross-post), the ability to render these spaces malleable via creative interventions (forking), techno-utopian dreams that cross with play ('Snorlax used Snore! / Sustainable day') and the metabolic ease and abundance of 'We / eat as we go'. And yet, we are constantly reminded that to move from the past to the present means being carried by a 'katabatic wind'—a ceaseless descent that finds its origins at every point of the noughties and carries us on through to today. These winds, the matter of the skies as an invisible mover, figure prominently in ‘The Noughties’, and they are our guide through the fragmenting online landscapes of the decade since. When the winds reverse they end up 'hoovering / up the teleologies'; ecological catastrophes such as wildfires are seen congealing 'under the / pearling cumulus'. Like the financial flows and exchanges that pervade the poem, winds can go unnoticed until they collapse upon themselves or crash against lives that mean to resist them. These moments are revelatory of a whole structure at once: 'A sky’s a style' or 'A sky’s a clause', the grammar which shapes our political and expressive possibilities is loaded with toxic fumes, global and intimate as weather. It all lays open for contestation.

> In comparison to the fast-moving streams of text, riffs on information and broken data that surround it, a sort of speaking self appears in ‘The Noughties’. The ‘poet himself, as part of as part exposed nervous receptor, part digestor and regurgitator’ as Alex Grafen has written on Scammer’s companion pamphlet/pre-release Addons. It is often rueful, self-castigating and circuitously arrived at. It appears regularly in the guise of a comment or interjection. A distance from the surrounding text—set aside by line breaks and Hale’s deft play with sentential clauses—makes space for simultaneous ironic detachment and sincere observation. This wouldn't be unfamiliar to anyone who spends a lot of time on the internet; it is after all a very common affective position to speak from online. Other forms of internet speech feature in the poem too: textspeak, emoticons, emojis, etc, but my own response settles on moments where this voice appears, as if a remainder of pre-technological communicability:

> Perhaps what makes them stand out is that they are so often addressed and imperative. The imperative falls in line with a poetics of refusal figured in Anne Boyer's essay No, from which Hale draws the epigraph, 'Sometimes our refusal is in our staying put.' Perhaps the commitment to speaking and interjecting works out as a refusal to speechlessness. But this persistence paradoxically discloses very little: it would rather not talk, not participate, go back over itself. On the other hand it may coax a life out of life; its speech becomes more a sort of 'negative silence' which to Boyer is 'the negative’s underhanded form of singing', speaking while not speaking and asking when not asking. I think these gestures of refusal also gain a specific valence within a long durational work such as ‘The Noughties’. From the outset the poem aims to figure as a text of life, a response born from the everyday. This specifies the refusal as a sort of refusal to the everyday temporality out of which it arises, a refusal of the working day or even a refusal to work: 'I will never / be fulfilled by any kind of work.' This is seen more clearly still as the poem develops and the specificities of the decade—war alongside economic boom, proliferation of websites, technologies and interfaces to enact one's self-presentation to the world, to give voice to our newly minted online selves—begin to add up. The voice threatens to drop out entirely:

> In these lines poetry is pitted against the ability to survive the everyday economies of making ends meet. It signals a larger background of sustenance, a whole undisclosed sphere which undergirds the year-long writing of the poem yet cannot be easily verbalised. The gloss we can give to the gap between this sphere and ‘The Noughties’’s own enactment is a no, a refusal to make the link between the circuits words take on page and those of the background out of which they emerge. There is a doubleness to 'now, now', shading over to both 'no, no' but also that the poem must return to its present elaboration, the site of its self-recognition. Reading this gap as a refusal opens the possibility that the poem's own dynamics—the very rhythms it falls into, its very online texture—can militate against the extension of working life into non-working life. 'Hacking', so often the trite word for unauthorised access into systems and circuitry, springs to mind here, but in its older meaning. A sort of choppy relentlessness abounds in ‘The Noughties’, where two types of ‘work’—that of the poem and that of the post-internet working day—extend into one another,  bristling at the seams and unveiling oppositions where we could have forgotten there were any.

> In Sleep-Worker's Inquiry, an anonymous text published on the communist journal Endnotes, a tech worker begins to dream in code, coming upon problems raised by their working life and solving them in their sleep. The worker asks if this is meaningfully different from their everyday waged work: 'When I find myself observing myself sleep-working, I observe myself acting in an alienated way, thinking in a manner that is foreign to me, working outside of the formal labour process through the mere spontaneous act of thought.' Self-estrangement has always been an aesthetic resource of the avant-garde, but its possibility always corresponded with the availability of leisure and other types of 'free' time. When our estranged selves are also signed up to the imperatives of production, what spaces are left for the creation of social alterities, dream worlds and landscapes where we do not come under those same imperatives? As technologies extend the working day by making us become forever available to our jobs, as the everyday labour of self-making on social media becomes collated and valorised as data which accrues its owners stock value to be exchanged on the market, distance from any economic activity becomes impossible. It becomes inchoate as the speaker’s voice in ‘The Noughties’, refusing as it proceeds.

> But I find that as I fixate on this voice of refusing, I almost forget that what makes ‘The Noughties’ so enticing to read and pick up is the heaving pile-up of dead data, outmoded imperatives and pithy renderings of cultural touchstones we would rather forget. 'What is this ‘dick chainy’ / and where can I get one?' To hold all these together, to attend to this conflagration of material is also to remember that, profoundly, the noughties were a fucking awful decade, with an enormous amount of political and cultural dead ends that the poem (happily) fails to enumerate. If the noughties represented the smirk of capital at history's end, ‘The Noughties’ enacts its degradation into our modes of present living. But we hold on to our imperatives, to care, to refuse and somehow make a world otherwise.

~

‘The Noughties’ is taken from Scammer, Dom Hale’s forthcoming collection from the 87 Press. You can watch Hale perform extracts at The Roebuck, London last year:

Text: Mau Baiocco Published 3/7/20

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Modern Animorphs AU (part 2)

@jollysunflora : The second half of my complete list of modern AU Animorphs headcanons, approximately one per book.  

28. “Ax,” Marco says, “How come you can roll out ‘venti dulce de leche dark-chocolate frappuchino extra whip’ without batting an eye, but you giggle every time you have to say the word ‘soy’?”

“It has so many vowel—owl?—sounds, in so little space,” Ax says.  “That long sssssssssss, so pleasant on the tongue, but then that odd oooyyy ooy-yah?  All in the back of the mouth.  Very strange.  Sssoooy.  Ssususs-oooyaaa.”

“Also, he’s moved on from the frappuchinos,” Tobias adds.  “Now he keeps spending all our hard-stolen bitcoins on espresso mack... mach...”

“Espresso macchiato con panna,” Ax explains.  “Doppio.”

29. Cassie feels herself sweating as she props the laptop across the room from her, tools laid out and Ax unconscious on the table.  She never expected to find a YouTube video on how to perform brain surgery—and to be honest, it’s actually about “how neurosurgeons perform an orbitozygomatic craniotomy,” not intended to be a how-to manual—but it’s the best she can do under the circumstances, and so she’ll follow along for now.  

MM3.  “That’s the kind of strong leadership we need.”  Jake gestures to the full-color television (this year’s latest model) where a program of their current leader plays on a loop.  “Keeping the wrong kind of people out of this country, saving America for the right kind of Americans.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Rachel says.  She and Tobias and Jake are the only three Animorphs, except when Melissa joins them sometimes, and listening to their “Supreme Leader” blather on gets old sometimes.  “All I want to know is whether it’s true that within a few years people will really have phones that plug into their cars.  That’d be cool.”

Tobias rubs his eyes against the silk of his wing feathers.  They itch constantly, since he doesn’t have a gas mask to wear every time he goes out into the pollution-opaque air outside the way that his human friends do.  Jake and Rachel take bets sometimes, idly, brutally, about whether he’s the last raptor left on the face of the planet.

“Magnificent!”  Drode appears in their midst, and both the Berensons immediately point guns at his head.

30. Marco is lying on his bed the day after watching Eva fall, staring at a patch of wall above his dresser, when he registers that his phone has been buzzing for a while now.  It goes off so many times he assumes he has to be getting a call, but when he checks his notifications he just discovers he’s gotten seventeen text messages in the last hour.  

The first is from “Smurfette,” and says “Did you know that there is a type of food that involves baking a cinnamon bun inside of a donut?  We must secure as many of these as it is possible for a human to consume, as soon as possible!”

The next one, from “Hawkgirl,” reads: “found out recently that apparently ax still thinks you invented flea powder.  i told him that if youd invented flea powder wed all be a lot richer right now.”

“Team Dad” (not to be confused with “Real Dad,” which is how Marco lists Peter) sent along several invitations to team missions on League of Legends this afternoon, along with a threat to have Cassie play Marco’s avatar if Marco doesn’t join in.  “we both know that by the time you get back you’ll have only healing attacks and she’ll have trained it to apologize automatically for stabbing people,” Jake adds.

One of the many texts from “Julia Butterfly Hill” suggests that Jake has underestimated Cassie’s diabolical streak, because it’s a screenshot of a clone of his account which has had its name changed to HarambeWasFramed.

The real surprise, however, is the single text from “Xena: Warrior Princess.”  It’s a link to an article about a disaster in the local national park and the efforts to clean up the wreckage of an as-yet-unidentified craft which went down in the canyon.  Marco has to read it a few times to understand the point she’s making, because it’s all about what’s not there: the article makes no mention of any human bodies being found among the wreckage.  

Marco gets halfway through typing a reply to them all which informs them in no uncertain terms that he sees through their transparent attempts to cheer him up and doesn’t appreciate it, but he deletes without sending.  He can practically hear his mom’s voice saying it: he can focus on the fact that he’s still surrounded by people who love him, or he can focus on the negative side of everything.  And being constantly negative is no way to live.  

31. “Sharing this again, because its been 3 months,” Jake’s cousin Brooke posts on Facebook.  “Anyone who has any news at all about Saddler, no matter what it is, PLEASE contact my family.  Big brother, I dont know if youre still out there, but I miss you.  I miss you like crazy.”

Jake turns up his Spotify’s Offspring channel a little louder to drown out the sounds of Tom and his dad shouting at each other downstairs.  His eyes flinch past Brooke’s post, but they can’t move fast enough to prevent the thought that flashes across the surface of his mind: Is this going to be me a year from now?

32. Tobias texts Rachel and Jake an article from Audubon.Org, where several birdwatchers are going into ecstasies of scientific fascination at the bald eagle and peregrine falcon seen flying in close formation in a cell-phone video taken near a highway overpass downtown.  His only comment is, “Told you so.”

33.  In the aftermath, Rachel does a Google search: “PTSD treatment symptoms outcomes.”  She reads through the WebMD site, the NIMH page, the Wikipedia link to a DSM-5 entry.  She thinks of Tobias’s withdrawn silences, his antipathy toward so much they used to enjoy, but she thinks of other things as well.  How exhausted Jake seems any time they’re not on-mission.  How badly Cassie flinches when the school bell rings and doors slam.  How Ax seems to be gradually losing interest in the things—cooking shows, new condiments, human history trivia, These Messages—that once drew his fascination.  How last week Marco flicked an ant off the back of his hand and then went white like he’d just kicked a puppy.  How good it had felt when she’d hurt David, spreading the pain around, giving it back.

She catches an Uber to the clinic downtown, filling out forms in the waiting room based on the checklist written on her phone for “how to get tobias an ssri”: Yes, she often feels tense and worried.  Yes, her heart often races for no reason.  No, she hasn’t thought of ending her life.  No, she doesn’t feel out of control when she eats.  

She gets as far as developing a cover story—it’s about how she’s never felt the same since her parents’ divorce—but in the hallway to the office she panics and calls Cassie.  “Am I doing the right thing?” she asks, after she’s explained.

Cassie is silent for a long time, never a good sign.  “I’m not sure an SSRI would work on a bird,” she says at last, “and that’s even if we could figure out a dose that would work without killing him.  I know you want to help, and I think you should, but...”

Rachel hears what she’s not saying: but what if her mom asks too many questions?  But is this risk really worth it?  But what if the psychiatrist (the receptionist, the pharmacist) is a controller?  But isn’t it them, and only them, against the world, and isn’t that just how it has to be?

“The war won’t last forever,” Cassie says weakly, and Rachel hates her a little for it.  “When it’s over, when we get to tell everyone what’s happening...”

Rachel hangs up.  She goes home, morphs, and flies out to the woods.  

«You know I love you, right?» she asks Tobias later that evening.

«Of course I do.»  He sounds exhausted.  She’s never felt more helpless in her life.

34. The Yeerk Peace Movement, as it comes out, has a Twitter feed.  It is rather painfully obvious that it has been set up and run entirely by aliens who are doing their very best to communicate with humans, and not quite succeeding. Most of the posts are couplets, for some reason that none of the Animorphs can fathom.  

“Want to be On Fleek? When you see someone’s rights threatened, speak!”

“Don’t be a Belieber anymore - end slavery and even the score.”

“#tbt: Remember when we were symbiotes?  Give taxxon freedom your sympathy votes!”

“Nickelback is super lame, and keeping involuntary hosts is just the same.”

“Respect your host’s rights today, and make your human into your bae!”

35. It’s Marco who comes up with the idea for how to take down William Roger Tennant.  This is a guy, after all, whose cockatiels have their own Instagram account: he runs his fame on the internet.  

“It's simple,” Marco explains. “We start a hashtag—#notsonicetennant—and we make it go viral.  All we have to do is film this guy everywhere he goes, and eventually the yeerk will slip up.”

It proves not to be simple after all.  Their gif of Tennant twitching madly mid-EPA speech gets overshadowed by the news story about One Direction nearly getting poisoned with spiders at the same banquet. Ax does not understand the concept of hashtag, and keeps adding #notsonicetennant to his retweets of what Marco calls “food porn.” They train one of Tobias’s repurposed GoPros to follow poodle-Marco, but that becomes a meme mocking the world's most obnoxious stray dog rather than Tennant himself.

The plan finally, finally comes off when they pull out all the stops and just confront him in morph.  The smartphones that Rachel rigged up in the surrounding buildings don't pick up the thought speak, but the audio of Tennant screaming at the aliens to leave him alone comes through just fine.

When the scandal breaks, the internet (in truly predictable fashion) drops #notsonicetennant and starts using #tennantgate instead.  

Ax reposts an old photo of Tennant eating a quinoa salad—zoomed in on the salad—and tags it #tennantgate.  All of his teammates assure him they appreciate the attempt.

36. “All right, that’s just weird,” Marco says, looking at the final entry in the underwater creepshow they’ve been walking through for the past hour.  “All the other ships have been getting more modern as we’ve gone, but this one?  Looks like it was made in the sixties, at the latest.”

«The world’s creepiest museum curators are getting sloppy with the placement of bodies as well,» Tobias points out.  «There’s no way that many people could fit on a boat that small.  They’re practically falling over the sides.»

Jake and Cassie look at each other, seeing the same realization reflected in each other’s eyes.  Neither one of them wants to say it out loud.

Jake becomes the one to bite the bullet.  “Don’t you get it?”  He points to the ragged clothes, the emaciated bodies, the modern smartphone tucked in among the antiquated radio equipment.  “They were refugees.”

37. Rachel shuts the window on the library computer as soon as she hears someone walk into the room, but she can tell she was too late by the look on Jake’s face when she turns around.  

“Roy Ludvig, huh?” Jake says.  “Heck of a name.”

“He was at the T.V. studio when we attacked.”  Rachel looks down, picking at her nail polish.  “No civilians were supposed to be in danger.”

Jake’s expression softens, as much as it ever does.  “And now you’re scrolling through his Facebook, looking for something that’ll let you sleep at night.”  

“He’s got a grandson,” Rachel blurts.  “Jordan’s age.  He...”  She shrugs.  He’s dead, and it’s more or less her fault.

“Shouldn’t be looking on Facebook.”  Jake sets his phone on the library table next to her, taps the screen to bring up an official-looking report.  “You should be, say, borrowing my dad’s computer.  Sending an email from his account to ask for the guy’s medical records.  If you had, you’d know that Mr. Roy Ludvig had a heart condition.  That he had maybe a year to live, at most, and doctors said he might die at any old time.”

Rachel looks down at the report for a long time, and eventually looks up at Jake.  “Doesn’t make it okay, what I did,” she says.  “He’s still dead.”

Jake shrugs.  “You don’t have to forget it ever happened, but you do have to live with it.  Live, and fight another day.”

38. In the aftermath of Estrid's visit, Tobias is flying over the boardwalk when he sees a henna artist who clearly smokes way too much pot to be a Yeerk. He gets Ax, they morph human, and both get henna tattoos of Elfangor's name. (Ax had previously expressed an admiration for the human tradition of commemorating a lost loved one by making markings on one's body.) They know the tats will disappear when they demorph, but they're both glad they did it. The artist asks how long they've been together, and Tobias says in a scandalized voice, “he's my UNCLE!” Thus, Tobias succeeds in both of his goals: making Ax laugh, and reminding him he has family here on Earth. Honestly, the reminder doesn't hurt Tobias either.

39. “You know, not all squirrels are like that,” Marco is fond of saying after a morph goes wrong.  “Not all termites are horrifying worker drones.”  Sometimes it’s, “You know, some of my best friends are fleas.”

It’s Cassie, however, who gets the last laugh out of that one.  «You know, Marco,» she says as they swim away from the wreckage of the helicopter, «Not all ants are like that, right?  I shouldn’t say that all ants are killers, right?»

Marco stares at her in silence while the others snicker, watching him war between the two impulses: to keep the joke going forever, and to express his honest hatred of ants.  

«Come on.»  And now Rachel has joined in on the teasing.  «You’re just going to let that kind of besmirching of the ant community stand?»  

«Okay, okay!»  Marco gives in.  «Ants suck.  Yes, all ants!»

40. “Our experts have examined the video extensively, and near as we can conclude, this footage is genuine and unedited,” the newscaster says.  “Given how viral this video has proven to be, with over two million views since it was posted to YouTube on Wednesday, everyone wants to know: is this footage proof that aliens exist?  Is this a publicity stunt for the upcoming Fantastic Beasts sequel?  Or, as one YouTube commenter asks, did a Smurf just have sex with a centaur?”

«Potential new ally?» Tobias suggests.  He’s already tapping out a search for the original video in his modified tablet.

Ax laughs.  «Of course not.  He’s crippled.  A vecol.  Useless.  We must respect the privacy of his isolation.»

“You know what?  Fuck that,” Marco snaps.  He shoves to his feet, posture tight with anger.  “Just... Fuck that,” he tells Ax.  “I have ADHD.  Attention Deficit whateverthefuck.  I take a pill every morning to help me function because my brain isn’t good enough to filter stimuli all by itself.  I got a fucking 135 on the world’s most boring IQ test and I’m still failing half my classes.  I’m a vecol.  You think I’m useless, huh?  You gonna start refusing to talk to me because of some bullshit about ‘respecting’ my ‘privacy’?  Huh?”

«That’s different,» Ax says.  «You’re not...»  He doesn’t seem to know how to finish that sentence.  

«If he’s an exception, I hope I am too,» Tobias says more gently.  «I got screened for anxiety disorders as a kid, and I guess we’ll never know if I qualify or not, ‘cause my aunt decided that doctors cost money and if the test said I needed one then she didn’t want to know about it.»

Ax doesn’t answer for a long time.  He doesn’t seem to know where to look.  

«Let’s go tell the others what we found.»  Tobias taps a button to send the video to himself.  «We can talk more about this later.»

MM4. Tobias flinches when his phone makes the small ping sound that means he has an alert.  The new kid is the easy target in every school on the planet.  He wonders what it’ll be this time: another Facebook post where the semi-anonymous account Toby IsALoser tags him in another meme about how he has to pay people for sex because the sight of his body would make any normal girl run away screaming, another unnamed Instagram ping telling him he should kill himself so that no one has to look at his stupid fat face anymore, another Snapchat image of a puddle of vomit with the caption “me when I think of you,” an email with the most disgusting gif anyone could find after a quick search...

It’s not, though.  It’s an invite to join a private Facebook group, called The Sharing, with several hundred local members.  Most of the names Tobias recognizes are cool older kids from the high school.  Intrigued, willing to trust for the moment that this isn’t some ridiculously elaborate prank, Tobias clicks “join.”  

41. Jake looks around at the enormous open field, concrete pitted with openings and low hovels of corrugated steel and rebar.  He can see for nearly half a mile in every direction before the smog makes it impossible, and the tallest things around are the hunched hork-bajir.  “Where are we?” he asks.

Cassie frowns.  “This?  Jake, this is downtown Manhattan.”

He gapes at her.  “What happened to it?”

“Tall buildings are targets for drone strikes,” she says casually, turning away.  “The only way to be safe was to go underground.”

42. Marco doesn’t bother going to the house of the guy who photographed them, nor does he try to catch the kid before he uploads the video anywhere.  Instead he waits for the image to appear on YouTube, then becomes the first commenter.  “Sweet manip!” he says.  “Is that Photoshop, or can you do that in free programs like Gimp?”

43.  “EarthIsOurs-dot-tumblr-dot-com?” Marco says incredulously.  “What does Taylor do there, post pictures of her pet taxxon?  Reblog plans for planetary domination?”

«Judging from her archive history, she’s had this blog for many years,» Ax says.  «She recently changed the domain name, but some of the content on here is from as early as 2008.»

Jake and Marco get caught up in debating with Cassie about what exactly to send to her, but Tobias just scrolls quietly through Taylor’s old posts.  She didn’t lie about being beautiful, he realizes, or about being popular.  There’s a long blank period in her tumblr account in mid-2014.  And then she posted one selfie—just one—after the fire.  

He can’t bring himself to read the names that the trolls call her, or the discussions about how much money they’d have to be paid to have sex with her.  But there’s no overlooking the suggestions that she kill herself.  The posts are too numerous, too vitriolic.  

“Every chick ever to wander onto the internet has gotten that crap,” Rachel says; clearly she’s been reading over his shoulder.  “She should’ve developed thick skin, not joined the Sharing.”

Tobias thinks of the Facebook page made at his old school just to discuss the fact that he’s a chubby zit-face, of the posts which eventually overwhelmed his Instagram with death threats.  «Yeah, I guess,» he says.

44.  It takes a long time for Cassie to get home from Australia, but at least they’re not too worried for most of that time; she texts them her location and a brief description of the insanity that landed her in the Outback as soon as she gets in contact with Yami’s family.

45.  “None of this makes any sense,” Peter says.  “I’m hallucinating, or you’re delusional, or else—”

Marco sets his phone in Peter’s lap. “Check the timestamp, Dad.  I took that six months ago.”

Peter stares at the phone for a long minute, and then slowly looks up at Marco.  At a clear loss for words, he tilts his head back toward the screen.

“I know.”  Marco laughs, the sound wet with tears.  “That blond wig looks terrible on her.  But it’s really her, Dad.  I swear.”

46. “So they’re going to get the U.S. embroiled in another war,” Marco says.  “And this one with a country that can actually fight back.”

«Seems like,» Tobias says.  «Only why bother with all the secrecy and political wrangling?  Why not just send a couple mean tweets to Donald Trump and Kim Jong-Un?  That’d probably do the job just as well.»

“No, it wouldn’t.”  Jake runs a hand through his hair, looking around at them all.  “The yeerks need a total war.  Everything the U.S. and its allies can pull out, against everything China and its allies can muster.  Our military has gotten too used to sending drones to fight its wars, to ‘tactical strikes’ against insurgents.  If the yeerks want half the species annihilated, they have to do a lot more than poke a couple of egos.”

47. “News flash,” Marco says.  “Your average suburbanite ain’t gonna accept a seven-foot-tall alien for a neighbor.  You know the number of times my mom’s been asked for proof of citizenship before she was allowed to vote or cash a paycheck or buy a car?  How many times she’s been pulled over by cops while driving the speed limit with her seatbelt on?  And she’s a regular old human being.  Toby’s right—the hork-bajir have a whole other fight coming if we ever win the war.”  

48. Rachel feels the blood drain from her face when she opens the Facebook message and sees the name attached.  David’s Facebook account has been defunct for almost two years now; there’s no one left who would want or even be able to access it from the outside.  Should be no one.

Miss me? the message from David’s account says.

Who are you? she types with shaking fingers.  What do you want?

I know what you did.  I’m coming for you.  I’ve got friends all over the place and they’ll find you.  They’ll kill you.  Amazing the allies you can get, when you know where the bodies are kept.  On the internet, no one knows you’re a—

Rachel hits “block.”  She tells herself that the screaming nightmares she has all that night and into the next are the product of having a stressful life, she’s an Animorph for pete’s sake.

She doesn’t stop shuddering every time she gets a message for the next two weeks, but she never hears from whoever (It wasn’t David. It couldn’t have been.) it was ever again.

49.  They stagger away from yet another hopeless fight, all of them injured, half of them missing limbs or bleeding to death.  Dragging their damaged bodies behind the first dumpster they find, they demorph, remorph, and force their minds to focus long enough for the long flight home.  It’s only when Rachel is in owl morph, staring around the dimly lit alleyway, that she sees the security camera pointed directly at their location.  

«They must not check it that often,» Marco says without much hope.  «Or else they’d be out here already to come looking for us.»

«Doesn’t matter,» Tobias says harshly.  «It had a perfectly clear view of all your human faces.  And that building is owned by the yeerks.»

They all stare at each other in dull shock as the realization sinks in.  They always knew this moment was coming—they could only be so careful for so long—and yet, on some level each of them hoped it never would.  

«Take one more night to be with your families,» Jake says at last.  «We evacuate everyone in the morning.»

Jake loses his phone, again, somewhere amidst all the chaos.  This time around he doesn’t bother to replace it.  It’s not like his mom is going to be wondering where he is, not anymore.  

50.  “So,” Jake says, “this is going to sound crazy, but—”

“Aliens are invading the planet, and you’re the only kid terrorist who can stop them?” James suggests.  “We do have wifi up here, you know.  You’re Jake Berenson, right?  You’re all over the conspiracy theorists’ forums right now.”

“Um.”  Jake runs a hand through his hair, starts again.  “Yeah, pretty much.”

James nods.  “In that case, you’ve got thirty seconds to convince me your story’s not a load of crap before I call security.”  

51. Ax secures their wifi in something a billion times better-hidden than Tor.  With that reassurance, they all end up starting blogs.

Marco’s is a rambling string of wry comments about everything from the invasion to his parents’ science projects.  Sample post: “Insider source (aka my mom): Visser Three has morphed human and eaten AN ENTIRE BAG OF MARSHMALLOWS in one sitting, ON MORE THAN ONE OCCASION.  Pass it on!”

Jake’s is the place that people go to find out how they can help, and to get his reassurance that the help means something.  Sample post: “As Barack Obama says, ‘We the people recognize that we have responsibilities as well as rights; that our destinies are bound together; that a freedom without a commitment to others is unworthy of our founding ideals, and those who died in their defense.’  This fight will never be over just as long as we keep supporting each other.  I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you all for the KickStarter donations.”

Rachel’s has beauty tips for the American girl on the run, light and self-deprecating enough that you often don’t notice the undercurrent of desperation.  Sample post: “If you want to be able to look at yourself in the mirror, try fixing your hair using reflective surfaces such as pots, ponds, or pieces of Bug fighter wreckage.  Alternately, just say ‘fuck it’ and never look at yourself again.”

Cassie’s tells people how to stay safe, and how to keep their environments safe as well.  Sample post: “Everyone please remember, it’s important to stock enough food and water for family pets as well as humans when retreating to an apocalypse bunker!”

Tobias’s has a lot of good-natured grumbling about everyday life in the valley.  Sample post: “In other news, my girlfriend’s mom is currently arguing with the smartest being on the face of the planet about where to put the new latrine facilities.  Sorry Naomi, but my money’s on Toby.”

Ax’s has a lot of food reviews, of course, but again there’s that undercurrent of desperation, almost like he’s trying to convince someone else (or maybe even himself) that humans are worth saving.  Sample post: “Marco assures me that there are no less than 23 distinct flavors contained within every sip of Dr. Pepper.  Just think of the years of experimentation and innovation it must have required to produce a drink which can inspire 23 different reactions from human taste buds, all at the same time.  Truly inspired genius.”

52. They run drills upon drills for what to do in case of a drone strike.  Using any morphs they have that can dig or build—mole, taxxon, elephant, beaver—the Animorphs create an extensive network of tunnels and shelters, posting guards at all times to keep their eyes on the sky.  The hork-bajir valley doesn’t show up on satellite imagery, which they only know thanks to Peter’s definitely-illegal fact-gathering missions on the darkweb, but they don’t know for sure whether an overhead camera would be subject to the same strange perceptual distortions they all experience when flying there as birds.  They nearly lose their precious secrecy when Naomi sends several emails from her work account, claiming she’s being held hostage and asking anyone who will listen to come rescue her.  Eva generates a hasty follow-up from the same account asking people to ignore “the prank that I now realize was in poor taste,” but none of them are sure it worked for the next several days.  

53. Rachel makes one last post on her nearly-extinct Instagram account.  This time the scrap of paper she uses appears to be torn from the back of a food label, but the penciled script is as intricate as ever.  It reads “Who wants to live forever? —Freddie Mercury, 1986”  

54. After it’s all over, Tobias retreats, he hides, but he keeps a thread of communication open.  Cassie shoots him an email with the subject line “Hawk patient with intermittent aggression and lethargy—any idea what could be causing it?”  Marco sends him idiotic memes that now feature the Animorphs’ names and faces.  Ax asks for constant updates on the new wing of Taco Bell being built downtown, and repays the favor by leaking confidential information about the search for the Blade ship.

And then he gets one of the stranger emails he’s ever received.  It’s an offer of a full legacy scholarship to Harvard University (which has just found the means to explain some inconsistencies in the records of one “Alan Fangor,” who graduated in the ‘80s) in exchange for Tobias teaching one class per semester on any subject of his choice.  He agrees, with the stipulation that all his classes be online.

The resultant course (Ornithology 442: An Insider’s Perspective) is like nothing the students who participate have ever seen before.  Tobias will write out rambling treatises on Why Blue Jays Suck or All the Ways Hawks Are Superior to Eagles with a thought-speak-to-text recorder.  He’ll deliver online lectures from a shaky webcam pointed into a nonspecific tree, occasionally wandering off for hours at a time to go hunting.  Students who ask him personal questions about Rachel get regurgitated mouse skeletons Fed-Exed to their campus mailboxes.  Essays that don’t demonstrate much effort get feedback such as “even I can tell this sucks and I have a seventh-grade education” or “my grandmother could make better sentences than this AND SHE’S AN ANDALITE WHO DOESN’T SPEAK ENGLISH.”  Assignments include “find one bird fact in a textbook and explain why it’s a load of crap” or “go film a Boston pigeon until it does something interesting, I dare you.”

Nevertheless, enrollment is so popular that Harvard has a three-year waiting list and charges students an extra $500 just to sign up.  When Tobias finds out about the extra fee, he promptly video-calls the Intrepid, gives Ax remote access to his computer, and explains why he needs Ax to convert the course illegally to a MOOC.  Harvard University fires him for breach of contract; Yale hires him on that very same afternoon.  

part 1 here 

[teimywimey]

Chapter 2 is up!

Summary:

Every person is born with their soulmate's name written somewhere on their body. Symmetra’s used to be on her left wrist.

Or

Sombra has no real connections. The person she used to be did, but it’s better this way. Soulmates complicate things.

Chapter under the cut

Sombra paces in her hotel room, trying to keep her breathing steady. Her heart hammers in her chest. Come on, idiot. You’re Sombra. Sombra always knows what to do. Sombra always has a plan.

She doesn’t have a plan.

Soulmates had never really worked out in her experience. Half the kids she had run with in Los Muertos had felt their soulmates die - she remembers Angelo, who had been like a big brother to her, curling into a ball and clutching his bicep where his soul mark burned, screaming the name of a woman he never got a chance to meet. She remembers how the mark on the back of her mother’s hand had faded to scars even as she had refused to let her children give up hope. She remembers waiting for the pain to flare on her own wrist and for the gold letters to turn white, hoping that the seemingly inevitable loss would hurt less if she was ready for it. She remembers, and she knows that she must choose logic, she must choose to fight anything and anyone that would even try to control her.

And yet.

She can’t help but feel a certain pull towards the architech. It almost feels like recognition, and she supposes that, in a way, it might be. People believe all kinds of things about how soulmates are paired, but everyone talks about how you just know. And Sombra just knows.

She sits on the edge of the bed to breathe through the waves of fear. Pull yourself together. Sombra isn’t afraid of anything. She takes a deep breath in. Not even your soulmate being the most talented, intelligent, gorgeous- she forces that train of thought to stop as she exhales. Focus.

In, and out.

In, and out.

As Sombra calms, she pushes the unhelpful feelings away.

In, and out.

Be logical.

Something has to be done. For now, she has to ignore the fact that Satya is her soulmate. She sighs. It’s not like ‘Sombra’ was the name on her wrist. That person can’t exist anymore. I am Sombra, not that little girl.

Sombra opens her holoscreens and pulls up the profiles of the other architechs. There has to be more information. She makes notes for a while, but finds it near impossible to stay on task. Eventually she returns to Satya’s file. She can’t help but wonder what Satya would think of her. She is elegant where Sombra is crass, quiet where Sombra is harsh. How are we supposed to work together?

As she stares at her screens, she considers the facts of the situation. Vishkar is doing anything and everything to sate their greed; no one else has had both the means and the will to do anything about it; her soulmate is among the people in need of help. Sombra hates feeling obligated to do anything. Even Talon knows better than to try to force her into completing a task she does not want to do.

And yet.

Taking down Vishkar has to be done - for Lúcio’s sake, if nothing else. They have to be punished for what they’ve done. Sombra doesn’t want to admit it, but her curiosity about Satya is growing with every moment.

Sombra sighs. Of course this is the one time that my heart and my head point me in the same direction. Taking a deep breath, she hacks into Vishkar’s network and searches it for Satya’s computer.

---

Halfway across the world in Vishkar’s Utopaea headquarters, Satya settles into her apartment after work. The day had been long and tedious, filled with endless meetings and trainings and appointments. Ever since she had returned from Rio, things had felt ever so slightly off - almost like her fellow employees were watching her a bit more carefully. She had brought it up during one of the monthly psychological evaluations, but decided to drop it when Sanjay scolded her for it afterwards.

She sits on the couch and opens her laptop to check her email. It takes a second or two longer than usual for her to log in, and when she does, something seems wrong. She pauses.

One, two, three, four, five - the correct number of columns in the grid of icons on the left side of the screen. Two, four, six, eight, ten - the correct number of rows. Satya frowns. Separate from the grid, off to the right, there is an outlier, a word document she does not remember creating.

The text underneath it reads “hello.”

Satya deletes it and runs a malware scan.

The scan comes up clean and she goes to check her email.

She answers a few from colleagues, and a few from clients. Sanjay had sent an email asking for a report that Satya is sure she had sent him at least twice already, but she sends it again anyway. As she searches the documents folder, she sees it.

“Hello take 2,” this one is called. When she minimizes the windows she has up, sure enough, another icon has appeared on her screen. She deletes it and continues on with her business. Maybe someone is just messing with me. Some of her coworkers liked to do that sometimes. Their joking didn’t bother her when they left her out of it, but this was too much.

She sends the last few emails, and exits all the windows to check for another icon.

“plz”

Satya pinches the bridge of her nose. They don’t pay me enough to deal with this. She sighs and opens the document.

It is blank.

Satya isn’t sure what she was expecting.

She closes it, deletes it, and runs another scan. Still nothing is flagged. She almost screams in frustration when she closes the scan window and yet another icon has appeared. She opens it and taps out a message.

Why are you doing this?

Satya glares at the screen as though that might make the person on the other end reply faster. After a moment, the cursor jumps a couple lines down the page and the text color changes to purple.

I have information for you. You have the right to know.

The words send a spike of combined dread and curiosity through Satya. She presses enter twice and types:

Who are you?

The cursor moves again, then sits there blinking on the page.

I’m

It pauses. A ‘y’ appears and is quickly deleted.

a friend.

Satya frowns.

If you are my friend, you can communicate with me through more appropriate channels. I do not appreciate what you’re doing

The cursor moves almost immediately when she finishes typing.

I know, I’m sorry. We haven’t met

Satya presses enter before the person can continue.

Then how are we friends?

There is a pause, then the typing continues.

Details, details. I’m a friend and I mean you no harm. Please listen to me.

The cursor jumps down and waits for Satya’s input. She sighs.

Fine.

The stranger types out the address of a website, a username, and a password.

Log in.

What is that?

An ‘appropriate channel.’

Satya rolls her eyes and opens the web browser.

The website appears to be a local news site for a small town that Satya has never heard of. She logs in with the information she had been given, and is surprised to find what almost looks like a forum. She freezes. A chat window pops up at the bottom of the page.

Sombra: hey!

Sombra: I’m the friend

Hermosa: What is all this?

Sombra: just an archive of stuff, and sort of a forum. Most of it is locked for you right now, and none of the other users besides me can interact with you yet

Hermosa: Why is it locked if you want to give me information?

Hermosa: And who are the other users?

Hermosa: How does this work?

Sombra: a curious mind, I like it ;)

Sombra: 1) just a precaution, 2) some friends of mine. Maybe three of us use this regularly. 3) it’s hard to explain, but do some research on virtualization if you want, it’s cool shit

Sombra: go to the corps tab, >Vishkar, >Rio/Calado

Satya goes to the tabs as ‘Sombra’ instructed. She looks through the compiled information and almost forgets to breathe.

There is CCTV footage of Symmetra in the Calado building on that night, footage that shows her knocking out guards and looking through files. There are recordings of conversations between Vishkar employees, Calado employees, and government officials. Medical reports, death certificates, lawsuits - there is so much information, so much incriminating information, that all she can do is sit and stare. The pinging sound of a notification startles her.

Sombra: I know this is probably a lot to take in

Sombra: this is what I wanted you to see first

One of the files becomes highlighted in purple. Satya clicks on the first one apprehensively.

It is a recording of a phone call between Sanjay and one of the Vishkar CEO’s underlings. Her heart sinks as she listens.

“-and good job with the placement, that fire saved us the headache of buying the land.” The man chuckled. “At this rate you’re in for a promotion, Korpal.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sanjay responded. “I should also let you know - Vaswani didn’t like what happened.”

“Well, that’s why we don’t leave the decision making to Vaswani, isn’t it? Remind her of her place, tell her whatever she wants to hear. Let her keep dreaming.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep a closer eye on her, too. We don’t want too many funny ideas to take root.”

“Yes, sir.”

Satya closes the recording. She sits and stares at the screen, at a loss for what to do. No, I- no. It can’t be real. It’s a joke. We’re making the world a better place.

Frustrated, she logs out of the website and goes to delete all traces of her conversation with Sombra. She is surprised to see that the document they had been talking through earlier had already been deleted and replaced with something new - “Satya.” She almost doesn’t want to, but she looks at what it says.

Satya-

I know this is hard to believe, but it is real. All the information I have to give you is real. You’re trying to make a better world - so am I. We can help each other. Just think about it. And don’t worry, I will make sure that there are no traces of me for Vishkar to find.

Vishkar will not stand forever. I’d love to work with you.

-Sombra

Satya closes the document, and moments later, it is deleted. She sits curled up on her couch, watching the sun set over the Utopaea skyline, and considers her options.

---

Sombra falls into an uneasy sleep after she finishes cleaning up the evidence of her intrusion into Vishkar’s network. She dreams of a child playing in a field with her brother and sister, waiting for their mother and father to call them in for dinner.

---

Sombra is woken at dawn by a notification. She checks the archive and selects the blinking chat window.

Hermosa: This is how it’s going to be. I will ask you questions - about anything and everything, and you will provide me with answers and sources proving those answers. If you ever lie to me, I’m out, and I will take everything I know to Vishkar. Deal?

Sombra laughs as she reads the message. I like her already.

She grins and responds.

Sombra: Deal

Author’s note: credit where credit is due - the talking via the word doc is inspired by the Millenium series by Steig Larsson, can’t remember which book

[travisfuson]

Storms of Twenty Seven

          Just as the couple exited the restaurant, streetlights began to come to life. Their glow was dim at first, slowly growing to a bright shine. The sun had yet to fully set over the city, washing the street in an orange hue. “Thanks again, that was really fun,” the woman said while she fiddled nervously with her watch.

           “Yeah, yeah, no problem.”

           “You know it’s still really early – we could catch a movie down by the pier?” She looked down from her watch to her date. He was looking at his phone. She could see over his shoulder that he was staring intently at his background. “I mean, I don’t work tomorrow morning, so….”

           “Yeah, yeah.” he paused. “I don’t think… I think I don’t want to, exactly.” He put his phone in his pocket, examined the streetlights, and then looked up to her. Her heart began to sink to her shoes; she’d seen that look before.

           “Oh, well, we could go back to my place and-“

           “No, it’s, not, you know, it’s not the movie, it’s,” he fumbled with his words. He shifted his weight from the left foot to the right, and back to the left, planting it firmly. “You know, you’re really sweet and good looking, yeah?” She closed her eyes, gripping the strap on her purse, bracing for impact. “It’s like, you’re swell, yeah? Yeah and, like, you’re funny and, you know, you’re….” He trailed off. He could read her face through her curled lips and furrowed brow. He shifted back to his right foot and put his hand on his phone in his pocket. “I guess you know what I’m gonna say, then.”

           “I just want to know why. I thought,” she clenched her eyes tighter for a moment before opening them. His stance was flimsy, noncommittal. A stiff breeze would send him over. “I thought we were doing well? The first date was good, wasn’t it? I thought it was good.”

           “It was, you know? It – Sarah, you’re great. Really! You’re gonna find a guy, and I wanted to give it a try, but, you know…. And this has nothing to do with you, it’s me, it’s a me thing, but,” He tapped his toe on the ground and took his hand out of his pocket. “You know, it’s like….” He sighed, and scratched his head. He decided to rip it off like a band-aid. “You’re like six foot two, at least, you know? And that’s not in heels or anything. Like, it’s nothing wrong with you but, you know, it’s not for me, yeah?”

           Sarah felt like she was hit square in the breadbasket. Her heart fell to her hips and the air got sucked from her chest. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it, and it wasn’t the worst way she had been told, but that did little to dull the sting. She ran her hand up and down the strap of her purse. A car drove by and as it passed, a thick silence began to fall over the street. The man broke it again, shifting backwards a few steps. “I think it’s just best if we stop sooner rather than later, you know? I don’t want to hurt you or anything, yeah?”

           “Yeah.”

           “Okay. Cool.” He took another step backwards, starting to turn. “I’m really sorry. You’ll do great though. Have a good… you know, take care.” He turned and walked down the street briskly, rounding a corner and disappearing from sight. Sarah stood there a few moments longer, watching where he went as the sun finally set, draping a dark blanket over the sky.

           She let loose a heavy sigh, letting the weight of the conversation roll down from her shoulders. He had walked in the same direction as her apartment, and her superior stride would catch her up to him in no time. “I guess I’ll take the long way home.”

*

           Gray clouds obscured the stars, and a gentle drizzle began to patter on the streets and rooftops of Red City. Sarah quickened her pace, determined to get home before the rain ruined her favorite dress. She ducked into the first convenience store she saw, hoping to wait out the sudden downturn in weather. It was a dingy little place with yellowed walls and cracked linoleum, and not another soul in sight. She grabbed two cans of wet cat food before setting them down, and picking up a single bag of the cheaper dry variety. She headed for the unmanned counter and waited. After a minute she began to wonder if anyone was actually there, and she turned her gaze around the store, peering over the shelves in search of the owner. “Hello? Is anyone here?” she called. There was no answer, and so she continued to wait. A newspaper stand beside her caught her eye, the front page featuring news from just the day before:

           LOCAL HEROINE SUBDUES DOCTOR SUB! SEAFARER’S BRIDGE BOMB PLOT DIVERTED! The accompanying picture of a masked heroine holding a man dressed in an old-fashioned diver’s suit over the edge of a bridge was almost absurd. What must have been hundreds of pounds of man and metal were being held with one hand like a bag of groceries. Between the two of them, the woman was easily the more imposing of the two. But the crowd in the background was captured in a moment of thunderous applause, and the sub-header below read: IS MISS COBALT ON HER WAY TO BEING THE MOST POPULAR SUPERHERO OF THE YEAR?

           The last line curled Sarah’s face into a crooked smile. She laid her money down on the counter, and carried the bag of cat food out in her arms, stepping into the rain. “Popular my ass.”

*

           “Noodles! Noodles, mommy’s home!” Sarah entered her apartment sopping wet, closing the door with a foot and patting around on the wall for the light switch. The lights came up on the little one bedroom apartment which was sorely in need of cleaning. Dishes were scattered about, piling up on the coffee table and in the sink. “Tomorrow, definitely. Since I have no plans. Definitely.” She walked into the kitchen and opened the bag of food, pouring some into the dish on the counter. “Noodles you fat jerk, come say hello!” The sound of dry food clattering into the metal bowl roused the cat from slumber, tugging his chubby body out from under the couch. He lazily strode over to the counter, jumped and nearly missed, struggling to pull his generous backside up. He made a beeline for his dish, only to be stopped by a hand. “No, I said to say hello! I’ve been gone all day!” Sarah scooped up the cat in both hands, putting her face against his. “Haven’t you missed me even a little?”

           Noodles had no response.

           She sighed and set him back down on the counter, and he went to eating straight away. “You fat jerk, I know you love me. You could stand to show it once in a while though.” She leaned on the counter, her chin in one hand while the other stroked the cat’s behind. “I got dumped again today. I wasn’t even that much taller than this one. Four inches, max. And he was so nice, too.” Her eyes drifted to the rain against her window. “Not that nice, I guess, since he broke up with me for such a stupid reason. I mean, is it even dumped? Two dates, we weren’t really dating yet, right? Should I count this one?”

Noodles continued eating.

           “I guess taking down my DateMe profile was too optimistic, huh? But I didn’t want to seem like I wasn’t going to be serious about him, you know? I wonder if he took his down when we set up our date.” She stood up straight, grabbing a dishtowel from on top of the refrigerator and tried to dry her hair. She squeezed the water from it, letting the towel drape over her eyes. “I guess I could start it up again, but would that seem too desperate? I’ve only been back on the market for an hour and a half.”

           Noodles had finished his food and was halfway under the couch again, struggling to get his full belly through the opening.

           Sarah watched in amusement, taking the dishtowel off her head and putting it back on the refrigerator. She shook her head at her cat and herself. “I’m asking my cat for his advice. I think I am desperate.” She went to her bedroom and slipped her dress off, letting it fall to the floor. “Matching underwear was also probably too optimistic.”

She looked in her mirror, hands on her hips. She thought she looked good, she really did – but the top of her head couldn’t quite fit in the full body mirror, and in that, she saw what almost every other boy from middle school to Dr. Sub said about her. Amazon. Giant. She-Devil. They were intimidated, and while she thought it was funny while she was younger, it was starting to wear her down by twenty-seven. She slipped into her pajamas, and looked at the clock. 7:25 PM. The trend was beginning to look like a way of life.

*

           In the living room Sarah sat on her couch and opened her laptop. She navigated through a few pages until she brought herself back to her DateMe profile – an online site she had thought herself too good for in her early twenties was the driftwood she clung to in the storm of her later ones. With a few familiar clicks, she reactivated her profile. Welcome Back! The page read. “What a horrible thing to say at a site like this,” Sarah thought. “Ideally I wouldn’t ever be here after the first time.” Since you’ve been gone, please update your profile! She rolled her eyes. Two weeks time hadn’t given her time to make any drastic changes.

            First, upload a picture of yourself! The previous picture she had used was of herself and her sister. She envied her little sister Mable – she didn’t get half the strength Sarah had been blessed with, but she did end up about eight inches shorter. Mable didn’t seem to have these sorts of problems, at least. She decided to change the picture to one taken of just her at a concert earlier that year. She was tired of getting messages asking if she was, “the giant one or not.”

           How would you best describe yourself? Sarah paused, rolling over the question, feeling it was probably harder for her than for most women. At worst, most people needed to hide their bad habits like nail biting or drying their hair with dishtowels. Sarah had to carefully navigate the minefield of not announcing her secret identity. “Career driven. That sounds good and normal, right?”

           Career driven, eh? Would you miss a date for work? Sarah clicked the affirmative without a second thought. Banks are rarely robbed at a convenient time, and doomsday plots don’t take rain checks.

           What do you do for a living?  She winced. “Ah, do I say… law enforcement? Would they be able to fact-check me on that? Could I get in trouble…? Oh, I know! Loss prevention! That’s sort of true!” She typed it in with renewed vigor. “Sounds kind of official that way.”

           How important is money to you? Lightning flashed and thunder cracked. She looked up from her computer, and saw her tiny apartment illuminated by the bolt. She made ends meet working part time at a grocery store as, much to her dismay, heroic work is more of a non-profit lifestyle. She tried to wrap her head around how some of the other superheroes did, if they were living the same way she was, or if they had some sort of secret money-making strategy she hadn’t been let in on. She tried to consider the point of the question – to match her with people with similar answers. She didn’t need someone with a lot of money, and hopefully whoever she met wouldn’t expect a lot of money from her, either. “I guess not very important is the right answer.”

           Is it okay to lie to your partner, if it’s just sometimes? This one gave her pause. She put her hands to her head, pressing her palms against her eyes. Miss Cobalt told everyone that honesty and hard work were the only ways to live your life, and if you did, you’d surely succeed. But the hypocrisy was never lost on her that she said that behind a mask. Was she not the biggest liar she knew? This part of her life she kept secret from everyone, even if by omission, was still a lie. She closed her laptop and set it on the coffee table. “I’ll… come back to that one.”

           Sarah stood up and paced around her apartment, stepping over cat toys and discarded clothes. She walked to the window and watched the rain fall over the city. Lights from windows cut through the rain and illuminated snapshots of other people’s lives. Families gathered around television sets, a man having an animated argument on a video-chat, an elderly couple sharing a meal like they had so many countless nights before; Sarah envied them all, in some small way. The good and the bad, the people were living their lives connected to one another. Rain continued to patter on the window, growing in intensity.

           A sharp ringing noise snapped her from her thoughts. She turned quickly, looking around the apartment. “Phone!” She instinctively ran towards her purse, darting to the door. “Not there, wait, where did I – Kitchen? No, wait, bedroom, bedroom! I’m coming!” she called out as the phone continued to ring. She went to the bedroom, rummaging through her purse, pulling out a bright blue cell phone. It was off, and she sighed with relief as the ringing continued. She set the blue phone aside, and pulled a second phone from her purse. The screen read in large bold letters: MOM. Sarah’s chest tightened up all at once again, and almost reluctantly, she put the phone to her ear. “Hello…?”

           “Well! How did it go?” a cheery voice on the other end of the phone almost deafened Sarah. Too much exuberance to handle all at once, she pulled the phone from her ear and switched it to the opposite side. “How was the date with Clyde? It was Clyde, right, that’s the new one? From the bank?”

           “It uh, it was fine. It was fine, Mom.” The sound of rain bouncing off the window was staccato and uneven. Wind rattled the fire escape and the gutters, threatening to shake loose all of the plants hanging from them, sending them toppling towards the flooding streets below. Sarah switched the phone to her other ear.

           “He dumped you, didn’t he?” the tone was accusatory, but Sarah couldn’t quite tell towards whom.

           “Yeah, we decided – we figured we’re just not a good fit, Mom.”

           Thunder crashed outside, rattling the windows. “This is outrageous, Sarah. When are you going to get your life together? You’re pushing twenty eight years old and you’ve never had a steady boyfriend! Never once! Are you gay? Is that what this is about?”

           “No! Mom, I’m not, I’m not gay, it’s just-“

          “You know I wouldn’t care! Your cousin, Herschel? He’s gay, and his boyfriend is lovely. It’s fine if you are, dear. I seriously don’t care!”

          “Look, Mom, I gotta go, okay?” Sarah shifted the phone to her other ear, clasping her free hand to her elbow. “I’ll call you on Saturday, alright? Love you bye!”  

           Sarah hung up the phone before her mother could protest. She paced around her room, pinching her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger while the storm outside grew more violent. Lightning and thunder came hand in hand, shaking the apartment to its roots. Wind splattered rain against the side of the building, as if trying to push it over.

           Throwing herself face down onto the side of her bed with a heavy thud, Sarah tossed her phone into the pile of blankets forming at the foot of the bed. She pushed a pillow aside with her cheek and let her legs hang over the mattress, toes still reaching far enough to brush the floor. She closed her eyes tight and curled her lips. Rolling to her back, she opened her eyes to stare at the ceiling and the light above her. Her eyes began to dance with spots and swirls. Her mind went back to her date’s face, tinted orange with the setting sun as he awkwardly shuffled like a cornered child. “We just weren’t a good fit.”

           From the bed, the light switch by the door was barely within her reach. She considered turning off the light and crawling under the covers when the apartment shook again – this time not from thunder, but from a vigorous pounding on her door. She lifted herself off the bed and strode quickly for the door. The knocking came constant and hard, each blow as if the person on the other side of the door was having a fight with it. “I’m coming, just wait!”

           As Sarah opened the door, she was met with a familiar scowl – the middle aged man who lived beneath her, scruffy and shaggy in all the wrong ways. She barely had the door open before an accusing finger was thrust across her threshold. “If I told you once, I’ve told you a thousand damn times! Quit your damn stomping around up here! Have I not told you a thousand damn times?!”

           “Mr. Stewart, I’m sorry, but I keep telling you, I’m not stomping, I’m just-“

           “Yeah right, look! I work thirds, you know what that means? I sleep weird hours, and every day, every day it seems I’m up here telling you to quit stomping around! I haven’t gotten a good sleep since you moved in, you know that! I don’t know what you’re doing up here, but if you don’t cut it out I’m gonna get you evicted, you hear me?” His breath reeked of sleep and plaque, assaulting her nose with impunity. His finger had not altered its trajectory even slightly, still aimed squarely at her chest. “You gotta keep it down, this is damn shared space! Didn’t anybody raise you better?!” Before Sarah could try to defend herself again, he retracted his finger. “If you say you’re not stomping, then you better start tip-toeing, you damn Amazon. I’m sick and tired of living beneath a damn circus!” With that, he turned and headed down the hallway, leaving Sarah mouth agape at her open door.

           A moment passed, and thunder crashed again, causing the lights of the hallway to flicker. “Yeah, well… your breath stinks, how about that?” she finally said, and closed the door. She shook her shoulders out, letting it all wash over her like the rain. She stepped gingerly from the door to her couch, gently lowering herself into it and staring out the window. Noodles pulled himself out from beneath the sinking couch and slunk over towards the window, hopping up to perch on the sill.

           Her view of the rain obstructed, Sarah leaned forward to open her laptop again. The last question stared back at her, eagerly awaiting her response. She steeled her resolve and braced herself, fingers adamantly punching the keys as if she had something to prove. “Sometimes you have to lie, if it’s to protect someone else. God, it’s too complicated – how am I supposed to give a black and white answer on something like that?” Noodles bat a lazy paw at the raindrops streaking down the glass. “If I can’t be honest with them, I’m at least honest with myself.”

           Alright then! What’s your dream vacation? And no lying! ;). Sarah was taken aback. “Don’t you winky-face emoji at me you sonuvabitch – who writes these prompts?” She blinked a few times in disbelief, about to walk away from the whole thing again, but the question began to chew on her. Vacations were something she had always thought about, but had officially decided were a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not just financially, but morally – what if Beast King tried to abduct all the animals at the zoo while she was busy cultivating a tan on some beach somewhere? Sure, the city got by with robberies and small crimes before she showed up, but she had caused a dependency on herself to bloom in her wake. Whether she meant to or not, Red City could need saving at any time, and Miss Cobalt had promised to answer that call if it came.

           But what about Sarah? Sarah, the girl at the grocery store who always had mustard stains on her pants? Sarah, who looked like she never got enough sleep, but always said her hobbies were just old movies and playing with her cat? Whose favorite bands formed in the eighties and hadn’t toured since the nineties? Whose bathroom smelled like lavender and had pictures of ducks on the shower curtain? Did she make that promise too? What was Sarah’s dream vacation – did she get to have one, or were things like just to be labeled under “frivolities?” If Miss Cobalt’s pledge was carrying a life sentence, was Sarah just guilty by association?

            She bit her lip, and then let loose another sigh. She pushed the laptop away, and let herself fall onto her side. She buried her face in a pillow as the storm swelled with intensity, winds whipping up again and again, higher and higher. Her hair smelled like a dish towel and her face was getting covered in cat hair, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. All of the weight she tried desperately to shake off throughout the day was coming back to her with renewed force, threatening to press her straight through the couch and into the apartment below. As she felt the floor beneath her groaning with the pressure of her day, the tightness in her chest squeezing harder and harder, she heard another ring. A loud, piercing ring cut through the air of her apartment, and like reflex she threw herself from her couch and across the floor. She strode long and wide, reaching the bedroom in only three steps, shaking the ground with each and every one. She looked to the bed and saw her phone lying there, inert. But the ringing continued, this one coming from the bright blue phone she had discarded earlier. She scooped it up, and pressed it to her ear with no delay. She answered with authority and purpose. “Miss Cobalt.”

             The voice on the other end was stern. “Miss Cobalt, this is Police Chief Drury. We’ve got trouble. It seems The Meteorologist has escaped prison – we believe this storm may have something to do with a weather controlling device he had been developing before his previous capture. If left unchecked, this storm could keep growing in intensity until it wipes Red City off the map. We’ve got a good idea of where he’s holed up, but my men can’t get down there with these flooded roads.”

           “Not to worry, Chief,” Miss Cobalt said, slipping her blue mask over her eyes. “I think tomorrow’s forecast is going to call for clear skies and sunshine. I guarantee it.”