#I need to see if I have any decent videos of shelter live where I’m not sobbing in the background lol

[wurm-food]

songs of the day! ✨

[marlynnofmany]

Shore Leave

I didn’t think I was homesick until I caught the unexpected sound of a toddler’s wild laughter from the spaceship bridge. Out in the hall, I whipped around to stick my head through the door with some very unprofessional curiosity. That hadn’t been an alien noise.

Up on screen was our new client who the captain was negotiating with, and also the client’s young daughter. She’d apparently come into Daddy’s room to show the nice aliens on the video call her favorite noisemaker.

“Okay honey, they think it’s great. Go on back to—” the patient father was interrupted by an electronic fart sound on high volume, and even louder peals of laughter from his child. “I’m sorry,” he said to the captain as he scooped up the wiggly youngster and carried her out of frame.

Captain Sunlight waited patiently, every inch the dignified yellow lizard alien who wasn’t about to let someone’s gleeful offspring ruffle her calm.

The human came back, minus the child but with a new food smear on the shoulder of his crisp uniform shirt. Nobody told him. The conversation resumed with nary a giggle, and with me waiting in the hall.

“…By that timeframe or sooner,” Captain Sunlight concluded. “We can’t have your colony going without the comforts of home for long! Farewell.” She held her position as Wio flicked a button with one blue-ringed tentacle, and the screen clicked off.

“I volunteer,” I said.

A lesser captain might have twitched, but she probably knew I was there. “That saves me the trouble of finding you to ask,” she said smoothly, turning her chair. “It’s a big delivery, with multiple cases, so we’ll get a couple others to go along too.”

“Sure, sure,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll love to visit a human colony.”

“Though we won’t need too much lifting power,” she continued, “Because it’s a lower-gravity world.”

“Yay!” I said with an honest grin. “That’s even better.”

***

Getting the shipment down the ramp was surprisingly difficult, because the hoversled was calibrated for the artificial gravity inside our ship. Even with Mimi clinging to the control panel as it passed the barrier, the dang thing bounced.

I leaped to pull it down; Paint shrieked and leapt out of the way; Zhee yelled at both of us; Mimi cranked the controls and overcorrected, almost crushing my feet. I leapt back next to Paint, who had already stumbled in the low gravity and fallen on orange sand that was actually a decent match for her scales. I managed not to land on top of her.

“Got it,” Mimi grumbled in that rough voice that always seemed out of place on a guy who looked like an octopus the color of mint chip ice cream. He scrambled off the back of the sled. “Don’t touch the controls until you get back.”

“Understood,” Zhee said, clicking forward to follow the sled. He made the best exit of all of us, only springing upward a little. All those legs probably helped. Bug aliens weren’t known for tripping over their own feet — something that Zhee was insufferably smug about, and something that I would never let him live down if it actually happened. Not today, though.

The minor excitement had made it obvious that the air on this low-grav world was indeed as thin as the scans had said, and there was no point in toughing it out until we got indoors. The three of us got our feet under us and put on the vaguely-uncomfortable breathing masks, then began maneuvering the sled as a team. Really Zhee was doing all of the work while Paint and I held onto the sides and calibrated our own relationships with gravity, but we could pretend. And the long walk across the landing pad gave me a chance to take in the sights.

The landing pad itself was pretty boring; a couple silver-gray ships on one side and a wide stone building on the other. No sign of our contact yet, but the instructions had been to meet at the sun-shelter. So that’s where we went. At a hoppity-bouncy pace that probably would have looked very silly to any local humans if they were out to see us yet.

As we got closer to the big sun-shelter, I could better appreciate the way its shape seemed built to funnel cool air in and warm air out. Also the view off the cliff. I got a good look at that too, over the edges of the flat hilltop that the landing pad covered.

My first impression was: weird desert. Sandy hillsides in reds and oranges, with a sun that was just above those hills, and already hot. A bunch of alien trees scattered around that looked like they wanted to be cacti. They were almost familiar, as if they’d been designed by someone who only had third-hand descriptions of Earth plants to work with.

The low gravity let them get wild in ways that would collapse back home. The tallest ones spread up into the sky in cylinders that bent and quested out in every direction like curious snakes, but at a vast scale. Others spiraled straight up like unicorn horns, or twisted together like lumpy brains the size of a house, or feathered out like thick fan blades with fractal patterns. A couple were probably star-shaped if you cut a cross section, and the sides reached out to make dividers that were probably handy to hide behind in a sandstorm.

I was so busy looking at the cactus trees and trying to decide if they had spines or not that I was surprised when the hoversled stopped. We’d reached the shelter.

Zhee rapped on the door with his pincher arm. It was stone too, and would have hurt my knuckles.

Where is everybody? I thought, looking around at the sun-bright area. It sure is getting hot out.

The door slid wide to the welcome sight of another human, who immediately ushered us inside.

“Come come, bring it in!” she said, waving both hands and bounding aside. Her skin was dark and her clothes were drapey, and she seemed to consider the matter urgent. Given how much the top of my head was starting to cook, I didn’t blame her.

The door wasn’t big enough for the sled. So we unloaded it through the doorway, as quickly as possible, with me sliding close to the human and Zhee standing on the sled and Paint standing behind it to push boxes forward and comment that the extreme heat was kind of nice, actually.

But even she, coldblooded though she was, had to admit that shade was nicer by the time we got everything unloaded. She helped turn the hoversled on its side at the recommendation of the human, who still hadn’t introduced herself. Flipping it around was weirdly easy in the low-grav. Once we got even the sled inside the room — very spacious, that — the human closed the door and greeted us properly.

Yes, she was the contact we were supposed to meet. Taeya, how-do-you-do. Yes, the weather here did get shockingly hot quickly. No, it wouldn’t be pleasant to go back out into that, even for the short jaunt to the ship. Did we have to rush off, or was there time for a cooling beverage or two?

“There is!” I told her. “The captain said we have two hours of wiggle room in our schedule — usually there’s more, but we have some urgent deliveries — anyway, two hours, three tops, because she wanted to, uh, ‘give me time among my own herd.’” I made finger quotes.

Taeya beamed. “Then let me give you a tour! This stuff will keep; the people coming to unpack it won’t need any help from me. C’mon downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” I asked.

She hopped behind the boxes and disappeared, waving a hand to follow. “Downstairs!”

With a glance at the others, I moved forward and floated down the red stone stairs, one hopping step at a time.

And there I found civilization.

Stairs led to streets and storefronts and vast, cavernous halls, all carved out of the rock. It was built mostly around the edges of the mesa from what I could tell, a curving, circular city with lots of air flow that left the central core solid and untouched. It didn’t quite feel like home to me, but it was so impressive that I didn’t mind.

Every boulevard had high ceilings, and even high benches, out of the way of foot traffic. Most of the surfaces were either painted or carved. And everywhere I looked, humans bounced instead of walking — which did look silly no matter how they approached it.

With the drapey, flowing, colorful clothes that everyone wore, it all looked like a society of cheerful wizards. I laughed behind my breathing mask, then asked Taeya if she thought I could take it off. She wasn’t wearing one, but then her lungs were used to thin air.

“Oh yes, I should have said,” she told me with a wave of gold-and-red sleeves. “We have oxygen generators lower down, to keep things comfortable. Along with the top-notch medical suites for keeping an eye on any low-grav degradation. Offworlders tend to ask about that.” She had a distinct twinkle in her eye as she said it.

“How handy,” I said.

Zhee peered judgmentally at the lightfooted humans. “Is that how you handle muscle atrophy? With medical adjustments?”

“Partly,” Taeya said.

“Mushers!” Paint exclaimed at the same time, pointing.

I turned, looking for sled dogs and thinking back to the time Paint had gotten to ride a hoversled while I pulled. I saw no dogs now, but a cluster of rickshaws pulled by people huffing like suburban joggers. They didn’t bounce, weighted down as they were. And their passengers looked like workout buddies urging them on until they got their own turns.

“Partly things like that,” Taeya finished smoothly.

I removed my breathing mask, eyeing a nearby restaurant and a closer flower display, then took a deep lungful of body odor and broke up laughing. When the nearest passersby had moved on, hopefully toward showers, I explained to my nonhuman crewmates that sometimes our own natural smell was unpleasant to us, with insufficient hygiene. Surely I’d told them that before.

“Right, you did,” Zhee said. “I still say it’s a deeply maladaptive trait.”

“I won’t argue with you on that count,” I told him, trying to fan the air casually.

Thankfully the rest of the crowd sported a more pleasant range of scents, and we hopped on down the road.

Taeya had something else to show us before nightfall.

“Nightfall?” I asked with some concern. “We’ve only got two hours, less now. Probably closer to one.”

Taeya responded by making a sharp turn toward a row of window slits, just a few inches wide by several times my height. Outside, the sun was already getting low.

“Oh,” I said eloquently.

“It’s the perfect time to see the flitters come out,” Taeya said with another hand wave. “Come on.”

More bouncing steps, another beautiful hallway full of murals, and another curving stairway down. Then we were, surprisingly, outside.

A sprawling garden of alien succulents covered the ground, with low burrows that I noticed moments before brilliantly-colored creatures began scampering out of them. These took to the sky in flashes of movement, flitting about as the name suggested, for all the world like tiny flying carpets that had been ferrets once.

Paint wanted to know if they bit. Zhee asked if they were food. I shook my head while Taeya told them both no. They were a lovely sight, and that’s all they needed to be. Plus they ate some local pests. Always a bonus.

The air was getting chilly already, to my surprise. Taeya did something deft with her clothes, pinning the drapey bits in a way that looked suddenly much warmer, with all that cloth wrapped around her.

“If you were staying longer, I’d suggest you get a local outfit,” she told me.

I nodded. “If I was staying longer, I’d take you up on that. Looks like a good design.” Clever and foreign, in a way that looked like several familiar things at once while managing to be none of them. And certainly nothing I’d ever worn.

Staring up at the whirling flitters as the light left the sky, I felt oddly sad. So much of this was halfway familiar, not the whole-hearted taste of home that I’d hoped for. But before I could get too maudlin, Taeya waved us back toward the carved-out city.

“C’mon, back into the good air,” she said. “One last thing before we get you back up to your ship.”

I hopped quietly after her. Zhee muttered about the theoretical taste of flitter meat while Paint made stiff-legged lizard hops out of the nighttime chill.

We were only a little ways down this new hallway before I heard music.

I bounded faster.

The great hall that Taeya led us into was lined with people around the edges, standing in rows and sitting on ledges, their voices echoing as they sang toward the center. I spotted instruments at some of the higher seats. People at the bottom swayed in time.

I didn’t know the words. But I knew the sound. A crowd of humans singing together; it was a glorious thing.

This is what I’ve been missing, I thought, breathing deeply. The air here smelled like flowers and spices and laundry detergent, and it was full of the sound of home. A vast roomful of people singing the same song, voices rebounding off the walls and bodies moving in joy.

I glanced back at Zhee and Paint. They both looked a little baffled. I asked over the music, “Do your people do much singing?”

“A bit? I guess?” Paint said. “But not all together like this.”

Zhee shook his head. “Why would you use your voice for music?” he asked. “How barbaric.”

I laughed and turned to Taeya, who was happy to teach me the words. There was even a bit of dancing with the next song, and that was an adventure in low gravity. So was the next. Zhee and Paint patiently observed from the doorway.

Then when one song ended, and a fast drumbeat paved the way for the next, I was surprised to see a number of people vacate the dance floor. I started to do the same, ready to say something about getting to the ship on time.

I didn’t realize that Taeya had left until she returned. She appeared at my elbow with two padded helmets and a smile.

“We’ve moved on to quick-beat time!” she told me over the rising music. “Does your captain need you back right now, or can you stay long enough to try a low-grav mosh pit?”

Our two hours were up and I knew it. I looked to Zhee and Paint, who were close enough to hear the conversation. Paint was sitting on one of the head-height benches. She looked down at Zhee.

He turned his head away, which meant nothing with his range of vision. He harrumphed. “Don’t break anything the medsystem can’t fix.”  

“I’ll do my best!” I told him with a grin as I accepted a helmet. “Besides, I hear they have good ones here.”

Surrounded by a mix of old and new, I joined my people in the time-honored tradition of dancing more far vigorously than common sense dictated. The captain had said three hours tops. 

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come!

[secular-jew]

I’m back from a short trip on a social network with photographs and videos from Gaza, with some brief personal conclusions.

First, it is quite clear that there are those in Gaza who know how to make extensive use of the networks and social media for the purposes of emotional extortion and also false propaganda, exactly like they live-streamed the October 7 massacre and somehow turned it into “justified resistance”, they use quite a few Western buzzwords such as “genocide”, “occupation”, “oppression” and “Zionism”- and this is the simplest way to distinguish between Hamas propaganda posts and authentic people in Gaza, whom I’ve known all my life, who use much simpler words and not this indoctrinated manipulation bullshit.

I was looking for THESE authentic people - the real voices. And I think I found a few.

So first of all, what do I think there is NOT happening in Gaza? There is no genocide and no famine.

Yes, there is quite a lot of suffering, shortages in some places and lack of decent shelter etc. And there’s a lot of cynical exploitation of it for propaganda purposes. I’m saying it because you can see children are getting payed for it, you can see the absolute control of distribution and you can see how basic needs and the way out is blocked with money- Israel is not taking money for any of it, the West is sending free aid, so the money is demanded by those who want to control the suffering and use it.

You should know, that before the war - there was already quite a lot of very poor population in Gaza, but now the economic difficulty has greatly increased for two main reasons: one, the war damaged many sources of livelihood and the second - a major source of livelihood was working in Israel and this option was closed for a long time now, since October 7, and is now much less operational.

So in fact the main source of income is donations and funding from Hamas for control purposes of course.

This is how, among other things, Hamas uses the population to "work for them", and also to smile or cry for the cameras on demand.

Now on the issue of claimed famine- famine is when there’s NO food and water, enough for the population. As I said, my personal conclusion is that there is no shortage of food and water in Gaza at all.

The problem is that the food is not distributed equally, it is controlled by those who are powerful (usually Hamas operatives) and then sold at high costs to the population without them having sources of livelihood.

Food that should be distributed for #free is actually sold at a high price, the shelter tents are also paid for and the exit from Gaza is particularly expensive (5000$ that are paid to the transporters).

There are quite a few who refer to Gaza as a "prison" but Gaza is not a prison, Hamas has simply created a situation where it is very expensive to leave it - and thus the poor and the new poor are completely dependent on Hamas and other clans (Hamulas) in everything to do with food, shelter and exit, and they play with them as pawns.

If Gaza is a prison - then it’s because Hamas are imprisoning it.

All the suffering in Gaza started because of #Hamas it continues and increases because of #Hamas, but the main point is that #Hamas is also the one factor that can stop it.

If Hamas surrendered unconditionally and released the Israeli hostages, as done in any war in which you are forced to admit defeat - they would truly liberate Palestine. Remember- this is a war that #Hamas started, a war that on Oct. 7 was celebrated in the streets of Gaza.

But #Hamas prefers to keep the Palestinians captive so that it can showcase suffering (which they create) and use it as a tool for financial donations, manipulation of the West and a messianic jihadist war that will never end for them.

If the West doesn’t wake up to this ongoing manipulation- they will never help the Palestinians in Gaza or in general, and they will bring this jihadist chaos to their doorstep.

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

So this lovely young lady has gone viral in a tweet that I can’t find. But I haven’t looked very hard. I HAVE seen the video, but let me quote it best I can.

All I can ever thing about, is the fact that this is not the way life is supposed to be. Working your life away, just to have a little bit of money, a little bit of free time. Time to do things that you actually enjoy. It’s such a waste of life and the older generation, will be the first to call my generation lazy for saying things like that. Not realizing that they’re just a bitch to capitalism and they’re  brainwashed. I hate my stupid, racist, xenophobic ancestors who set up this system that sucks for everyone except for like the one percent. This stupid capitalist society has made it to where no one can do things for themselves anymore  because we’ve been brought up to depend on everything.

Grocery stores, restaurants on every corner. A convenient store on every corner, because we can’t do anything for ourselves and we have no community. All we rely on is people who are getting paid and overworked their whole lives to get things that we need. That’s not community, it’s all nothing but a capitalist hellscape that sucks the life out of everyone. I just hate all of this. I hate my ancestors, I hate everything that has happened throughout history~

So I’m going to have a TL;DR at the end. However, this lady is a moron. Or she is just ignorant to history in general. Do any of you KNOW how long of hours most farmers work? Ok, do you understand that back in “Your ancestors times” they farmed for 12-18 hours a day just to have enough food for their families? Do you know how long it took to make clothing? Do you know how much food had to be offset by hunting and foraging? 

You can easily just go move out into the deep woods, Build yourself a shelter, foregoing ALL THOSE PESKY tools made by capitalists. Don’t buy any seeds because you’re also still using capitalism. Make your own clothing. Build your own car. Go ahead. MAKE. A. TOASTER.You can’t. It’s only through capitalism that you have the technology IN YOUR HAND to even make that video, and have people see it. 

WHAT YOU are talking about is not capitalism. It’s Corporatism.Now if you WANT to go back to working 12-15 hrs on a farm and hunting for your own food, by all means be my guest. Just remember one thing. You are a white woman, who likely has no idea who her ancestors really are, who looks to be using hair dye to be a ginger. Maybe i’m wrong. But she also has a decent amount of makeup. Fact is we aren’t lacking community because of “Capitalism”. We are lacking community because you have been taught a lie, and are currently deep up that lies asshole. And it’s why other people who you COULD be part of a community with, generally dislike you, and honestly don’t want anything to do with you, except maybe try to get in your pants. 

Try working pre the 1900′s. Hell try working in the pre 1950′s. YOU DON”T KNOW what a hard days work with no free time is. And in those days? You might very well be hung as a witch. Things back in the day were insanely hard, and you are too arrogant to realize that. Back when there was no 9-5. It was sun up until sundown. So yeah to the generation before you and the one before that, you are EXTREMELY sheltered, and if you think 8 hrs a day 5 days a week is hard, they didn’t use to have off days. It was ALWAYS sun up to sun down until winter. And even then you worked to have firewood and still go out in the snow to hunt. 

TL;DR, good luck surviving on your own without a lowes or home depot.  

[learningnewways]

Week 10

My last final week in The Gambia has been and gone... And this might be my quickest weekly rundown yet!

On Monday morning, M arrived home after a month overseas, and I was so happy to see her! She was also very happy to see me and we talked for a good few hours. It was so nice! In some ways it was like she’d never left, but also I have missed her a lot. On Tuesday I went to the government shelter and hung out with the kids and babies. There were a few teenagers so I talked to them for awhile and kicked a ball around with the primary school age kids, before spending a few hours with the babies. It’s aways my favourite day of the work week, going to the shelter...

On Wednesday I went to the Ministry of Social Welfare to talk about some of the children in the government shelter, which was very interesting. On Thursday M took me to see her new compound that she is building. It is very far away, quite close to the airport actually. It was fascinating to see the way they do building over here, as it is quite different from NZ! Their compound is stuck in the stage where they are waiting for the roof, as they don’t have enough money yet, then once the roof is on they can complete the rest. If I ever come back to The Gambia, it will look very different I’m sure!

After seeing her compound, we went to visit the trafficked girls who had been kicked out of the government shelter the previous week. It was so nice to see them, as always, yet it was also sad hearing about life for them now. They are staying in a small room with one mattress for all five girls. Unfortunately they are back working in the sex trade at night, prostituting themselves for money... This is the sad reality for many sex trafficking victims, as they struggle to earn money to survive or go home, so they end up back in the trade, stuck in a cycle they don’t want to be in. They explained to us that they don’t want to do this work, but they don’t see any other way out. M and I tried talking to them about other job options, but it is hard as they could make the same amount in one night on street, as they could a whole month in a normal job... The only positive is that they are now in charge of themselves, no longer working for a pimp or madam... But it is still devastating.

It has been interesting following these girls journey from when we met them in the shelter a few months ago, just days after they had been rescued from their traffickers, all the way through to now when they have been kicked out of the government shelter and are now back working on the streets... It has definitely opened my eyes to the complexity of the issue and just how important restoration and ongoing support is for these victims. One girl in particular looked very down when we visited them, and you could just tell that she feels broken and like there’s no way out. We prayed with them and encouraged them to keep trusting in Him, that He will make a way, but that they also need to do their part and try to find jobs where they won’t feel their souls are being crushed and dignity taken away... It was definitely hard to say goodbye to them...

On Friday, Antonia and I visited our American friend Joan to chat for a bit, then we went to a cafe for smoothies and to keep chatting! The smoothies were soooooo yum, I haven’t had a decent smoothie like that in months, it was incredible. Antonia and I had a great time just hanging out and chatting. I will miss her so very much, as she has been my closest friend during my time here. She is always understanding, supportive and encouraging, the best gift God has given me during my time here. After our time in the cafe, we went to church for a worship night, before heading home. That night my good friends Max and Amy were getting married back home in NZ, so I stayed up until 2am watching the livestream. It was sad not to be able to be there, but it was amazing how I could watch it live online! Technology is so cool!

After a few hours of sleep, I woke up and video called into the end of the wedding reception, and was able to say a quick hello and congratulations to the bride and groom, as well as a few friends. It was so lovely to see everyone’s smiling faces who I have missed so much. Not long to go now until I see them all again! I then spent all of Saturday at the beach with the Kursawes, Antonia and another family. I was so tired from watching the wedding that I ended up just lying under the shade most of the day, unsuccessfully trying to sleep! It was nice just to relax and watch the kids play in the waves. I will miss the Kursawes a lot too, they have brought so much joy into my time here and brought me on so many awesome adventures. I am so grateful for them.

On Sunday I had my final day at church, which was a bit sad but overall nice. I got up and shared a brief testimony of how God has been faithful and brought me through my time in The Gambia. That I have learnt so much about myself and Him through it all. After my testimony they prayed for me which was really nice. After church the pastors wished me well and thanked me for joining them for the last few months, so it was nice to get a bit of a send off from my church here. Ironically, the final song we sung was Oceans, which was also the final song we sung at my church back home before I left. Coincidence... I think not...

After church, Antonia and I went to the Kursawes for lunch, then we all chatted for a bit which was nice. It was good to chat about some of the struggles going on back home and to receive understanding and encouragement from them. Later in the afternoon we went to Bakau where I live and I showed them around the fish beach and craft market. It was great just to wander around. I saw so many cool things I’d love to buy, however I unfortunately don’t have much room in my bag as I only have carry on! Then we went to a restaurant for dinner near the beach which was beautiful. I had a virgin pina colada which is my favourite drink that I only get every few years, so that was quite the treat! 

Overall it was a great final week and weekend. I still have a few days to go this week, but the farewells have already begun. Part of me is sad to leave as I am feeling pretty comfortable now and into my routines, however I am mainly sad about leaving the people and friends I have made here. But, I am also very excited to get home and catch up with family and close friends, particular my siblings. I haven’t seen my brother and his partner since June, and I haven’t seen my sister and her boyfriend since July. And my sister is having a baby reeeeally soon, which I’m so excited about! I hope I get to see her and hang out for a few days before the baby comes and life changes forever!

[kj-1130]

Nothing For Me

Part 2

Main Masterlist

Part 1|Part 3

2012

     You were turning 11 this year. Natasha, as you learned she went by, was always a phone call away if you ever wanted to talk--since your sperm donor was obviously no help. You had recently had to call her due to your period starting, which you weren’t expecting to happen for at least another 2 to 3 years. Needless to say, it freaked you out and regardless of your smarts, nothing could have prepared you for that. 

     Nat took you shopping for what she called, ‘lady items’; bras, pads, tampons, anything a girl could possibly need. She also taught you how to shave if you ever wanted to. She specified that you should never feel forced to do it because ‘people need to normalize women having body hair. It grows there for a reason.’ And you totally agreed with her on that by the way. 

     There were a few times when she’d let you in on minor S.H.I.E.L.D secrets even though it was quite unnecessary seeing as you could hack your way through it all no problem. That’s how you found out about the Avengers Initiative. You couldn’t agree more with what was said about Tony. 

     Through your hacking and research of the initiative, you ‘met’ Clint. It was through a video call. He had invaded your girl-talk with Natasha. The three of you were practically best buds now. You’d go to Nat for advice or just when you needed a sister to talk to. You’d go to Clint when you just wanted to let loose and talk about absolute nonsense. 

-

     It was another lovely night in Stark Tower for you--please note the sarcasm. You were bored out of your mind. Natasha had been on an undercover mission and Clint was busy at the base; something about the Tesseract. You thought they should’ve just left the thing alone; let fate take its course. Some bad things were going to come with them messing with something they had no knowledge about. They’re joining a game without knowing any rules and are pretty much destined to lose. But, hey. What did you know?

     Pepper and Tony were probably in the common area, sucking each other's faces off. Despite how much you disliked Tony, based on your experiences, you couldn’t deny the fact that they’re pining was absolutely annoying, disgusting, and cute all at the same time. You were just glad it was over honestly.

     Pepper was an okay person to you. There was nothing you found super nice or mean about her that was prominent to you. She’d greet you on the quite rare occasion the two of you would cross paths and would start the casual small talk (“how are you?” “I’m fine, what about you” “Good, thanks for asking.”). She probably thought you were a live-in intern or something like that. With how much she tries to doctor Tony’s life, you’d think she would try to fix whatever nonexistent relationship between the pair of you, but nope. That just added to your intern theory. 

     You were reading a book on quantum physics, when your personal AI, M.I.A(miraculous intelligence assistant)--that you did in fact create yourself--notified you that someone had overridden Stark’s systems and gotten into the elevator. Just because you didn’t leave the room doesn’t mean you weren’t nosy. 

     “Who is it, M?”

     “Agent Phil Coulson, from S.H.I.E.L.D.,” M.I.A. spoke in her smooth voice. “Would you like to listen in on what they are saying?”

     “Is that even a question?”

     Jumping out of your beanbag, you went to the center of your room, where M.I.A had pulled up footage of what was happening in the common room. 

     “Security breach,” Tony turns to Pepper. “That’s on you.”

     “Mr. Stark.” 

     “Phil! Come in,” Pepper greeted. Since when were she and Agent Coulson on a first-name basis. You’d have to look into that. 

     “Phil? Uh, his first name is Agent.”

     “Come on in, we’re celebrating,” the red head invites. This was getting more interesting to you by the second!

     “I can’t stay.”

     “Which is why he can’t stay.”

     Phil ignores Tony and starts to hand him a file.

     “He doesn’t like being handed things,” you muttered. 

     “I don't like being handed things.” Called it.

     “That’s alright, ‘cause I love being handed things, So, let’s trade,” Pepper says. She hands Coulson her glass of champagne, takes the file, hands Tony the file, in return taking his drink.

     “Official consulting hours are between eight and five every other Thursday,” the billionaire said. 

     It was quite obvious Phil was over his jokes and that he was here for a much important matter.

     “Is this about the Avengers? Which I...I know nothing about.”

     Both men ignored Pepper. “The Avengers Initiative was scrapped, I thought. And I didn’t even qualify.” 

    That was a nice day. Finding out what they said about Tony had been nothing less than amusing in your opinion.

     “I didn’t know that either,” the CEO said. She sure does have the best cover-ups, doesn’t she? 

     “Yeah, apparently I’m volatile, self-obsessed, don’t play well with others.”

     “That I did know.”

     This whole thing was odd to you. Why were they trying to put together the Avengers when the whole idea was tossed?

     “M, pull up the most recent S.H.I.E.L.D files on the tesseract and the Avengers Initiative.”

     The AI did as told, and you scrolled through all of them. You saw things on Thor, Clint, Natasha, Bruce Banner, Steve Rogers, and lastly your sperm donor. Looking at Thor’s file, you found something about his brother Loki. And looking at his name, you saw his connections to the tesseract and everything had clicked. Loki had the thing and was definitely going to do something evil with it. 

-

     Both adults in the house were gone. Such responsible ones they are. Tony left earlier the next day and you honestly couldn’t remember when Pepper left. Now, here you were in your safe haven, trying to figure out what in the world Loki would want with the tesseract. There’s probably no way for you to figure it out since you weren’t where all the info was, actively investigating. But what you didn’t understand is why would they leave you here when such a threat was hanging in the air. 

     You knew Tony didn’t necessarily care for you, but he couldn’t forget about you, right? Natasha wouldn’t forget about you. Clint wouldn’t forget you. Right?

-

     It’s been two days. Two fucking days, and no one had come in or out of this building. 

     You were currently pacing in your room, while your AI--not even a fucking person--was trying to comfort you. 

     “Does no one answer their fucking phone anymore?”

     “I’m pretty sure there is a reasonable explanation as to why no one is answering.”

     Out of nowhere, you heard commotion from outside. Rushing over to the window and moving the curtains, you saw these alien things coming out of the sky. You ran out of your room and made your way to the nearest set of stairs as quickly as you could. 

     “Ah, the little Stark.”

     His voice sent chills up your spine. It was deep and quite terrifying. 

     “Come over, no need to be scared.”

     You followed his orders, having a feeling that if you didn’t things would end up ten times worse for you. He looked at you before basically yeeting you out of the window. It hurt; it felt like every bone in your body screamed for peace and anything in the background just became white noise. 

     You landed on the roof, writhing in pain and groaning. Everything hurt.

     Attempting to get up was hard and painful, but you knew that you had to leave or you’d die. 

     Looking up, you see that doctor. He was mentioned in the files but everything was just so fuzzy, you couldn’t remember properly. Finally being able to get up after numerous attempts, you limp your way down the stairs and out to the streets in the middle of all the chaos. 

     You were so scared. You knew you probably wouldn’t be able to contact Nat or Clint unless you somehow hacked into their coms system. You continued to walk down the streets, hoping to find some type of shelter, but it felt like you were about to collapse at any second. Sitting down in the nearest alley, you looked around. Looking left, there was a face right in front of yours.

     “Fuck! What the hell man?”

     The other person wasn’t fazed. Looking them over, you saw their frizzy, somewhat curly hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Her brown skin was covered in dirt and a little blood. 

     “Hey, you’re (y/n) Stark, right?” She asked a little breathlessly. 

     “I refuse to be acknowledged as such.”

     “I’m Michelle. But don't call me that or I’ll have to hurt you.”

     “Are you really trying to converse with me in the middle of an alien invasion? And acting like we’re both not hurt?”

     Michelle shrugs her shoulders when you both look over due to some yelling that you heard. 

     “MJ! Michelle where are you? Michelle Jones!”

     MJ looks back over and starts to get up but she trips and falls. You decide to help her up and take her over to the people calling her name. You both struggle but eventually get over to the adults with some time. 

     Before you could get away from the Jones family, the mother gripped your shoulder. 

     “C’mon, stay with us. We’ll find somewhere to lay low.“

     You were too tired and in too much pain to argue, so you let Michelle’s mother help you keep your balance while the young girl’s father did the same for her. 

     It was at least a good ten minutes until the four of you found a decent place to take a break. It looked like a gas station, but you really couldn’t tell due to how much damage there was. You and the Jones’ took cover behind a somewhat stable looking wall and tried to stay as quiet as possible. 

     It was quiet besides the distant screams of people and the yells of the aliens. You wondered if Nat and Clint were okay. You wondered if Tony was okay. You wondered if anyone was safe from this. This seemed like something no one could recover from.  

     “What’s your name, sweetheart?” The older woman asked. 

     “(Y/n).”

     “Where are your parents?”

     “My sperm donor is fighting I guess.”

     To say the adults were appalled by your bluntness  was an understatement. You’ve had a potty mouth for quite a while. There was no one to really correct you on what to and not to say--not that you really needed help with that being a genius and all; well a genius with common sense because your father didn’t have any of that. Without anyone to really monitor what you did,  you kind of just roamed free in a sense. 

- 

     The fight had died down eventually. The aliens were still coming, but a substantial amount of them had been killed. How a group of 6 people/gods/supersoldiers/or whatever amazed you. Maybe you could work behind the scenes one day; even though you already do. Just without anyone knowing. 

     Before you knew it, there was a nuke flying across the sky. ‘Leave it to the government to find an excuse to hurt civilians,’ you thought. But before it could hit anything, you saw a red and gold figure carry it to the portal.  

     You knew who it was. He was going to sacrifice himself for the safety of these people. If he didn’t make it, you would miss him even though there wouldn’t be much to miss. When that portal closed, your heart dropped to your stomach. You would never be able to make amends with him. You would never have a single conversation with him. Yeah he was a total douche bag for forgetting all about you, but you had at least expected to be able to see and maybe talk to him. Sort things out. 

     Without thinking, you ran as fast as you could towards where the newly assembled Avengers were; well at least where you last saw them. You ignored the calls of the Jones family, telling you to come back. Their protests telling you not to go so you can stay safe. You ignored the pain. The aching of your ribs. The dull throbbing in your head and on your lips. There was no doubt that your steps were uneven; limping down the street at your speed probably made you look like a crackhead.

     You kept running; not stopping. Not when your breaths got shorter and turned into wheezes. Not when you heard rattling in your chest. Not when you felt like you were going to collapse. Not when your joints popped and begged for rest. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not until you found someone; anyone you knew. 

     You stopped after what felt like hours. It most likely was considering the sun was going down. You heard a little commotion inside a surprisingly intact building which turned out to be a Shawarma. Tony always talked about this place for some reason. 

     When you looked inside, the Avengers were there. At least, you guessed they were still called that. But that didn’t matter. They were relaxing after the battle. They looked quite relaxed considering they had just fought aliens. 

     But that was what kind of hurt. They weren’t worried about you. At all. Of course only 3--well not really 3. Only two really knew you and knew you were in that tower when the attack happened. Sure you weren’t expecting Clint or Nat to be running around the streets of this huge city, but a little effort or at least the thought of it would’ve been nice. You could’ve been dead and they sure as hell didn’t seem super worried about it. Maybe you were overthinking it. Or maybe you were just as forgettable and insignificant as you thought.

-

     You limped away from the establishment, trying to find somewhere to stay seeing as your home--if you could even call it that--was most likely destroyed. And you were in your feelings and nothing was a better cure than isolating yourself even more. You also wanted to see if you could get M.I.A running on a computer or something. Maybe update yourself on what was going on over the world at the moment. Or look up your frizzy-haired friend you met while you were running for your life. 

     You managed to find a computer near a dumpster. You leaned back against the wall and slid down slowly, not wanting to aggravate your injuries too much. You were able to get M.I.A running on the laptop and then looked up any news. The headlines were crazy. All you saw was the fight that just happened and the death count rising and rising…

     You didn’t want to be focused on anything dealing with your father, S.H.I.E.L.D., or any current events, so you decided to give M.I.A. the task of figuring out who Michelle and her family was. It sounded very creepy, but you were her age. What harm could you do with her info. Well you could cause harm to her and her family with any info you found but that was besides the point. The most you were going to do was send them a message or something like that. 

-

     You ended up sleeping in that alley. Deciding that you should head back to your place of residence, you got up and started walking back much to the process of your bones and joints. The tower seemed like it was so far away. Especially with your injuries and supposedly no one around to tend to them.  After what felt like hours, you made it to the entrance of the establishment and, surprise surprise, it’s already being rebuilt. You honestly didn’t know what time it was. You just wanted to get in your bed and sleep forever. 

-

     It had been about a month since the Battle of New York. Your injuries weren’t treated until about a week after the fact. Not because someone noticed you were hurt, but because it was getting hard to breathe and that didn’t seem like a fun way to go to you. 

     You’d been healing nicely so far, but your emotions and mental health were on the opposite side of the spectrum. Every time you close your eyes, you had this dream, vision, whatever it was, that when Loki threw you out the window, there was no balcony or landing area to stop on. You just kept falling, and falling until you hit the ground. Then you woke up.

      You had been isolating yourself as well. There had been plenty of missed calls from the pair, but you just couldn’t find the energy to move and pick up the phone. They were probably just doing it out of obligation anyway. 

       Seeing everyone, especially Nat and Clint, just made you rethink anything you’ve ever done. Were you too clingy when it came to Natasha? Did she really like you or did she just feel bad? You were probably just overreacting, but you can’t help but think these thoughts. 

    Everything was just spiraling out of control for you. And you couldn’t get help; well you at least felt like you couldn’t. If you told Tony--not that you would, but hypothetically-- he’d probably wave you off and laugh. If you tried to get a therapist, someone would probably leak that shit to the press; confidentiality be damned. 

     You felt like you were drowning and you didn’t know how much longer it would be until you fully sank.

[flippyspoon]

Walking Home

Note: Okay it’s a boring title. Just a little ficlet about Steve being very cold and eager to get home to Billy who will angrily take care of him lol.

Steve could no longer feel his fingers.

Had he coherent thought in his mind, he might have considered that impulsively loaning his car to Mrs. Henderson had been a bad idea in the dead of winter. But Dustin’s mom had been stuck and he hated to think of her waiting around for rides in the snow or borrowing some unreliable beater from Rex Auto while she waited for her Oldsmobile to get fixed.

Steve had handed her his keys hours ago in the middle of Family Video and she’d practically burst into tears, she was so grateful.

Then he forgot all about it, worked the rest of his shift, bid Robin and Keith goodbye and finished up the register and locked up by himself. They were long gone by the time he remembered and the video store was already locked up and the alarm was set and he couldn’t unlock the alarm once it was set to go back inside without getting in trouble with “corporate” because it was a computerized system and they’d see it on the log later. Robin’s mother would happily have given him a ride. Keith would have given him a ride in his shitty brown Datsun that smelled like cheese puffs.

He could have called Billy for a ride, but it was eight blocks to the first payphone he could think of and since everything was closed, he’d end up waiting in the snow for Billy to come crawling up in the Camaro, the worst car in the world for driving on ice roads, so he had to drive very slow. He calculated that it would be faster to walk and hoped somebody would see him and pick him up.

But nobody saw him. 

It was a Friday and that meant Family Video closed late at ten and most of the shops were closed, especially with the awful weather. No one was out on the street. and it was so dark and the visibility so bad with the snow, Steve feared he’d lose his way even following the road down into the woods to Hop’s old trailer overlooking the lake where he lived with Billy.

It was a much longer walk than he remembered it being in the fall when the weather was nice.

Three miles? Four? 

It was deadly dark and much too quiet and all he thought about as he put one foot in front of the other was how he wished he had his bat at least. It was an eerie night: he couldn’t stop thinking of monsters.

He lost his footing three times and got wet with snow. He was wearing a thermal under a sweater under his best parka. He was wearing a beanie and decent gloves and thick socks under his boots. He felt like he might as well have been wearing a towel for how cold he was. The cold was tiny knives bulleting his skin. The cold had a vendetta. The inside of his nose ached. 

One foot in front of the other down the endless dark road. But the woods... 

Don’t think about monsters.

Think about Billy.

Billy Billy Billy. Billy would be home. Billy would be pissed as hell that Steve had not only loaned out his car but forgotten to call for a ride earlier. Then he wouldn’t have had to wait at all.

Billy would make him drink a shot of whiskey while cussing out Mrs. Henderson under his breath (even though he actually loved Mrs. Henderson now). Maybe he’d rub Steve’s hands and kiss his fingers with his warm, warm lips…

Billy…

The snow wouldn’t stop. It would hit his ankles soon, even in the road.

He wondered if he would get frostbite. How long did that take? Most winters these days, he successfully carted himself from heated shelter to heated shelter. He didn’t worry about things like frostbite. He couldn’t feel his fingers…

And then suddenly he was home. 

He didn’t even remember turning off onto the sideroad into the woods that led to their trailer. He was on automatic pilot. And then there the trailer was with it’s bright yellow light on in front that made the icicles that hung from the porch awning glitter. His boots crunched in the snow as he passed the frozen lake. 

Only now as he came nearer and nearer the steps up to their front door did he feel the terrible ache in his legs. His feet were two giant cement blocks for all he could tell. 

Crunch crunch.

“Steve! Christ!” The door burst open and Billy came running down the stairs. “Where is your car! You did not seriously walk home! Why didn’t you call me! What the hell!”

Steve said something along the lines of: “Hh-huh...uh...ugh.”

Billy all but carried him inside. Steve wasn’t sure. He just felt Billy’s arms around him and seconds later the front door was shut behind him and-

“Ah.” Steve stood frozen in their tiny living room with the ugly brown shag carpeting and the second hand burgundy velour couch and the Sinclair’s old TV with wood paneling. He was home.

He was safe at home with Billy.

He was violently shuddering. He couldn’t speak for how hard his teeth chattered as Billy moved in a blur. Steve was hardly aware of it. He never moved from his spot, but somehow most of his clothes came off. Billy had fluffy clean clothes straight from the dryer. 

“Y-your sw-sweatshirt,” Steve stuttered as Billy shoved it over his head. Billy had a gigantic old Los Angeles Raiders sweatshirt that Steve stole whenever he got the chance because it was the coziest thing in the world to wear and often smelled like Billy. It was kind of like wearing Billy himself. He hummed in relief and then faltered because Billy was moving his feet for him, dressing him in sweatpants and then thick fuzzy socks. 

“Sit the hell down!” Billy commanded, and pointed at the couch. “Goddammit. The Beamer get stuck?”

“M-Mrs...Henderson n-needed it-”

“You had to loan your car to that cow in a blizzard!”

“B-be nice!”

“Why didn’t you call!” Billy bodily moved Steve to the couch where he plopped down, still rather stiff. 

“I forgot.”

“Harrington, I swear to God!” Billy glowered down at him where he winced as he curled up on the couch, rubbing his still freezing hands together. “ Stay there!” He threw the little afghan throw that Mrs. Henderson herself had made for them over Steve’s head before running out of the room with one last: “Goddammit!”

***

“Sure you’re okay there, baby?” Billy rasped.

Steve was wrapped in three blankets, a hot mug of spiked cocoa in his hands which had fully regained feeling. He was cuddled up on the couch with Billy, who would not remove his arm from around Steve’s shoulders. David Letterman was on TV.

“I’m fine,” Steve said for the fifth time. “I swear, I’m fine. But you’re really cute when you’re worried.”

“If you don’t remember to call next time, I swear to God…” But the threat was slightly undercut by the kiss he pressed to Steve’s cheek. “Be more careful, sweetheart. Alright? Jesus. Gonna drive me to an early grave and I’ve already died once.”

“Wow, you love me so much,” Steve said, smirking into his cocoa. “It’s kind of annoying really. You should get a life.”

Billy only snorted at that and tugged on one of Steve’s blankets, pulling it half over himself and snuggling up closer to his boyfriend. “I was about to call the National Guard when you were running late. Look what you turned me into, pretty boy. How’s that whiskey cocoa? You want me to turn the heat up? You want some more mac and cheese?”

“It’s eighty degrees in here and I’m full. Everything is good,” Steve murmured, and took another swallow that pleasantly burned going down. He set the mug on the coffee table and cuddled deeper under the blanket as he reached for Billy. “But you’re better. C’mere and warm me up some more.”

“Oh, I’ll warm you up any time you want,” Billy said, a bit of growl in his voice. He wrapped his arms around Steve under the blanket and kissed him deeply, and Steve revelled in the heat of that talented tongue that Billy so often used to tease. They made out lazily for a bit and then Billy laid soft little kisses along Steve’s throat and then took Steve’s hands in his own and kissed his fingertips.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Steve said. He beamed up at Billy who stared fixedly back at him as if, should he look away, Steve might vanish into the dark and snowy night again.

Worth the walk home, Steve thought, and reached up under Billy’s sweater to press his fingers to the warm belly he found there.

“Yeah well, I love you like crazy, but it’s a pain in the ass sometimes,” Billy said, but he didn’t try to hide the smile on his face. “Come here, baby, lemme really warm you up,” he said, and pulled Steve closer.

[angelicjadamv]

The story so far

One month after graduating high school in 2015 I was finally able to move away from my family. I was 18 and moved to California for college. Fortunately one of the scholarships I earned was accompanied by a summer program that started in the middle of the summer before fall semester. Shortly after settling in a safe, stable environment for the first time in my life I started to get better. A lot better at first. Then life happened, as it does, and 18 years of repressed trauma and abuse broke me. My nervous breakdown ruined my fall semester, I couldn't go to classes or take exams or function as a student anymore. Until this point, being an exceptional student was all I had and basically how I survived. My safe and stable environment now was dependant on maintaining a certain GPA, among other requirements I could no longer meet. I failed one of my main courses because I had a 0 on 2 exams, including the final. When I went home I was put on antipsychotics. Returning to campus for the 2016 spring semester, I attempted to seek more therapy. I wasn't successful in finding a good therapist (for me, therapy is a personal thing. Just because someone isn't a good therapist for me doesn't necessarily mean they are a bad therapist). I did continue to see my 2 psychiatrists (emergency and regular) often as they attempted to adjust my medication to find something that work. My agoraphobia worsened, I stopped sleeping, I could barely eat, I was manic one moment and dissociative the next, SH and suicidal ideation worsened. I was a burden to my friends and loved ones. I made it through this because I had a beautiful support system that I will forever be grateful for, but I ended up taking a leave of absence academically for my second semester, earning no credits and putting my scholarships at further jeopardy. I was allowed to stay on campus because it was clear I was dangerously unstable with no safe environment to return to and because I had incredible advocates looking out for me. I had realized that I wasn't going to get better in time to salvage my academic career and my life, and was mostly clueless as to how I would survive. I had had an internship in my field since I started college, but I earned basically no money. STEM internships aren't really made to be livable for undergrads, so I had mostly been working for experience in a field I would no longer be able to progress in. Bummer. My physical health had taken a huge dive for all of 2016. I basically always knew I was chronically ill, but I had been abused and gaslit my entire life to believe and act like I was fine, I was just a weak baby, I didn't know what real pain or suffering was, seizures were to be ignored, no I didn't have migraines or pinched nerves (um hello SCOLIOSIS), etc etc. And 2016 was the year my body finally started to break, so I knew "regular" jobs weren't going to be a viable option for me, at least not for long.

And thus I became a survival SW. I stayed in college for a final semester, because I didn't want to miss my friends, I loved my campus and didn't know where else to live, I still needed a lot of campus resources. I also kept my internship as long as I could, because I knew I would miss it for the rest of my life. I didn't really go to classes, again, because as much as a desperately wanted to and as much as my advisors moved heaven and earth to try to make it work for me, I couldn't handle it. I was finally able to find 2 great therapists who I started seeing regularly who actually knew how to diagnose and treat me, one at school and one outside. This is also when I met Daddy (Jace) online. After talking for what is probably a stupidly short time, we fell in love and started dating. This is honestly my first real relationship and time actually catching genuine feelings for someone, something that I hadn't thought I was capable of. Despite being happier than I had ever been in so many ways, my mental and physical health was still steadily declining. My migraines and pain were getting worse, I hadn't been able to eat normally in months and relied entirely on medication to eat or sleep at all. Many people recommended mmj at this point in my life, but I was afraid of how it would interact with my other meds. I only smoked occasionally at parties at this point (because no way was I spending my super duper limited money on weed). I wonder if medicating with something that actually worked well for me, like weed, would have allowed me to finish college. Oh well I guess. Because of my inability to attend classes, I had to take another leave for the fall semester 2016. I worked at a strip club briefly, but my health couldn't handle it for long.

I didn't want to go home for the first winter break in 2015, but campus closed and I had nowhere else to go. It was turbulent. When summer 2016 came, I still didn't go home despite having no place to stay. Until a month or so later, it was revealed to me a relative had terminal cancer. I had to go home again. It was worse than turbulent. When winter 2016 came, my relative was in much worse condition. They only had a few months left, and this was probably my last chance to say goodbye. This visit was by far the most traumatic, and more because of my parents than watching a loved one die. At least Jace was able to come meet me for the first time in person. He also got to meet my relative before they passed 🖤

Freshly fucked up by family, I retuned to California at the beginning of 2017. I was mostly taking a break from SW because of my health and was working vanilla jobs as I could (so not much). I had a pretty decent job that I was really good at and had been promoted, but then my relative passed. I started losing consciousness again ( I had many seizures and fainting spells in my childhood and during high school) and had to quit my job. the funeral was in spring 2017, I flew to Jersey to be with Daddy for a few days and then he drove me several states over for the memorial. That was the last time I saw my family. I wanted to transition to online/content creating, but I had no tech knowledge or equipment (even my phone was a potato). In high school I wasn't allowed to have a smartphone, most social media other than what was heavily monitored (and still had 0 experience with platforms sw is popular on besides Tumblr I guess), I didn't really know much about cameras. Way too sheltered and broken to feel like I could start anything. I was now seeing my outside, or I guess regular and only, therapist twice a week and doing treatments that while working for me were insanely (literally) hard. I had been able to get an apartment with roommates at a super discount in return for taking care of their crazy dog, which was a win win for me (he was a good boi just crazy from a bad past and had the worst separation anxiety). The agreement was that I would live with them until the lease was up in September, and then we would reevaluate the situation. Then they both got promoted at their mega corporation jobs. And after their wedding found a really gorgeous apartment in a much fancier part of the city, and paid to break our lease early in June leaving me homeless. I had been fired from my last 2 jobs (probably for being disabled because California is at will employment but who knows I might have been fired from the nanny job because the husband wanted to fuck me). I had no money or anywhere to go. All of my friends were almost as broke as me, so while I had offers to couchsurf at a few of their places they had other roommates who would have been pissed and in a few months they would be going back to school anyways. Daddy and I had been trying to save up to move in together for months, but he was going to move to California. We didn't have any money for that, so instead he asked me to move in with him in New Jersey. Leaving meant I lost my health insurance and my therapist. It was supposed to be much more temporary and we were supposed to move back to California much sooner than we were able to. I try not to be mad at those roommates because being angry doesn't change anything, but it really sucked.

Moving in with Daddy meant we could start our blog! And I was super happy at first, the happiest I could ever remember. But the years had been too hard and my health started to get worse than ever before. Without treatment and so traumatized, my brain and body were constantly at war. I would wake with splitting migraines, throwing up, my chronic pain became completely unmanageable. I started to need weed all the time because it was the only thing that stopped my cyclical vomiting episodes and kept me out of the hospital. My antipsychotics and other meds had been high-key fucking me up (probably shouldn't have been on them in the first place, thank you doctor who also ignored my seizures even when I had one in front of you) and were almost impossible to come off of because the withdrawals. (Seriously, kicking xanax was easier for me than my antipsychotics.) I'm not anti medication or anything, I just know the ones I was on were not good for me anymore. I'd actually like to be on something again, I just need a doctor who actually understands PTSD and DID.

My health continued to be shit for most of 2018, with several ER visits for severe dehydration from vomiting for days on end. We started to make videos and do snapchat and online sessions to be able to make ends meet. Despite being in the worst situation and thus everything being a trizillion times harder, we really loved (and still love 😇) doing SW and creating content. Our fans and clients have been there in some of our darkest moments, just being lovely or pulling through for us when we needed it most. During 2018 and 2019 I became actively suicidal for the first time since I was 13. I struggled with self harm again. I have gotten worse than I ever thought possible. But I wouldn't have made it at all if it wasn't for SW, this community and our supporters.

At the beginning of 2020 we were finally able to move back to California. Obviously, the pandemic severely disrupted many of our plans, especially regarding my recovery. Despite things being delayed or shifted, we are in a much better place currently. I have what I need to get better and I can build a support system again. I will get better.

Talking about things is hard for me. Being open and honest is hard for me. For 18 years I was trained and abused to not be sad or show negative feelings, or talk about upsetting things, and it has been killing me slowly my entire life. I genuinely don't want pity or to make others feel bad, but I do want to give you the chance to get to know me. I don't always talk about things so much. But I'm trying to get better at it.

[madmaudlingoes]

Sewing Your Own Face Mask (Or Wearing A Cloth Mask)

I’m gonna use this post to consolidate what I know about cloth face masks (making or wearing) because I am making myself crazy looking at different proposals and arguments and research. Under a cut so I can keep the post up-to-date without spreading misinfo.

Question: what’s the point of wearing a mask?

Masks of any kind do two things: prevent the wearer from inhaling germs, and prevent the wearer from exhaling germs.

Healthcare workers need masks that will prevent them from getting sick while they treat the sick: that’s why they’ve been desperate to collect N95 masks and face shields. If you’re not a healthcare worker, isolation and social distancing are better ways to avoid being exposed to germs than masking in public. Of course, not everybody can isolate right now -- people still gotta work, gotta buy groceries, gotta use public transit, etc. -- so going out in a mask is a decent compromise.

On the other hand, if you know or strongly suspect you’ve been exposed, wearing a mask can help you avoid infecting others. (This is how masking became a norm in Asian countries long before the coronavirus pandemic.) Again, carriers really shouldn’t be venturing out of isolation at all, but if you can’t avoid it, masking up can minimize the danger you pose to others. 

As of 4/3, the Centers for Disease Control recommends that everyone wear a mask when they leave the house. 

Update 6/1: As states “re-open,” requirements for face coverings in public may be dropped, but that doesn’t mean you have to stop wearing one. Especially if you’re attending a protest (crowds, lots of chanting/yelling), a mask can still keep you safe.

Question: how well do cloth masks work?

The evidence on this is pretty meh. The US Centers for Disease Control has said, “Any mask is better than no mask,” but studies have shown that cloth masks are strictly inferior to single-use medical masks when it comes to preventing the wearer from getting sick. Some reasons why:

Cloth masks are often made from materials that don’t trap tiny particles as effectively.This video explains how single-use masks work, and why woven material doesn’t work as well as the non-woven polymers that are normally used for medical masks.

Cloth masks absorb and retain moisture more than single-use masks, which reduces their efficacy over time. A study from India found that cloth masks and single-use masks both lose efficacy after two continuous hours, and another study in Vietnam found a single cloth mask worn throughout an eight-hour shift actually performed worse than single-use masks, and possibly even worse than no mask at all.

Cloth masks, depending on their design, may not fit snugly or smoothly, resulting in gaps that permit unfiltered air through. A recent study from Northeastern University in Boston found that pulling a nylon stocking over your mask-- not your whole head, we’re not robbing banks -- could significantly improve the effectiveness of any cloth mask, and even single-use surgical masks, by keeping everything snug.

A wonky mask might also cause you to touch your face more trying to adjust it, resulting in contamination.

Wearers may not be cleaning cloth masks effectively between uses, or may be cross-contaminating their hands when removing a used mask.  See “How do I wear a cloth mask?” below.

So a cloth mask is a last resort when isolation isn’t an option and single-use masks aren’t available. As of 6/1, the US is still facing shortages of single-us PPE thanks to mismanagement by the Trump administration, and as states “re-open” the demand for masks will start to increase again.

Question: If cloth masks aren’t effective, why bother with them?

Some healthcare facilities have asked for donations of cloth masks in order to stretch their supply of single-use masks because, as stated above, we’re running out of supplies. Some other orgs (from nursing homes to animal shelters to police forces) have been asking for mask donations to conserve single-use masks for healthcare workers. For most people going out in our daily lives, a reusable cloth mask is more cost-effective than running through boxes of disposables, especially if we’re also doing what we can to avoid high-risk acitivies.

Question: What’s the best material to make a mask out of?

Research by Davies et al (2013) compared several different materials for DIY masking. Two factors are in play: how well does the material trap germ-sized particles, and how well can the wearer breath while wearing it? For example, vacuum bags are great for filtering tiny particles, but turned out to be uncomfortable and difficult to breath through, while woven silk was very breathable but a poor filter. (Some 3D printed masks that are currently circulating could give you fatal CO2 poisoning.)

The Davies papers’ recommendations were cotton knits (like a medium-weight t-shirt) or tightly woven cotton cloth (like a high thread-count pillowcase). More layers isn’t necessarily better, but most patterns in circulation use at least two. Some also incorporate a filter of some kind, either removable or sewn into the mask.

Knit fabric is tricky to sew, especially if you’re a beginner, but the trade-off is that a mask made with knit can achieve a snugger fit. Woven cloth is easier to work with, but the resulting mask may require more tailoring to avoid gaps. If you have a choice, use plain, light-colored fabrics so it’s easier to see stains or wet spots. (Also, frankly, a mask sanitized with bleach regularly won’t retain color for long.) Some hospitals are recommending using two fabric colors if you can, to ensure you can tell the “inside” and “outside” apart easily, but if you don’t have that much fabric laying around, use what you got.

To secure the mask, narrow (1/8 - 1/2 inch) elastic bands are common, but these can pull hair/rub skin. Woven elastic in this size is also getting hard to source, and may contain latex, which is an allergy risk. Consider instead making ties from bias tape or twill tape; narrow strips of sewn fabric; a clean shoelace; or narrow grosgrain ribbon (the kind with ridges).

Some mask designs include a pocket for inserting a separate filter, which improves their protective power. Good ideas for a filter:

Quilt batting or interfacing (Fusible interfacing may help make knits more workable, at the cost of their stretch.)

Extra layers of cloth

shop towels made from microfiber or “hydro-knit” material

Bad ideas for filters include vaccuum bags (not breathable, may contain fiberglass) and cut-up N95 masks (why???). And if you’re making masks primarily for personal use on short trips out, you probably don’t need a filter anyway, though Mueller and Fernandez (2020) found that cotton masks with a filter + a nylon stocking over the top actually approached the protective power of a single-use mask.

Question: What pattern should I use?

If you’re making masks for donation, use whatever pattern is requested. If you’re making them for personal use, or for donation to an org that hasn’t given any guidance, here are some ideas:

New: The Clover Mask is a hybrid of several of the designs below, designed by the MakeMasks.Org Slack. Intermediate difficulty.

Erin’s Mask, based on a design developed by Dr. Chen Xiaoting of Taiwan. Erin tweaked the pattern and converted it to US measurements for those of us allergic to metric. This mask has a pocket for a filter and can be made with either elastic or a fabric tie to secure. Intermediate difficulty.

Cynthia’s Mask does not have a filter pocket and uses twill tape or ribbon for tie-backs. Probably the easiest on the list.

John Hopkins Medicine has also produced a mask pattern pretty much the same as Cynthia’s. So has Kaiser Permanente, which also made a helpful video if you’re not used to making pleats.

The Aries 2.0 Mask is being produced en masse by volunteers in St. Louis, which is where I’m based. It’s more complicated than Cynthia’s mask, and has a filter pocket like Erin’s mask, using curved pieces instead of pleats to achieve a good fit. Intermediate difficulty.

Some additional options, which have been less popular than the above:

The Turban Project Mask has been promoted by Deaconess Medical Center in Evansville, Indiana. It uses elastic and has no filter pocket. Just as easy as Cynthia’s mask, but the ear loop design may be less comfortable and some people have reported shortages of elastic.

The A.B. Mask is designed to be worn over an N95 mask, to extend its lifespan, or by itself. It uses cloth ties. It’s the most complex pattern to sew on this list, with darts and seam binding, but was designed by a nurse.

The Fu Mask from Freesewing uses curved pieces like the Aries mask, but has no filter pocket, which makes me a little more leery of the big center seam.

The Olson Mask has a filter pocket and uses regular hair ties for fasteners.

If you don’t sew at all, this mask can be folded from one sheet of cut cloth. A silky scarf might not be optimal material (see above re: material types) but a cotton bandana or a “fat quarter” of quilting cotton is almost the same size. If you’re using cut fabric, you could just tape or whipstitch the raw edges so it’ll survive the washing machine.

There are a ton of Facebook groups, Discords, etc. with suggestions on how to tweak these masks for best fit or greater comfort. One common hack is putting a length of pip cleaner or floral wire in the upper seam, to help the mask conform around the bridge of your nose. Be cautious when washing a mask with a built-in wire, because it might rust; the Aries 2.0 mask has a sleeve so the wire can be removed for cleaning.

Question: how should I wear/clean a cloth mask?

Depending on the mask, you might secure the mask behind your head or over your ears, either with elastic bands or cloth ties. Make sure you’re breathing primarily though the mask, and not around the sides, even when you turn your head or talk. (This might require some tweaking of your pattern.) This NYT piece has illustrations of how the mask should sit -- over your nose and under your chin, snug to your cheeks on both sides. If you can’t click through, @theexoticvet has posted the images here.

(Note: an N95 mask can’t make a tight seal over facial hair, but a cloth mask doesn’t seal even on a smooth face. So don’t fret about your beard making your cloth mask useless -- just make sure it’s pulled snug all the way around.)

Studies suggest a fabric mask is useful for two hours, max, or until your breath makes it noticeably damp. When you remove the mask, grasp it by the ties, loops or edges. Don’t touch the part that covers your nose or mouth, because that’s where germs have accumulated. If there’s a removable filter inside, wash your hands thoroughly after removing it, and then wash the mask.

Research shows the novel coronavirus can persist ~24 hours on a cardboard surface, but not necessarily how long it survives on/in cloth. Also, leaving a potentially contaminated mask laying around is probably not a good idea. So, to clean your mask:

Hand-wash with hot water and soap, at a minimum.

Boiling the mask for ~10 minutes should kill just about anything, but don’t just drop it in the pot and forget it -- you should keep stirring/agitating the water so it thoroughly penetrates all layers.

Add 1 T (15 ml) of bleach to 1 gallon (3.8 L) of cold water and soak your mask for 15-30 minutes. Then rinse thoroughly with hot water. Over-bleaching will degrade the fabric and make the mask less effective.

If you have access to a washing machine and/or a tumble dryer with a “sanitize” setting, use that. Otherwise use the hottest settings each one has.

If you have to air-dry your mask, make sure it’s completely dry before you use it again.

Question: How can I make masks to donate?

As of 6/1, mask donations are ramping down as the supply chain for both conventional PPE and reusable masks has stabilized. Most people and orgs can now buy reusable masks if they want them. On the other hand, some people can’t afford to buy a mask, so homeless shelters, food pantries and crisis nurseries may still be taking donations. Activist groups planning protests may also be looking for masks to distribute at their events.

Donations are being coordinated on a Make Masks Slack channel, at #MasksNOW, or at RosieSews.org. You can also text “masks” to ResistBot (50409) to find out how to help get PPE to healthcare workers who need it. Also try a Facebook search for “Million Mask Mayday” + your state, as the original Million Mask Mayday site was overwhelmed.

Check one of these spots or contact a local org BEFORE you sew a bunch of stuff, to ensure you’re matching their needs. Just dropping off a bunch of masks off randomly to a group that doesn’t even need them isn’t helping anybody.

If you initiate contact with a facility or org, ask them a) are they taking donations, and b) do they have specific needs regarding size, materials, or construction.

Also ask about whether the masks need to be sanitized before donation (use one of the methods above) and how donations should be delivered in light of social distancing recommendations.

[johannesviii]

A Useless Post Rating the Preppers From Death Stranding

Because I can and I will. I got super attached to some of these bunches of pixels while playing, and I want to share my useless and extra subjective opinions

No plot-related spoilers. This is only listing the Preppers and not any Bridges employee from the various cities and facilities. No reasonable individuals to be found here, only strange people living in bunkers, baby

Let’s go

The Ludens Fan

Shelter placement: On a mountain, right between a Timefall zone and MULE territory, and not on any obvious delivery route. Not great. The view is super nice, though. 6/10

Prepper: A cinnamon roll who believes the world will be saved by fandoms and games. Always happy to see you. Gets super excited when you find old figurines for him. Sends lost stuff to people he doesn’t even know. Has toy dinosaurs.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Not really.

Opinion while playing: He is a Friend. 9/10

The Musician

Shelter placement: Hidden behind a little cliff, on a mountain, in a patch of nice fresh moss, next to a cool waterfall, overlooking the whole valley. Not on any delivery route whatsoever but come on. This guy is living the dream. 10/10

Prepper: Talks to you as if he’s known you since highschool. Has an emo haircut. Very passionate about rock albums from the “beginning of the 21st century” so I’m assuming he’s a fellow MCR fan. The walls of his shelter are covered in vinyls. Wants to create and share the music of the future for free. Streams his concerts on the chiral network.

Will I get something nice if I help them: A harmonica. You can play it. I’m in love

Opinion while playing: Hell yeah what a cool dude 10/10

The Engineer

Shelter placement: In plain view right next to a huge road and two MULE territories. Dude didn’t even try to hide and his packages are stolen all the time. At least the weather is nice? 3/10

Prepper: Has spent his entire life inside of this bunker since birth. Polite and a bit shy. Has a friendly smile. Judging by the amount of alcohol we deliver to him, feels lonely. Sometimes you’ll find gallons of lube with his name on it and he’ll refuse to give any kind of explanation and to be fair the guy probably uses it for all his mechanical inventions. But deep down, we know.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Upgrades for the Power Skeleton. You know you want them.

Opinion while playing: Another Friend. I will judge him silently every time I have to bring him his lost lube though. 9/10

The Craftsman

Shelter placement: Next to a huge road on a plain ravaged by Timefall, between two MULE territories and a voidout crater choke-full of BTs. Can potentially see the nightmarish ruins of a roadside factory and a traffic jam where everyone clearly got killed. I don’t know if I hate it or respect the shit out of it. 2/10

Prepper: Suspicious of us. Sends us on a suicide mission to fetch old equipment in a terrifying place. Hates Fragile, so we can’t be friends. Likes to fix broken watches, apparently. A lot of his lost packages seem to be special reinforced underwear. I’m curious but also I don’t want to pry.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Custom hematic grenades. Can’t live without them.

Opinion while playing: A suspicious little shit and I don’t trust him but he’s still a good ally. 5/10

The Elder

Shelter placement: On a majestic plateau in the middle of the region, overlooking everything. Not on any obvious route, which is a problem, but also away from danger, Timefall and MULEs. A green little patch of heaven. 9/10

Prepper: Old and kind but takes no shit from anybody. All of his emails are like “anyway, f█ck the government and f█ck this country” and I’m living for it. Will give away old photo albums, books and games predating the Death Stranding, in hope they can be shared with other people and their kids. Wholesome as hell.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Not really.

Opinion while playing: The most valid boomer you will ever see. My adoptive grandfather and I must protect him at all costs. 10/10

Peter Englert

Shelter placement: Not on any obvious delivery route but right next to Lake Knot City on a plain ravaged by Timefall. You can see Middle Knot City’s crater from there. Not a bad spot, but also no good vibes whatsoever. 6/10

Prepper: Never at home, has no hologram and keeps finding terrible excuses not to be there, which is rude. Possibly imaginary friends and relatives. Writes extremely long and well-spoken, obsequious, smarmy emails to you and you’ll receive them at the worst possible moments, like he just knows. Only interested in pizza, and you.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Hope you like high quality guns, and very disturbing journal entries.

Opinion while playing: Was literally calling him my nemesis even BEFORE learning anything about the guy. The best and the worst prepper at the same time. Go f█ck yourself, dude, I love you. Pizza/10

The Timefall Farmer and the Environmental Scientist

Shelter placement: Right next to a huge MULE territory. There’s the Tar Belt in the distance and no city, road or friends for miles. Very awkward. 4/10

Preppers: Planned to study the effects of Timefall on plants and became farmers instead. They are not enjoying it one bit and you’re under the impression they occasionally get on each other’s nerves even though they’ve been colleagues for years. The concept of their farm is a fantastic bit of worldbuilding, though, but they are a bit bland themselves.

Will I get something nice if I help them: A goose hologram. I need it

Opinion while playing: They’re super nice but their general weariness is too contagious for comfort. 4/10

The Film Director

Shelter placement: In the middle of jagged rocks, reasonably far away from local MULEs and Timefall, but also from any kind of road or decent delivery route. The ground is a poisonous reddish brown with occasional smoke. Ominous. 5/10

Prepper: Really worried about ancient media getting lost and forgotten, and will do anything to save old movies from oblivion. Trusts you instantly. Is always surprised you brought something for him, or just thought about him, and it’s heartwarming to see. Geeks about things he likes in your emails when he isn’t low-key flirting with you. Has the most epic beard you will ever see in your life.

Will I get something nice if I help them: A rock hologram. Uh?

Opinion while playing: Came for the geeking, stayed for the flirting  8/10

The Collector

Shelter placement: Inside a cavern two-thirds up a vertical rock face in a canyon slap bang in the middle of MULE territory. Invisible from ground level, and invisible from the bottom of the canyon. The MULEs live literally next door and don’t even know the guy is there. No chill whatsoever. Incredible. What a king. 10/10

Prepper: Shaped like a friend. Loves videogames and loves geeking about them. Fascinated by pre-Stranding press like “people were buying newspapers? On real paper?? :O”. Really wants you to read his emails because he’s got nobody to share his special interests with. Wants to write about your adventures to inspire other people. Occasionally you’ll find a lost package with a vintage playstation and you know it’s for him even without looking at the name on the tag.

Will I get something nice if I help them: A backpack cover to protect your stuff from Timefall?? holy shit?

Opinion while playing: We have no choice but to stan. 9/10

The Junk Dealer

Shelter placement: On a heavily polluted, rust-colored hill in the middle of a scrapyard full of broken down cars, overlooking both MULE and BT territory AND some f█cking terrifying ruins on all sides. It’s metal as shit, but also, the dude’s got a death wish. 3/10

Prepper: Tries to emotionally blackmail us with videos of his supposedly dead girlfriend. Very rude. Sends us on a suicide mission in BT territory to look for junk just for a laugh. Is such a piece of shit he got divorced by a woman who was willing to be carried under heavy Timefall through a horde of BTs to see him. Killed his girlfriend’s parents and didn’t tell her.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Upgrades for the Speed skeleton, and also chiral ladders, which are both life-saving, and I hate the fact that I need those so much.

Opinion while playing: A piece of shit and a terrible human being. Go sit on some rusty metal in BT territory, my dude. 1/10

The Chiral Artist and her Mother

Shelter placement: Overlooking a bottomless lake of tar and depressing ruins plagued by Timefall, far from civilisation but also far from trouble. Depressing, but safe. 6/10

Preppers: A little ray of sunshine. Capable of planning a journey on foot while avoiding Timefall and BTs after having done the trip exactly once (1) and on our back, which makes her one of the bravest Preppers we ever meet. Talented as hell with chiralium. Very awkward speech patterns and elocution which I always find relatable. Makes extremely bad choices regarding her love life. Will send you likes in a cringy but cute way. I don’t really trust her adoptive mother too much but she seems to be friends with the Cosplayer and any friend of the Cosplayer is my friend.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Chiral boots. Literally the most useful thing anyone anywhere gave me in this game. No matter how far I am from her and her mom I will backtrack to get some brand new chiral boots from her every time I need them. They are that good

Opinion while playing: I love her but she’s making extremely bad life choices and it’s giving me mild anxiety 8/10

The Cosplayer and the Wandering MC

Shelter placement: At the very bottom of a long, narrow canyon plagued by Timefall, inside a vertical hole in the ground. How they haven’t both drowned yet is beyond me. This is the worst idea ever. 1/10

Prepper: Both of them are always super excited to see you. Trade a ton of art and crafts supplies back and forth with everyone in the region. Organised a goddamn post-apo cosplay convention through the chiral network. She considers cosplay to be ‘the art of transformation’, and he’s a big fan of you, and also otters. Otter facts. Dad Jokes to the max. Legends only

Will I get something nice if I help them: Backpack custom options. And the otter hood. Come on. Who doesn’t want to look like an otter. According to the MC it was “threaded and triple stitched by [his] cosplay partner using silk”. I don’t deserve this gift

Opinion while playing: Just because it’s the apocalypse doesn’t mean you can’t look and feel your best 10/10

The Doctor and the Medical Device Engineer

Shelter placement: Overlooking a little river in the mountains, right before the snow starts. Extremely close to Mountain Knot City. Practical and beautiful. Lovely spot. 8/10

Preppers: She invented and crafted a medical terminal that allows doctors to examine patients remotely through the network, and distributed it for free. He’s sitting on years of medical knowledge and stockpiles of meds, and also sharing both with everyone. Got married because they admired each other so much and shared a common hatred of the lack of medical assistance post-Stranding. Two absolute angels. We don’t deserve them

Will I get something nice if I help them: Custom blood bags. A must during boss fights.

Opinion while playing: A bit too serious, but mad respect. 7/10

The Photographer

Shelter placement: In the mountains, in the middle of nowhere, overlooking the valley, but away from everything and everyone, next to BT territory and daaaangerously close to the biggest Demens camp in the entire country. Who told you this was a good idea. 4/10

Prepper: The walls of her shelter are decorated with photos of beautiful landscapes. Friendly but takes no shit. Constantly trying to go out to take pictures of cool places and weird paleoart and stuff even though there’s a whole gang of terrorists outside firing live ammo at anyone on sight. Her cameras get stolen all the time, and yet she keeps doing it again and again. Judging by one delivery she sent to Mountain Knot City, she even has footage of Edge Knot City. You know. The unreachable nightmarish place beyond the f█cking Tar Belt. HOW

Will I get something nice if I help them: Guns because she clearly has no chill

Opinion while playing: This woman has more nerves in her left pinky than I have in my entire f█cking body. We stan a queen 9/10

The Novelist’s Son

Shelter placement: In a vast, beautiful green plain full of rivers and lakes, kind of in the middle of nowhere but also at a safe distance of the Demens territory. It’s painted the same green as the rest of the plain, which is a stroke of genius. 8/10

Prepper: Considering his title and the fact that the walls of his shelter are full of bookshelves, I expected a pretentious writer of sorts. But no. He doesn’t write. He’s just a soft boy who wants to save the world with plants. Will make sure you read his emails because he’s very passionate about gardening, gourds and mythology, and wants to talk about it with everyone. Too good for this world, too pure.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Special cryptobiotes! Pretty cool. I want to save some for Fragile

Opinion while playing: I love him I love thinking about him 10/10

The Roboticist

Shelter placement: High in the mountains, but in some sort of hollow, surrounded by snow and rocks on all sides. There’s also a nice hot spring nearby. Feels strangely safe and pleasant for such an isolated spot. 7/10

Prepper: Super approachable and quite friendly. Clearly a genius considering how good the all-terrain skeleton is. The stuff she’s looking for goes from stuff for her projects to a plush for her kid or a vintage coffee machine. Her emails, meanwhile, are shit-your-pants terrifying, like her wondering if machines should replace humans, or pranking you by pretending she was dead the whole time and her hologram is an IA. Thank you for the heart attack.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Upgrades for the all-terrain skeleton, hell yeah baby

Opinion while playing: I’m very conflicted because her emails are scary as shit but if she stepped on my face I’d say “thank you” 8/10

The Mountaineer and the Mountain Guide

Shelter placement: On top of a mountain but in a relatively flat and safe area, very isolated but also far from Beached Things, with good visibility. There’s logic to the madness. 6/10

Preppers: Initially in panic mode due to a medical emergency. Tough outside, but soft inside. He gives you precious advice about whiteouts and how to deal with them and stay alive in the mountains. We don’t know much about her, except she used to explore the mountains using chiral climbing anchors. Just speculation but I’m under the impression they met one day on a super dangerous expedition and ended together because they were both tough as nails, or maybe because they saved each other. Their kid is going to be unstoppable.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Chiral climbing anchors.

Opinion while playing: Wholesome couple of adventurers. A bit bland, but in a good way 7/10

The Spiritualist

Shelter placement: On a mountain peak in the middle of a whiteout area, but sometimes the weather can be decent and the view pretty nice, if you squint. Getting there feels like a test to join a secret cult and I don’t like that one bit. 3/10

Prepper: Twin sister of the Cosplayer, but gives off a very different vibe, like some sort of white suburban mom who’s discovering new age stuff. Has a very mystical approach to this whole apocalypse thing but seems to be wayyy too much into it for comfort. Really wants to see the Beach and tries to do so through meditation. We can receive chemicals from her. I do NOT want to know what’s in there.

Will I get something nice if I help them: A RACCOON HOLOGRAM?? I LOVE IT

Opinion while playing: Harmless but she scares me. 3/10

The First Prepper

Shelter placement: On a nearly inaccessible mountain peak battered by snow storms. The slope is so dangerous I straight up died once while walking on it. Absolutely nothing for miles and no visibility. That’s not a shelter, that’s a coffin. 1/10

Prepper: Apparently his family has lived in shelters ever since the beginning of the Cold War, then decided to stay there in case the world would end in the year 2000, then because of the Bush era, and long story short the guy is like “I did it before it was cool” and he’s literally gatekeeping other Preppers and calling them amateurs. Tries really hard to convince us to stop helping people and get our own shelter. At least he admits self-sufficiency is a mirage in the end, which is more than I expected from this clown.

Will I get something nice if I help them: A hat, and a wolf hologram

Opinion while playing: When the nicest thing I have to say about a Prepper is “well they’re not hurting anybody”, you know it’s bad. What a jerk 2/10

The Evo-Devo Biologist

Shelter placement: On an isolated snow slope away from civilisation, overlooking ruins and geysers in the distance. Not far from BT territory and terrorists, but still at a reasonable distance. Next to a hot spring. The view is majestic as f█ck. 9/10

Prepper: Looks strict and gives off severe teacher vibes, but you’re under the impression that’s purely because she hasn’t seen or talked to another human being in years. Polite but distant. Thinks the sixth mass extinction is a golden opportunity for science, and inevitable, and that we should study the shit out of it even if we end up dying. She’s not wrong exactly but also, yikes

Will I get something nice if I help them: Not really.

Opinion while playing: I genuinely have no idea. An enigma. 5/10

The Geologist

Shelter placement: High in the mountains on a desolate snowy slope, completely isolated from everything. I think I’ve seen a movie about that kind of place once, except it was a hotel. 2/10

Prepper: The first package we bring to him is a shipment of meds to fight chiral contamination. No more nightmares or suicidal thoughts after that, so he’s ok. Also he’s obsessed with Heartman to the point you wonder if he’s got a crush on him, belittles himself and his work constantly, and also thinks saving the world is a waste of time and effort. No no he’s still ok, he swears. But yeah uh. Dude is clearly one small step away from blowing a fuse and going full Demens, we need to sit down and talk about your problems my friend

Will I get something nice if I help them: Not really.

Opinion while playing: I like him but he worries me a lot and I’m a bit scared for him 7/10

The Paleontologist

Shelter placement: In a little valley in the mountains, where grass and snow meet, miles away from civilisation and roads, but also miles away from problems. If there wasn’t this pit full of toxic gas literally next door, this would be perfect. 8/10

Prepper: Likes to complain about everything and everyone. A bit rude but more in a familiar way than an unpleasant way. Extremely passionate about fossils and prehistoric stuff and gets super excited about ammonites in particular. Mentions exploring a place full of toxic gas without any kind of protection just to fetch some neat rocks once, so we both clearly have the same level of survival instincts when our special interests are involved.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Not really, unless you count level 2 Hematic Grenades

Opinion while playing: Relatable as shit. I feel like I’d be this guy if I existed in this game’s world. 9/10

The Veteran Porter

Shelter placement: Nowhere Man lives on a very abrupt slope full of rocks in the middle of Nowhereburg, Nowhere State, Nowherica. You get the feeling he knows the region like the back of his hand and picked that spot exactly for that reason and frankly, I have to respect that. 7/10

Prepper: Ex-Porter with a damaged spine. A retired adventurer, exhausted after carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Higgs used to be his boss back when he was still working at Fragile Express so the dude has massive trust issues now and I won’t argue with that. Initially suspicious of us and Bridges, for good reasons. Every time I found a super isolated bunker signed under Fragile Express I was like “woah their employees were hardcore to find all these places that Bridges couldn’t find”, and he’s one of these guys, and I get it now. And he’s tired. So tired. A whole mood.

Will I get something nice if I help them: Not really.

Opinion while playing: Unlike the First Prepper I respect the shit out of him and I want him to enjoy his well-earned retirement 8/10

[missroserose]

all you touch and all you see

“So...why are we here?”

A moment of silence.  Fingers tighten around a trendy reusable mug.  Green eyes flick up, meet his, far more sincere than he could have imagined, even a week ago.

“I can’t explain it.  I’m just...more myself, when you’re around.”

Sam Wesson is dreaming.  Well, half-dreaming; awake enough that he can tell that he’s lying in bed on sheets with some ridiculous thread count, covers bunched around his legs, the cool constant breeze of the ceiling fan blowing over his sleep-warm chest.  At the same time, he’s sitting in the passenger seat of an old muscle car, rain tapping on the roof and hissing beneath the tires.  The thrum of the V8 permeates his whole body as he flips through papers, research for the next job.  The automatic reverse on the tape deck clicks over, and Sam wonders how many times Dean’s played this exact Led Zeppelin album on this very deck.  A hundred?  A thousand?

Dean.  Dean is there in both worlds, beside him.  He glances over to where this Dean is squinting through the rain.  Takes in his scruffy jacket and worn shirt, hair standing on end in places, the ketchup stain on his jeans from his lunchtime drive-through burger.  It’s such a contrast to the Dean beside him in the bed, the Dean of suspenders and suits and Brylcreemed hair, the environmentally conscious vegetarian Dean who wouldn’t be caught dead driving a car that got fewer than thirty miles to the gallon.  

And yet, there are tells.  Little commonalities, signs that the two of them aren’t as different as they might look.  The way their eyes narrow slightly when faced with something they don’t immediately understand.  Their absolute disdain for talking about feelings any more than strictly necessary.  Their unbridled fierceness when they take on a threat, corporate or noncorporeal.

The way they both love Sam.  Fierce.  Devoted.  Protective to a degree that makes Sam wonder, sometimes.  Or would, if he weren’t every bit as smitten.

Sam isn’t sure what to say to that.  It’s disconcerting, seeing Dean in casual clothes—still natty in a sweater and slacks, but his hair is carefully (and attractively) mussed, his posture a fraction looser.  He keeps quiet, keeps his face open.  Knows, somehow, that this is the best way to keep people talking.

“You bring out something good in me.  If I’m going to keep climbing the corporate ladder, I need someone to help me remember I'm not actually in hell, you know?”

Sam can’t blame Dean for staying at Sandover, not really.  He’s on the fast track, in a position most people their generation would kill for.  Especially with the economy the way it is, steady jobs with good salaries and benefits are nothing to sneeze at.  Working as an executive is prestigious; it’s not like he was a cubicle jockey, subject to the indignities of unflattering uniforms and unsavory coworkers.  Dean is on his way up.

Sam, meanwhile, was on his way out.

The week after his slightly dramatic walkout, he’d been making serious plans to go hunting alone.  Spent his days poring over newspapers, looking for strange deaths or weird occurrences; imagined sniffing out supernatural threats, saving people.  He applied for a loan for a car—found a great deal on a Dodge Charger—and dedicated an afternoon to looking up supplies he might need to kit it out properly.  It was terrifying and exhilarating reading, realizing how much might be out there, how many beings he had yet to encounter, how much studying there was to do.  What to look for, what to pack, where to even begin.

Perhaps most saliently, his dreams—the strange, inexplicable dreams that had haunted him during his entire three weeks at Sandover, where he hunted things, where Dean was his partner, continually present—had stopped.

Then Dean Smith had called and asked him for coffee.

Dean’s eyes meet his again, just briefly, before dropping, a charmingly bashful smile spreading over his face.  “Look, I’m not asking you to marry me or anything,” he says, rubbing the side of his neck, looking away.  “It’s just, if you wanted...I think we could have a good time together.”

They do have a good time together—it’s a little surprising, really, the uptight executive and the slacker cubicle jockey pairing off.  But they share a love of bad action movies, and a passion for video games; Sam hasn’t had his ass kicked so thoroughly and consistently in Halo 3 since college.  But even beyond that, it was like their rhythms are aligned; they fall into cohabiting in Dean’s tiny apartment almost immediately, as if they’re already entirely used to living in each others’ pockets.  Work during the day.  Chores on weekends. And at night—

Well, of course, there’s the chemistry.  The sheer blinding-white magnesium-flame heat of the two of them together, as bright-burning as it is undeniable.  The way Dean’s eyes, green as his own, darken, pupils dilating, when Sam stands just a little too close.  The pulse-pounding rush of need that hits him when Dean’s mouth curls up at one corner in just the right way, the way that indicates Sam is about to come harder than he ever has in his life.  The soft, broken noises he knows Dean makes, that they both make, when they teeter together on the edge, a bare breath from tipping over, entwined.

“I know you don’t think this is our life.  What we’re meant to be doing.”  The words give the air around them strange twin taste—resigned and relieved, both.  “But Sam—it’s a good life.  It’s the life I’ve wanted, the one I never thought I’d be able to have.  God knows my dad didn’t think I’d make it.  Nobody did.  But here I am.”  His eyes meet Sam’s again.  “Here we are.”

Those beautiful manicured hands on him feel right in a way Sam’s never experienced before.  It’s not even sexual, not really—the sensation is there as much when Dean musses Sam’s hair as it is when Sam is shaking apart with Dean knuckle-deep inside him.  There’s just something about the two of them together that’s...centering.  Liminal.  Like they form their own shelter, the eye of the hurricane when the chaos of the world is howling around them.

Sam asked Dean once if he felt the same. Dean had quirked a brow at him, given a little smile—”What, like some kind of past life thing?  You going to start telling me we’re soulmates?  Whatever you say, Samantha—” and yet there’s something in the way he touches Sam at times.  Reverent.  Almost disbelieving.

Like Sam, too, is something Dean had never thought he’d be able to have.

“I’ve got some connections at my old firm.  I can make a few calls, get you an interview for a decent job.”  He takes a drink of coffee, forcing a pause; shielding himself for a moment from Sam’s reaction.  “I know it’s not your dream.  But you could stay.  With me.”

And yet, in a way, it is Sam’s dream.  Because Sam’s been having dreams again, almost from the day of that fateful coffee date.  Dreams where he and Dean do everything together that Sam had imagined, had read about.  Where they hunt demons, vampires, demigods—creatures that make Old Man Sandover look like something out of Beetlejuice.  Where they spend what feels like half their life in the boredom of long drives or library research sessions, punctuated by the heart-pounding adrenaline rush of a hunt, a fight.  Where he and Dean save each others’ lives over and over, where they would die for each other, probably will sooner rather than later, but where they’re alive now, where they retreat victorious with whiskey or beer to their shitty motel room—

Somewhere more private.  Lips swollen from kissing.  A hand on the side of his face, long fingers threaded in his hair.  Green eyes on his once more, open, honest.  Vulnerable.

“I’d like you to stay.  God, Sam—please.  Stay.”

—and where they never, ever touch.  

So Sam took the job.  Let the loan application lapse, eventually deleted the various websites on ghosts and mythology and monsters from his bookmarks.   He spends his days working in IT security, which is at least more interesting than tech support—it turns out he has a knack for breaking into systems, for getting into places he’s not supposed to be, for ferreting out information companies would prefer remain hidden.  And his nights—well, if spending his nights in Dean Smith’s bed (and on his couch, and over his desk, and in his office chair, and) is the consolation prize for growing up and letting go of childish dreams, it turns out adult life has its perks as well.

He takes one last look at the scruffed-up Dean—still pretty, Sam thinks, fondly; there’s just no way to make a face like that look common—and lets the dream fade.  The vibration of the engine, the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, even the dry-dusty smell of the Impala’s heater all grow distant; Sam moves his fingers, stretches, moves just enough to scoop his lover into the crook of his shoulder.  Dean nuzzles him, murmurs a few nonsense syllables, and sighs, settling back into sleep.

Sam takes a deep breath through his nose.  Hair pomade.  Cologne.  Sweat.  Dean.  It makes him happy, in the kind of way that leaves his chest a little tight, that brings tears to the corners of his eyes.

Most people don’t even get one life with Dean.  He gets two.  Gets to tread the thin line between them, the one where Dean is his perfectly ordinary lover, and the one where he’s—both more, and less.

As dreams go, he’ll take it, and be grateful.

[helpinghanikan]

A little Help

Avengers (And Matt Murdock) x Reader

Sum: Not everything can be done by one person; from saving a life to fixing a problem, we all need a hand sometimes. 

AN: Gonna be honest, the Thor one sucks but I didn’t want to leave him out. I’m sorry. 

Steve Rogers:

           Somebody was finally smart enough to shoot Captain America in the legs. Bullet cutting through skin but not strong enough to break through his bones. Instead two shots lodging themselves in the thick of his calf and behind his knee. Enough to take him out for the moment, but in a few days he’d be walking again.

           This wasn’t in a few days, though. This was the same moment, when your man screamed and there was no but you and an empty parking garage to hear.

           It’s actually pretty funny to think about how you institutionally moved. Taking up the dropped shield that was used as nothing more then a prop that day, holding it in front of you and telling your man to get back.

           It was just supposed to be a few poses to finish up those education videos Steve promised to do. By the time both of you got away it was late at night and both your stomachs were rumbling.

           “I can see their boots, that’s it.” Steve says behind you.

           You’ve taken shelter between two cars. Steve flat on his back, trying to look under the car. You, holding the shield up while crouching on untrained legs. The vault door to Steve that could probably be taken out by anyone with above average training.

           “There’s only one? Is he coming?” You whisper, legs starting to quiver from the strain.

           “Yes,” Steve is whispering now. It’s hard to hear everything that he is saying. “Stay down, it’ll be okay.”

           Steve was only a half decent liar. Had you been looking at him he would have smiled. Try and confirm that everything is going to be okay, even with blood going through his fingers, he’d try and lie. And you would lie right back. Smile at him, nod and then do what you are going to do anyway.

           It wasn’t until the dickhead was close enough that you heard her shoes on the concrete. In that woman’s point of view, she probably only heard Steve’s breathing. Imaging how you were going to scream after she put metal through the Captain’s eye.

           You only saw the woman’s face without blood for a brief second. Long enough for the shield to bash forward and up, slamming against her nose. Breaking the thing and practically snapping it back into her head. Another hit, this one aimed, and she falls backwards. Clutching her face and screaming profanity.

           Steve was on the phone with help, finally getting to act the part of a civilian doing their best. While you got to be the hero, kicking Dickhead’s gun away and starting a small wrestle to keep her down. She wasn’t a hired or professional assassin by any means, just an extremist who didn’t seem to really know what she was killing for.

           Nothing you couldn’t sit on and keep from hurting anyone.

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

Tony Stark:

         When you experiment on yourself you either become a brave idiot or the reason for a new safety manual. Somehow Tony has proven himself to be both. At least he has learned to have some sort of babysitter when he does these things.

           “You have life insurance right?” You ask over the intercom.

           “No one would accept me as a client,” Tony speaks through the experimental armor.

           His voice coming off as deeper, more static-y. Supposedly this was a going to be a special type of armor. Thick and tough enough that it would be used in the event of either going into the center of the earth, or into the sun. Consider all events that absolutely no one expects keep happening in this world, the idea wasn’t nearly as crazy as you’d think.

           He stands in the gray armor. Legs shoulder width apart, standing on a platform where five cannons of raw heat are waiting to be fired. All this was behind the thick booth you hid away in. Ready to turn the dial, colors ranging from yellow to red, and then green.

           “You ready, Babe?” Tony asks.

           “I’m not the one about to become an oven, just say the word.” You reply, hand on the dial.

           “Let’s start slow, get an even roast going.”

           The dial starts to slowly leave the green range. Watching his helmet tilt up, ready to take the flames that starts slowly, then burst out faster then water as it increases.

           It’s hard to see the armor while staring through the glass. What you were watching wasn’t even glass. It was a screen showing the feed from cameras outside the box. Positioned just enough so it seemed to be glass. It was safer this way, basically being in another room from the lava Tony calls flames.

           “How are you doing?” You have to practically yell.

           “Getting a little toasty, still looking good, though!” He yells back.

           That optimism only lasted for a few seconds before your ‘glass’ started to get wonky.

           “Still looking good?” You ask.

           There was no response, but there was static.

           “Tony?”

           More static.

           The dial was immediately dialed back to green. Even pushing harder as though that would cool it down faster. Unfortunately, there was no override code to get out of the box, you could leave but you could not enter the heat chamber, not until it cools enough.

           That didn’t stop you from pulling on the door. Like when your mom isn’t fast enough unlocking the car and your passive aggressively demanding to be let in. Only in this case you were yelling at the computer when it would respond with “please be patient while the chambers cools.”, “please be patient while the chamber cools”, “please be patient while the chamber cools”, “please-,”

           “Shut the FUCK up!” you scream at the automated voice.

           Eventually the voice finally stopped, a little chirping beep and your were right into the chamber. Although cooled to acceptable degrees you were still slapped with the heat after only going in a few steps. “Hang on, hang on,” You’re yelling at nothing. Jerking your free hand away from the metal that was already messing with you just by being close. “Tony, hang on.”

           The helmet was the easiest part of the armor to remove. Your hands are singed by trying to grab it. Having to pull it quickly and tossing it just as fast across the chamber.

           How many could say that they know how a baked potato feels? Well, you can add Tony to that list. His entire face was flushed, a nice pink color. Between gasps and pants he looked up at you, nodding his head to your silent questions.

           He gave one thumbs down. The universal sign that the armor would need more work.

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

Thor:

           If Thor didn’t have glasses before he should think about getting checked out soon. Staring so close to the phone his nose was practically touching it. Your eyebrows matched his, knitted together in both confusion and annoyance.

           Looking to Bruce was no help.

           “Yeah, that’s your turn.” He says, going back to his magazine.

           There was no way you were going to be able to look over his shoulder. Instead standing next to him and trying to catch a glance.

            “What are you trying to do?” you asked after several seconds of seeing nothing.

           “Trying to return to the game Bruce showed me.” Thor turns the phone towards you. “I accidentally went out and cannot return.”

           You’re staring at the home screen of his phone. Taking it in for a few seconds and then exclaiming. “This is not English; did you do this on purpose?”

           Thor shakes his head. “It was an accident when I was trying to return to the game. I can still read it, I do not know how to change it back, though.”

           “You have to go through, like, four screens. How did you do this on accident?”

           In the end it seemed you had a bigger problem with the phone then Thor did.

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

Bucky Barnes:

         You sit with your legs spread on the living room floor. A black arm with gold lining resting between them, held up by one thigh so it’s hand is in the air.

           A mix of cleaning supplies sat on the coffee table next you. From glasses cleaner to car wax, you even dug around under the sink. This thing wasn’t like a pair of shoes that came with instructions on how to clean it. The only thing either you or Bucky knew for sure was “don’t put it in the washing machine,”. And even that was still up for discussion.

           “Thank you, for this.” Bucky says, a cool bottle gently nudging against your shoulder.

           He holds two ciders in his one hand. A small juggle when you take yours, but he had a handle on it. He wouldn’t be driving a car anytime soon, he still had the arm on most of the time, but he was getting the hang of it. This just meant any cleaning was up to other people. You being the only one who doesn’t want the story behind every little smudge on the thing.

           “I’m going to add this to my bill,” You say, poking at the very little gap between the plates dirt tends to find its way into. That it sometimes comes back as red you don’t think about it too much. “Minus a drink.”

           There’s a domestic bliss to this entire scene. Looking off to the side where Bucky sits in one of the living room chairs. His hair is finally short, his face shaven and his head tilted against his shoulder. There was something playing on the TV, but he wasn’t really watching it. Instead keeping his eyes quarter open to watch you.

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

Natasha Romanoff:

         It was a weird request but not weird enough to refuse. Rereading the text from the “unknown” number Nat insisted on being named in your phone.

           Do me a favor; get on the elevator, go down a floor.

           After a few seconds, not even long enough to get your shoes on, she sends another.

           Pretty please?

           You were on the second highest floor of your building. Walking out of it in the middle of the night, when you felt the need to tiptoe around your apartment.

           The walls were thankfully thick, but the doors were not. Through the wood you could hear TVs, talking, a few moans and one particular pair softly yelling. There had yet to be anything more then an argument from them, nothing that warranted intervention. When you walk past that door again you were likely to hear moans more then arguments.

           I got you. You sent back, hitting the elevator button and waiting.

           Natasha was a serious woman who cared about her friends and loved ones. She’s been on many, too many, missions and knows how to get in and out without being seen. The best way to get in and out without being noticed was to simply act like you belong. Although she is a very serious spy, she does like to have fun with her skills.

           You had to remind yourself of this when the top hatch of the elevator is popped open. First a pair of overpriced boots, then a beige jacket covered in black dirt and sludge, finally red hair and a smile without lipstick.

           You didn’t have to say or ask anything. Your face was enough for her to get the confusion.

           “I got stuck,” She says.

           “You got dirty. You know I can buzz you in, right?” You say, reaching past her, hitting your floor’s button. “Or I could open a window.”

           “Where’s the fun in that?” She asks, kissing your cheek and leaving a smudge.

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

T’challa:

         In so many ways T’challa is on the same level as Steve Rogers. He couldn’t hold back a helicopter, but he could lap the world as good as him. Less experienced in military strategies, but his abilities aren’t any indications of that. And while you can hear Rogers walk down the hallway, it’s amazing the amount of times T’challa has made people jump out of their skin but just appearing next to them.

           But alcohol was where T’challa had to throw the towel. Something he had yet to do.

           “Does this even do anything to you?” You ask holding up the empty bottle.

           Rogers just shrug with a smile. Drinking down his glass, taking all that’s left of whatever they had been drinking. “I was hoping it would’ve worn off from the forties, guess not.”

           In one of the rare moments T’challa was in the states you typically wouldn’t be able to see him until the next morning. Getting a message from Rogers about a change of plans was a pleasant surprise. Seeing your man face first into a table was less so.

           “Can we borrow a room?” You ask, checking T’challa’s pulse.

           “There’s a guest room down the hall,” Steve says.

           T’challa was thick mess of muscle and dead weight. Too heavy to carry, just wrapping around your arms around his front, pulling him out of the chair. Struggling to keep him up enough for his feet to do their damn job.

           He’s hasn’t made any noise the entire struggle. When he finally looks at you he smiles, “hi,” he says. Face pressing into your shoulder, legs threatening to give up.

           With one arm over your shoulder and the other over Rogers T’challa leaned hard on your side. In his drunken haze he probably thought he was giving you a regular, charming, kiss on the cheek. Rather then the actual slobbering he was giving your neck.

           “Did I win?” He asks.

           You have to give the man credit. Being able to know what language to speak in even when he was off his ass drunk.

           “Yes, Dear, you wiped the floor with him.” You say, ignoring the smile Steve still had.

           An alcohol smelled breath blew into your ear. “Yay,” he says, pushing harder against you. If it weren’t for Steve both T’challa and you would have slumped into the wall.

           “I got it from here,” You say over T’challa’s shoulder after reaching the bedroom door.

           It was probably a bad idea to let Rogers off the hook so quickly. As soon as the door opened you stepped backwards to keep with the momentum. Taking a few more steps until you could safely toss him onto the bed. He landing with a groan, reaching back for a pillow or something equally soft to replace your absents.

           “I’m coming for James Barnes next,” He slurs against the pillow.

           “I’ll be sure to warn him.” You say, pulling both his shoes off. Tucking them under the bed.

           He didn’t hear you, already muttering in his sleep.

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

Pietro Maximoff:

           Volunteers were gathered from every corner of S.H.I.E.L.D, those qualified or could even pretend to be qualified were grabbed and told to get on the ship. This was how you got pulled along with doctors and those who can lift over fifty pounds.

           ‘Do you know how to sew stitches?’

           ‘No…’

           ‘Do you know what gauze is?’

           ‘Yeah, I think so.’

           ‘Great, come on.’

           Although briefed on the ride in it was incredibly confusion after walking off. Essentially your job was to do what the people who knew what they were doing told you. You seemed to be the only one who made it more then a few steps before being grabbed. Left alone long enough to hear the somewhat-Russian-sounding language from the survivors and see the next ‘Life-boat’ returns with more survivors.  

           There are so many injured and panicked that you didn’t notice one being carried in. The agent carrying him had only to yell twice to get two doctors on him. One taking his shoulders the other his feet, setting him gently on the nearest bed.

           “Gauze and swabs, go.” One of the two doctors points at you while giving the order.

           Not being told how much was needed, you just grabbed an arm full of each from the shelves. Standing off the to the side, pretending to be a shelf to have it’s things taken from. A few arms even reached over your shoulder to grab what you were holding.

           The patient was a young man; his shirt cut open with surgical scissors, head tilted so far back it was almost off the table. His chest was hard to look at, with more craters then the moon, just a glance and your face was beginning to lose color. Luckily a shelf didn’t have to move, just stand still and stare. The moon moved with steady breathing. White turning red just by touching it’s surface that did next to nothing to change the color.

           The moon’s surface surged forward with a gasp. Silver hair fluffing with a hacking voice towards the ceiling of the ship.

           Neither of the doctors try to touch him. Whether it’s from their blood covered hands getting into his face, or that he could wreck what little sterile environment was made. Both pressing down on the wounds.

           “Now that he’s awake keep him that way.” The same doctor snapped. “Hey!”

           A little color has come back from being yelled at. Snapping your head towards her. Not saying that you understood but nodding when she jerks her head towards the patient.

           Another shelf took over your duties. Practically tossing the things onto it in passing, standing at the head of the table to look down at your patient.

           Just as the glance had told you, his hair was silver. Although you were right above him, he looked everywhere but you. Half-lidded eyes rolling back and forth across the room, his mouth moving but nothing coming out.

           “Hey, hi,” You whisper down to his.

           Your hands cup his head, now staring right up at you. The same wide-eyed look a cat has after being caught. He blinks just as slowly, only when you smile down at him.

           “Hey, you gotta stay awake. You gotta stay awake for me, okay?” You say.

           He now has a smile that matches yours. Staring up at you and beginning to talk softly, practically muttering with a dopey smile on his face. Even if you got closer and listened carefully you wouldn’t have been able to understand him. Resorting back to his mother language. You didn’t need to glance up to know that the happy drugs were just added.

           His arms are starting to move with his cheery talk. Just little wiggling that are stopped by the doctors. The man keeps trying to raise his head, trying to see what was keeping his hands down. Your hand gently pressing against his forehead, pushing it back down onto the bed. Now staring back up at you he speaks directly in his mother language.

           “Yeah, just stay awake. This will be fine,” You look down to the doctors. Now pulling stitching what could be done. “Everything is fine.”

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

Peter Parker:

           If it weren’t for May you would have stayed longer. The plan was to pray to your respected deity that May had to stay late work, long enough that you “accidentally” fall asleep on the couch. And since it’s so late May invites you to spend the night, with your parents permission, forbidding you from Peter for the rest of the night. She’d then go into her room and you and Peter can continue.

           Instead May came home on time. Unintentionally ruing the moment when she opens the door. Intentionally making it worse by not bringing it up but just smiling at you and looking away when you look back. You lost the psychological war fare by proclaiming how late it was getting and that it was time to go.  

           Usually you left Peter’s before sundown or spend your little saving for a car or taxi. It was only a handful of times that Peter walked you home. The excuse you always gave was “then who’s going to walk you home after?”.

           Nine out of ten times walking in numbers is enough to be safe. There is always an exception that makes the rule, though. This is especially true when your bodyguard is a high school teenager in a science graphic tee.

           Grip on your hair and flash of metal more annoyed then terrified. You’d never say it out loud, but Peter was to blame for the situation. Taking you by the hand, guiding the both of you through an alley he claims to take all the time. It had seemed to be empty, only passing by a smoker at the entry way you didn’t look twice at.

           Dickhead mugger was loudly whispering to Peter. Trying to be quiet but also making sure you knew he was serious. All it really did was fill your ear with spit.

           You were really only half aware that Peter was looking at you during the hostage taking. Just as aware that his hand reached out although too far away to do anything physically. No offense to Peter but you had to help yourself.

           Although not heroic it’s always smart to scream when you’re under attack. Screaming to fit the situation you reached back to his face, finding the side of his head. Thumbs pressing deep and hard into his eye socket. Even as Dickhead screamed you kept pressing, pressing until something gave and you were let go.

           It was your turn to grab Peter’s hand after that. Running straight out from the alley, dragging your boy along with you. Making it past the subway until Peter urged you to slow down.

           You weren’t nearly as panicked as you should have been. Peter making the deep breath gesture in the hopes you take the hint. Instead you make the mistake of looking down to your hands. A bloody red thumb making you really freak out.

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

Stephen Strange:

           Something was wrong before you ever entered the sanctum. It wasn’t the odd silence as the sanctum was never really silent. There was always some sort of whispering coming right out of the walls or a rattle from the artifacts although there was no wind.

           Walking through the building you pass by Wong at a next by a bookshelf. His head slowly rocks while reading, listening to his headphones. He makes a slight glance upwards as you pass, just to acknowledge you while you wave. Not bothering to stop and have a one-sided conversation until you touch something, and he makes you leave.

           If Stephen hadn’t called out to you when you first enter he was probably busy. Leaving you to walk through the sanctum, leaving your jacket on a chair and bag tossed on a chair passing by.

           It was a little past noon when you cross his bedroom’s doorway. Being greeted by the bare back of your man. At one point he was wearing his oddly average looking flannel robe, by now gravity had dragged it down from it’s place on his shoulders. Cloth gathering at the small of his back and wrists. If it weren’t for the ragged breathing and sweat he could have been a statue.

           “Working out for once?” You ask, bag and jacket tossed on the bed.

           No response.

           “Stephen? You there?” Usually he’d snap out of the meditation when you entered the room. Other times he’d take a few seconds into minutes to finish up and then return.

           Kneeling in front of him his breathing is still going crazy. His wrists are buried in the robe sleeves, so instead you reach towards his neck. You didn’t need to be a doctor to know how to find someone’s pulse.

           Before finding the bumping vein he catches your wrist. An iron made of ice grip that was probably making your bones crack under the skin. His eyes were open but there was nothing in them. No pupil or color just discolored white that still stared right into you.

           Although the first hand still holds like he’s trying to break your bones, the other is gentle. Resting above your wrist and sliding up your sleeve. Thumb gently touching the skin,

           “Stephen, stop.” You said.

           His gentle thumb dug into your skin. His nail cutting into your skin.

           “Stephen, no. Stephen.” His grip is too strong to pull away.

           In understandable self-defense your free hand pulls back. Slamming upward against his nose with the base of your hand. His head jerked backed with the break of his nose, but he gave no noise of being in pain. Head coming back to look at you with blood starting to dribble out of his nose and down his lip. Twist of your other hand and you’re free, scrambling back.

           “WONG! WONG HELP!” You yell getting to your feet as Stephen goes back into the lotus position.

           It takes a little more yelling before slamming feet come up the stairs. Wong stopping at the door way, giving you two seconds to explain before he would starting asking questions.

           “Something wrong, he’s not waking up and his eyes are fucked.” You rapid fire explain, pulling your sleeve up. Finding that Stephen did break the skin with his nail. “What’s happening?”

           Just like a regular medical emergency it’s best to get out of the way so those qualified can work. Taking a step back as Wong almost jumps over the gap between Stephen and bed, quickly sitting in front of him and closing his own eyes.

           It’s hard to watch an event when it’s happening on an entirely other plane of existence. Sitting on the end of the bed, looking between them as though you could catch a speck of what was going on. The only hint you got that anything was actually happening was how Wong was gathering sweat on his brow, mirroring the damaged wizard in front of him.

           In the end you lasted maybe two minutes imaging whatever battle or conversation was going on. Grabbing the bucket that was really nothing more than decorative and getting into the bathroom. It felt like forever before the thing was completely filled from the sink. Only made worse by the lack of noise, practically ruining the panic that was almost strangling anyone involved in this entire event.

           In the entire event the only yelling or anything close coming to a battle cry came from you in tossing the bucket’s contents. The entire room was soaked in your attempt to just hit Stephen. Drenching the back of Wong, destroying the bed sheets and any paper that was left out in the area.

           Both Wong and Stephen gasp and cough as through they had been drowning. Stephen, after holding his throat for a second, pulled his robe about himself. Looking to Wong and then up to you.

           He doesn’t say thank you, he only nods. Later on, both you and Wong would interrogate him, he’d try and explain it, but you’d really never understand. Just standing there, ready with your bucket.

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

Matt Murdock:

         It isn’t uncommon for those born and raised in a city to never learn how to swim. When you don’t live next to a large body of water or are willing to drag yourself to the closest pool, there was really no point.

           Matt was not one of those people. Being submerged completely in water was not the best situation to be in but he could swim enough to live. But that was Dare-Devil who could swim, not Matt Murdock. When freezing water rushed into his mouth and his glasses were gone into the water he really wished there weren’t as many witnesses, or that it was night time, at least.

           Hearing the crack of wood while walking around the docks wasn’t out of the ordinary. Hearing it so prominently under your girlfriend’s foot was. In the few seconds that sound gave him he grabbed you around the center, a small twirl and setting you on the other side. His stability giving out under his foot wasn’t unexpected. But the water was no less cold, and the fall was no less terrifying.

           It’s harder for him to hear through the water. Reaching towards the surface, pulling himself up just enough to not die. The water in his mouth keeping him safe from pulling the cliché line: “help me! I can’t swim!”

           In the end it didn’t matter that Matt had kept you from falling in. Right away knowing that the next weight hitting the water was his angel.

           “Matt, Matt you need to calm down. Please stop flailing.” You say, grabbing around his center to keep him from bashing into you.

           Swimming with clothes on is hard enough, even worse while pulling a man in equally heavy clothes. Dragging him through the water, guiding his hands to the ladder. He could pull himself up after that, pushing back to sit and wait for you to fret over him.

           Seconds after Matt has disappeared anyone official on the dock was gone. Nothing like the words “fall” and “lawyer” to get people moving.  

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

Carol Danvers:

           On one of the few “date nights” you sit side by side at the bar. Carol sitting with a hand on your knee, the other holding her glass. She uses it to gesture while talking about some story or another, telling you about how she learned the newest way of swearing from some alien language.

           The words seem to be unpronounceable to you, even Carol seemed to have a little difficulty. The more cranberry vodkas she drank, the less she was able to pronounce the words that consisted of a guttural sound and a whistle.

           By the third a real problem arose. Knocking back the last of the liquid, now consisting of melted ice, little bit of flavored vodka and the lime, her hand goes to her throat when the glass is empty. It was hard to think that such a powerful being could be brought to panic by a lime wedge.

           She tried to hide it at first, coughing into the corner of her elbow. When the coughing stopped she grabbed her throat, standing tall and knocking the stool to the floor. You didn’t bother asking if she was okay. Her grip on your forearm was all you needed to know something was really going wrong. Your own stool joining hers, slamming to ground as you went behind her.

           Choking wasn’t anything new to this bar. A sign showing the steps to the Heimlich maneuver was strategically placed among the other trash the owner called decoration.

           Wrapping your arms around her center from behind wasn’t anything new, either. One hand over the other, pulling back under her ribs with force, doing this again and again. Blonde hair, smelling like industrial shampoo, fluffs back into your face. Any small attempt at opening your mouth to try and soothe Carol was stopped by a mouthful of hair.

           Heimlich maneuver doesn’t always work. Leaning back from her back, one still around her center. The other pulling back and slapping open handed between her shoulder blades. In a crude explanation, it was like burping an adult.

           The lime doesn’t shoot out like in the movies. Just comes out with a few hearty coughs into Carol’s hand. She grabs the bar when you let her go, leaning forward against the edge. Still coughing while everyone was still just watching.

[ironman-lover2005]

Coronavirus Endgame

Summary: The Coronavirus pandemic has caused mass hysteria. You fight to survive in the post apocalyptic world. Hilarity ensues.   

Warning: Graphic content

    It was 16 months after the outbreak. The virus spread across the planet in no time. The initial death toll was peanuts compared to when it reached its peak 5 months in. The World Health Organization classified it as a global pandemic. The media dubbed it the Coronavirus. Sadly it had nothing to do with the beer.

   The virus was feared by many but still regarded as a joke by a vast majority of people. They thought it would never affect them. If only those people were still alive to know how wrong they were.    

   It all started in China after a few people got poisoned by eating bat soup. Weird thing to eat and in hindsight it was the worst mistake in human history. The Coronavirus, or code name COVID19, spread like a wildfire. It was first regarded as a supped up flu. Later-on the deaths proved it was one-hundred times more deadly.  

  Day by day we saw how much the virus spread across the globe. Any little spec of COVID19 germ in the air could lead to contamination. It was easily contagious like the flu but the symptoms wouldn’t manifest for two weeks. People were walking around already contaminated without a clue.

   Weeks went by as the media reported death after death. The virus made its way to Italy until it became the 2nd most contaminated country on the planet. The Italian government shut down all daily activities. Citizens were forbidden from leaving the house unless there was an emergency. It became so bad later-on that the rest of the world decided it was time to nuke Italy off the map or face super contamination. World leaders did not hesitate to pull the trigger. Millions of lives were lost but to no avail. The virus kept spreading even after killing all those innocent, sick people.

   The North Korean’s had their own way of dealing with the situation. Anyone found guilty of carrying symptoms of the Coronavirus were shot on sight. The North Korean government kept it hush-hush until videos of the killings went viral on the internet. Sadly, no one cared. Trying to end the contamination was a good thing, right?

   At this point months went by as scientists everywhere scrambled to get the cure. Even fake news outlets like TMZ were reporting about our favourite celebs dying from the disease. Anything to cause mass hysteria. Elon Musk eventually gave up and took a private rocket to Mars. No one knows how that turned out.

    This all brings me back to my own personal tragedies. I was one of those idiots who thought the virus would just be gone one day and it would never affect me. Wrong.

   My parents were the first to die. Then my brother. My uncles and aunts. My cousins. Everyone around me got infected one by one. Every death led me into a darker place mentally. I almost couldn’t go on until I linked up with some longtime friends.

   Maddie was one of my best buds. She was an emotionless wreck on the outside but a soft and kind-hearted mess on the inside. She was the first person I went to see after my entire family died. She took me in, fed me, took care of me. We almost had everything we could hope for during an apocalypse. Food, shelter and toilet paper.

    But the world outside was a raging cesspool. The people lost their minds. Civilization as a whole ceased to exist and laws were nowhere to be found. It was every man, woman and animal for themselves. Savage beatings and robberies were now the norm. Anything to get what they need to survive.

  One cold, silent night and everything I had was gone in the blink of an eye. I woke up in the middle of the night to screams of death coming from Maddie’s room. I rushed as quickly as I could but I was too late. The people who got to Maddie had already ransacked the room and fled before I even got there. Her face was bashed in, bleeding from every orifice. Her body was twitching as she crawled to me. Her hand reaching out to me as I stood there frozen in horror. I fell to my knees and started weeping. I took Maddie in my arms and screamed for help. With one final breath, Maddie looked at me in the eyes and muttered “we getting it”. She passed out and never regained consciousness.

   Even after losing Maddie, I pulled myself back up and pushed on. But that wasn’t even the worst death I had to endure.

   I wandered around in the streets every night. Going from house to house. Living day by day. Eventually I found another person that I cared about deeply. 

   One night while randomly walking through the streets. I found my best friend, Eureka, lurking in the shadows on the corner of a dark alley. My eyes opened wide in disbelief. I thought I would never see her again. I ran up to her with a smile of relief on my face. We both embraced each other while crying tears of joy.  

    After the initial shock and disbelief of meeting up in the apocalypse so randomly, we got to work and procured a decent shelter. It was a run down old house that was barricaded after the disease outbreak. We made it our own little home. Things were looking good. But all good things must come to an end.  

   One day we decided to head out and look for more food as our supplied were running dry. We ended up visiting an old place where we used to work back in the good old days before Corona hit. It was a little pharmacy on the side of the street. Being inside felt like old times. The place was empty. We didn’t hear a single peep as we walked in slowly but surely. We took a couple bags and started scavenging what was left of the shelves. Some old expired chips, dirty cans of soup, maple sirup. We got everything we needed and set sail for the front door. But on the way out the unthinkable happened.

   Eureka ended up saving me from contamination after a hysterical man tried to lunge and cough at me. Lucky for me she pushed me out of the way and took the cough germs straight to the lungs. The man hightailed it out of there as soon as he got his victim. The piece of crap just wanted to end a life for no reason. I once again found myself hopeless, yelling for help into a cold abyss. Eureka was coughing up blood a few seconds after the disease spread in her body. She died two weeks later after I tried everything in my power to save her life. COVID19 is a bitch that took away my rock.

  I ended up alone, again, 10 months deep into the apocalypse. I was barely surviving off of canned beans and water. My body was becoming frail. Every step I took required maximum effort. One day I was walking outside, begging anything that could hear me to give me some food. I could feel my bones cracking as I stumbled to the pavement. I lost consciousness for a few minutes. My head was aching after hitting the cement. Bloody and on the brink of death I somehow woke up later in a warm bed with some food and water on a nightstand right next to me.

   All that brings us to the present day. As I write this story in my diary to reminisce of the loved ones that I lost. And to remind myself that I now have a new life, away from the Coronavirus, away from death. I’m now in a safe house miles away from the main land. Completely safe with all that I ever wanted.

-“Hey, you coming to bed?”

-“I’ll be right there, Iron-Man”.

-“Hey, don’t call me that. It’s embarrassing”.

-“Okay, Tony. Just let me finish writing”.

    Anyways where was I? Oh yeah. Tony Stark saved my life and now I live with him on his private island. Safe and sound. Living my lifelong dream.

   This one is for you, Maddie. We got it. But at what cost?

                  Fin.

[fundeadasylum]

This Photo of Us Part 1: Lips Like Strawberry Wine

To literally no one’s surprise it’s more Micoverse. Let’s just say I listened to Blake Robin’s Unhealthy Obsession one too many times. 

Warnings: none for this chapter

Part 2 / Part 3

**********************************

On a wet, rainy autumn afternoon, Jacob Pierly disappeared.

----

Months before, just as spring was nudging aside the last, clingy vestiges of winter and stubbornly sprouting flowers against the still chilly mornings, Jacob Pierly met a girl. He’d ducked a coffee shop, eager to warm fingers cold from poor circulation and a breeze that had been biting since the early afternoon. Instead he got a shirt soaked with piping hot coco and a frantic, scrambling apology from the young woman who’d spilled her drink on him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t paying attention--it was a total accident--I’ll pay for the cleaning! I’ll--I’ll buy you a new shirt! I’m so, so sorry!”

“I, uh, n-no, it’s f-fine, it’s just--it’ll come right out. It’s not a big deal,” Jake stepped back, awkwardly raising his hands to fend off the woman’s frantic cascade of paper napkins, “It was my fault, I was distracted. Let--let me buy you another one.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t--”

“Please?”

The young woman bit her lip, dirty blonde hair in disarray, twenty or so napkins clutched in her grasp, “I...okay.” She smiled, shy and relenting, straightening up and trying to compose herself.

Jake’s heart skipped a beat for reasons entirely unrelated to preexisting medical conditions.

----

Her name was Rosanna Pearl and she was studying for a medical degree at a nearby college.

“With a minor in chemistry,” She added as they sat at a table in the cafe, each anxiously clutching at their drinks and avoiding direct eye contact, “And you can call me Rosie. Everyone else does.”

“Jake Pierly,” He said, the corner of his mouth twitching in an awkward smile, “Stay at home editor.”

Rosie giggled, “Pierly. Sounds like Pearl. Our last names kind of match. That’s a little funny. Maybe it’s fate we ran into each other.”

“Ah, maybe,” Jake could feel his ears burning as he chuckled, “But next time fate intervenes, I hope it involves less spilled hot chocolate.”

Rosie laughed, a real, resonating laugh that made her cheeks turn pink. It was such a sweet laugh that Jake found himself laughing too.

“What do you edit, if you don’t mind me asking?” Rosie asked when they had settled down.

Jake swallowed a mouthful of decaf, shrugged one shoulder and looked out the window so he didn’t have to face his problems, “Nothing special. Usually whatever anyone throws my way. Creative writing, mostly. Sometimes academic papers but there’s a lot of jargon I don’t get in those so I have to decline a lot of them. I can’t tell you how many awful books get handed off to me by these wanna-be novelists that think they’re going to be the next Stephen King or something.” He rolled his eyes, caught Rosie’s glance, and flushed, “D-don’t tell them I said that, I mean, I do the work. P-pays the bills, you know. Heh.”

“Oh no, don’t apologize, I’m pretty sure I know the type,” Rosie raised her eyebrows, “I used to work at a salon and you would not believe the bitches--the kinds of people who came through there! Awful people. Just. Terrible.”

Jake hid a smile behind the lid of his coffee cup, “Sounds like you’ve got some horror stories.”

Rosie smirked, “I’ll regale you with them sometime.” She glanced at her phone sitting on the table next to her, “But right now I really have to head out. Tell you what, coffee’s on me next time and I’ll spill all the dirty client secrets. Deal?”

Jake hummed, “Deal. What’s your number?”

----

“DAD! DAD! JAKE HAS A DATE! JAKE HAS A DATE!”

Dan looked up from the stove so fast he banged his head on the cabinet. Head smarting and eyes watering, he turned to face the teenager spilling head over heels into the kitchen, “Ow! What!? Milo, stop shouting! What did you say?”

“He didn’t say anything!” Jake shouted, spilling into the kitchen and nearly wiping out on the tile as his socks slid underneath him.

“JAKE’S GOING ON A DATE!”

Dan stared at Milo and then looked at Jake who appeared as though he’d like nothing better than to vanish through the floor, never to show himself again. His face was bright red and he was twisting his shirt into knots between his fingers, gaze darting across the room, shoulders hunched to his ears as he curled in on himself. In contrast, Milo was bouncing up and down, a wide grin on his face, snickering madly at having shared a piece of juicy gossip.

“Jake?” And even though Dan said it carefully he could still hear the eggshells popping under his feet.

“Ih-it’s not a date!” Jake said to the floor, “It’s just a coffee…meetup. Thing. To talk about work. Strictly--strictly platonic. M-maybe even business related. We only just met today and barely know each other but sh-she seems nice and stuff and we were joking around and so we’re just--just going to meet for coffee next week. It’s not a date! It’s nothing!”

Dan winked at him, “Of course, Jake. Not a date. Strictly professional. Got it.”

“You both are the worst.” Jake groaned and Milo cackled with glee.

-----

Dan and Milo left him alone about it for the time preceding the coffee meetup (though Jake suspected Milo only did so with much bribing and pleading from Dan). Jake was grateful for that much because he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten out of the house with friends apart from Dan and...well, these days it was just Dan. So this would be a nice change of pace from the usual fanfare.

Still, that didn’t stop him from fretting the morning of and changing his shirt three times. He couldn’t help it, he wanted to be presentable. That’s just who he was. He only settled down when Milo caught him trying to match ties and asked him what “his date’s favorite color was”. Dan had to stop Jake from chasing the teenager around the house with a dress shoe and threatening to smack the smile right off his face.

“When do you think you’ll be home?” Dan asked as he ushered Milo away to find something more productive to do with his time.

“Um, no later than 5?” Jake hazard, pulling on a jacket, “I’ve got a video call with a client I don’t want to look like roadkill for tomorrow, so I’ll be home in time for dinner and a decent night’s sleep.”

“Call me if you need anything.”

“Yes, dear,” Jake chided gently, “I’ll keep my phone on and I promise not to sleep with any strangers.”

“Jake…”

“Whoa! Dad’s cheating on dad!”

“Milo, go to your room!”

“This house is a nightmare!”

Jake could only laugh as he stepped outside and pulled the door shut.

The drive to the cafe was short but enough for Jake to work himself back up into a nervous frenzy all over again. He nearly shut his leg in the car door and tripped over his own feet as he stepped into the cafe.

A glance around and he met Rosie’s pretty brown eyes at a seat near the back, private and away from the crowd, sheltered mostly by a bakery display. She smiled and waved and he made his way over, slinging his jacket over the back of the chair as he sat down.

“Hi, um, hello Rosie, sorry. I hope you haven’t been waiting long. You haven’t, have you? It’s just I had to wrangle Milo and--”

“No, no, you’re fine, I’ve only been here a couple of minutes,” She assured him with a smile, “Who’s Milo? Your cat?”

Jake choked on his own breath of air and struggled not to laugh, “Oh my g--no, if he heard you call him that--good lord. No, no, Milo’s my son. Adopted son. My roommate Dan and I are looking after him since his dad, our friend, um…” He swallowed, the lies tasting foul in his mouth.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain. I’m sorry I asked.” Rosie said quietly. She shifted in her seat, glancing away from him, “Wow, what a way to start the day. Good job, Rosie.”

“Ah, it’s not...a big deal. It’s been ten years.” Jake pushed his finger across the linoleum tabletop in an absent manner, “Anyway, weren’t you going to--what was it?--regale me with epic tales of your worst clients?”

Rosie smirked, “I don’t think I said it quite like that. But why don’t I get us our drinks and tell you about this lady who wanted every shade of pink in her hair.”

----

It carried on, as these things tended to.

Every few weeks, Jake and Rosie would meet up at a cafe or a restaurant, and share drinks, a meal, and stories of their lives. Jake told her about college, about the red head father of his adopted son, something he hadn’t talked about to anyone for ages. In response, Rosie admitted her crippling fear of academic failure and disappointing the legacy of her dead parents. They got along incredibly well for a pair of mostly introverts, enthusiastically discussing music almost every time they met up. It made Jake light up in a way that even Dan couldn’t remember seeing before.

So of course, it had to end and end badly. Because life just couldn’t be fair to Jacob Pierly.

Dan came home from his shift one evening to find Jake slumped bonelessly on the couch in the sitting room, his expression tired and forlorn, his shirt unbuttoned and rumpled, and an empty package of Oreos open beside him. The television was stuck on the retro channel, playing old reruns of shows from the 70’s and 80’s, audio muffled by age and then cleaned up by modern tech.

“Jake…?” Dan asked tentatively, setting his coat down on the back of the couch, “Hey, buddy, you okay? Is Milo sick again?”

“Huh?” Jake blinked, coming back to himself with a small jolt and looking around as if unsure of where he was, “Oh, no, he’s over at Cody’s right now. He’s fine.”

“But...you’re not.” Dan said, easing onto the couch as if afraid he would startle his friend away, “Wanna talk about it?”

“Mm...I dunno…” Jake sighed, letting his head roll back onto the couch cushions, “Not really, but…” He sighed again, “I screwed up, Dan.”

“How’s that?”

“I...I asked Rosie out.”

Dan brightened but then immediately sobered, “Ah, that was, um, real brave of you.”

“Tch,” Jake snorted and his lip curled and for a second, Dan saw a flash of forgotten bitterness and old anger bubble to the surface, “Yeah, sure. Would have been great except she...she said no.” He deflated all over again, staring at his fingers curled loosely in his lap, looking more drawn and tired than ever, “Said I must’ve gotten the wrong impression, that she never wanted to be more than just friends. Said...we should probably...not see each other for a while.”

“Aw, Jake,” Dan murmured, “Jake, buddy, I’m sorry.”

Jake shrugged and sniffed as if he could dismiss the dreary atmosphere hanging in a cloud over his head, “‘S whatever.”

“Nooooo, no it’s noooottt,” Dan cooed, scooting closer to his friend on the couch, “Come here, Jake, let Dan hug all your sorrow away. Hug Machine Dan is here for you.”

“No, no, no Hug Machine Dan!” Jake backed up, but Dan pinned him against the arm rest and crushed him into a hug, “DAN! DAN LEGGO!”

“Are you done being sad?”

“YES!”

“Lies. I’m gonna keep hugging you!”

“I’m going to tell Milo to eat your cookie stash.”

----

Jake’s funk lasted for weeks.

But, eventually, as summer tumbled awkwardly into autumn, apologized, and politely stepped out of the way, he got over it. Jake tended to hang onto things and hang onto them hard and it took work for him to let them go. But he was trying and Dan could see he was trying and told him he was proud and Jake shoved him and they laughed and tried to pretend they didn’t miss the echo of a third laugh that should have been there but wasn’t.

Things were getting better. Things were looking up.

And then, on a wet, rainy autumn afternoon, Jacob Pierly disappeared.

[mysterious-prophetess]

Spider-Man: Far from Home. How It Should Have Ended (or rather how it should have plotted)

I’ll place most of this under a read more. There will be spoilers.

First, I don’t hate this movie. It’s a fun movie. Go see it. 

Stay for the credits!

Secondly, some of my gripes with the plot have to do with the 5-year-time-jump thing Endgame did. Tl:Dr I hate it.

So, here’s what I might change (if it were possible) to the plot of Spider-Man: Far From Home.

Aside from hating the 5-year-jump I also hated that, by SHEER coincidence, most of Peter’s side-characters-er- Classmates ALL got snapped. His one-note-bully, his love interest, his best friend, some random chick the best friend has a crush on and then is over by the end of the film, etc. All snapped and still the same age as him.

-__- I call some narratively convenient bullshit here.

For my version of “How it Should Have Plotted.” I’m removing the blonde girl--Betty Brant--because aside from a few things here and there, she’s rather non-essential to the plot. Ned is in danger at one point because of her, but maybe instead Ned could chase after a pretty Czech girl and still end up in danger. We wouldn’t get that “brilliant” Night Monkey joke (how ever will we cope -__-) but it’s a sacrifice I am willing to make.

So Betty Brant is all grown up and working for J.Jonah Jameson at The Bugle.

-Maybe instead of that tacky “And I will Always Love You” tribute they did, it could be Jamison going on his anti-SpiderMan-rant while uplifting those heroes who are dead,

“...whose identities were known to the public making them much more trustworthy than that anonymous masked menace Spider-Man!” and then going into a tribute video with less slightly tacky music or it can still be “And I Will Always Love You,” but framed more ridiculously by Jameson and going into a news story about blipping that the kiddie newscasters at Midtown can take over and talk about how weird it is with the one kid who was blipped/snapped and the other kid being someone who wasn’t and lived through those five years. It’s a better contrast than two kids who were blipped/snapped being the ones on screen. It could even be that Brad kid that was built up as a rival for MJ’s affections. 

In short, he stays but he’s less of a prick. Just a guy with a crush.

So, we keep the painfully awkward homeless shelter scene, for the most part but Fury shows up and gives Peter EDITH then and there. Peter wanting to go on his trip, puts them aside and ends up packing them since they are decently cool sunglasses. May, packs his suit and the airplane stuff is fine.

Next, we have the shenanigans in Venice and this is where things would change a bit. In this version, Fury and Mysterio have not interacted directly. Hill and Fury investigate the town and find a witness with a video instead of Mysterio.

Mysterio “fights” his special effect and instead of it being Fury who forcibly gets Peter to put on the suit and attend a meeting, Mysterio slips Peter a note that reads something to the effect of “If you want answers, come here. Could use your help.--Q”

The SHEILD scene goes identical. A lot of it progresses identically with Peter thinking it’s Fury and SHIELD hijacking the trip and Peter’s identity crisis still in full swing, yadda yadda, and then we get to Quentin’s reveal and not only was Quentin playing make-believe with drones and projectors to get EDITH but he was also playing at being Nick Fury and SHIELD too.

Peter has only actually met Nick Fury once and that was when he handed off EDITH. Quentin also feels he is doing Peter a favor in getting him away from Tony’s legacy and thinks the kid got off lucky to never have his ideas and tech stolen by an ungrateful Tony Stark. Also respects the kid’s brains which was why he doesn’t want him dead.

In the mean time, his false trails have the real Nick Fury and SHIELD remnants in London chasing down illusions and rumors all while news reports EXTOL the virtues of this new hero Mysterio.

Peter, only knowing about the fake monsters and not the fake SHIELD, goes to the decoy HQ in Berlin and still gets hit by a train and Happy saves the day.

From here, the plot is pretty much the same once more. With SHIELD only incidental, Peter and Happy’s painfully coded message still happens but only after Happy makes Fury confirm he is not an illusion (at the advisement of Peter). Something Quentin and his band of miscreants couldn’t know. e.g. 

“What did Tony Stark say to your offer to join the Avengers.” Something only Tony and Nick Fury (and Happy in this case) would know. Then the coded message. We still get Agent Hill as a badass. But there is where SHIELD’s involvement ends for the most part. Peter wraps up the plot as he does in the movie, real Nick Fury says something before leaving.

And then the credits stinger hits and SHIELD doesn’t look like a bunch of rank amateurs who didn’t bother trying to chase down if Quentin had any accomplices in his highly complex scheme.

Before someone says,

“But Fury says he’s off his game for missing five years” then wouldn’t it make more sense for him to be hard at work rebuilding his spy network and not messing around with superheroes? 

Real Fury sneering at an INFINITY STONE POWERED Heroine (her powers come from Tesseract/Space Stone Energy) seems petty. 

A Fake!Fury wouldn’t be able to contact her, and therefore would need a way to brush off her existence. Plus, if she was called in she could easily derail any and all plans with illusions and drones. 

Because it took nothing less than Thanos using the full might of the Power Stone to fend her off.

So, why does this changed plot feel better to me.

For one, it puts more of the focus on Peter and less on SHIELD. Especially if it wasn’t actually SHIELD this whole time.

Two, it makes Quentin look more ambitious and clever and also doesn’t make Mr. Paranoia-Nick-Fury look like a bumbling idiot. If Quentin wants to impress Nick Fury, he needs to take out an Avengers level monster FIRST because with his ego, he’d want that feeling of being better than all of the Avengers because his recruitment monsters were stronger and it makes it less ridiculous that Fury believed his “Multi-verse story” without proof and that Fury didn’t bother checking databases for Quentin’s 616 counterpart?

So sum up: Quentin and his crew look like a more capable con-artist/illusionist gang and Fury gets to stay the super spy who is best in smaller doses.

To me, this would have just fixed how this film jangled in just the wrong way to me at times ruining an otherwise fun experience.

It also makes the stinger hurt more because Peter, in taking down Quentin, had underestimated the guy a final time and it bites him royally in the ass.

But these are my opinions. There are those who will think this film is FLAWLESS and they are welcome to do so. 

This is just my idea of what would have appealed to me.

EDIT ADDED LATER

So, turns out, I missed out on the second end-credits scene. Skrulls? Really?

Still think that Talos and his Wife should have (again) barely been in the film like the real Fury and Hill.

Explains why he’s not quite so good at the super-spy thing. 

Still, I stand by thinking Quentin should have just faked being Fury and SHIELD.

[backtomybookshelf]

ASEOE: An Analysis of The Reptile Room

(Before I begin my review, I would like to formally apologize for the long wait that has been between these two blog posts. I have no excuses- I’ve put aside this for a while and had been easily distracted by other obligations and video games. But, here it is for your enjoyment. Please, feel free to comment in the reply box, and I would be more than happy to discuss with those who do read these posts about ASOUE!) Coming right off of the shelves from The Bad Beginning, Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, the second installment of the harrowing series, the Reptile Room, plays with reader’s expectations more than it really should. It keeps in line with the well-meaning guardian trope and starts the tradition of killing off the Beaudelaire’s guardians, fueling the hatred the reader already has against the antagonist, Count Olaf. Running at a decent rating of four out of five in most book review sites, Handler keeps up the train of misery and woe he started with the Bad Beginning, and further into the world that these characters inhabit.

The second book sets itself in a very particular way; some world building is introduced as the Children and Mr. Poe are driving down Lousy Lane- a place where it smells very much like horseradish- to Uncle Monty’s home in the country. Handler’s subtle use of world building expands the world that the children are occupied in. What is even more satisfying as a reader is that this isn’t the first time that this town/place is mentioned. In The Vile Village, Book the Seventh, the reader is harkened back to this point in time when the Children are asked which town they would like to live in as part of “It Takes a Village to Raise a Child�� Initiative after The Beaudelaires are refused by long lost relatives, public shelters, or any other soul who would want to take them. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s talk about the Guardian of the Book. 

Uncle Montgomery Montgomery- or Uncle Monty, as he wants to be called- is one of the prime examples of the Well-Meaning Adult, as I discussed in my last post about the adults of the world of ASOUE. As soon as Mr. Poe drops the kids off at his home/laboratory, Monty is very keen on getting the inept banker, a word which here means “showing or having no skill in a particular subject,” in this case, not finding an excellent guardian for the children the first time and putting them into the hands of the wretched and disgusting Count Olaf. Throughout the first half of the book, Uncle Monty recognizes the Beaudelaire’s skills and adapts to their needs- a raw carrot for Sunny which she would prefer over a slice of coconut cake, a whole library on Herpetology for Klaus to peruse through, and Violet helping Uncle Monty with his tools. This is what the Beaudelaires wanted- a loving and caring guardian who knew their parents and felt a deep connection with them. The Justice Strauss that they were denied and now have is here in the flesh.

And yet, there is that single moment that breaks the illusion of happiness. Enter Count Olaf, calling himself “Stephano,” who inserts himself into the narrative yet again to bring misery and woe to the Beaudelaire orphans. As this is the first disguise of the series, the reader is already aware that this is Count Olaf, as are the children. What is more jarring to the reader is that it was Mr. Poe who was at first scoffing at the idea that Count Olaf was an evil person, but now Uncle Monty is now under the same idea, but in a different execution. With the villain in disguise, Monty finds himself suspecting Olaf to be a spy from the Herpetological Society, not as a terrible and heinous person. Though, in a way, it still plays through with the ”Well Meaning Adult,” and also focuses on one literary theme. 

The major theme in this book that Handler uses is “Dramatic Irony.” In this case, what the Beaudelaires are going through is a point of dramatic irony, a phrase which here means, “when a person makes a harmless remark, and when someone else hears it knows something that makes the remark have a different, and usually unpleasant, meaning.” Keep in mind, this definition is taken straight out of the book, so bear with me as I work with this definition. This use of the phrase dramatic irony is lightly sprinkled throughout the story- from the beginning until the end. It is no coincidence that Handler explains this in the third chapter and so soon too, so that when the reader continues to read, they can understand that almost everything that comes out of Uncle Monty’s mouth could be used in an ironic purpose. 

The Reader of this book could also claim that The Reptile Room can be the first time that Handler uses a form of Dark Humor. A classic definition of Dark Humor- or Black Humor- is the idea of deriving a sick twist of humor in a relatively dark point. Any Reader in the modern age can easily derive a form of dark or black humor in select titles. In mass media, a superhero with Canadian roots could shoot a guy in the face and then make a pop culture reference to show the lighter side of the horrific act, or a camera crew taping four vampires living in a flat in New Zealand with their consent to learn what it is like to be a Vampire. Both consumable media formats execute a different form of Dark Humor, but it’s still within the umbrella term.

My personal take on the Reptile Room is where Handler really plays into the role of his pen name, Lemony Snicket, and he starts to develop his voice as a singular identity as well as a narrator. Along with writing down the events to follow, Snicket is found to be punctual, maybe charming, and maybe have a voice that would coincide with the Jude Law portrayal than that of the Patrick Warburton portrayal. Not to throw shade on the Netflix series, but at this point, I still see the narrator as this very shadow covered man, hunched over his typewriter with every intent to write out the whole series of thirteen books, hidden or thrown out in every place imaginable with his poor editor to find the complete manuscripts, along with the artifacts to cement the truth, and to intrigue the reader into what could come next.

 The Reptile Room, or in other words Murder!- as its title is later called- is a dial from 10 to 11 as the saying goes in ASOUE, and it only gets worse in later titles. Handler did well with these themes which carries on through the series for a good while, only stopping after the Vile Village, where it only gets darker and bleak as the books go on. 

The Reptile Room: Book the Second of A Series of Unfortunate Events

5/5