#I still remember when the parade of providence started | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

warsamongthestars · 6 months ago

Text

ONTO TBB - POST-SERIES

I am going to need to sit down, and go through all of the show, and I hope to (energy providing). Mostly to make a review, or series of reviews. Produce a few what-ifs. Someone might want the fanfic inspiration.

( I hope, I'm not going to promise because I am bad at energy, and I'm not going to promise things until I can actually deliver. So let's just say I want to do it, but we'll see if it happens or not. )

Look, I still dont' want to rain on people's parades this close after the Finale, so read at ye own risk. Lots of critical down below.

I would call the TBBshow a waste of time. But its not a waste of time, the reason being is that, I have dedicated an enormous amount of energy, to tearing this show into pieces. It soothes and enflames the rage that lies in my heart.

( Remember, I do love Star Wars, and I love the Clone Wars. And Anger and Fury are what happens when something you love, or something you cherish and care about, gets hurt very badly. And I find that the TBBshow is both the weapon and wound. But its a weapon I can turn against itself. And it is a wound I can remedy. )

Now for my bit thoughts on the finale, and bit thoughts on the show itself.

They're just big bits, because when I want to really tear into the little issues of this show, I will go molecule-by-molecule, atom-by-atom when I do.

I am going to be the fucking Saturday morning cartoon villain, with suit and cape and evil laughs, about it.

So...

One). Fifth Enhanced Clone and Omega wasn't it, remember? You remember that from the first Finale?

I remember. The show didn't.

I 'd like to think it was Emerie. It points it that. But even now, I have doubts.

Because what was the point.

They oh so twittered about Emerie, and that didn't end up much--and I'd know because the biggest TBB Fans here haven't talked jack about her. That's how good her character is.

Just listen to the silence and all those crickets.

Two). Remember how this was supposed to be the Republic becoming the Empire?

They didn't act like it, did they. You could place these scenes in the Clone Wars, and y'know, it would not only still make sense--it would be more pointed on how the Republic had always been the Empire underneath.

Because you don't get the evil of an entire instellar Empire out of nowhere. That just doesn't happen in stories that have any depth.

If it does happen, you're reading a kindergarten story then.

( ... Frankly the kindergarten story would prolly tell it better, honestly. )

THree). They killed Tech, and CX-2 meant nothing.

You can't tell me they didn't have time, because they spent 3 seasons bullshiting and then at the last minute went "Oh shit, we're supposed to have a plot! Uhhh THORW SOMETHING AT THE WALL AND WE'LL SEE WHAT STICKS"

They knew full well how much fucking time they were alloted, because TV time always allows at least 3 seasons unless you have fucked up that royally.

It is by Contract. They Knew, and they still Bullshitted.

They murdered Tech for Shock Value. Oh someone is going to say "But George Lucas didn't Like Tech--so it made sense to kill him!"

I know they're going to say it.

If they didn't want Tech, then they shouldn't have created him. If you didn't want the Apple Pie, you shouldn't have made the damn Universe. When you introduce a vital character, a main character, people are going to care about them, especially upon character development.

So when you kill that character for Shock value, and then made that value meaningless by lack of conversation and perceived impact, then all you've done is spat in the face of everyone who cared about him--who might've identified with him--or felt that they needed a fictional example of grief--or fucking hells, just WANTED TO HAVE CHARACTER IN YOUR FUCKING CHARACTERS.

Tech was the point where my fires started. He was the point, where I realized, there was no hope in this show. Can't repair the character dynamics, can't do anything of significance now.

And by their refusal to allow the characters communication and grief, they stamped Tech into the dirt by the heels of their imperial boots.

CX-2 had all this development, for fuck all. What was the point of the CXs if they weren't going to do jack with them.

Four). Spent an awful lot of time shitting on other ideas.

Every possible guest character that could appear, did appear, and it took away from the story. Worse, it took away from Authors, and Game Makers, and spat all over them with a "Haha this is OUR CANON NOW!"

Cid lost her appeal. Because it was an episodic format, and the series did not stick to an episodic format. Would've been a great minor villian, too fucking bad though.

Phee was a phenomenal character (even if I don't care for Indiana Jones / Lara Croft archetypes), and she didn't go anywhere. She stood nearby Tech, gave him a pet name, and that's it. They wasted her.

( I would say that the shippers went too hog wild--but shippers have always been hogwild. To say that they're overdoing it, means they've been underdoing it. They will go hogwild for "Nameless Twi'lek in Background". That's the beauty of the shippers. Keep shipping folks, the Empire can't take all of us out. )

They killed Scorch. Scorch, from Republic Commando, is dead now. You remember that happy go lucky guy? The one who wanted to go back for Sev?

( HE WAS MY PARTY MEMBER, GODS DAMN IT. I PLAYED THE GAME WITH HIM. )

Well. He can never go back now.

( From the bottom of my gamer heart--I felt like this was the greatest Fuck You of all time. Tech's death was already unforgivable, but this? This is as if you just executed Carth Onasi in front of me. )

( The only way they could've done worse, is if they had made a poor copycat of the deathstar as some star destroyer with a rip off of Darth Revan except he's like, the grandson of Darth Vader or something. And he like, murdered a lot of Jedi again, because they wanted to rip off the prequels... )

Why is VENTRESS EVEN THERE.

Why did we need KANAN AGAIN!?

Oh look, Rex, and... Clones... Fucking wonder what's going on there. I can't imagine that the sequel of the Clone Wars would have anything to do with Clone Wars maining Clones. Can't imagine why they might've been important for the Star Wars audience. They're just CLONES AREN'T THEY ITS NOT LIKE THE AFTER EFFECTS OF THE CLONE WARS WOULD HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH CLONES.

Completely dissed the Chip plot, for victim blaming, and all the victims paid for it. In fact, they even villianized the victims and punished them dearly. Through execution, or dismemberment.

And they just straight up murdered every villian they could get away with, for... no reason. It wasn't satisfying. It was bullshit.

The sheer audacity to fuck Echo up. He was our Audience Surrogate, on par with Ahsoka, and THIS IS WHAT THEY DID TO HIM? Made him a bit player in his own show?

Only gave Fives, one of the most important people of Echo's life, a mere throwaway mention.

Not gonna get into what they did to me boys the Bad Batch, because we'd be here all day. And I've got other things to do.

And finally, because this made me rage so fucking hard.

FIVES) The Spoken Message "Now we can be who we want to be!"

...

ARE YOU FUCKING FOR REAL. WHAT IS THIS SHOW'S MAJOR MALFUNCTION.

The Entire Point of the Bad Batch, was that they were already being who they wanted to be or who they were, since their introduction in Clone Wars. They were Unique Nonstandard Clone with Unique Abilities and excellent character (In the Clone Wars)

And suddenly the show wants to say "Oh by they weren't really being themselves--"

They didn't set that the fuck up. The TBBShow, spent the last 3 years fucking around in the ether. They had plenty of time, and they squandered it, and then they rushed jobbed like kids on final group project day.

If the "Good Soldiers Follow Orders" was the set up, then that is akin to saying "Oh don't worry about being drugged into doing something you didn't want to do, you can learn from the experience of having all your choices forced from you and against your consent, and be better from it!"

We can even take in-story!

They spent, so much time, never once talking to one another, about one another, setting up jack all. In fact, vast majority either followed Hunter's lead or ignored him, and left the Camera--there has never been any "Oh we can be who we want".

Unless you're Omega. And y'know, I tots watched a show called the Bad Batch, because I was totally clearly there for an original character not apart of the Bad Batch.

At the end of all it, I have to ask... what... story were they trying to tell exactly?

The show didn't dedicate itself to anything. It spent so long avoiding dedication that it robbed all impact, and left a constant sense of tension in every episode.

It didn't dedicate to a story. Oh it dedicated to the Rush, the New AND SHINY CONTENT--but that's it. Honestly, if they wanted the feeling of rush, they should've just dedicated themselves to Youtube Shorts, Vines and Tiktok.

I'm not here for the rush of content. I'm here for a fucking story, with characters. I have games that are decades old, I have the original Han Solo Trilogy, far before that fucking film.

And I go back, and I reread and replay, because I fucking love them. And that's what you do with something you love, you return to it constantly, its not a Fad that passes once the rush stops.

But I can only go back to the TBBshow, to take what little is good, And destroy the rest, and plant garden above the ashes.

(There are things good in this show that I want to drag out into the light and into better things. And I know, plenty of people have found that good too, and they have done the same. The sheer dedication of interpretation is a beautiful thing. )

There is no Replay Value here. By all accounts, they turned this into a throw-away show, that I guarantee, in about six months, half the fandom is going to be gone from because there's no substance here.

( I'd be shocked, but also not shocked, if it isn't, but I'm not hopeful here. )

And I'll guarantee to you, my audience, that I am going to be here with a never ending coal-fire in my chest.

Because as a lifetime Star Wars fan, from birth and unto where ever the end of my journey is, it has me--it can have my Love, or it can have my Never Ending Rage, but it has me regardless.

ADDENDUM

There are other things, believe me, I am not finished, but I wanted to get the big points down and out, to air my grievances. Twas an emotional response of sheer fucking unbelievable rage. The fires of mustafar would mean nothing in comparison to fires that lie inside. ( i'm in my darth vader arc. )

This hasn't been a waste of time... But fuck it was a Waste of Story and a waste of characters, and I will never forgive the TBBshow, for the fact that the Clone Wars lead me to love, and the TBBshow lead me to antagonizing rage.

The TBBshow story should've been a tragedy. That would've set some things to rights. If they had just, killed the team, and finally made the Empire into the tragic but villianous threat it really is, then that would've at least, made up for somethings. It wouldn't have fixed the show--S1 and S2 are still bad and no amount of good endings will fix that--but it would've been an anchor for it.

#star wars #the bad batch #tbb s3 spoilers #the bad batch season 3 spoilers #tbb critical #the bad batch finale #the bad batch season 3 finale #tbb s3 finale #republic commando #critical analysis

22 notes · View notes

agentem · 2 years ago

Text

It's that time of year when you are going to see some "Irish" t-shirts in stores and can get your Shamrock Shake at Mickey D's. There will be St. Patrick's Day parades this weekend and next.

And I just want to be a nerdy know-it-all for a second. St Patrick's Day was originally a religious holiday (as most holidays were, holy + day = holiday); it still is in some places, like some actual Irish people from Ireland who believe in God--though the American parade/festival mentality seems to be gaining steam in some parts of Ireland, I am told.

St Patrick's Day as we know it is deeply rooted in the United States. Though it's been celebrated here since 1600 in the territory that became Florida, the tenor of the holiday greatly changed after the Great Famine of Ireland.

You may have been told in school that the famine occurred because a blight wiped out potato crops in Ireland. This is true but doesn't address the crux of the matter.

The blight started in North America and travelled to Ireland and into much of Europe. But we only think of it as an Irish problem because the Irish were too poor to eat other foods.

Some scholars have said it was a "man made crisis" and I agree that is true. Other crops in Ireland were not affected by the blight, in fact, this time was considered one of "plenty", but all that food was used to feed the English. Not the Irish.

Nor were the English quick on providing aid, "There is such a tendency to exaggeration and inaccuracy in Irish reports that delay in acting on them is always desirable," said Prime Minister Sir Robert Peel after initial reports of the catastrophe.

Workhouses designed to assist the poor and starving were closed prematurely. "The only way to prevent the people from becoming habitually dependent on Government is to bring the food depots to a close," said Charles Trevelyan, the man who was literally in charge of famine relief. He also said some gems like, Sure the famine is bad but "the moral evil of the selfish, perverse and turbulent character of the people" was the real problem. Great guy; he became a Baronet.

The soup kitchens, which replaced the workhouses were also closed prematurely, were widely believed to serve portions too small even for children and lacking any nutritional value due to them being watered down to feed more people than anticipated by the brilliant British government.

A million people died in Ireland from famine and disease and nearly 2 million left Ireland for other parts of the world. Including my father's family. (If they survived the "Coffin Ships" leaving their home.)

So when I said above that the tenor of the holiday changed, it was because of increasing Irish Nationalism and anger at Britain. Now, Ireland is a Republic (though it's not unified, yet) and we are proud of those who stayed and fought to make that happen.

We are also proud just to still be alive anywhere. The population of Ireland is 6.9 million now--slowly nearing the 8.5 million it was home to before the famine--but people with Irish ancestry across the world has been measured to be about 80 million people. Take that, Sir Robert Peel.

The English actively tried to kill us. Nevertheless, we persisted. A lot.

I hope you have a Happy St. Paddy's Day (it's Paddy not Patty). Drink some Guinness. Dance some jigs. Definitely eat some potatoes (Boil 'em! Mash 'em! Stick 'em in a stew!) But please remember that when people are starving, you should feed them. Don't be like the English government.

In fact, as I write this there is a crisis in Turkey and Syria. It just so happens that the Sultan of Turkey wanted to donate money to Ireland (10,000 pounds) but since Queen Victoria donated just 2,000, he was told it would be against protocol.

#st patricks day #saint patrick #ireland #irish american #the great famine #irish potato famine #st paddys day #turkey #turkey earthquake #syria earthquake #immigration #sir robert peel #england #queen victoria #Charles Trevelyan #republic of ireland #nothern ireland

194 notes · View notes

deathlysilent13 · 1 year ago

Text

DPxDC Fic Snippet: Danny and Damian are Twins AU but it's mean

((HEADS UP BEFORE WE GO IN: This isn't nice. I don't know where it's going, but this isn't nice. There's gonna be mentions of torture, child abuse, manipulation. This isn't an "everything's magically okay" AU and honestly I don't know if it's going to end nicely. Also, this is a continuation of my rewrite of @oliveofvanders's fic here, which isn't posted yet, but feel free to go read what started it, but MIND THE TAGS.))

They move silently, working down into the city proper and slipping through shadows. Tim’s guiding them via the plane’s onboard computer, having figured out where Danyal lived, and they’re nearly there when they hear voices. Damian slips around the corner, Bruce on his heels. Jason ducks around the other side and hears Dick stay with him. There’s a League lookout perched on a roof nearby.

“I would rather die than go back,” Danyal says coldly, and Jason catches a glimpse of him backed against a wall.

Talia, standing in front of him, lashes out with a dagger, and had Danyal not dodged it would probably have taken off his ear. “Do not speak to me!” Talia snarls, and Jason’s stomach drops. She turns her attention back to the assassin kneeling before her. “Bring him to the plane. Grandfather will need to remind him of his place before we drop him in Gotham. A Spare has no need to speak.”

Jason watches Damian lunge katana first at a shocked Talia, face contorted into unbridled rage. He moves at the same time Dick does, stopping the assassin on the roof from interfering while Dick backs up Damian. The fight is short, but brutal. Talia only had the two with her, and Damian was angry enough to get her on the ground in quite possibly record time.

Jason and Bruce had each taken an assassin out while Dick focused on keeping Damian from actually killing Talia. He doesn’t bother being gentle in knocking the person unconscious, tying them and dropping them with Bruce’s unconscious capture. Dick is holding Damian back, who appears to still be trying to genuinely kill his mother. Danyal hasn’t moved, and the way his eyes lock onto Bruce and his entire demeanor changes sets alarm bells ringing in Jason’s head.

Bruce approaches, side stepping Talia to get a look at Danyal at last. His approach has calmed Damian, who’s watching them silently. Jason thinks this might just go well until Danyal’s gaze lowers and his hands settle at the small of his back. They all recognize the League’s parade rest and deferential sightline.

Shit, Jason thinks.

Bruce, as well, stops cold, having recognized the shift. “Are you hurt?” he asks softly.

Danyal shakes his head once.

Damian is frowning now, and Dick noticeably doesn’t let him go. “So he does remember his place,” Talia spits venomously, startling everyone.

Bruce’s gaze is hard when he looks down at her. “Explain,” he barks, and even Jason jolts at his tone. That’s not normal for Bruce, he’s very rarely that calloused.

Talia coughs lightly, spitting blood upon the pavement. “Father never intended to keep the Spare,” she says without giving Danyal a glance. “However, Damian was attached, so I made sure he stayed in sight so as to not distract Damian from his training for the absence. He’d proved useful when Damian had gotten his right arm caught in a rockslide, his arm providing the nerves and the piece of shredded vein that prevented a complete loss of use of the limb. And again when Slade betrayed the League and destroyed Damian’s left eye.” Damian has gone still.

They all glance at him, but his focus is on Talia. “You hurt him,” Damian whispers, the accusation clear.

Talia scoffs. “You’re the only reason he kept his life, Damian,” she says with an impressive dismissiveness. “I have no need of him now that you’ve chosen your father over me.”

Before any of them can strangle her, a muffled shot rings out, blood blossoming across Talia’s abdomen. They all dive, barring Danyal, as the girl from earlier nears them. The gun in her hand is steady, and she looks more than willing to use it again. The boy from earlier slips behind her, heading straight for Danyal without crossing in front of the gun. “Hey, hey, come on,” he murmurs, though they can all hear him. “You’re still in Amity Park, Danny, you’re okay. She won’t take your tongue again. It’s okay, your parents are coming.”

Damian’s face contorts, but he says nothing as Danyal blinks, shuddering as he takes in a ragged breath and latches onto the boy. “Tucker,” he says quietly, hiding his face against a sweater covered shoulder.

Headlights come into view then, a giant metal monstrosity stopping close enough that Jason briefly thought they were actually going to hit Bruce. “The next person who comes for my baby is getting thrown through the portal!” a woman screeches as she steps out. The driver follows, somehow bigger than both Bruce and Jason and eerily quiet. Given the looks the boy and girl that had come to Danyal’s rescue share, this is definitely not his normal.

Talia attempts to rise with the destruction. “What could you possibly want with that one? He’s worth nothing,” she croaks, holding her side. Jason can see the blood now, glinting off the headlights. That’s not an insignificant wound, and he wonders if the girl knows where she hit.

The man pulls his own gun while the girl levels hers, and Talia’s eyes flick between them. Damian is making a fresh attempt to sink his blade into his mother’s heart. “You’re the only one here who isn’t worth shit,” the man says darkly. “And one way or another, you will never come near my son again.” Jason blinks, watching the woman coax Danyal into the back of the metal vehicle, the kids following with easy familiarity.

#wip excerpt #work in progress #dpxdc #dpxdc crossover #Demon Twins #But not nicely #read at own risk

38 notes · View notes

mangoisms · 2 years ago

Text

like the part of the song where it falls ━ miyuki kazuya

━ part two: like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song where it falls / read part one

━ wc: 8k

━ warnings: none

━ masterpost

So, naturally, you don’t expect him to come back.

Not at all.

And that’s okay! He did way more than he needed to.

But you find those expectations smashed to pieces the next day.

And the day after that.

Each of those times, he says he is simply ‘checking in.’

Guilt and obligation are his main motivators, you’re certain of it. But you don’t say anything. You like talking to him. You’ve made certain everyone knows they don’t need to hang around while you’re at the hospital and you don’t regret it, knowing they all have other things to do, but you also don’t mind talking to someone. You never do. You love your fellow humans very much and you are always willing to chat with the people around you, provided they are willing, too.

Sure, he may be coming here out of a sense of duty but he is still engaging with you. You appreciate that.

Alongside that, you are slowly but surely recovering. The worst symptoms of your concussion subside, like your spatial misperception and the blurriness in your vision when you try to focus. On your fourth day, you venture outside. You have to wear sunglasses initially but bit by bit, it becomes bearable. You’ll still experience sensitivity for the next several weeks, headaches, too, but it won’t last forever.

Hopefully.

Your good old friend, brain contusion, is getting better, too. Not completely healed yet but not getting worse. They think it’ll be healed by your follow-up appointment. Your bruise still looks bad. It will for the next week, probably, then it’ll start to heal.

Miyuki keeps coming around, even on Saturday, after the parade celebrating the Padres’ win, where they have a massive turnout on Seventh Avenue; something like a million people came out for it.

Your discharge creeps on you. Soon, it’s Tuesday, the first of November, the day before you’re to be released.

You’re in a chair by your window, the blinds pulled all the way up, giving you a view of the greenery around the hospital; immaculately cut grass, neatly trimmed bushes, rows of planted trees. The table in front of you has a half-completed puzzle, a vintage map of New York City. You’ve done this one before but it’s been a while. You don’t mind, anyhow. They often help to pass the time on slow nights during the show.

You don’t lift your head when someone knocks on your door.

“Come in!”

The door opens. Miyuki shuffles inside, dressed in his usual nondescript manner (joggers, a t-shirt, and a ballcap tucked over windswept hair). That’s the nice thing about living in San Diego. Even if November is today, you can often get away with a shirt and shorts most of the year. A shirt and leggings if you want to bundle up a little more.

Except this time, it is not just himself but…

“Is that for me?”

He smirks, shutting the door with his shoulder as his hands are preoccupied with a to-go bag from In-N-Out that you can smell all the way from here, and a cup of something in his other hand, sounding full by the way it sloshes around.

“No, I just came here with your favorite fast food to eat it in front of you.”

You let out a loud laugh. “Wait until the press hears about this!”

“Don’t make me sue you for defamation.”

You keep grinning as he hands you the bag and drink, then pulls the other chair over to where you are.

“What’s the occasion, then?” you ask, sipping your drink tentatively and then immediately finding yourself pleased to taste Coke.

“Discharge is tomorrow,” he says simply.

You open the bag. Your light-well fries sit next to your decently-sized wrapped burger, which is…

“A Double-Double with no onions and no pickles, right?”

You beam. “You remembered!”

“Hard to forget someone who starts a conversation accusing me of forgetting to bring them In-N-Out.”

“But, like, in a good way, right?”

He rolls his eyes. He’s doing that more often. You’re pleased. It shows he’s getting comfortable.

You aren’t under any pretenses about what’s going on here. You two will likely go your separate ways after tomorrow, but you’ve still greatly enjoyed your time together and you want to strive toward making him comfortable around you. Even if your time will soon be cut short.

You hum, superbly pleased, and unwrap the burger. “So, you tried my trick today, then? How was it?”

“Better but they’re still not the greatest fries ever.”

“Fair enough! Anyway, you didn’t have to get me something, too. We’re having lunch tomorrow, aren’t we?” Then you’d go down to BestBuy and get you a new camera.

He waves you off. “I was already there for lunch. I figured I might as well. Besides, tomorrow might turn into a much more public affair if people recognize me.”

“True, true…”

They’d release the statement about your discharge, your current status, and your meeting with Miyuki after the fact. But the chances of him being recognized when the two of you got lunch — his treat — were very, very high. That might strain some things.

While you happily tuck into your meal, he leans forward, peering at the table.

“Puzzles again.”

“Of course.”

“You and your puzzles.”

“They help pass the time!”

“Hmm.” Despite the mock doubtful tone, he slots in a few more pieces while you eat.

Halfway through, Hector makes an appearance. He isn’t your doctor — he is an ER doctor, so that is where he is most of the time; your case was handed over to someone else but he’s been hovering over Dr. Maxwell’s shoulder and micromanaging everything.

“Hey, Tee, I’m heading out —” he stops, head poked into the room. Upon seeing Miyuki, his eyes narrow and he wiggles the rest of his body inside.

Somehow, you’ve managed to avoid having him seen by Hector, your sister, Hector’s family when they came to visit you, and Jerry. Sheer luck, you think, but mostly, you get visited by those guys in either the early morning or later in the evening. Miyuki times his visits in between.

You pop another fry into your mouth, unconcerned. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” he says distractedly to you, frowning at Miyuki. “I wasn’t aware you were visiting today.”

“I was in the area.”

“You were in the area?” His tone leaves much to be desired.

“Hector, don’t be a dick.”

Miyuki coughs. Hector frowns at you now, looking mildly betrayed.

“He’s just being nice,” you explain in a slightly exasperated tone, then holding out your fries. “Now come get some fries and leave us alone.”

He purses his lips, then after a few seconds, strides briskly over to you to take some of your fries, popping them into his mouth and giving a sidelong glance to Miyuki as he turns and walks back to the door.

“Love you,” you call.

“Yeah, yeah, love you, too, kid.”

The door shuts behind him. You sip at your Coke, grinning a little.

“Sorry about him. He’s still kind of mad about the home-run thing.”

“It’s fine. I get it. It was my fault.”

“Not really,” you say lightly, popping the lid on your drink and tossing it into the takeout bag.

Miyuki takes a second to scrutinize the puzzle, pick out a piece, then slot into place.

Then, he asks, “What makes you think that?”

“Occupational hazard of sitting where I was. I heard something on the news while they were talking about me — said I was in a home-run hot zone. That means a lot of the home-runs land in that section of that stands, right?”

A nod.

You shrug. “See? Now, I didn’t know that and admittedly, there weren’t any signs about it, either… but I should’ve been paying more attention to what was going on. The lack of signs, we can blame that on the park, maybe even the team management if it makes you feel better. But that ball going bonk on my head? Can’t blame you for it.”

He purses his lips, still studying the puzzle. You can sense his doubt.

“Seriously! Now if I was sitting, say, somewhere along the foul line…” you pause; he lifts his eyes. Finally, you grin and nudge his leg. “Even then, I wouldn’t have blamed you. I’d blame that one on the park. They should keep those areas netted or something.”

“You Americans do like to play it fast and loose with those parts of the stands.”

You straighten your shoulders, puff out your chest, and put on your most righteous expression, shaking your fist at him as you speak. “It is my god-given constitutional right as an American citizen to be whacked in the face by a foul ball and you can’t do anything about it!”

He laughs. You relax, laughing, too.

“So, then, they do it differently in Japan?”

“There’s always been netting alongside the foul line,” he says, nodding. “And there are always attendants standing near to make sure no one gets hurt by balls that do make it over. They do everything they can to make sure no one gets hurt.”

You whistle. “Very nice! Yeah, no, someone has to, like, sustain extreme brain damage before fans agree to putting up netting.”

You chuckle at your own words but he just nods and clears his throat, slotting in another few pieces to the puzzle.

“Anyway,” he says after a moment, “I just realized I haven’t asked.”

“Ask what?” you ask, tipping your head back as you bring the cup to your mouth; most of the Coke is gone, leaving behind the ice chips. You let a few pieces slide into your mouth, happily crunching down on it.

You make an inquisitive sound at the amused look he shoots you but he just shakes his head and continues his previous statement. “Why do they call you Tee?”

Ahhh. He’s heard the nickname a few times. Hector has sworn you off from any and all types of electronics but thank god for the modern advancements of technology, because you have been able to use your phone sparingly when it comes to texts and calls, usually just by Hey, Siri-ing the hell out of it.

Jerry’d called you a few days ago with a question about a song in the queue and he’d dropped the nickname. Your sister called you yesterday asking if you wanted her to bring you a shake from Señor Mangoes when she came in the evening and she’d used it, too. Then Hector just now as well.

“Oh! You know about Jerry, right? My friend slash sound engineer at the studio? Well… you know Tom and Jerry? That’s kind of where it’s from.”

He snorts. “So, that’s why you called him —?”

“Mouser,” you finish, grinning.

“And you are…”

“Tee. But I don’t mind Tom, either. Or some variation of, like, cat. Or just Cat.”

Miyuki looks faintly amused. “You’re so…”

“What?”

“Weird.”

“Nicknames aren’t weird! Nicknames are fun! And great branding!”

He laughs for a long time at that one.

You are promptly discharged the next day at eleven. Your CT and X-ray scan come out fine; no issues on that front, with everything healing slowly. You’re doing well, all things considered. Really well. Dr. Maxwell is surprised at it but you think your general attitude towards everything helps significantly.

Details about your current well-being still won’t be released until the later part of the day, however, after you have your little outing of Miyuki.

Speaking of…

“Dude. Is it just me or are these letters a little bit blurry?”

“I think that’s the brain trauma.”

“Oh, true!”

Hector said it would be like that for a little while. Most of the major symptoms have subsided but you’ll still feel some measure of them for a while. Occasional misperception, occasional blurriness, occasional headaches, occasional sensitivity to light. You know. The usual.

The harder you try to focus, the worse it gets, so you just shake your head and put the menu down.

The two of you are tucked away in a corner of a local brunch place. Miyuki is as inconspicuous as usual, with the addition of the large menu firmly planted in front of his face, his back to the wall and yours to the rest of the restaurant.

You’re more than a little amused as, when the server comes by, he keeps the menu up, muttering an order for coffee.

“And you?” she asks, smile warming considerably as she looks at you. Her tag reads Naomi. She’s pretty.

“I’ll have a Coke. Thanks.”

“Of course.” She flashes you another sweet smile then walks off.

“You know, I would say you’re being dramatic but I think if she’d gotten a look at your face, she definitely wouldn’t have looked twice at me, so, thanks for that.”

He doesn’t remove the menu from his face. “Are you saying you think I’m handsome, tomcat?”

“Come on, dude, you’re super hot, we all know that. Don’t fish for compliments.”

He snickers.

“Anyway, what looks good on there? Everything looks incomprehensible to me right now.”

“I don’t know. What are you in the mood for?”

“Hmm. Do they have chicken?”

“Chicken and waffles?”

“Oh, solid. Yeah, I’ll do that.”

Naomi returns with your drinks and another warm smile toward you, then takes your order. Miyuki has to relinquish the menu to her after but you’re pleased to find she doesn’t even glance at him.

“You’re far too happy with yourself,” he says.

You wave a dismissive hand at him, head turned to watch her talk to a family; a one-year-old sits in a high-chair at the end of the table and you watch, taken, as she beams at the baby, cooing at him.

“What if she thinks we’re on a date and she’s making moves on you? What does that say about her?”

Eugh. He’s such a devil’s advocate.

“She’s probably thinking that my date is so rude by keeping his face shoved in his menu and neglecting me, so she’s shooting her shot.”

“Oh, please.”

You grin and shrug, sipping your Coke. “Gotta give people benefit of the doubt, man.”

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Sure. Anyway, what kind of camera are you going to get?”

“That’s a good question…”

You discuss that until your food arrives. Chicken and waffles for you and an American breakfast for him — over easy eggs, hash-browns, sausage and bacon with a side of fluffy pancakes.

Everything is in order. Perfectly cooked, plates still hot and food equally fresh. A quick surveillance of your surroundings assures you, for the moment, that no one has yet noticed Miyuki. Or they have and the paparazzi are on their way. Either way, in the present moment, everything is fine.

Then you take a bite of your fried chicken.

That’s perfect, too. Crispy on the outside, seasoned well, the chicken itself tender and juicy.

Then your mouth starts tingling.

You set your fork down calmly and reach around for your tote bag hanging off the back of your chair.

“Hey, Miyuki?”

“Hm?”

“Did you see any seafood on the menu?”

“Yeah.” He spears a piece of sausage on his fork, glancing around. “They had salmon and then some fried shrimp bites, I think.”

“I thought so.” Your voice comes out strained, throat tightening as you dig through your bag. You have it, you know you do, you never go anywhere without it. Your mouth is growing itchy and so is the rest of your body.

“Why?”

“I’m, uh, kind of allergic to shellfish and I’m pretty sure they fry their chicken and shrimp in the same fryer.”

His head snaps towards you. At the same time, you free your Epipen from the bag and pop the blue cap.

You meet his eyes.

“Whoops,” is the last thing you say before jabbing the pen into the side of your thigh.

“She’s only been out of the hospital two hours tops and you put her back here again? Are you kidding me?”

You’d normally defend Miyuki but you’re far too itchy to hold onto the thought long enough to say something. You shudder as Hector smooths anti-itch cream over the rash on your neck, arms, and legs with a wooden stick.

There’s also the matter of the stupid oxygen mask on your face. They’d given you albuterol to ease your breathing symptoms and you still have an IV line in your arm giving you antihistamine and cortisone for the inflammation of your airways. You still need the oxygen mask, though. For a few more hours.

Thankfully, however, you don’t need to speak up.

“Hector,” your sister hisses, giving him a look. “It’s not his fault. He didn’t know.”

You grunt in agreement then make a flimsy gesture to yourself.

You should’ve known better. But to be completely honest, you’d forgotten to even ask. You’re usually incredibly vigilant about your shellfish allergy but this time… you don’t know. You can probably blame it on your still-lingering concussion for your lapse in memory.

Hector sighs heavily. “You forgot?”

Another sound of agreement.

“Yes… yes… it’s likely the concussion.” He shoots another glare to Miyuki, who looks quite guilty, sitting at your bedside. “Which is your fault.”

“Hector.”

You jab your foot at him half-heartedly as he smooths cream over your thigh. Don’t make me kick you.

“None of this is your fault, Miyuki,” your sister says soothingly to him. “Really, we have you to thank for getting her back here in a nick of time.”

In yet another ambulance. How dramatic.

He clears his throat. “I’ll, uh, cover the bills for this one as well.”

“Yes, you will,” Hector mutters.

“Oh, for the love of —“

Hector finishes spreading the anti-itch cream over your rashes, then steps outside the curtain with your sister, probably to get a dressing down over his behavior to Miyuki. See, you knew he wasn’t fond of him because of the whole ball-meet-face thing and this, well, it doesn’t look great, either, but logically speaking, it is no one’s fault but your own. Why his dislike persists? You don’t know. You’d have to corner him about it one of these days.

You’re in the emergency room at the medical center, your bed cordoned off with just a thick curtain; your EKG monitor beeps a little unsteadily, the epinephrine still in your system after they’d given you another dose on the ride here, and the oxygen tanks behind the bed hiss quietly with each pull of air delivered to you. Similar sounds from the other areas reach your eyes. Quiet murmurs between doctor and patient, a baby crying somewhere.

Miyuki sighs, pulling off his cap and running his fingers through his hair.

Just like the day you were concussed, your memories of getting here are fuzzy. Mostly after you’d administered your Epipen to yourself. You know the major stuff, of course, like 911 being called, the ambulance, the pretty EMT telling you he was going to give you another dose of epinephrine and you trying to give him a thumbs up but the realization that he was really nice to look at ended up hitting you in that moment, making you slur out something about getting his number. You remember that one a little vividly, probably because he’d hit you with that dose of epinephrine immediately after, and also, it’s really embarrassing in hindsight. (Even more so because Miyuki was there with you. Christ.)

Either way, you definitely made a scene at that restaurant and well…

You feel a little bit bad.

But also…

“Hngh… hey…”

His head lifts. “What? Should I get —?”

“No. I just wanted to say sorry.”

He stares at you. “Sorry about what?”

“All… of this. Not great for laying low.”

“Not great for — Jesus. That’s not —” he shakes his head sharply. “Don’t… worry about that. It’s fine.”

“Did people —?”

“Yeah. Couple pictures.” He rolls his eyes there, not at you but the inconsiderate jerks who think it’s okay to sneak pictures of him during an emergency. “But it’s fine. Wendy’s dealing with everything. They’re releasing the previous stuff about you being discharged and then us getting lunch to celebrate it. And then lunch being derailed because you had an allergic reaction.”

“They’re not blaming you for it, right?”

“Couple jokes. Nothing I can’t handle. Seriously, worry about yourself, tomcat. And if anyone should be apologizing…” he grimaces, mouth tightening at the corners, uncomfortable and something else you can’t quite pinpoint. “I’m sorry. That… wasn’t supposed to go like that.”

You finally smile. “Hell of a story, right?”

If you two stay friends, you think you’ll have a great story to tell your kids one day.

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Hell of a story.”

Quiet for a moment other than the beep of the machine and the hiss of the oxygen. You take a deep breath. Easier to do now. Still some lingering tightness, though.

“There’s a great taco truck in front of the radio station,” you eventually say. “We can go there for lunch or dinner or whatever when I’m out of here, and have a redo, ‘kay?”

“You…” he pauses and clears his throat. “You sure?”

“You still owe me a camera, buddy.” But hopefully the warmth in your smile tells you that regardless of that, you are very much sure.

He chuckles quietly, something like a smile curving his lips. It sends a shock through your system. This is your first time seeing it, something something real, genuine. Honest. Mostly, you get amused grins, the occasional sardonic smirk.

Though it’s small, it is still a brilliant thing, radiant in your eyes. His eyes crinkle with it.

Your heart skips a beat and you cough to cover up the monitor mimicking it.

His eyebrows furrow a little but you plow ahead.

“You know what I just realized?”

He humors you. “What?”

You beam at him. “I can finally show you pictures of my pets!”

That smile doesn’t appear again but the set of his mouth is still soft as he says, “You’re right. Show me.”

Miyuki grabs your phone from your tote bag but you don’t want to disrupt yourself.

You’re kind of splayed out on the bed, legs stretched out, arms down at your sides, and you don’t want to move for fear of setting off your rashes.

“Just do it for me,” you urge him, telling him your passcode. You don’t have anything to hide. Your home screen is cluttered with apps that should be organized and your wallpaper is a picture of the sunset on Black’s Beach. You ask him if he’s been and he says no. A travesty, you think. If your friendship survives after he fulfills his duties to buy you a meal and a new camera, you’ll have to take him.

“Go to my gallery.”

He does but he seems…

“What?”

“I’m just trying not to see something I shouldn’t.”

It takes a second for you to understand. Your face heats up.

“Hey! I would never!”

“You asked the EMT for his phone number when he told you he was giving you another dose of epinephrine.”

“He was very attractive! If I’d died there, I’d at least want him to know that.”

His face pinches.

You chuckle nervously. “Too soon?”

“A bit.”

“Right… anyway! I would never keep nudes on my phone… They’d be kept in an external hard drive. That way, if someone steals my phone they can’t get to them and I’m also not relying on some app to store them for me.”

“Oh, of course.”

You laugh, the sound a little scratchy. “Don’t be a jerk. Anyway, chillax. I have a folder for them.”

He turns your phone back to his face. “Which is?”

“It should be obvious — Batman and Robin!”

“How should that be obvious.”

You blink. “Did I not tell you their names?”

“No. You just said you had a Betta fish and a snail. Then you started talking about the cat you see around your apartment complex and how it scared you when it sprinted up the stairs next to you a few weeks ago.”

“He really did scare me, you know. He’s never gone that far out! He usually just hangs around by the laundry room… and I think that’s where the person who takes care of him lives, too…”

“Focus, tomcat.”

“Right! There’s a folder for them.”

“Ah.” He clicks on something, then drags his chair closer to you, angling your phone so you both can see it.

“Ooh, pick that video. It was really cool. Betta fish can recognize their owners, did you know that? He gets all excited whenever he sees me come in. Snails don’t do much but that’s okay. He’s supposed to keep the balance by being chill.”

“Wait, so who is who?”

“Batman is my snail and Robin is the Betta. Yeah, had a hard time deciding, just ‘cause Bettas can be a little aggressive, especially other Betta males, and I’m like, well, Batman is aggressive. Y’know, he’s the dark, Robin is the light. But then, snails are so slow and generally chill. Not that Batman is chill at all but he is old. So, I figured the snail is better for an older figure and the Betta for a younger one. Also, feel free to tell me to stop whenever. I get kind of carried away talking about them.”

He shrugs. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

“Great! Prepare to unwillingly learn about DC Comics. So, we all know Batman and Robin, right? Batman is Bruce Wayne, of course, but then when you get to Robin, you have to specify who is who, because he’s had, like, six Robins…”

You assault Miyuki with all kinds of information about Bruce Wayne and his hoard of orphans for the next few hours. To his credit, he humors you. For the most part. He also makes fun of you for being a comicbook geek but this is coming from the same guy who, a few days ago, talked about baseball for four straight hours with you. Granted, you asked since you don’t know shit about baseball, other than the obvious stuff like… Hit the ball far. Get back to home plate. Score. That kind of thing. He was happy to drill you on the finer points of the game, though. It was the most he’d ever talked to you but it’s clear to you that that is because he really truly loves baseball.

So, if you’re a comicbook geek, he’s still a baseball nerd.

As the time passes, your rashes go away and most of your breathing issues abate. You still have to stay there until the evening, however, to make sure it doesn’t come back. Miyuki doesn’t leave other than to step out for a phone call — to Wendy, you presume — and to grab In-N-Out at your wish. Hector tries to protest (not for any real reason, just because of his apparent dislike of Miyuki, you think) but your sister overrules him, especially when Miyuki offers to grab stuff for them, too.

She gives him some extra cash to cover the order, even though you insist you have money to pay for your own, at the very least, but you both end up losing as he politely refuses to take the money.

With that also comes something else.

“I know I’ve endangered your life two separate times but if I give you my number, do you promise not to leak it?”

“As long as you make sure the fries are light-well, absolutely.”

He presses a hand to his chest, a mock solemn expression on his face. “I will do my best.”

You grin and exchange numbers so you can text him the orders, then he steps out, the curtain fluttering behind him.

“I like him,” your sister says.

“I don’t,” Hector mutters, glancing over your vitals.

“We know,” you say. “What’s with that, anyway?”

“I don’t think he’s as nice as he’s portraying himself to be.”

“Well, sure.”

Not nice, exactly. Snarky. Snide. Certainly a capacity to be callous. It is too easy for you to envision, with how he’s teased you sometimes, but you just let it roll off your back. If he wanted it to hurt, it would. He’s not rude, though. Not rude to people who don’t deserve that kind of behavior, like strangers. He keeps a lid on it. Likely because he has a public reputation to protect but still. As an adult, a grown ass man, you can’t just be outright cruel to people. It’s not right. You can tell he understands that. Oh, he has his own thoughts, sure, but he holds off. You appreciate that.

Not to say you don’t want him to be real with you but restraint is a hard thing to come by these days.

“But you also have to realize he came and visited me, like, everyday while I was here,” you point out. “He didn’t have to.”

“He feels guilty.”

“Doesn’t cancel out the fact that it was a nice thing to do. Look, I know what you think, Hector. You think I’m naive —”

“I don’t —”

“Yes, you do. It’s okay, though. I’ve said it before and I’ll continue to say it. Being like this is strategic. Necessary. I have to believe in the possibility of goodness. It may not look the same to anyone, but he is good and until he gives me a reason to think we shouldn’t be friends anymore — if we even manage to stay in contact after all of this is over — then I’ll give him the benefit of doubt.”

It might get you hurt. Sure. You know that. But you’d rather try than just cut your losses now. That is no way to live your life.

You’re only on this earth for a short period of time in the grand scale of the universe.

And even life itself only exists for a fraction of that time. The universe is barely an adolescent right now. Barely lived its life, which, for the rest of it, after all lifeforms cease to exist and stars die out, turning the universe into a cosmic boneyard strewn with the remnants of cold stars and black holes, will be cold, dark, and empty.

Even the black holes will die out eventually, some quadrillion years into the future. And the universe will keep expanding, endless. Empty.

But you are here now. And you will take advantage of that.

“We know,” your sister says softly, shooting Hector a displeased look. “We know, Tee. We trust you to take care of yourself.”

“Appreciate that. Now, where is the restroom? I think that single bite of chicken I had is finally exiting the stage.”

“Christ,” Hector mutters. Your sister giggles. You grin.

Miyuki returns fifteen minutes later, with Wendy in tow.

She breaks the news to all of you.

With the recent turn of events (that is, your dramatic moment at the restaurant), she and the rest of the Padres PR team see fit to hold a press conference rather than try and release a statement explaining everything. They have released a preliminary one assuring that you are fine and not actively dying but there are still a lot of rumors and talk swirling in the press and it’s just easier to gather the media in a room and answer the questions they have. Because if not, they’d certainly help themselves to any kind of plausible explanation.

The only thing is… they want you there, too.

“Wen, I know you said to dress normally but is this fine?”

She spares a glance at you. You are in a pair of dark wash mom jeans, the ends rolled up, with a black ribbed high-neck tank, and your usual Docs. Your makeup is done, finished with your sangria red liquid lipstick. Your nails are freshly painted oxblood red since you’d let yourself pick at the black polish you had on previously. You actually have that shade of liquid lipstick but you figured you’d go with something a scant few shades lighter.

She shakes her head. “You look amazing. Don’t worry.”

You relax at that. “Thanks. You, too.”

She flashes you a warm smile in response. In the room adjacent to the hotel ballroom they’re hosting the press conference in, people bustle around. The Padres’ general manager, Leon Boyd, and another manager, Trevor Brown, a handful of the Padres public relations staff, including their bilingual liaison, Miranda Sato, who coordinates between the club and Japanese media. Wendy, of course, as Miyuki’s manager, and you…

“They didn’t send anyone over for you, then?”

“I called my supervisor about it yesterday. He was fairly unconcerned, didn’t think it was necessary.”

It’s not like you were going to go out there and speak on the behalf of Night Owl or the broadcasting company, KCSD. In fact, you were going to make that point specifically. But it would be best to cover your bases anyway (pun totally intended). That meant calling up your supervisor, Dennis, and asking him about it.

But you see, Dennis, a classically white Californian dude who wears board shorts and flip-flops to important meetings with investors and other higher-ups and has a bad habit of taking hits from his wax pen inside the studio and making it stink of weed, well, he doesn’t worry about much at all. He hardly does his job on top of that.

If you run into any problems with equipment or advertisers, you can hardly rely on him to help get anything done. You anticipated that he would be careless about the fact that you’re doing this press conference.

Sooo… you recorded the conversation.

Just for some assurances.

Maybe he is right and the company won’t care. But on the off chance that he is wrong, you don’t want him changing his tune and saying you never talked to him about it.

You’re not usually this suspicious of people — as mentioned before, you do like to give people the benefit of doubt and just generally believe in the goodness of humankind — but this is work. You aren’t about to be double-crossed. No way.

They should be grateful, if anything. Since they aren’t willing to promote the show, you will. This press conference is to clear the air and settle the facts but you being here and your return to the show imminent (like the next day imminent), it’ll work in your favor. There will be some questions strictly for you, like about returning to Night Owl. You cannot miss out on an opportunity to promote it. Even if it is because you got severely concussed then upon being discharged landed back in the ER with a severe allergic reaction.

That’s just how the cards fall and you are going to take every advantage you can.

It’s a little scary, since it won’t just be American media but Japanese media, too. Every word you say will be translated and transcribed to appear in the news afterward, to be viewed by most of the country. But they know that and Wendy promised you wouldn’t just be thrown to the wolves out there, that she and the other PR staff will help you out.

“No matter,” Wendy says, straightening the pink satiny blazer she has on. It’s a matching set. You like it a lot. “You won’t be speaking on their behalf.”

“Definitely not.”

“But I do have to ask… is there anything that might be brought up in there that could derail things?”

“About me or about the show?”

“Both.”

“Me, well, I’ve got a pretty clean record. The occasional drama with listeners if I say something they don’t like but nothing explosive.”

“That’s fine. Anything else?”

“Weeell…the company is thinking about shutting us down.”

She jolts, surprised. “Oh. Oh. Really?”

“It’s not, like, set in stone. But there’s been talk. Plus, they tried to lower my sound engineer’s pay, too.”

Jerry couldn’t afford that, though, not with taking care of his grandma — affectionately referred to as Nana by the both of you — and the prescriptions she had. So, you split some of your check into his. He doesn’t know and he won’t. That’s why you’re trying to promote the show so hard. To get things back on top.

“I see,” she says, frowning. “You think you can handle it if they ask or should I have someone step in?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “No. I got it.”

You didn’t care much to talk about any previous drama if they brought it up. Let them take the reins there. But if it came to the company potentially shutting you down… why not?

Wendy nods, a glint of respect in her brown eyes, then she tells you how everything else is going to go. A nearby makeup artist comes over to you to fix a few things, but they’re fairly approving of your appearance.

“We aren’t covering the bruise?” they reaffirm, eyes on your temple.

“Let them see it,” you say easily. Yeah, you hadn’t cared to conceal it. It’s still tender to the touch and probably would’ve taken several layers of concealer to hide but also, yeah, let them see it.

They nod and step away to join the others.

You’re a few minutes from stepping out to begin the conference when Miyuki finally makes his appearance.

“Where have you been?” you chuckle, watching a team of makeup artists attack him. Fixing his hair, blotting out the sweat at his temples, concealing the circles under his eyes. Another set of his hands straightens his t-shirt and someone else takes a lint roller to it. He lets it all happen with the ease of someone incredibly used to it.

“Slept in too late,” he says. “But in general, I make it a rule not to be too early for these sorts of things.”

“Sure. Makes sense.” You eye the rest of his appearance. You haven’t seen him in anything other than joggers and dri-fit workout shirts. Today he’s in a dark blue t-shirt that stretches nicely over his shoulders and medium wash jeans. Nothing fancy and yet, he looks gorgeous as usual.

“One minute!” someone calls out in warning. The makeup team disperses as quickly as they appeared. Everyone lines up by the door, with you on Miyuki’s left and Wendy on your right.

He frowns at you. “Why do you look taller?”

You beam, lifting your foot. “Docs.”

It’s not anything crazy. The platform is only about an inch and a half thick. A minuscule amount, really. You’re surprised he noticed.

He squints. “Of course you wear Doc Martens and dark clothes.”

“Ha!”

The door opens. Your heart climbs to your throat. You’re used to broadcasting your voice to thousands of people but this is different. This is you and your face, not just your voice. The reporters will be getting everything and if you don’t calm yourself, there will be nothing left for you.

“Don’t trip over yourself,” he tells you unhelpfully.

“Don’t make me push you off that stage.”

He snickers. You take a deep breath. From the moment you follow him out, everything blurs. Cameras flash, blinding you. You somehow manage to take your seat at the table. A heavy black cloth is draped over it, so you can squeeze your hands between your thighs underneath and try to anchor yourself. The chair you’re sitting in is plush beneath you, made of a velvety kind of material. The cloth on the table is more scratchy but still heavy over your legs. You plant your feet firmly on the stage. A mounted microphone sits in front of you.

Rows of reporters sit in chairs in front of you. Photographers and videographers stand behind them. It seems perfectly split down the middle, with American reporters on the left and Japanese reporters on the right.

For the sake of the conference and the reporters, you get formally introduced. Then Boyd takes over, explaining the situation to them. He talks about your status on the day of the discharge, that you were cleared to be released but there was still some healing to go as far as the fracture and confusion went. Then he sets the context of your lunch with Miyuki, that he wanted to see how you were and talk to you.

(There is no mention of his prior visits to you in the hospital.)

They talk about the allergic reaction and your impromptu trip back to the medical center. You were discharged again last night with a clean bill of health and by today, you’re mostly fine. Some scratchiness lingering in your throat but nothing to worry about.

As he speaks, Miranda, the bilingual liaison, translates. It makes for a lot of noise at once but you have to get used to it because she’ll be doing the same for you.

Once finished, he asks, “Any questions?”

Every hand in the room shoots up. Some questions are already spilling out of mouths, reporters clambering over each other.

“One at a time, one at a time,” he cautions.

They settle, mostly, and he picks out a raised hand in the left section.

You suppress a full-body jolt as you hear your name. Your name. The first question — and they want to talk to you?

Christ.

Your eyes find a face in the first row. “Hi. Jessica Ramos with the Washington Post. Can I ask what this past week and a half has been like for you? I mean, you’ve kind of been thrown unceremoniously into the spotlight here.”

Every eye in the room is turned on you now. But you focus on Jessica Ramos. In her hands is a notepad. Her nails are painted sage green and the bag at her feet has a felt-print green ostrich embroidered on it.

“To be honest,” you start, relieved to hear your voice is light. “I’m a little convinced that I’m actually in a coma at the hospital and this is a fever dream. Or a concussion dream, to be technically correct.”

Everyone laughs. You relax, smiling faintly.

“No, it’s been very… strange. But I wasn’t allowed to be on anything electronic for the entire week I was in the hospital, which helped mitigate most of those effects. I’m sure if I’d been watching everything unfold in real time — that would’ve been overwhelming.”

Another hand from the right section pops into the air. Boyd nods.

Your name first, in accented English, then a question in Japanese reaches your ears. Miranda is translating in the next second.

“Will you be returning to Night Owl anytime soon?”

“Tomorrow, actually. I’ll be back. Unless another concussion takes me out. Or an allergic reaction.”

“Don’t worry,” Brown says. “We’ll keep you safe.”

More laughter.

A hand from the right side again. Another question translated.

“Are you a fan of the Padres? Is that why you were there?”

You grin. “Not at all. That was the first time I’d set foot in Petco Park and that was the first game I’d ever seen. Of the Padres and honestly, of baseball, too. I’ve never been much of a fan.”

A quick follow-up question in everyone’s mind. Why were you there?

You’d gone to the game to buff up your portfolio and to see if anything you shot could be sold off. To them or to Getty Images. The ticket was from your sister, as she and her flight crew received them from one of the kinder pilots she had but it was only a single ticket and she wasn’t too interested in baseball, either. You saw the opportunity to make a little money on the side and you took it.

You give them the cliff notes version of that. Mostly about getting some pictures for your portfolio. You leave out the money part.

A few people make some jokes about your poor luck — your first ever baseball game and you get severely concussed? — then they continue with the questions.

For you and for Miyuki and then even some for the managers, like about whether they’ll make any changes to the stands. Which they won’t. It’s too far out. You get that. You don’t even think they net those areas in Japan.

Then you and Miyuki get a question together.

“Hi. Haley Martin with the San Diego Union-Tribute. I wanted to ask you guys — will you keep in touch after this?”

Every reporter in the room holds in a breath, leaning forward, pens poised and recorders ready.

Jeez. These guys are desperate.

You can’t help but make your jokes.

“You know,” you start thoughtfully, “I think in the interest of living a very long life… no.”

They laugh, including Miyuki.

“Seriously, guys,” Haley says, smiling faintly, too. “Will you be friends?”

“I’ll only be friends with her if she promises to start supporting the Padres.”

You laugh. Miyuki gives you a grin.

“Only if you pay for my tickets.”

“We’ll give you a lifetime season pass, if you want,” Brown puts in. “Just don’t sue us.”

You snort. The others laugh.

“Well?”

You beam. “We’ll be best friends forever.”

“Now, I didn’t say that —”

“No take-backsies.”

That gets everyone going. He laughs, too, which is really all you care about.

“A few more question, folks, then we’ll wrap this up,” Boyd says.

A familiar hand. Haley again.

She directs this to you.

“Is it true that KCSD plans to shut down Night Owl?”

Murmurs erupt in the room, bodies shuffling. Miranda briefly falters in her translation before completing it.

She’s been holding onto that one. You can tell. There is no malice in it, though.

They’re reporters, journalists, this is their job. To report. To chase every lead. To keep people honest. There are lines, of course, between responsibility and irresponsibility. This question is very much responsible. No one can dispute that. And you are just one person. If the company had sent someone down, they could’ve handled it.

As it is…

“I don’t speak for the KCSD. I’d just like to say that. I’m only speaking for myself, someone who does coincidentally happen to be Night Owl’s host. To set the context of your question, before all of this happened, Night Owl had experienced a drop in traffic. We weren’t getting much interaction but there were still people listening. We knew that. I’m happy to be there regardless. I know some people are listening, most often college kids staying up late and well, some night owls, to be sure.

“But in the world we live in, that’s not enough. So, there was some talk about maybe downsizing the show. But that was a while ago, before this happened. I know we’ve gotten many more hits since and I’m glad for it. But right now at this moment, I don’t know. Things have changed and I couldn’t tell you.”

Haley nods. “Thank you.”

“Sure.”

Feels nice to let it all out, you think, as they start to wrap things up. Though you do feel a headache starting to form. Great.

The rest of the questions are for Miyuki. Something about his contract. You don’t pay too much attention.

You’d been fair to them, you think. More than fair. But it’s not really about that. You need to make them act, to make a decision. Either they shut you down or they don’t. Will the popularity hold? Who knows? But you can hope that it will, that people will realize you’re there, and they’ll hang around. At the very least, you can keep going for a little while longer.

The press conference ends. You all shuffle back into that adjacent room. You end up getting pulled into a conversation with Boyd and Brown about that season pass but you politely decline.

“Well,” he says, “the offer stands. And speaking of offers, if you’d like it, we would love to have you join our photographers.”

Most of the PR team has dispersed, going to handle the outpouring of news that will hit in a few hours. The makeup team is gone, too. It’s just a few security guards, some of the managerial staff, then you guys. Wendy, Miyuki, and Miranda stand a couple feet away, conversing quietly.

You blink. “Is this to make sure I don’t sue you?”

Brown snorts. “You wouldn’t be able to.”

“True.” But he doesn’t need to be so smug about it.

“No,” Boyd says. “We’ve seen your stuff. We think you’d be great with us. We’re always looking for more cameras and we’re willing to raise your pay, too, to beat out whatever you’re making at the station, too.”

“I… appreciate that.”

“You don’t have to give us an answer now. But preferably sometime next year in January, before we start spring training in February.”

“Right. Thanks.”

You don’t know how to react. You’ve never gotten this kind of offer before. Not for photography, anyhow. You do mostly freelance work. Take pictures of weddings, religious events, et cetera.

“Think about it,” he says, smiling, then he and Brown turn to join the others.

What just happened.

A quiet chuckle behind you. You turn, finding Miyuki. His arms are crossed, an amused expression on his face.

“You look disturbed.”

“I feel disturbed. Uh. Anyway. We’re on for dinner tomorrow, right? Five o’clock?”

He nods. “What are you doing today?”

“Spending some quality time with Batman and Robin and turning off my phone for the rest of the day.”

“Probably a good idea. Well… you didn’t choke out there. You were actually very…”

“What?”

“Calculating. With the stuff about them shutting you down. It all worked in your favor, didn’t it?” His tone is knowing.

You smile and shrug. “I’ll do what it takes to keep the show running.”

“It means that much to you?”

“You’d do the same for baseball, wouldn’t you?”

“Touché.” He almost looks impressed.

You try not to relish it too much.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. See you.”

I wanted the past to go away, I wanted to leave it, like another country; I wanted my life to close, and open like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song where it falls down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery; I wanted to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know, whoever I was, I was

alive for a little while.

#daiya no ace #daiya no ace x reader #ace of diamond #ace of diamond x reader #miyuki kazuya x reader #miyuki x reader #moss writes

36 notes · View notes

nancypullen · 7 months ago

Text

A Day Off

Hallelujah! What a perfect day. I worked until six o'clock on Wednesday and practically danced out of the library. I have been rotating between the information desk and the circulation desk and the good citizens of this county have worn me out. The last several days have been a bit wonky. There were ten thousand calls asking if we have free eclipse glasses -we didn't, but could direct you to a place that does and/or provide instructions for making your own viewer out of a cereal box and aluminum foil. There was an event giving away free laptops to qualifying residents that was like the last flight out of Saigon. In the words of an unflappable coworker, "There was chaos in every corner of the building." Don't even get me started about Mercury being in retrograde. Like I said, wonky. Saturday was actually quite nice because it was opening day for Little League and there was a parade down Market Street with plenty of cute kids. When I arrived home on Saturday the Edgewater gang showed up and we celebrated Mr. Pullen's birthday. Jamie and I convinced the fellas to accompany us to a greenhouse to hunt for some plants, a greenhouse that the grandgirl said was "in the middle of nowhere". She wasn't wrong. We came home with lots of lovelies for the gardens, a successful trip! This is my favorite picture snapped over the weekend. Tyler and Jamie in a chess battle on the front porch. Never say it's not exciting around here.

I was back to work on Monday (eclipse day) for three busy days, and now I'm free! We delayed our trip to Lancaster for a day to let the bad weather blow through, so we'll leave in the morning, stay over Friday night, and come home later on Saturday. I'm anticipating some fun. Speaking of fun, here's another photo I loved. I'm pretty sure that I'm allowed to post this because she's masked. No one could ever identify her from this photo (and I've been good for six years). I'll delete if they ask. Anyway, this is our little miss on Monday. Isn't it cute pic?

Fast forward to today and I've shed all of the work nonsense and I'm feeling quite content. I spent the entire morning weeding and preparing flower beds, then planting some of the pretties that I picked up at Ball Greenhouses last week. I know I'm early, but these are hardy girls. If Mother Nature turns fickle I'll just be the crazy lady running around tossing sheets over gardens. Wouldn't be the first time. It's a small price to pay for the happiness of today. Working the dirt and dreaming of the blooms to come was good for my soul. I needed this day. Another little something that has recently delighted me is this stuff.

Because I'm at work for nine hours, I have recently become addicted to sugary, fattening, fancy coffee drinks. I'd zip through Starbucks on my lunch break and pick up an iced caramel macchiato , then I started buying the bottles at the grocery store and filling my big sippy cup (that I normally use for water) in the mornings. I was adding way too many calories to my day. So, I searched for a healthier replacement drink that would still give me the boost - and I found it! I'm not on Atkins or Keto or any of those diets, but I definitely appreciate the low sugar/carb count. This protein shake has the same amount of caffeine as a cup of coffee, with added protein and fiber. It's a win! I can have this for breakfast and feel no guilt. Getcha' some! This post is sort of all over the place, sorry about that. I don't have a lot to say and I didn't sit down with a plan. I just opened my laptop and wanted to say hi. I do miss having more time to spend being silly here. The older I get the less I care about being silly. Look at these cool sunglasses I bought in a little shop in Chestertown. Silly for a woman my age? Yes. Do I care? Absolutely not.

I just notice that my name tag for work is all jacked up by my seatbelt. Hope I straightened that out once I got there, but I don't remember doing it. Oops. Several of you have asked about whether or not I'm enjoying my job. It's complicated. I've mentioned my lovely coworkers, I've mentioned that I'm having fun doing the displays, there are plenty of positives. I'm trying to focus on what I have gained and not what I have lost. I do miss having time for hobbies, doing more than work, eat, sleep, repeat. Of course, as I type this I'm looking ahead to three days off - wonderful! The 16th will mark three months in my position, so I do feel I've given it a fair shake...and I just don't know. I'm really pouring a lot of energy, creativity, and effort into this job and I do feel that it's appreciated. They are very nice to me and pay me adequately. I'm just undecided if it's a fair trade for my freedom. I mostly talk about the fun parts, the nice parts, but there are also the not-so-fun parts. A surprising number of books are returned with bed bugs. We have two large "stink boxes" that are usually full of books returned that reek of everything from cigarette smoke, pot, or just general funk. They sit in there with charcoal rocks until they're bearable. Lots of people are rude, really rude. I got used to that when I was in the airline industry, but it doesn't make it any more pleasant. I could go on, couldn't we all? No job is ever perfect, and in the past I tolerated the unpleasant aspects because I had no choice. I don't have to do that anymore. I've been asked to take on some summer programming work - fun activities with kids, outreach booths at festivals, that sort of thing. I'm looking forward to that, and it's been a while since I've had things to look forward to. Well, that's not true. I've had loads of fun family stuff that happened and even a trip to Ireland in the last year, but as far as having something that gives me a chance to actually use my brain and any meager talents I have - this is the first chance since we left Tennessee. I just wish it wasn't so exhausting. Is that just me being sixty? It's kind of funny that I'm twenty to thirty years older than nearly everyone I work with, but they're all so tired. I don't want to scare them about getting older, but I feel like I should drop hints like, "I hope you like ibuprofen..." or "Enjoy those cute shoes while you can..." Honestly, I work circles around most of them, and I shouldn't. Where is their energy? I have to admit that when I'm shelving, and for some reason all of our shelves have books at floor level (why??), it is not fun getting up and down. I actually love shelving because the more books I touch the more familiar I am with the collection, but that bottom shelf will be the death of me. I snapped this picture last week when I was processing books. Some were going out to other libraries, some had been requested locally and were going on our hold shelf, some were being checked in and returned to our shelves.

That back wall is my work area. To the left you can see some of the 50+ craft bags that I assembled to go home with our little visitors. I love those. They have all of the supplies and instructions needed to complete a small craft. To the right of the craft bags are a couple of shelves of books pulled for mending or labeling. Under the desk are the infamous stink boxes. I wish they'd let me decorate this work room. It needs color and art. It should be pretty. Pretty isn't very important around here. That's definitely something I miss about the south. I put a little bit of the south into one of my small displays. We have a good collection of cookbooks here, so I grabbed a tablecloth and sign from our house, and voila!

This hardly counts as a display - just two pieces of decor and some books, but it's working - people are checking out cookbooks! I swap them out every couple of days to keep it interesting. Here's another little bit of nothing - just pillow stuffing glued to cardstock for clouds, the raindrops are cardstock and string. Rainy Day Reads!

See what I mean? None of it is great (I have no budget!) but it's the fun part. So much of the rest is exhausting. They're advertising for a couple of new positions, so maybe if they find the right people I could work fewer hours. If that were the case I could do this for a long time. I'm already cooking up some fun ideas for May. I have my book lists ready and one display will definitely be "Once Upon a Crime..." complete with crime scene tape and a chalk body outline on the floor (actually white painters tape). I may do a Sci-Fi display with an alien saying, "Take me to your reader." We have a huge biography section though, so I probably should use those instead. I could make a giant name tag, like the ol' "Hello, my name is______" that we've all had to wear at some point. I could put up a sign that says Meet someone new, try a biography and put out a variety of interesting people - founding fathers to modern musicians, CoCo Chanel to Sally Ride. Anywho, just letting those ideas rattle around in my brain. I'll figure it out. Wow, I've rambled far too long and it's all disjointed and kooky. I guess I was overdue for a visit here. I'm happy today because I'm home. I hope that you're happy too, or at least on your way to being happy. I suppose we all have to figure out what that means for us, and where it is for us. I know it's not on that damn bottom shelf at the library.

The mister is turning off lights and heading for bed, so I guess that's my cue. We'll run off to Lancaster in the morning so I'll be back on Sunday to share a bit of that with you. It may be nothing but Amish buggies in the rain, but I have a feeling we'll find some fun. If you've made it all the way to the end of this snoozefest of a post, give yourself a cookie. You deserve it. Consider yourself hugged. Stay tuned for the Griswolds' adventures in Pennsylvania Dutch country! Until then, stay safe, stay well, and know how very much I've missed you. XOXO, Nancy

3 notes · View notes

strangefable · 2 years ago

Text

uquizzes attack my girls again

Big thank you for tagging me goes to @lethal-justice, @roofgeese, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @direwombat, @aceghosts, @marivenah, @natesofrellis, and @sstewyhosseini for tragic horror trope. And @adelaidedrubman for deity assignment.

These quizzes are coming for my girls hard.

tagging back to all of you for the one you didn't tag me for, and passing on to @poetikat, @incognito-insomniac, @somethingclich8, @strafethesesinners, @thomrainer, @clonesupport, @jacrispea, @confidentandgood, @schoute, @funkypoacher, @i-am-the-balancing-point, @chilikecheese, @kyber-infinitygems, @galaxycunt, @mars-colony, @gayafsatan, @damejudyhench, and anyone else who'd like to have their ocs attacked <3

that which cannot be known

oh god. how did it come to this? to some extent, you've gone so far past your own idea of "human" that it must be kind of fun, right? maybe. i'm not sure. as an artefact of cosmic horror, you're wild and wacky and colourful and people are probably drawn to that, but you will never let them know you. the mystery intrigues for a while, but it'll wear everyone down. it'll wear you down, too. who are you? do you remember? are you so far gone that you can't go back? and maybe that's the most tragic thing of all- becoming so distorted in your identity, and for so long, that no matter how hard you want to return you can't ever seem to figure it out. but you've learned a vast amount up in the stars, and people will work hard to get to know you. it doesn't matter who you used to be. sometimes, you should just start from scratch: give yourself a name, a birthday. let someone celebrate these things with you.

desire and sexuality

you’re mysterious and alluring. when lovers seek a magnetic connection, they pray to you. you’re particularly associated with eros, erotic love, and mania, obsessive love. you exude intense magnetism and your voice is like a siren call, luring anyone and everyone you desire.

the final girl

the final girl comes out the other end of trauma alive- or, they were supposed to. honestly, you're not so sure you're really alive anymore. you saw the same hurt take those you were closest to while everyone paraded your bruises as bravery, as strength, as if you're the hero. and it hurts. you're tired and you don't want to have to be brave anymore. whatever you went through, it changed so much of who you were that you're still getting used to the person you see in the mirror. you didn't have a say in any of it, but you're here now, and that's gotta count for something. you'll make it count for something. but first, you need to let yourself find rest.

trickery and mischief

twisted and playful, you view humans as nothing more than mere toys or puppets. people provide you with offerings and keep their heads down so as to not upset you. you’re expressive and dramatic, though often lying and quite skilled at manipulation and illusion.

the harbinger

the harbingers have been through fire. you've got the scars to show for it. some people say harbingers are jaded- scary, even, to people who don't understand that the harbinger has seen the edge of the world and survived it. but being the harbinger means you're cursed to watch younger, brighter eyes fall for the same traps you did. trying to help isn't enough for you; you know what they're getting themselves into, and you want to protect them the way no one ever protected you, so why won't they just listen? it's frustrating. it's terrifying. no one should have to live through what you did, and i hope you know that you can't protect everyone but it's damn noble of you to try. it's not your job to save the world but i hope you know you've already made a difference to everyone who has taken your words to heart.

storms and the sea

your followers worship you for safe passage through the sea. your title implies a dark and brooding individual but you’re much more playful than the name implies. although you’re quite easy-going, you have no patience for those who disrespect the ocean and their punishment is nothing short of severe. those who do anger you are often never seen again, hidden in the depths of the sea that light can’t touch.

#uquiz #tag game #micah hale #lilith mallory #lore jameson #my ocs #these are so right on the money i'm shocked #my girls have been attacked #for real this is just eerie #never had any uquiz this accurate before #i'm a little freaked out tbh

30 notes · View notes

nickgerlich · 9 months ago

Text

Looking For A Miracle

In the history of American retailing, there has never been a chain whose name became synonymous not just with an event, but an entire holiday season. While younger generations may not have the same level of intense memories as their parents and grandparents, it is still part of our fabric. It starts on Thanksgiving and runs through Christmas.

Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is as much tradition as is the turkey that will be front and center on dining room tables later that same day. The parade dates to 1924, and it was a shrewd move on behalf of the department store to put its name on it. Little did they know then it would become synonymous with not just the parade, but also the day and the holiday shopping that would ensue the day after.

As if that weren’t enough, Hollywood picked up on this beautiful romance, and in 1947 released Miracle on 34th Street. It was almost like it was a 96-minute commercial for Macy’s as it spun the tale of a drunk man hired to play Santa Claus at their downtown store.

With all of that good fortune, it would be easy to think the company was set up for life. Alas, no one is immune to change, and even Macy’s, which continues to benefit from its association with the parade as well as the month that follows, is in trouble. They just announced 150 more store closings, leaving the chain with 350 stores. It once had many hundred more.

The news comes not long after Macy’s rejected a $5.8 billion buy-out bid. They must be feeling pretty confident that they can take it from here, choppy waters be damned.

But this does not address the elephant in the room, that being the one whose name is Change. Much has indeed changed in the century since the birth of that parade, when downtown flagship department stores were a matter of civic pride and family tradition. I remember my family always traveling to downtown Chicago to go to Marshall Field, then the leading store in the region. It was an event, complete with seeing Santa, dining in the restaurant, and shopping all day. Side note: Macy’s eventually bought Marshall Field and changed the name, but Chicagoans still refer to that downtown location as Field’s.

Today, department stores are in the throes of death, along with the suburban malls in which they reside. Whereas mall owners could once count on these anchor stores to attract the foot traffic that would keep the ship and its smaller tenants afloat, that is no longer the case. The US is littered with abandoned malls or those so eerily like a ghost town that you begin to wonder why we went down this road in the first place.

Of course, we can point to e-commerce as a big contributor for this decline. This includes Amazon as well as the upstart fast-fashion site Shein. But there’s more. COVID taught us that curbside pickup and delivery are also viable options. Mass merchandisers like Target and Walmart have upped their game, and provide more outlets for our shopping dollars. All of these have combined to create a perfect storm.

It’s not like Macy’s hasn’t mounted its own response with a reasonable e-commerce site. It’s just that through so many decades of focusing on its roots that it overlooked the need to grow in new ways. Worse yet, it has developed a rather stodgy image. Just like Sears did toward the end of its life, Macy’s is now where your old aunt shops.

Eeewwwww.

I have to wonder how much longer the chain will survive. I hope they do not face the same fate as Sears. For that matter, I would not wish upon them the challenges that JC Penney has faced. At best they can hope for the comparatively calm seas that Dillards finds itself in.

This is the challenge for every legacy retailer. You have to maintain relevance. And while an annual parade may stir romantic notions, I don’t think it is going to be close to enough to keep the company going for 12 months a year, not just one. I hate to rain on their parade, but it’s looking kind of overcast out there, and it’s time to reach for an umbrella.

Dr “But Miracles Do Happen” Gerlich

Audio Blog

#marketing #Macys #retail

3 notes · View notes

aj-lenoire · 2 years ago

Note

JFK exists in the zootopia abortion comic??

oh god. nonny i want to preface this by saying i am so, so sorry that i made you aware of this. i should have kept my mouth shut. something something today’s unlucky ten-thousand.

first off, no. jfk doesn’t exist in the zootopia abortion comic. it’s worse.

i didn’t know this until i fucking googled the damn thing but it turns out there are three parts. the infamous panel with the slap is from the first part, but the third part, published in november 2021, had some some extra pages that aren’t officially part of the comic’s canon(?) but like, same artist same universe, so ymmv.

ANYWAY.

part three. judy is the mayor. she’s married to a lady fox and they have two adopted kids. nick is also married to a lady fox and has a biological kid. judy’s fox wife is a furry version of jackie kennedy. she is wearing a pink suit and a pillbox hat.

judy sees nick one day and mentions how her mayoral platform of total integration between the predator and prey animals is mostly accepted, but has spawned some offshoot extremist groups in both directions. offshoot groups to which, i might add, there are extremely explicit nazi parallels, including splash panels of them doing nazi salutes. judy and nick say they still care deeply for one another and are both pleased that the other got what they wanted in life blah blah blah.

extra pages. judy is in a parade car with jackie canidae. in, and i cannot stress this enough, a shot for shot reenactment of the fucking jfk assassination, she is hit by a sniper and her head fucking EXPLODES in what is genuinely a really lurid blood spatter considering this is a comic based off a kids’ movie about talking animals solving crimes together.

jackie canidae is freaking out, she has blood over her pink suit, people are screaming, etc, etc. two animals, one a member of a pro-prey extremist group and one a member of a pro-predator extremist group, start arguing about which one of them shot judy.

judy then opens her eyes and sits up. she licks off the “dangerously sugary” cherry jam she is now covered in. the projectile was not a bullet, but a paintball filled with jam. the end.

now, apparently the original ending was judy actually got fucking shot. why the original artist wanted to recreate the jfk assassination is beyond me. i guess because the integration of the predator and prey animals is thematically similar to the civil rights movement? provided you squint?? ignore all the wider historical context??? up to and including slavery???

either way, allegedly the blood spatter was way worse, the comic ended like that, but the artist got so much backlash because, y’know, jfk assassination, and also possibly because judy was the one who wanted the abortion back in the first comic (remember that, nonny? remember when this was just about a weird fox-rabbit hybrid baby???) and it looked like she was being punished for getting an abortion of a child she didn't want. so the artist changed it to a weird jam-based fake-out.

once again, i would like to apologise for the psychic damage i have just caused you and anyone else who had the misfortune to stumble across this post.

#her name isn’t actually jackie canidae it just seemed appropriate considering. you know.#i don’t remember her actual name and i refuse to google this comic again to check #i know i’ve said it before but fantasy racism really is a dicey area to play around in at the best of times #for a kids’ movie just designed to teach them about prejudice it’s all perfectly serviceable #but it really does fall apart under more intense scrutiny #case in point: the predator animals used to EAT the prey animals. africans never ate white colonisers.#aj asks #hey nonny nonny #zootopia abortion comic #i am so so so sorry

14 notes · View notes

i-spaced-sorry · 2 years ago

Text

Running Towards Something

I have this headcanon (that @gregorygerwitz helped me flesh out! ) So the headcanon is that Jay fell into the wrong crowd growing up and maybe was picked up a few times before an Army Recruiter spoke to his class in high school and changed the trajectory of his life.

From that: This one shot was born! Hope you enjoy.... I put it under the cut! It does touch vaguely on his mom’s Cancer and has tiny other headcanons included like: I think Will didn’t really party or hang with the wrong crowd til college when he was out of Canaryville. I think the dad worked in construction. I think the mom had cancer when Jay was a kid, but maybe it was more agressive when he was an adult.

To Jay, growing up on the South Side of Chicago meant that you either stuck your head in a book or were an athlete and got out when you turned 18 and never looked back; or you fell into the wrong crowd and felt stuck in the cycle forever. Jay knew from day one which route his older brother, Will, had taken. But what he hadn’t realized - until it was too late, was he took route two.

At first it started with petty crimes, like shoplifting a candy bar from the 7/11 down the street. Then it was pickpocketing the poor sucker on the ‘L’ who kept their wallet in their back pocket exposed. Somewhere between the time his dad took on more hours at his construction job and his mom making frequent trips to the hospital, he began pocketing more “big ticket” items, like the time he and his “friends” decided to steal from 5 different high end stores on Michigan Avenue during the Festival of Lights Parade. Sometime around this time, the police started picking him up and returning him to his home in Canaryville. He can still remember the disappointment etched on his mother’s face when the police showed up for the 5th time that week and claimed the next time he would spend the weekend in Juvie.

It didn’t click that maybe just maybe he was on the wrong path, until one day an Army recruiter came and spoke to the junior class about a career in the Army. They claimed that most kids from the South Side are running from something and they should try running towards something for a change. They talked about how the Army can provide underprivileged kids with the means to go to college. The words that clicked for Jay were ‘run towards something’. Jay didn’t see college as a viable option for himself, since he had spent his days, since middle school, reeking havoc on the streets. Will was much better suited for the lifestyle of college anyway.

When Jay’s 3 year enlistment contract came up, he had fallen in love with the job! He had found friends who had accepted him and his flaws. He really did feel like he had a sense of purpose - he had climbed his way up to an elite Ranger! - and he felt like he was making a difference in the world around him. So it was no surprise when he re-enlisted for an additional 3 years.

When tragedy struck and he and Mouse were the only survivors from their IED Humvee accident, he was forced to come home on a medical discharge. He felt lost. He found himself back on his childhood home couch - they had converted his bedroom into a healing space for his mom, who was going through round 2 of the big C and was unfortunately terminal this time around. - He found himself turning to drugs, alcohol, and sex to help fill the void in his heart.

As much as he enjoyed his little bender, what he was truly missing was on the tip of his tongue, he just refused to let it out. Until one day he was on an ‘L’ platform in the city, when he saw a sign advertising the Chicago Police Force. Their tag line was ‘have a purpose and make a difference in your community.’ Reading those 2 lines, is what made it click for him! The next day - after he was sober for more than 24 hours - he walked into the 21st district and applied for the Academy.

He had been a detective for over 10 years! In the most elite unit. He had slowly been losing the purpose that gave him a drive everyday to come to work and go home to his wife. He felt himself slipping and losing a sense of who he was. So it was no surprise when a case revolving around an ex Military Veteran, he would get attached. He learned that there was a spot open for someone to lead a team of enlistees. The last time he felt a genuine sense of ‘purpose’ was when he was in the Army. So it was a no brainer when he signed up and shipped out to find who he once was.

On the plane ride there, he thought back through his life and realized that the Army recruiter had saved him that day. He propelled his whole life in a new trajectory with the few simple words ‘run towards something not away from something’

#jay halstead imagine #jay halstead headcanon #jay halstead #chicago pd #don't read if you didn't like Jay's exit #chicago pd imagine

12 notes · View notes

thiswasinevitableid · 2 years ago

Note

If I haven’t missed the boat yet on winter prompts, 24 with Vincent and Apollo? Vincent is, like, a professional harpist and unaccustomed to provoking strong feelings of lust in anyone, but Apollo is miserable because of his job and family and the cold weather and Vincent’s low-key performance brings him more joy than he thinks he’s felt in months. Also maybe Apollo (who is dressed to kill, obviously) starts hitting on Vincent after Vincent has already overheard him shutting down several people who attempted to flirt with him?

Here you go!

The irony of Abbadon Company hosting a party on Martin Luther King day is not lost on Apollo. Though he’s not sure where “how useful they are to me” falls on the color-of-skin to content-of-character judgment spectrum.

Apollo glares at his wine, then at the snow outside, and finally the woman his age approaching him with a flirtatious smile. His father has more or less ordered him to treat this evening as a chance to meet a prospective partner, but he has no interest in such pursuits. Other men may enjoy having their egos stroked by pointless–or calculated– flirtation, but Apollo doesn’t need such things to know he’s superior to everyone here.

The bulk of them will be working for him in the next ten years. The sooner they learn to only come to him when absolutely necessary, the better.

God he hopes it’s ten years. If his father lives much past fifty Apollo may be forced to kill him himself.

He moves from the dining room to the living room, the shape of the house and the marble of the floor making his steps echo even when the hall is full of people.

As he helps himself to another glass of wine (red, so expensive that people gasp when they see how many bottles his father puts out), the assistant V.P of Public Relations approaches him. This is the worst part of Indrid turning his back on the family; anyone who wants to raise their position at the company by flirtation or flattery now has only one Cold twin to direct that at. Not that Indrid deserved any of it, not once he started dying his hair and putting tattoos where people could see them. He looked ridiculous and was a disgrace to the Cold name, but at least he was here.

“That’s a lovely tie, Mr. Cold.”

Apollo looks at the other man, “Given your own ensemble I’m amazed you can identify any clothing of actual quality.”

Then he strides away to the far corner of the room, wishing the Christmas tree was still up to provide some degree of cover from these opportunists.

Sitting, he allows himself a moment to close his eyes and repeat in his mind all the reasons this will be worth it.

Music, light and elegant, curls around his brain. The longer he listens, the more it slips beneath his skin, coaxing his muscles to relax, his joints to remember they’re bone instead of iron. Were he alone, he’d let himself sway side to side as he soaked in the melody. Instead he opens his eyes and searches for its source.

A harp stands in the corner to his left. The man playing it is unremarkable. Apollo knows this because his height and weight are clearly average, as is the grey in his hair. Yet he cannot take his eyes off him, stares at the way his fingers strum the harp and his face creases into a smile as he plays.

Summoning all his stealth, he shifts one seat to his left, then another, and another, until he’s on the sofa nearest the harp. He watches him play for at least fifteen minutes, wondering if this is how cobras feel when they rise from their baskets at the call of the flute. He’s so engrossed in the music that he doesn’t notice the quartet of string instrument players until one of them says, “Hey Vincent, is it alright if we start setting up.”

Vincent glances at the gilded grandfather clock, “Oh, of course. I hadn’t realized it was eight already.”

Damn his father for hiring a parade of musicians to show off. Apollo is not about to let this harpist leave without a fight.

When Vincent stands, Apollo mirrors him and purrs, “Would you care to join me for a drink?”

“That’s a very kind offer, but the host made it clear performers weren’t to go off and join the party.”

“Seeing as I am Apollo Cold, if you’re with me no one will argue. If they do I’ll simply eject them from the premises.”

Rather than looking impressed, brown eyes glitter with bemusement, “You liked my playing that much?”

“Yes. Ergo, have a drink with me.”

Vincent chuckles, “Alright. Just one, though, I have to drive home.”

They adjourn to the cluster of wine bottles, and Apollo gets a thrill out of the way Vincent’s eyes widen at the labels.

“Someone here certainly has expensive taste.” He glances at Apollo, “which one do you prefer?”

“That one.” He points to a Cabernet Sauvignon that he identified as being the one that indicates he knows what he’s talking about without being completely vile to drink.

Vincent pours them each a glass, stepping back to allow a trio of younger attendees access. Two of them are making goo-goo eyes at each other to a degree that suggests they’ll be in the New York Times wedding announcements within a year. Apollo feels rather ill.

As he steps to the side he lets his eyes glide down Vincent’s chest, “Your suit is magnificent. Where did you get it?”

“I had it made when my older sister got engaged so I’d have something to wear to her wedding. Lavender was one of her colors and, well, I liked the suit so much it’s become my favorite to wear to formal occasions.”

Apollo looks more carefully at the grey fabric and realizes it is, in fact, magnificent. The pinstripes of lavender and metallic silver shooting through it like flowers in a sidewalk, perfectly matching the tie around Vincet’s neck and giving him a subtly playful air.

“Do you work at Abbadon?” Vincent sips his wine, letting out a little “mmm” and regarding the glass appreciatively. Apollo envies it.

“Yes. I stand to take over the company when my father retires.”

“That’s quite a tall order.”

That wrong-foots him; why isn’t Vincent allowing him just to stand here and flatter him? Men with wrinkles and noticeable guts usually can’t get enough of that. He poached four top engineers for Abbadon that way!

“I suppose, but I was born for it. Your harp…work? Is excellent. Do you play with the symphony?”

Vincent full on laughs, and Apollo feels like he’s under a blanket by a fireplace, warm, cozy, and perilously close to going up in flames, “Glad to know it sounds so professional. I’m actually a security consultant. I play as a hobby, have since I was a boy.”

“Your father let you do that all day?” Apollo gestures to where the harp is tucked safely under its black covering.

A grey-black eyebrow raises, “My father’s the one who encouraged me. Nothing made him happier than his children exploring the arts.”

Indrid’s last argument with their father flashes through his mind, his fool of a twin hissing that he’d rather be broke and bringing beauty into the world than trapped in a golden cage forged in blood.

“I can’t say ours did the same.”

“You have siblings?” Vincent seems genuinely intrigued in that piece of small talk.

“I’ve no interest in discussing them.” Apollo smiles, “I’d much rather talk about you.”

A quirk in Vincent’s polite smile suggests he knows what Apollo is doing, but he lets the younger man lead him out onto the balcony all the same.

As the clock ticks down to midnight, Vincent reveals himself to not only be musically talented but conversationally captivating and charming as well. By the time Apollo runs out of ploys to keep him in the house, what he wants from the interaction is increasingly jumbled. He wants to drop to his knees or into Vincent’s arms and beg him to take him with him, to not leave him alone here. He wants to throw himself over the railing or into the fire for having such ridiculous thoughts in the first place.

He wants a hug.

“I’d better get on the road. Quixote is probably fussing up a storm as we speak.”

“I could hire someone to go check on him for you.”

Vincent gives him a gentle smile and holds out his hand, “Thank you, but no. It was wonderful getting to know you, Apollo.”

Apollo takes the offered hand, shaking it, “will you play here again?”

“Maybe, if someone gives a good review to your father.” He winks, then pulls on his coat, “goodnight, Apollo.”

“Goodnight.” He holds the door for him, giving a final wave as Vincent goes to meet a rideshare that can get his harp home safely. Then he closes it, runs upstairs, and watches from the study window until Vincent is gone.

—------------------------------------------------------------

Vincent double checks his list, the lights inside Walgreens buzzing like dying bugs as he makes sure he’s not forgetting anything. The storm is only supposed to get worse over the week, and he’d rather not go out again if he can help it.

Blond hair in the security mirrors catches his eye, and a cursory glance over his shoulder confirms Apollo is two aisles over, idly studying the make-up shelves. Yet another data point in the confusing phenomenon that is Apollo Cold.

That the younger man was so taken with his playing at the party wasn’t odd, but the attempted flirtation that followed certainly was. 37 year old harpists don’t generally inspire lust in anyone, in his experience. And it’s not as if Apollo had no other places to put his attention; from his corner, Vincent watched him burn a path through the room, hair like summer sun and a face that would be beautiful if he didn’t look so murderous. Vincent even overheard a guest lay out his plan for flirting with the Cold heir, only to watch Apollo deliver a remark that caused the man to flee.

So, yes, having that sharp persona soften over the course of the evening was flattering and endearing. Vincent was half-convinced the younger man was going to beg to come home with him, and his mind has since formed a whole galaxy of thoughts circling around him.

Then there was the fact Vincent has played three events since the party and Apollo has been to every one of them. What’s strange is Apollo never comes near him while he’s there; just finds somewhere to hover or hide and listens to him play. Whether he’s doing this out of shyness or a desire not to make Vincent feel stalked is unclear.

And now here he is, in a drug store on the opposite side of town from the Cold mansion, nowhere near anywhere Abbadon does business, on a weekend, in a massive storm. If he follows Vincent to his apartment, it’s time for a talk.

He checks the reflections in time to see Apollo skillfully palm a bottle of nail polish. Then he’s making his way to the exit, with no indication he even knows Vincent is there.

Curiouser and curiouser, as his mother would say.

Vincent pays and leaves the store, snow sticking to his hair in the time it takes to pull up the hood of his coat. On the corner, in a fawn colored greatcoat, is Apollo, glaring at his phone. As Vincent gets closer, he can tell the heir is jumping between rideshare apps and cursing under his breath.

“Apollo? Is everything alright?”

The younger man actually jumps, expression one of pure terror when he sees who’s addressing him. Then his mask is yanked back in place.

“No, because no one in this blasted city is taking passengers right now.”

“Probably because the snow is about to make the roads impassable. Are you trying to get home?”

“Yes, as I’d rather not stay in some dump for days on end.”

“You could stay with me, if you’d like. My apartment is just a block up and I have the space.” He offers in part because he wouldn’t put it past Apollo to try to walk the miles home in a blizzard, daring the weather to kill him all the while. But, as guilty a thought as it is, the idea of Apollo, storm-tossed and sheltering in Vincent’s home is extremely appealing.”

“Very well. I will stay with you. Give me those bags.”

“I can carry them just fine.”

“Give me the bags old man, I do not want you falling.”

Vincent laughs and hands them over, “Alright, if a strapping young thing like you wants to carry my things, who am I to argue.”

They wobble and shuffle until they reach his building. As they climb the stairs Apollo cocks his head, “You have the entire top floor?”

“Yes, though it’s not as fancy as you’re hoping. It was originally two studio apartments that they renovated into one. Here we are.”

The click of the lock is answered by a jingling collar, Quixote trotting to the door and instantly circling Apollo to sniff him out.

“Hello, dog. You are very pretty.”

Vincent tries not to laugh as he takes the bags from him and carries them to the kitchen. Apollo out of his element is awkward, yes, but a thousand times more human than the man he met at the party.

Apollo joins him in the kitchen, sitting at the table and studying the room like a detective trying to solve a murder.

“I’m going to make an early dinner. Would you like something to drink? I have wine, though nothing quite like your father’s collection.”

“....Do you have anything less bitter?” Apollo says, so softly that Vincent’s heart twists with worry.

“Of course. Here” he pulls out a pomegranate San Pelligrino, “These are nice. I keep some in my fridge since my nephew wants to drink “fizzy water” like the adults.”

Apollo pops the tab and sighs happily after his first sip, “Yes I like that much better. What are you making?”

“Carbonara. Can you pass me a cheese grater? It’s in that drawer.”

Apollo finds the implement and hands it over, asking if Vincent always cooks for himself and if it’s always so elaborate and…

Twenty minutes later, dinner is nearly ready and they’re thoroughly engrossed in a discussion of mid-century, Italian cinema. For someone who snapped orders left and right the last time he saw him, Apollo is remarkably willing to take directions to set the table and further shut out the storm. Vincent wonders if he’d take directions so gladly in bed, if the way he brightens when Vincent says “thank you” translates to the kind of man who melts at the slightest praise when on his back.

He forces himself to push those thoughts aside; if Apollo is interested, his stealth at the concerts suggests he’s shy or embarrassed about it. Not to mention he’s functionally stuck with Vincent for the next few days, and hitting on him feels too much like he’s being a creepy old man. He only likes to do that consensually.

They chat happily over their plates, and it becomes clear that while Apollo is smart as whip in his field, he’s not as interested in taking over the company as he wants everyone to believe. As he’s clearing dishes, Vincent’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“Why take nail polish? Even the fanciest kind must be in your budget.”

Apollo cocks his head, “What do you mean?”

He’s good, Vincent will give him that, so good that for a moment he questions what he saw with his own eyes.

“In the Walgreens. We were in there at the same time.”

His guest stands, “you must have seen someone else. I was in the Starbucks on the corner, not the Walgreens. Excuse me.”

He disappears into the bathroom, and Vincent wonders what the odds are of him trying to throw the nail polish bottle out the skylight. A few minutes later, a baffled voice drifts down the hallway.

“What on earth is this?”

Vincent crosses the hardwood, Quixote at his heel, to find Apollo staring at a photo on the wall.

“That’s my father.”

“He is in a dress.”

He chuckles, “Very observant.”

“Watch it old man.”

“If you must know, young man, that’s from a Christmas panto. He studied abroad in England and did a few of those while he was over there.” He nudges the photo to rest at the right angle, “it’s actually where he met my mother. They were both Americans studying away from home, and to hear him tell it he saw her in a production of Twelfth Night and knew he was going to marry her.”

Apollo snorts but keeps listening. Vincent guides his attention to another photo, this one of both his parents at their thirtieth wedding anniversary.

“Mother was from the east coast, father from the west, so they compromised and moved to Chicago. My father ordered her fresh roses every week, even when she was staying home raising us. He’d take us to museums and plays on the weekends to give her a break and some rest.” He looks at the man in the photo, in his lapis lazuli blue suit and smiles, “I’ll always be grateful to him for taking my coming out so well. Though we disagreed about how flamboyantly I was willing to dress at work; he thought I should dress how I liked. I wanted to avoid too much pushback and losing chances at my career.” He touches Apollo’s arm, “that suit of mine you like so much was one of my first forays into wearing what I wanted.”

Apollo stares down at where Vincent’s hand rests on his sleeve like it’s the first time he’s seen the gesture. When he looks up, his amber eyes are fighting to conceal his nerves.

“I couldn’t risk someone, anyone, seeing me buy it. That is why I am all the way out here in the first place. It was foolish anyway, I won’t have any chances to wear it, and remover smells, he will be able to tell in an instant-” Apollo shakes his head, digs his hand into his pocket and produces the bottle, “here, take it.”

Vincent opens his palm. When the bottle drops into it, Apollo meets his eyes, “If you breathe a word of this to anyone I will destroy you.”

Vincent doesn’t doubt he could. But he doesn’t think he will. Not with how his shoulders and hunching inwards.

“Come with me.” Vincent holds out his other hand, guiding Apollo to the couch. He shakes the bottle and twists the cap, raising his eyebrows in question.

“He, I, I can’t.”

“You’re staying a few days here, right?”

“Absolutely. Because I am not a fool who passes up time with an interesting man.”

He blushes, “And I have some nail polish remover from when my niece stayed here. You can take it off whenever you need to.”

Apollo looks at their joined hands, then back up, “Do it.”

Vincent strokes the brush across the first nail, Apollo’s breath catching at every little touch. Light purple, flecked with gold, glides into place, and the longer he works the more Apollo’s heartbeat thumps in his wrist.

Fuck going home after the storm. He’s keeping Apollo here, with him, forever. He’ll spoil him and paint his nails and give him anything his heart desires, kiss his face and run his hands over those long legs and tempting body until he stops looking like a hunted lion.

Apollo keeps his hands still once Vincent is done. As he puts the cap back on he murmurs, “I like this color.”

“I…I chose it because of you. It reminded me of you.”

Carefully, he takes Apollo’s right hand and turns it over, then bends to kiss the skin of his wrist. He’s expecting a gasp. What he gets is a moan.

“Is that alright, sweetheart?”

“Yes, yesyes, Vincent, please, I want, I want…”

He catches each wrist, kissing them in turn before holding them apart so he can lean forward and kiss Apollo’s lips. Newly painted fingers flex and Apollo whines against his mouth.

“It’s not fair, doing that when I cannot touch you yet.”

Vincent kisses him again, just to hear him sigh, and whispers, “You seem to have stolen a quick drying variety. But more than that…” he kisses down Apollo’s throat, “we have time to get acquainted, and we can see each other whenever we like. Unless, of course, you want to go back to watching me play the harp from the shadows.”

Apollo lunges forward, kissing him demandingly, before pulling back with a smile at once wicked and brightly, painfully, hopeful, “Never."

#vinlo #vincent/apollo #winter fills

6 notes · View notes

heresiae · 1 year ago

Text

so, my historical reenactment company will participate in a video next month. we are providing the battle choreography and the victims to be butchered by the heroine.

directors and actress were clearly very young, moving something inside my brain from the memories of when I was slightly still part of that word (very slightly). she, of course, was perfect for the part. a small elf-like that somehow remembered me of Renfri (Witcher), but happier and with lighter hairs.

this is when things might get ugly for us in the near future.

see, she's an actress, and actors work with their body. it's their job, they have to learn things quickly and make the moves theirs, or better, make them as their characters would make them. so, of course, she learned not only the choreography very quickly, but also some basic moves. very quickly.

just before we started, the president was trying to teach us to march in formation for the parades in the next reenactments. the major problems where:

he was not explaining good, missing some crucial points

we didn't have enough space

he didn't let me have the drum to keep the rhythm

when you're learning to march, having enough space to move so you don't have to turn every three meters and not worry too much of where you going, it's the best. also, we're not enough to have a big formation (which helps). but even more so, I'm the only one that learned to march in youth because I was part of a town band. I don't only know how to march, but also to keep the rhythm.

he was not gracious at all when it was clear that we could not learn in 10 mins. even my suggestion of "lets go to a bigger space first, so we can start easy and then go hard mode" was met with a "no, we start hard now so it will be easy after".

yes, we don't like him as a teacher.

I was the one to say:

watch each other. follow the steps of the one in front of you. because they will follow the one in front and that's me

there will be a drum, it will be easier with the drum

when turning, the one inside the turn has to to smaller steps, the outside one longer. watch each other to keep the straight line (he just put us in line and expected that they understood immediately)

you have to stay in line with you partner. you cannot end the march and suddenly be near the one in front

keep watching each other

I have the impression that, from next week, my mates will need big reassurances. daily. because after having a young actress immediately learning the St Andrea's cross in a minute while some of us are still practicing it (one thing is learning it to make an impression on video and another to use it in battle) I think he will be merciless from now on.

not a mystery why him and the vice president (the official teacher for our sword fighting, but also, one of his closest friend) are not going along much lately.

#bad teachers and where to find them #historical reenactment #marching #seriously dude #they're here to have fun not being diminished

4 notes · View notes

steadfastmockingbird · 2 months ago

Text

Probably zero chance in the fact that the best psychiatrist I ever had was an older black South African lady. The reason I have a PTSD diagnosis - the only reason I was able to access specialist therapy and support groups and all the rest - is because Dr A listened to me.

Rambling below. Cut for vague references to sexual assault and medical negligence.

I had a whole parade of doctors - white, male, smug, all tell me that my violent outbursts and flashback-induced anxiety and self loathing and depression and other classic PTSD symptoms must, simply must be something innate in me. Something I was born with, some inherent personality flaw, something passed down from my parents' DNA. Dr M even told me, quite proud of himself, that only active combat veterans get PTSD and I was indulging in stolen valor.

Enter Dr A - a locum, standing in for Dr F, who was either off sick or golfing. Probably both. She looked at the long list of medications I'd been prescribed to zero affect, and asked me what's wrong?

I started with the usual spiel - can't eat, can't sleep, living in constant terror, jumping at shadows, hit them first before they can pin you down and-- etc, and she stopped me. This isn't on your records, when did this start, why? And I said, well, I think I have PTSD but Dr F says it's something else. Something that's my fault. And I explained why I thought it was PTSD. She listened. Dr F never let me get more than half a sentence into an explanation without cutting me short. The fact that I'd been hospitalized by a sexual assault a year and some months prior wasn't even on Dr F's meticulous records. That tracked. He'd told me that he didn't think trauma could cause aggression or paranoia or any of my other symptoms. Must have been something my mother did while she was pregnant, or else I must have hit the front of my head too hard as a toddler. Never mind that the symptoms had only kicked in properly after the assault. The explanation for that was so bullshit I never bothered remembering it.

And then she said something that shredded my perception of the world. These old white men will never diagnose you with PTSD, because then they'd have to admit that they're complicit in the system that caused it.

She was the first, and to date only, psychiatrist I've ever seen that talked about the systemic causes of trauma. Who talked about how race and gender and class and all those other things collide to make them refuse to treat me because it would mean looking long and hard in the mirror. She wrote three referrals that day - to a sexual violence support program which would do things like provide an advocate if I needed to apply for disability or a buddy for medical appointments, to a specialist therapist who I worked with for nine months, and to a support group run by two psychiatric nurses who were not the best, but really did try. Without that care I don't think I'd still be alive, especially not considering the sheer toxicity of some of what was being prescribed by all the other doctors. I don't think Dr F even knew that those resources were out there. I don't think he thought they were necessary. I doubt he cared enough to think about it at all. Why treat when you can just drug into compliance?

Not totally sure what the point of this post is. Dr A is (I hope) retired by now. I hope she knows how much of a difference she made.

0 notes

thorntonkrell-blog-blog · 2 years ago

Text

I was born in 1946 before the popularization of teevee. We were the first family on our block to have a television. Up until that time, I was all about radio. The first tune I remember from my infantile radio days came from a radio show Called Big John and Sparky.

The haunting melody and lyrics were the theme song for this influential radio show. Big John and Sparky. Big John was a cowboy and Sparky was a talking dog. We baby boomers were babies and we were listening. We were innocent and full of wonder.

Along with Big John and Sparky another favorite favorite Froggy the Gremlin who had his own catchphrase "hiya, hiya, hiya" when he appeared. Of course, I had no idea what a catchphrase was at the time but I laughed in delight every time Froggy used it.

See, right from the start, we're always susceptible to catch phrases.

Big John and Sparky developed an even more well known catch phrase used to start trouble and get out of trouble. Froggy had a magical, musical instrument of some kind that he called his twanger. He could play tricks with it. The phrase was usually said by Froggy but was just as often said to Froggy. When Froggy said it, the twanger would cause mischief but when someone said it as a command to to Froggy "Pluck your magic twanger Froggy" it was usually a request for Froggy to use his magic to save his friends from a dillemma that the Twanger and the Frog had generated in the first place.

Every so often Big John and Sparky would venture into the woods (where teddy bears picnicked) like the time they went into the woods looking for honey and came in contact with a bear who was not a teddy bear although he was also not on cocaine. Big John and Sparky were on their guard and got the honey that they were after exemplifying courage and bravery.

A lot of Boomers still have a lingering fear of the "woods" and were terrified by the Blair Witch Project which was/is basically a lost in the woods story.

Big John and Sparky stayed on the radio until 1958. By 1958, I and kids like me were blown away television and characters like Howdy Doody and Captain Kangaroo and Matt Dillon even by Wild Bill Hickock and his partner Jingles played by Andy Devine who was the original voice of Froggy the Gremlin.

Big John, Sparky and Froggy disappeared from our boomer culture except for our memories which are sparked by the Tune Teddy Bears On Parade or The Grateful Dead.

Members of the Grateful Dead were children around the same time that I was and surely were influenced by Teddy Bears on Parade. One of the symbols for the band that you might see on a passing Cadillac is a series of dancing bears. The Dead played Teddy Bears on Parade back in the Garcia Days to suggest the innocence and childlike wonder that the Dead often produced in their live concerts.

Innocence and childlike wonder.

So long ago.

Yes, you are correct! "Teddy Bears on Parade" was the theme for the radio show "Big John and Sparky," which was a popular children's radio program that aired from 1950 to 1958. The show featured the voices of John "Big John" Blair and William "Sparky" Sparks, who played the characters of a cowboy and a talking dog, respectively. The theme song "Teddy Bears on Parade" was composed by Joe Leahy and performed by the King's Men Quartet.

was there a character known as Froggy on that show who had a magic twanger

Yes, that's correct! Froggy the Gremlin was another popular character on "Big John and Sparky." Froggy was a mischievous little creature with a high-pitched voice, who loved to play pranks on Big John and Sparky. He was known for his catchphrase "Hiya, hiya, hiya!" and for his magic twanger, a small instrument that he would use to make things happen. Froggy was voiced by actress and voice artist Andy Devine, who also provided the voice of Cookie the Cook on the show.

Pluck your magic twanger Froggy..was that a catchphrase on the show.

Yes, "Pluck your magic twanger, Froggy!" was a catchphrase frequently used on the "Big John and Sparky" radio show. It was usually said by Froggy the Gremlin, encouraging someone to play his magic twanger and make something happen. The phrase became a popular catchphrase of the show and is still remembered by many fans of the program.

Can you cite a particualr adventure from Big John and Sparky

One of the adventures from "Big John and Sparky" that is well-remembered by fans is the "Bee Tree" story. In this episode, Big John and Sparky go on a quest to find a tree full of honeybees. Along the way, they encounter obstacles such as a raging river and a menacing bear. They are eventually able to find the tree and get the honey they were after, but not before having to use their wits and bravery to overcome various challenges. The "Bee Tree" story was one of the many exciting adventures that Big John and Sparky went on throughout the run of the show, and it remains a favorite among fans of classic children's radio.

was Froggy the Gremlin in this adventure....can you find an adventure where Froggy plunked his magic twanger

Yes, Froggy the Gremlin was a regular character on "Big John and Sparky," and he often played a key role in their adventures. One specific episode that comes to mind is "Froggy's Twanger Factory," in which Froggy creates a factory that produces magic twangers. However, things quickly get out of control when the magic twangers start causing chaos and mayhem. Eventually, Big John and Sparky have to find a way to shut down the factory and restore order. Froggy's catchphrase "pluck your magic twanger" is also featured prominently in this episode.

Do you know anything about the Gevaudan Beast

Yes, I can tell you a bit about the Beast of Gévaudan. The Beast of Gévaudan was a legendary creature that terrorized the rural region of Gévaudan, located in south-central France, in the mid-18th century. The creature was described as a wolf-like animal, but much larger and more ferocious, with reddish-brown fur and a wide chest. The beast was said to be responsible for a large number of attacks on humans, particularly young women and children, over a period of several years.

The attacks were particularly brutal, with many victims being mauled, torn apart, or decapitated. The panic and fear caused by the Beast of Gévaudan led to a massive hunt for the creature, with many people participating in the search. Several wolves were killed during this time, but it was never conclusively proven that any of them were the actual Beast of Gévaudan.

The legend of the Beast of Gévaudan has inspired many stories, books, and movies over the years, and it remains a fascinating topic of historical and cultural interest.

Is it the basis for werewolf lore

The Beast of Gévaudan is sometimes cited as a possible inspiration for werewolf legends, although the exact origins of werewolf mythology are difficult to trace. It's worth noting that the Beast of Gévaudan was described as a real, physical animal that was responsible for a series of attacks on humans, rather than a supernatural being like the werewolf. However, the creature's wolf-like appearance and ferocity may have contributed to the development of werewolf legends and folklore in the region.

It's also possible that the legend of the Beast of Gévaudan was influenced by pre-existing beliefs and superstitions about wolves and other dangerous animals. In any case, the story of the Beast of Gévaudan has become an important part of French folklore and history, and it continues to capture the imaginations of people all over the world.

Can you generate a story in which The Beast of Gevaudan comes back to life during the Petain era and joins up with the resistance

Here's a short story based on your prompt:

During the Petain era, when France was under Nazi occupation, a group of resistance fighters found themselves facing an unexpected ally. The Beast of Gévaudan, long thought to be dead, had somehow come back to life.

At first, the resistance fighters were terrified by the creature's appearance. Its reddish-brown fur was matted and dirty, and its eyes glowed with an otherworldly energy. But as they watched, the Beast seemed to sense their intentions, and it let out a low growl of approval.

Over time, the resistance fighters grew to trust the Beast, and they began to realize that it was on their side. The creature had somehow developed a deep hatred of the Nazi occupiers, and it was eager to help the resistance in any way it could.

At first, the Beast acted as a spy and scout for the resistance, using its keen senses to track enemy patrols and report back on their movements. But as time went on, it became more and more involved in the resistance's operations, using its powerful jaws and claws to take out Nazi soldiers and disrupt their plans.

Despite its fearsome appearance, the Beast became a beloved member of the resistance, and many of its members began to think of it as a symbol of hope and courage in the face of oppression. And although the war would eventually come to an end, the legend of the Beast of Gévaudan, and its role in the fight against the Nazis, would live on for generations to come.

can you generate a theory as to how the Beast returned after an absence of almost 200 years?

There are a few possible theories that could explain how the Beast of Gévaudan returned after an absence of almost 200 years:

Supernatural intervention: Some might suggest that the Beast was brought back to life through supernatural means. Perhaps a powerful sorcerer or witch resurrected the creature for their own purposes, or maybe the Beast itself was cursed to roam the earth for eternity.

Genetic mutation: Another possibility is that the Beast was a result of a rare genetic mutation that allowed it to live for an abnormally long time. Perhaps this mutation lay dormant for generations until it was triggered by a particular environmental condition or trigger.

Cryogenics: It's possible that the Beast's body was somehow preserved over the centuries through cryogenics, which is the process of freezing and storing living tissues at extremely low temperatures. This could explain how the creature's body was able to survive for so long without decomposing.

Misidentification: Finally, it's possible that the Beast that returned wasn't actually the original creature from the 18th century, but rather a similar species or subspecies that had been mistaken for the original Beast. This theory would require some kind of remarkable coincidence or misunderstanding, but it's not entirely implausible.

can you generate a plausible coincidence that would explain the reappearance

Sure! Here's a possible coincidence that could explain the Beast's reappearance:

After the original Beast of Gévaudan was killed in the 18th century, rumors persisted that there were other, similar creatures living in the region. However, these rumors were largely dismissed as superstition or myth, and over time they faded from memory.

Meanwhile, in the early 20th century, a group of scientists working in the area discovered a unique subspecies of wolf that had never been seen before. These wolves were larger and more ferocious than any other species known to science, and they had a distinctive reddish-brown fur.

However, due to the upheavals of World War II and other events, the scientists' research was largely forgotten, and the existence of the unique subspecies was never widely known.

Decades later, during the Petain era, a group of resistance fighters stumbled upon a pack of these wolves in the wild. They were shocked to see that the wolves were not afraid of humans, and seemed to be unusually intelligent and communicative.

As the resistance fighters began to observe the wolves more closely, they noticed that one of them had a particularly fierce and commanding presence. This wolf, they realized, was the reincarnation of the original Beast of Gévaudan. Somehow, the creature's spirit had been able to inhabit the body of one of the subspecies of wolves, allowing it to come back to life after almost two centuries.

This theory would require a number of unlikely coincidences to occur, but it's not entirely implausible given what we know about the region's history and the possibility of unique animal subspecies existing in remote areas.

Could the beast have been reincarnated and awakened by his hatred of the swastika

While the concept of reincarnation is often associated with spiritual and mystical beliefs, it is possible to imagine a scenario in which the Beast of Gévaudan is reincarnated and awakens due to a powerful emotion like hatred.

In this scenario, it's possible to imagine that the Beast's spirit was somehow able to persist after its death in the 18th century, perhaps because of its intense rage and thirst for revenge against those who had hunted and killed it. Over the course of centuries, the spirit could have drifted through the world, waiting for the right opportunity to re-enter the physical realm.

During the Petain era, when the Nazis occupied France and collaborated with the Vichy government, the Beast's spirit could have been awakened by its intense hatred for the swastika and all that it represented. Seeing the atrocities committed by the Nazis and their collaborators, the Beast could have been filled with a powerful desire for vengeance and justice.

As the resistance movement grew in strength, the Beast's spirit could have been drawn to the cause, seeing it as a way to strike back against the forces of oppression and cruelty. Eventually, the spirit could have found a way to inhabit the body of a wolf or other animal, allowing it to return to the physical world and join the resistance.

While this theory is purely speculative and unlikely to have any basis in reality, it is an interesting and imaginative way to explore the possible motivations of a legendary creature like the Beast of Gévaudan.

How about a scenario where The reincarnated Beast would hate not only the Germans but also the Frenchmen who supported Petain and most of whom were related to the Frenchmen who hunted down the wolves in the first place...

Yes, that's certainly a plausible scenario to explore. In this version of the story, the reincarnated Beast of Gévaudan could harbor a deep hatred not only for the German occupiers but also for the Frenchmen who collaborated with them and supported the Vichy regime.

The Beast could see the descendants of those who hunted and killed its wolf ancestors as traitors to the land, people, and wildlife of France. Its rage could be fueled not only by a desire for vengeance against the Nazis and their collaborators but also by a desire to punish those who betrayed their own country.

As the Beast joins the resistance, it could be torn between its desire to fight against the occupying forces and its desire to seek revenge against the Frenchmen who betrayed their own people. This inner conflict could add a layer of complexity and drama to the story, as the Beast grapples with its own emotions and motivations.

Overall, this scenario provides a compelling and dramatic context for the reincarnation of the Beast of Gévaudan, and could lead to an exciting and thought-provoking story.

How about if the Beast is a friend of the hero of Casablanca

That's an interesting twist! In this scenario, the Beast of Gévaudan could be introduced as an ally and friend of the hero of Casablanca, perhaps through a chance encounter or shared experience in the resistance.

The Beast's presence could add an element of danger and unpredictability to the hero's missions, as it would be a powerful and fearsome ally but also difficult to control. However, the hero could come to trust and rely on the Beast's loyalty and ferocity, knowing that it is fiercely committed to the cause of defeating the Nazi occupiers and their collaborators.

The Beast's relationship with the hero could also add depth and dimension to its character, as it would have a personal connection to someone fighting for justice and freedom. This could help to emphasize the Beast's own motivations and desires, and provide insight into its complex and powerful personality.

Overall, this scenario would provide an exciting and unique twist on the traditional resistance story, and could add a new dimension of action and drama to the hero's fight against the forces of oppression.

Thank You

You're welcome! It was my pleasure to help. If you have any more questions or ideas, feel free to ask!

we need to further explore this idea. The reason that the Nazis in Casablanca are so interested in capturing Rick's rival is beacuase they suspect that either a0 he is in fact a werewolf or knows the identity of the Beast which sets up the possibility that Ingrid Bergman's character is a were wolf as well

That's an intriguing idea! In this scenario, the Nazis could have heard rumors about the Beast of Gévaudan and its supposed connection to werewolf lore. They might believe that Rick's rival, who is rumored to be involved in the resistance, has information about the Beast's true identity and whereabouts.

As the Nazis close in on Rick's rival, it could be revealed that he is indeed a werewolf, or has some knowledge of the Beast's reincarnation. This revelation could bring Ingrid Bergman's character into the mix, as she too might be a werewolf, either through her own connection to the Beast or through her relationship with Rick's rival.

This would add a supernatural element to the story, and could create a new layer of tension and intrigue as the characters grapple with their identities and the risks associated with being werewolves in Nazi-occupied Casablanca. It would also create a unique opportunity for the Beast of Gévaudan to come into play, as it could be revealed that it is somehow connected to the werewolf mythology in the story.

Overall, this scenario provides a fresh and exciting take on the traditional resistance story, and would add a new level of depth and complexity to the characters and their motivations.

Can you generate a story using all of those elements

Sure! Here's a possible story:

It is 1942, and Casablanca is a hotbed of Nazi activity. Amongst the intrigue and danger, there are whispers of a werewolf stalking the city's streets, terrorizing the occupiers and their collaborators.

The Nazis are determined to capture Rick's rival, a resistance fighter rumored to have information about the werewolf's identity. They believe that if they can find the werewolf, they can use it as a weapon to strike fear into the hearts of the locals and quell any resistance movements.

As Rick's rival goes into hiding, he reveals to his friend Rick that he himself is a werewolf, and that he knows the identity of the Beast of Gévaudan, the legendary creature said to have been responsible for the original killings in France centuries ago.

Rick is shocked by the revelation, but he and his ally Captain Renault know that they must protect Rick's rival at all costs, both to preserve the resistance's secrets and to prevent the Nazis from unleashing a werewolf on the city.

Ingrid Bergman's character, a beautiful and mysterious woman with her own ties to the resistance, enters the picture, and Rick finds himself drawn to her despite his reservations about her true motives.

As the Nazis close in on Rick's rival, Ingrid's true identity is revealed - she too is a werewolf, and a direct descendant of the Beast of Gévaudan. She has come to Casablanca to find and protect the reincarnated Beast, which she believes has returned to fight against the Nazis and their collaborators.

Rick, Ingrid, and Rick's rival come together in a dangerous and daring mission to find the Beast and enlist its help in the fight against the Nazi occupiers. Along the way, they must confront their own identities and the risks associated with being werewolves in a time of war.

In a dramatic final showdown, the Beast of Gévaudan reveals itself, joining forces with the resistance to strike a blow against the Nazis and their collaborators. As the city erupts in chaos and violence, Rick and Ingrid must confront their own feelings for each other, even as they struggle to survive in a world where werewolves and Nazis alike threaten their very existence.

Of course, this is just one possible version of the story, and there are many different ways that these elements could be combined and developed. But I hope this gives you a sense of how these ideas could be woven together to create a unique and exciting narrative.

Ingrid can not stay with Rick because she is a werewolf and must stay with her wolfmate can you regenerate the story again and add that twist

Certainly! Here's a new version of the story that incorporates the twist you suggested:

In a dramatic final showdown, the Beast of Gévaudan reveals itself, joining forces with the resistance to strike a blow against the Nazis and their collaborators. As the city erupts in chaos and violence, Rick and Ingrid find themselves drawn to each other, but their romance is short-lived.

Ingrid realizes that she cannot stay with Rick, as her true mate is the Beast of Gévaudan. With a heavy heart, she leaves Rick behind and disappears into the night, joining forces with the Beast to continue the fight against the Nazis and their collaborators.

As the war rages on, Rick thinks often of Ingrid and the strange and dangerous world of the werewolves. But he knows that his duty is to the resistance, and he continues to fight on, even as he wonders what might have been if things had turned out differently.

I hope you enjoy this new version of the story!

Love it...we'll return to it

Glad you liked it! Let me know if you have any other ideas or if you need any further assistance.

the grateful Dead often use teddy bears as one of their symbols is that because of Big John and Sparky?

It's possible that the Grateful Dead were influenced by Big John and Sparky, as the show was quite popular during the 1940s and 1950s and may have had an impact on popular culture at the time. However, the Grateful Dead's use of teddy bears as a symbol may have also been influenced by other factors.

The Grateful Dead's use of teddy bears as a symbol began with the cover art for their 1973 album "History of the Grateful Dead, Volume 1 (Bear's Choice)", which featured a drawing of a skeleton holding a rose and a teddy bear. The teddy bear became a popular image among the band's fans, and was eventually incorporated into their stage design and merchandise.

Some have speculated that the teddy bear symbol was inspired by a popular brand of teddy bear called "Steiff", which was known for its high quality and was popular among collectors. Others have suggested that the teddy bear represents the innocence and childlike wonder that the Grateful Dead sought to evoke in their music and performances.

So while it's possible that the Grateful Dead's use of teddy bears was influenced by Big John and Sparky, there were likely other factors at play as well.

0 notes