#Just had a three day weekend and this coming Saturday my job is instituting a policy change

[clementineskesh]

Anyone else experiencing the going back to work dread

[glemmerdash-piecesof8]

, surfacing only for food and ablutions. As they lay tangled before sleep on Sunday night, Roo remembered Curtis talking about water, and smiled to herself before falling into a deep sweet sleep.

Because every man is an island

Shane woke up wishing he had a hangover. He had spent the night before drinking whiskey with Carl from the record shop after inviting him around to talk, knowing Carl on this pittance of a salary would endure his thought processes on absolutely anything if at least one bottle of Isle of Jura was in the offering.

Shane had gotten three just be sure and as he woke up and realised he should insist on Carl taking the bottle and a half left home after his confessions. He knew when he stood up there would be no woolly headedness to speak of but the idea of Carl asleep on his couch made him a little slower to test his self-knowledge.

Carl, named after Carl Jung by his mother, was an avid record collector who lived with his grandmother at the ripe age of 33. He also had a tummy. He never had girlfriends really because he was incredibly shy around girls but had gotten on with Roo surprisingly though not too surprisingly considering Roo could be interested in anyone long enough to get through most people’s defences.

Shane had confessed to Carl that he was seriously considering going ahead with the experiment but not just because he had realised he was still in love with Roo. He wanted to do something really useful with the show.

Last year he had done the Presencing Institute’s online course and now he was itching to do something which really helped rehabilitate society. He had knocked around ideas at his closest hub with people who seem more interested in discussing politics or getting a date then actually really using the material properly.

Maybe he should have changed hubs. Oh well, it was too late now. He could always do the course again he supposed. The people had been an incredibly good bunch. It was his favourite MOOC so far, and the only one he had completed so far except for the one on Carl Sagan.

Coffee time though. That would cheer up and you remember the plan they had come up with, which had pretty much floored him. It had been so ambitious. He looked at the time. Shit! He thought, it’s already 4 PM! The coffee place closes in an hour!

They had only gone to bed at 7 AM, and suddenly Luke remembered Carl had work so he better go wake him. Shane always gave himself Mondays off as he often ended up teaching or playing shows on the weekend. He needed one day a week where he could be a proper person and he knew he was lucky but he also knew his time was worth protecting.

Woolly hat on, wallet, keys, might as well pack my gym bag to. Wonder out to the studio. Carl is gone, blankets neatly folded with the extra pillow from Shane’s bed on top . Note.

Hi Shane

Gone to work. Been thinking we must finish the jura . Thursday?

Carl

Shane smiled. All right! He texted Carl after checking his day planner, show in Oxford next Saturday class at five on friday, show round the corner.

“Let’s do it”.

Out the door, and eyes open in delight – it’s just started snowing!

Robert started his journey home in a terrible mood. Today he had been working with the stand-in anchor who did his job perfectly well, but Robert was convinced he was just in it to expose his cheekbones. He was hating the dullness of his job.

The snow falling outside the bus as it stood stuck in traffic was soothing him though. He decided to check his emails. Nothing interesting or urgent but what was this? Phil? Open? Scan scan scan. Climate change.

Phil had gotten funding to do two years worth of filming for a series on anthropogenic threats to wild species which were greater than climate change.

Robert faltered. He made himself look at the snow. He hated anything to do with climate change because it was something he knew even less to do with then war, or nukes, or world hunger.

This was interesting though. He made himself read the supporting documents, glad that he had accepted the upgrade to his phone. It looked all right. The science was there and Phil was an amazing director.

But what about the experiment? Scan scan scan. Starting four months with meetings before in… London. He paused. Four months? Look at your bank account a voice dared him, that same voice which he knew was his real creative self.

He logged in.4 months. Password. Loading. He smiled. He could do that.

He replied to Phil – “it sounds like a project I would love to do. I need to get a grip on climate change but I don’t know how. Available to start in June.”

Letter to work “I regret to inform you that I have received an offer I cannot refuse. Please accept this as my resignation letter and I hope to discuss the terms of my resignation with you at the soonest possible opportunity.

Yours sincerely,

Robert Lowell.”

He got home and sat in the lounge and wished he had a cigar. He knew Luke had King Crimson though so put on Court of the Crimson King and poured himself a big glass of wine.

To be on the road again! And at least three months to dedicate to the experiment! He wrote Curtis an email saying if it all went well on Wednesday that he would be able to help with the selection process.

All was well. He might as well cook, he felt like aubergine for some reason. It must be because he never seemed to have them when filming. Were there any? Two-excellent. Melanzane it was, done slowly with salt.

Luke was driving again. It seemed he was always driving, but this time he was enjoying the long journey to pronounce someone else dead because he was thinking.

He was thinking about a discussion he had last night after getting home and finding Robert all cheerful with supper done and then climbing into bed with Roo.

She had been talking about the experiment and how all of them would need to find something they were passionate about. She had done some searching over the weeks before and decided she would be a stuck record about growing her own food and find a course where they would let her be filmed for bits of it.

Then she asked him what he had always dreamed of doing and he said he’d always wanted to be a paramedic and she had stared at him. And? She had asked. Just a paramedic he had said.

There had been a long pause. What about sustainable building? She asked. Luke shook his head and said that was just a phase.

What about nukes? She had asked. Luke had shook his head again and said he was out of the loop. She had said he’d get back in the loop. He had said no.

She had turned around and turned the light off saying softly – you have to think of your message- you can’t just be a husband who saves lives, you need an unrequited passion which you can explore. Then she had quickly kissed him and turned over, pretending to sleep until she actually was.

It had been quite strange. She had never shut him out before but he also knew she was not nagging him. It had been disquieting but it had made him realise, especially after listening to Robert say he was going to dedicate three months to setting  it up, that the experiment was actually going to probably happen.

So what did he stand for? Clean water for everyone they all need to stand for that. Good quality food for everyone -likewise.

He thought back to the war zones he had worked in. What had bothered him the most? The buildings? No. The agriculture? A little but no.

He tried to remember crying. It was difficult – he had blacked it out, but he was stuck at a red light so he waited.

He remembered crying when he was helping his first amputation. He remembered crying after seeing chemical burns from an explosion.

His heart started to ache and he knew. The shrapnel. Some kids had survived their parents after one of those terrible bombs which let go metal shards. They stayed in the hospital for a month as they had no adult to take them home but had refused to leave.

He started thinking of numbers and why Robert had said they all needed vasectomies. It’s the orphans! He thought I want all the worlds orphans to be adopted! His heart was still tender as he pulled over as they had arrived.

Rhian woke up from his dozing at the back and started collecting the things they needed. Luke sat perfectly still for a moment and then fished around his backpack for his phone to text Roo.

Roo woke up the next morning with Luke lying next to her sleeping. She picked up the phone and turned the alarm off. She tried to wake up herself mornings after Luke was working, as she didn’t like waking him up.

Today they would find out about the location. Then she would have to text Shane. Maybe he had some alternatives if things don’t work out. She hoped they would – she liked Curtis.He was interesting and he would help her with presenting herself as he would help her know how to have downtime.

She looked at her phone. Message from Luke. She looked across at him and realised she could read it in the kitchen. Stumbling around in the dark, she found clothes and shoes and underwear for the day. Then she quietly left and closed the door behind her.

She got dressed and did her hair and got ready for work, putting her pyjamas in the laundry basket. She really liked the systems in this house, things seems to work, she wondered if things were scalable, they must be.

She put the coffee on the stove and remembered the text. She sat down and read “love, I want all the orphans adopted to good parents.”

She smiled. She knew he had forgotten to specify the world. She looked at her phone- there was time to make him some apple and cinnamon muffins. She was glad she was working today otherwise she would spend the whole day fidgeting. Luke’s got his thing. That was great. She put the muffins in the oven- now to find an introductory food growing course she could do.

Robert had a message from Curtis but he had decided to read it with Roo and Luke. Now he sat in the waiting room in south London, waiting to see his psychotherapist. He had decided to go through with his therapy until he left as it felt manageable to do for four months.

He had asked Sasha for advice again and she had told them about all the different therapies and then when she had finished had asked – so what is most important to you about therapist?

That they don’t tell me what to do he had said, distrusting that any of the complicated modalities would be able to provide that. There’s a few she had said, but if you actually wanted to sort yourself out I’d recommend Patricia Toynbee  or anyone she recommends. Then she looked at him and passed him her phone which was ringing and he had asked some questions and eventually booked this appointment.

So here he was. He was glad Sasha had kind of sprung the actual calling on him and he’d had her to nod too while he asked questions and got asked far more.

The door opened and a woman in a purple dress, purple coat and purple shoes stepped out. She had red hair. She looked at him smiling “Robert?” She asked.

Robert nodded and stood up. So this was someone who knew his name. “I’m Janice. Come in. Patricia referred you to me as I like having clients for shorter times and understand if you want to take things gently but then you need to commit to a longer course of therapy.” They were in a comfortable white room- so much for being able to get distracted by trees.

Robert faltered and then said “I will be filming about anthropogenic threats to endangered species that all climate change for two years So only have until June to do therapy”.

Janice picked up a notebook and a pen and then her diary. “Until June you say? Could you do three times a week?” Robert smiled “ yes am flexible with time from the week after next”.

Janice nodded and made a note in her diary. She looked at Robert with a bit of a squint. “Do you want to do that many sessions a week? Some people believe in doing therapy five days a week but I find three or four times to work just as well and it gives a bit more time to processing whats come up. I’m quite extensive and demanding as a therapist.

Robert nodded “how do you mean?”

Janice smiled. “I expect people to take the therapy seriously. If you spend more than five sessions moaning, and don’t do the reflective work, I will ask you to stop coming to see me.”

Robert smiled. “So you want me to do homework and do what you say?” He might get out of this after all even though there was something he liked about this colourful woman in a bland room.

“Homework yes, tell you what to do no. I do expect that you listen to me but I try not to make any suggestions though I do set experimental tasks sometimes. Which you can not do if you do not feel comfortable or ready to do them. I’ll push you – from the very beginning, but you will have a week to think about things and do the first introductory essay. I know writing doesn’t work for everyone though – do you feel comfortable writing? 750 to 2000 words Robert? Just for me to read- I destroy all information on a client after they have stopped seeing me. I have strict confidentiality. So I promise I will never turn you into an example client.”

Robert looked at the ground. He thought about what she had been saying and then looked up, realising this was a real process. “Can we see how it goes?”

Janice smiled “of course we can. That’s the best approach to take. I will try press your buttons though. Are you ready for that?” Robert folded his arms and look at her shoes and then nodded and put his arms down again.

Janice started talking about money, which was in his budget and then started asking him questions. Her demeanour changed when she started asking questions. She became softer and more still. He felt no pressure to answer quickly which he was grateful for. Time passed and then he said he was asexual. She nodded “is something you would like to explore?” She asked quietly. There was silence for a long time. “I don’t know. I’m quite happy being asexual but recently I found myself thinking how it would be to be in love with someone if I wasn’t.”

Janice poured herself a glass of water and had a sip. “I’m going to be honest with you. Most people I see have a life that has them overwhelmed. After you finish this notice period, you will be doing work you like. You also have good friends who you are doing what you call the experiment with, which is interesting as it does seem like something you would expect professional artists to do - not a primary school teacher and two people who worked in war zones. But your asexuality is interesting. It seems the experiment is dredging up your unconscious. I am still going to go over the basics with you though. So your first challenge is to write on your first 10 years of life. A lot can go into it but just see what’s on the surface and then if there is more just make bullet points. You can email it to me or bring it 15 minutes early and I will read it before I see you. Either is all right.” She took another sip of water. “How does that sound Robert?”

Robert nodded “all right.” He said.

Janice looked at her watch and smiled and stood up “pleasure to meet you. I will see you next Wednesday the same time then.”

Robert smiled “thank you.” He said and then let himself out.

He found himself in a bit of a daze for a while but eventually realised he was on the underground going in the right direction. He took his phone out and read the message from Curtis. They had it! Wow! That was such great news. He drafted a text as soon as he was out of the station and sent it to Luke and Roo. The suspense must be killing them too. What a great day! Luke texted back that he was making the chicken and Robert smiled. Things really are alright in my life on the whole He thought and wondered again if he should get cigars and realised champagne or cava would be better.

Shane sat waiting for Carl, with burgers on the go. He had received a voicemail from Roo, and it seemed the experiment was actually becoming a reality.

Carl buzzed and Shane went to let him in. He had a vinyl bag with him and so he knew he was in for a session of sorts, even though there was only one turntable. Carl seemed to be taking this all quite seriously.

He made the burgers as Carl put on some smooth but somehow jagged jazz Shane had never heard. They ate listening and then Carl turned the record over and it was just nature sounds blended with some hints of synths.

“Is it really the same band?”

“No it’s a split, but just done so well and the production is great. I looked up the people that run this company and these days they seem to spend their life making cheese.”

“Did we talk about a record label?”

“Yes, an artist led record label with trustees. I would like the cheesemakers as trustees. And these artists do the tours when they can.”

“ It really is an as they can kind of thing with music now. Only the big artists make any money from the music, the rest of us just tour, which sometimes is a gamble if you don’t presale tickets. The venues are demanding that a lot now though.”

“Do you remember about the tour?”

“Sort of -doing community building and music at the same time. Maybe even having screenings of interesting films. I wanted to set up presencing hubs.”

“That’s right. You will have to explain to me how it works.”

“I will. I can make a presentation when I talk to Roo, Luke, and Robert about this with the mysterious Curtis.”

“So you are seriously thinking of joining. Let’s have some whiskey shall we?”

“Good idea. Yes. I’m considering it. They have gotten the use of building which they are looking at on Saturday – when I would have to present. I think they’re starting to look for people – so I don’t have much time to consider.”

“We don’t have much time to consider.”

“We? Are you thinking of joining too?”

“If she’ll have me and we can do the label and the tour. It will be good for her to have one husband that doesn’t need sex from her.”

“But you would like to make love to her.”

Carl blushed through his brown skin. “I, well, I really just want her to lie on my bed and listen to records with her. And maybe have a cuddle every now and then.”

Shane smiled gently “you love her to.”

Carl nodded. “I would like to help her relax. I could learn massage if there was money to do that.”

Shane laughed, “yes, and so she’ll spend all our time with you!”

“You know I can play records for everyone sometimes too. But I really think it’s important. I can stay with my nan for two nights a week just to check on her. I will still want to work in the shop at least part-time.”

“We’ll have to see how things go. If you want to do it, I’ll definitely will do it because I know that two of us can work well together.”

“Do you remember the name of the record label?”

“No it’s gone.”

“It’s of the birds.”

“Blimey, this is serious then. Let me phone Roo about Saturday then.”

 Luke lay on the bed in their room and was concentrating on his body. It was a weird technique someone had taught him to see if there was trapped or unprocessed emotion.

Roo had been so happy after talking to Shane, and then Carl, who he had only met in passing. She said they had a music -related scheme they wanted to present and that they both wanted to be with her in the experiment, if she was happy with the fact they were straight.

Luke had suddenly realised it was real and soon they would be more people that transcended the role of suiter or friend. He was scanning his body for signs of jealousy but the only thing he could find was relief.

If they had really come up with the project to use the experiment for it sounded like it might actually be interesting. He has been thinking about the orphans and he had no idea how you talk about the whole time without starting a charity. The problem with the charity is what exactly would it do?

He was realising that he had to shift his mind from being a worker to something else. It wasn’t an artist but that’s more how it was. He was going to be creating not just being productive.

He concentrated on his heart for a moment, and it seemed less tense than the last time he had done this exercise a month before. That suspension had really helped change gears. Gears, he suddenly thought – do I think of myself as a machine?

That was troubling. He was listening to his heart beating and realised a cat would never think it was changing gears when the seasons changed. He would have to explore this a little. Maybe he needed to change the words he used to describe what he did and thought from that of the man-made world to that of the rest of the world. He could assimilate and metabolise and grow and age.

Roo finished the dishes. Luke had disappeared since she had talked to Shane and Carl. She felt a whirlwind of emotions but when she was done she sat down at the computer and booked the nearest food growing course. She would have to learn about the styles and pretensions of growing and make sure they covered  stuff it didn’t explicitly say or talk about.

She started reading her emails and then instead of going into a daze she turned it off and went to find Luke. Opened the door and realised he had been doing a body scan again as he was spreadeagled. He seemed to do that when he was stressed.

“Busy?” She asked.

“Well I’m thinking about how I use language which describes me as a machine.”

Roo smiled and closed the door and started slowly taking her clothes off.

“And you are thinking you don’t want to self identify as a machine.”

“No, I want to be a human being in all senses of the word.”

She stood there naked before him and continued. “With this human thinking disappear at the idea of being enclosed by this human feeling?”

“Not if you keep talking love.”

She took off his shoes and then climbed on top of him to undo his belt buckle, slowly easing his jeans off while she hummed.

“You are no longer a producing machine.” She said as she helped and take his shirt off and now they were both bare. She kissed him and he held her pulling up the bed from sitting until she was lying on top of him. “You need to tell me what you want to do as a human creature.” She slid down and then felt between his legs delighted to find he was hard. She slid him inside and then started slowly rocking. “I need you to tell me because I just want to make babies with you and we’re not going to. We are going to be completely impractical in our lovemaking, so tell me.” She said placing his hands on her bum, moving delicately now.

“I want to breathe with your nipples in my mouth and eat and shit and age and explore.”

“And.”

“I want to try love many people and have sex with men again but still sleep with you at least half the time. I want to learn how to create instead of produce and to live rather than function. Oh you feel so good!”

“So you don’t want to be my master, or my king, or my operating system.”

“And I don’t want you to be my slave, my Queen, or my remote control.”

They were both breathless now, and stayed breathless for a long time, though talking less and less until the moon shone in and they realise they had forgotten to close the curtains.

Carl and Shane had spent the whole of Thursday working out how to present their plan. After a shift at the shop on Friday he had caught a bus after nearly slipping when he tried to catch it.

His grandmother was out with her friends playing whist, or bridge, or something else – he could never remember what Friday was for. He sat in the sitting room with a cup of tea, soaking in the silence.

He loved this house even though it should really have more than two people living in it. His grandmother had inherited it from her parents as she was the youngest by far after everyone else had passed away during or after World War II.

She had been born near impossibly and never lived anywhere else except a Hopi Reservation in Arizona where she was doing her anthropology degree.

She had definitely been spoiled but she expected very little of him except someone to talk to in the dark of winter and to check on her when she got ill. In winters she rattled round the house in frustration at the weather and would cook opulent meals quite often out of boredom.

He had recently been asking about his grandfather who he knew had been seduced by or had seduced his grandmother while she was there for what ended up being two years before her mother had gotten ill she had come home. So Carl’s mother was  born out of ‘proper’ wedlock but his mother had fared all right in London growing up because she had gotten letters from her father so she had felt all right.

She had had him out of wedlock too, though but she had never really told much about his father, except that he needed to be careful about drinking too much. He followed this advice by not really drinking but going overboard every now and then, though he knew binge drinking really wasn’t actually a good idea.

He had been asking about his grandad, because he was a loved male even though he had stopped writing as often and after his mother’s death in a car crash. He had since begun to get strange dreams with chanting and fires in them and his grandmother said it was his ancestors.

Since then she been single-mindedly teaching him about the Hopi and kept bringing him books she bought, photocopied from some or other university library. She had become an expert on the sacred and but hardly touched anything about the Hopi past her PhD.

She had fallen in love with a jazz musician who was very jealous – who she had eventually broken it off with because he was pawning things from her parents’ home. By the end of that symbolism was very much in vogue, but she felt more comfortable not cheapening symbolism which wasn’t part of her culture. So she was enjoying this re-examining with the same passionate fervour she normally reserved these days for birthday cakes, which she made so beautiful someone had actually cried when they cut it.

Now Carl sat in the kitchen eating leftovers and then he went to bed, surrounded by books, and photocopies and records and he waited for strange dreams at night but instead it was deep, dark dreamless, refreshing sleep and woke up in the morning ready to see a building it seemed he might live in.

Shane woke up to the piercing sound of the alarm. All his work reflexes started to quiver and he realised with the start that it was the day they would see the new building. He stopped the alarm and found his dressing gown. Time for a shave in the shower and a trip to get coffee. There was time to go over his notes on the bus.

At the coffee shop it was quite quiet still and as he sat waiting for Carl his phone rang. It was Roo. “Hello darling.”

“Hi, we’re just checking everything is fine, didn’t know if you’re playing last night.”

“Yes we did but it was local and I could excuse myself. Just waiting for Carl – his bus stops around the corner so I’m just having my coffee fix. Its still at 12?”

“Yes – you will be in plenty of time. Curtis is having a picnic for us in the building and the owner wants to meet us on video chat though he said should be happy just to know what we think and meet her if we were happy with everything.”

“Yes that’s a lot for one day”.

Carl walked in, waved and then went to get a coffee. “Oh good Carls just arrived, will be on our way shortly .”

“Grand. Looking forward to seeing you again and while we’re on the phone. Luke is working next weekend and suggested I spend it with you two. What do you think?”

Shane felt his pulse rise a little and then laughed . “You’d have to go back on Monday and we haven’t had vasectomies and tests yet so it really would be like old times. We have a show in Sheffield on Saturday. Would you be happy to come along on the train? There won’t be space in the bus for you to but I can happily travel with you.”

“Isn’t that expensive?”

“I can book it before we go if you’re keen.”

“I would love that.”

“Oh good, well lets do it then. Will talk to Carl. I don’t think he’ll stay the night but he can probably get off work if he is on.”

“It will be lovely. I got your new album- its really good.”

“Better you mean.” Shane said laughing. “Yes we found our sound now and the new guitarist really knows what he’s doing.”

“But if you happy to book the tickets.”

“Yes I am. See you at 12. I am nervous about presentation but maybe the boss lady should see it too.”

“I think Curtis has it all set up.”

“All right. Lights camera action all that.”

“See you soon. I’m looking forward to what you come up with.”

“You two. Bye darling Roo.”

“Bye.”

Carl was sitting watching him. “So what’s this about Sheffield and Roo?”

“She’s spending next weekend with us!”

Carl nodded smiled and then blushed, but it was so imperceptible Shane didn’t even notice as he was just smiling and smiling while looking out of the front of the cafe.

Robert, Roo and Luke arrived at the In and Out [RvS1] at 11:55 exactly. Robert was carrying his camera after Roo had told him about Shane and Carl being happy to have the presentation filmed. His plan was to make a good little film of today to show their benefactor and the new recruits once they appeared.

They looked at the building and Robert realised he needed to start filming straight away. He turned to Roo and Luke and said “I need to film the whole of today?” They looked at each other, shrugged and then nodded to Robert. They knew it was right so they took out their phones and texted Curtis and Shane. When they looked up Robert was already filming the building in the cold early March light. He turned and they both smiled and waved and then walked up to the building’s entrance, through the drive way and up to the front door.

“It really is a big pile of stone,” Luke said and Roo nodded and before they had time to knock Shane had the door open for them and was smiling, giving Roo a kiss on the cheek and Luke a hug.

Curtis had led them through into a beautiful big white room with a bevelled ceiling. There were chairs stacked but on the floor were a whole bunch of embroidered[RvS2] beanbags on top of the most magnificent orange carpet and Chinese turning tables full of steaming food. Carl passed around some plates and Robert sat down after wondering around filming people dish up and turned off the camera.

They all ate in silence. Curtis had obviously organised for the heating to be put on because it was a lovely mellow temperature and they were all comfortable and the food was that type of deliciousness Curtis seemed to specialise in, but even more subtle and honest [RvS3] than what they had eaten before. They had all finished when Curtis asked “And, would you like to meet the chef?”

They all nodded and smiled and Curtis went off for a moment. He came back in with a svelte 6 foot 4 African man who’s skin was so dark it shone.

“This is Luther everybody and while you don’t know him he has something to say to you.”

“Good afternoon. “ And he went around introducing himself. Curtis magically found him a beanbag to sit on. “My name is Luther.I come from the Congo DRC. I trained as a doctor in Cuba but now I live looking after Mrs Godolphin as she gives me time to write and a visa. She told me of the experiment and asked me to cook for you. I thought about it for a few days and then asked if she would mind if I asked to join the experiment. I know you are looking for couples but I see you have accepted two straight men so I thought it was alright to try. I want to speak of colonialism but not just that of the state, that of the multinational corporations that rule so many countries in Africa, but also in the rest of the world. I want to write books and organise for a system where the corporations are not subsidized by the government. I would also like to work part time in an A and E department again. I like Mrs Godolphin but I have done my research now and I can see that creating new media is important. I would like to publish books and while I know we will have to be delicate with the programming, it would be possible to invite authors to talk to us. I know you are making a spectacle. We know all about the French in my country! It will be delicate but I would like to be part of it.”

He looked at Roo. “I can understand why you would want couples, so it would not be too much pressure on you. I had a wife in Cuba but since then I haven’t found a woman I could love as she passed away from Ovarian cancer. I know I could learn to love you however and I will be busy working much of the time. To share a bed with you a night a week would be all I could ask for and so I can remember how miners live at least a little. I am happy to have no children but this house is big and there will be many fathers so I ask that if you accept me that you will not only adopt 2 children from Syria but another 2 from my country which has seen war. I do not know how it can be done but I think you would have to marry one of us and adopt the children before the show began. I would be happy to look after the two from my country if anything went wrong so I would ask to be their guardian from the beginning. I have much else to say but I have spoken for now. Please consider me.”

He stood up and left.

There was silence but Roo was crying softly. She looked at Curtis and struggled to speak, and then slowly opened her mouth. “He will have to marry one of you so the children know he is their father and so he has a visa.

Carl lifted his hand, “I will do that if he is comfortable with that”.

Roo rushed up and hugged Carl. She turned around and looked at Luke and Shane. They nodded. “It is right,” Luke said, his voice a little gravely.

Shane looked at his hands and smiled. “Four children! It was just incredible. It would be an interesting house to live in!” He looked up and smiled when he realised everyone was looking at him. “Oh Roo! You know I love kids! I can play music with them in the afternoons!”

Roo wiped her eyes and then Robert swooped in with a tissue to tidy up her mascara and she smiled. “Should we tell him?”

Curtis nodded. “It’s time for the presentation and he should see it.” He walked out smiling and came back with a beaming Luther. They all got up and took turns hugging him now. They chatted for a while and Luther said he didn’t mind sharing a bed with Carl as long as he had a study he could sleep in too. And they all laughed.

Luther asked if they wanted some mint tea while Shane and Carl set up for the presentation and disappeared to the kitchen with Roo to prepare it. She was delighted at the kitchen and Luther told her how the whole property was completely off grid and they would get delivered wood once a month from Mrs Godolphin’s coppiced woodland.

 While they were waiting for the kettle to boil he motioned for her to smooth her hair and Roo did and then found herself reaching out and putting her hand on his cheek.

“Can I kiss you to check?” Roo asked hesitantly. Luther smiled and nodded and as there was no self-consciousness between them they gathered together and slowly dissolved into each other.

When they came out 10 minutes later Roo was glowing and her hair was neat.

I don’t want your revolution if I can’t dance

Luke looked at her and smiled and then ever so slightly nodded at Luther, who nodded back sheepishly. Robert was talking to Shane with Carl fiddling on the side. They all looked at Roo when she brought them tea and smiled.

“Ready then?” she asked.

They nodded and then moved the beanbags no one was sitting on to make it easier to see. Curtis said to Luther when he brought his tea. “Are you sure about this?” Luther nodded and smiled. “It will make a change and it will be good to be back in A and E.[RvS4] I don’t have any more books to write for a while. Shane said, “All right everyone. Has everyone got tea?”

They all chimed yes and went to sit down. Robert set up the camera at the back with his tea on the floor and then gave the thumbs up before returning to it. Carl had set up the video projector while Roo and Luther had gotten the tea and now sat right at the back with his finger hovering above the mousepad of his laptop.

Shane looked at him and nodded and the screen turned into three huge icebergs visible above and below water. Shane took a deep breath, looked at Roo who smiled wholeheartedly at him and then started “There are three main icebergs to today’s problems. The Eco, social and spiritual divide. The problems that are at their roots, that which is the bulk of the iceberg overlap, but they include things like bubbles, finite resources, real needs and economy, collective paralysis and so on.[RvS5] The bubbles include the infinite growth bubble, income, financial, technology, leadership, consumerism, governance and ownership bubbles. The Ecological divide is best explained by Earth Overshoot Day which gets closer to summer solstice every year and the fact that we are losing agricultural land because of overuse. The social divide is also obvious - 2 ½ billion people live on less than $2 a day while the top 1% has a greater worth than the bottom 90%.

The spiritual cultural divide is more about the discontent most people feel about their work and what they do and best exemplified by the World Health Organisation statistic that in the year 2000 more people died of suicide than war. In this country we know that suicide is the biggest killer of under 35 year old men.

So what do we do to solve these problems? Move from Ego economies to Eco economies and start listening to people. There is more of this theory and I suggest that we all do their free MOOCas I find theory U Lab very inspiring and after getting Carl to do it too we have come up with what will be the bulk of our presentation.”

The slide changed. It was a picture of a festival. Carl smiled at Shane and walked to the front to start with Shane after getting Roo to take over on the laptop.

“So we were talking,” Carl said, “and drinking. Because I was overwhelmed by the experiment.”

“And we started to throw some ideas around. I work in a record store and Shane is the vocalist for a blues band so naturally we started talking about music”

“Yeah, so we were talking about distribution and how difficult it is to know what is good and then Carl says - what if you had a record label that was a cooperative of musicians with really good but unknown artists as its trustees?”

“So Shane starts going on about how that is not really interesting enough. Because by this stage he wants to change the world.”

Shane laughed self-consciously and Carl continued “So Shane says - I want people to learn theory U in groups and then change their communities. So I say why stop there - teach them about the media, and other interesting things too and then we both stopped and looked at each other and said - a tour!”

“Then we talked rubbish for a while and went to bed.”

“But I know Shane was and is actually serious about this and I always liked Roo so I left him a message in the morning to say we should meet up on Thursday.”

“So we did. With the rest of the whiskey and worked it out. We would have street teams like people did and still do have for shows. The street teams would have to do training and get people involved through a battle of the bands. The winner of the battle of the bands would get to play the home show on the tour and get their demo listened to by the record label and the tour would be more like a festival for a week in a town with films and workshops. We would do 6 weeks a year of the tour and that’s good because it will be so fun people could volunteer for a lot of it.

“And that’s what we want to do.”

[leighistired]

Out Loud

A Martin character study AO3 Link

“G’night mum, love you.”

“Make sure you put the trash out, don’t want it stinking up the house.”

At 12 it occurs to Martin, he can’t recall the last time his mother said “I love you” to him. She must have. He knows she loves him, so why can’t he remember her saying it? Was it before dad left? It can’t have been that long ago. He knows if he brings it up she’ll just tell him off for being silly so he just decides to not say it unless she says it first. She doesn’t say it.

“Look how nice our neighbor’s garden is,” she says instead. “If only we could have such a nice garden.”

“The neighbors hire a man-” Martin tries to explain. He had just done law maintenance over the weekend; he would have to bring up memory issues next time they saw a doctor.

“Aren’t you happy with how I provide for you?” She snaps. “Ever since your lousy father left us I have done my best even with my health and all you can talk about is getting a bloody gardener.”

“Sorry, mum,” he says. It’s better not to argue when she gets like this.

“Forget it. Just get me my tea.”

He goes and brews her a cup of Oolong tea. It’s far too bitter for his tastes but it’s all he buys when he does the shopping. Perhaps that was it, instead of saying she loved him she just provided for him.

Martin tells himself that until she gets too sick to work and begins needling him to get a job at 14. Suddenly he’s providing for her on top of school and everything else but that didn’t mean she didn’t love him. She was just sick and the medication she was on made her tired most of the time so it wasn’t like he could expect her to be excited to see him; especially not when he’s the one bringing it to her.

“Is soup the only thing you buy?” She asks one evening when he brings her dinner.

“You didn’t have soup last night,” he reminds her patiently after a long day of school and work.

“Oh, so you think I’m ungrateful? I am your mother! I gave birth to you! You should be happy to take care of me!”

“It would be nice if you acted like a mum for once!” Martin snaps back. He regrets it as soon as he says it and doesn’t wait to hear her response. He leaves the house and sits in the park near his house for a long time and cries. Of course she loves him. It must be so hard on her to be stuck at home all day with no one to talk to and there he went snapping at her. She’s asleep by the time he comes home and neither of them mentions it in the morning.

Martin doesn’t know what he expects when he starts to transition. He hadn’t even called it a transition at first, he just likes how he looks with short hair, baggy clothes, and a sports bra. His mother disagrees. There are days she won’t even look at him and when she does it’s usually even worse.

“You cut your hair again,” she mentions one morning over breakfast. “Just when you were starting to look like a girl.”

“Yup,” Martin replies tight-lipped. He had been thinking it over for a while and he’s slowly coming to terms with the fact that he isn’t a girl. The way she says it hits him sharply. If she was never going to say “I love you” to a daughter, why would she say it to a son? He doesn’t bother coming out to her properly because he can already see the disgust on her face when he gets a proper binder.

When she decides to move into a full-time care facility, it’s almost a relief. He feels foolish for expecting her to say it when she leaves. He feels even more foolish when he says it in goodbye. The receptionist gives him a sympathetic look when she doesn’t say it back but the receptionist probably assumes his mother has memory issues and forgot who he was. She doesn’t. Still, he appreciates the gesture.

Dating is nearly impossible for most of his life. It’s easiest to blame his busy schedule; he doesn’t even have time for friends outside of school. The fact that no one even asks him out isn’t something he wants to think about. After he drops out of school and his mother leaves, dating and friendship don’t get any easier. He can’t let anyone he works with get close enough or they’ll find out his real age and utter lack of qualifications. Online dating is also out of the question for similar reasons. If one of his coworkers saw him with the age 19 in his profile they would either know he wasn’t actually 25 or they would think he was a creep and he didn’t exactly feel comfortable lying about his age to potential dates. Meeting people organically isn’t the worst thing in the world but it’s difficult. He makes a few passing friends at a local trans support group but even then, he can’t get close to anyone without risking someone discovering his falsified CV.

He doesn’t have his first real boyfriend until he’s 23 years old. They meet at a Holloween party thrown by a mutual acquaintance and date for almost five months before Martin ruins it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Dominick, I love you,” Martin says as he serves dinner.

“Oh, uh, it’s a little fast to say that, don’t you think?” Dominick had stammered awkwardly. Was it? It didn’t seem like it to Martin and even if it was, it was true. He loved Dominick.

“I-I don’t think so,” Martin replies nervously. Some distant part of himself starts to berate him for being so needy.

“It kind of is. Let’s just pretend you never said it and we’ll see how we feel in a few more months, ok?”

“You mean we’ll see how you feel,” Martin says a little bitterly.

“Why can’t you just relax and enjoy the holiday?”

Martin had sighed in resignation and picked at the rest of his plate. They broke up a week later because Dominick felt like they were “looking for different things.”

Martin doesn’t have another serious boyfriend after that. He goes on a few more dates over the years but nothing that lasts longer than five months. Nothing that lasts long enough to say “I love you.” In some deep dark part of him, he wonders if he was ever meant for love. His father hadn’t loved him enough to stay, his mother hadn’t said she loved him in over a decade, and he’s not even sure he was in love with Dominick. He gets crushes, sure, but he just throws himself into his work at the Magnus Institute instead.

Working in the library isn’t bad. He gets along with his coworkers well enough but he can never get close to them. Not close enough to love them as friends or be loved in return.

Then he gets transferred to the Archives.

Jonathan Sims is not the first asshole boss Martin has ever had. He doesn’t understand why Mr. Bouchard sent him down to work in the Archive in the first place and his first impression with his new boss is less than stellar when a dog follows him into the building. It doesn’t help that Jon is good-looking and every once in a while Martin catches glimpses of a version of the Archivist without a stick up his ass. Like when he spends Martin’s ice cream birthday talking about emulsifiers. If only he would be clearer about what he actually wants from Martin. No report or follow-up seems to be good enough, even with the help of Tim and Sasha.

Martin works hard for Jon’s approval. He doesn’t know why he wants the recognition but it’s either this or quit and he really, really can’t quit. So he spends three full days looking for every woman named Angela over fifty in Bexley only to be berated for actually talking to one of them and then he offers to look into a case about spiders that clearly upsets Jon only to get trapped in his flat by a zombie worm woman.

When he finally escapes, he takes a few worm corpses with him and he dumps them on Jon’s desk while he’s in the middle of a statement. Let Jon try and disprove that When he gives his own statement he makes special emphasis on reminding Jon how hard he worked to meet his exacting standards. He refuses to be yelled at for this.

Except Jon believes him. More than believes him, in fact. He offers Martin a place to stay. Of course that would be enough to ignite a crush in Martin.

As soon as they get to document storage Martin sits on the cot and begins to cry with exhaustion. He expects Jon to leave but again he surprises him.

“I-it’s alright, Martin,” he says awkwardly as he pats Martin’s shoulder. “You’ll be safe here and I’m certain Elias will respond promptly to my request for extra security.”

“Thanks,” Martin sniffs. He can’t remember the last time he cried in front of another person.

“Would...would you like me to stay until you fall asleep? If- if you think it will help.”

“Oh, er...no...I’ll be fine, thank you. You should be getting home, anyway. It’s Saturday, Jon.”

Martin blacks out as soon as Jon shuts the door to document storage. When he wakes up he finds his crush on Jon stubbornly still in place.

He can’t help himself after that. He starts taking special care of Jon in hopes of encouraging the kind man he saw that night into emerging. At the very least Jon doesn’t yell at him as much and he even thanks Martin for the tea he brings. It’s then that he notices other things about Jon, like how rattled he gets by certain statements and how he’ll often go an entire day without eating or drinking anything unless someone brings him something. That someone being Martin. He also notices how late Jon leaves, if he leaves at all.

It’s on one such night of Jon still being in his office at 11 o’clock that Martin knocks on Jon’s office door.

“Jon?” He calls gently.

“Hzzmt! Martin?” Jon responds, having been startled awake from dozing at his desk. “You should be asleep.”

“And you should be home.”

“I see your point,” Jon sighs. “I’ll finish up here and head home. Unless you need something?”

“Actually….I-I was thinking,” Martin beings. “Since I sort of kicked you off your cot...D’you want to come back to document storage with me? You know, get some sleep?”

“What?”

“Er...forget I-”

“The cot would be rather cramped with both of us,” Jon warns as he gets up from his desk. “If...if you’re sure you want me to join you.”

“Yeah...I thought you had work to do?”

“It can wait until morning, no use keeping you up longer than necessary.”

Martin only half regrets offering to share a bed with his crush. Jon was right, the only way to fit both of them on the cot is for both of them to sleep on their sides (or for Jon to sleep on top of Martin but even the thought has his face burning) and it’s difficult for him to fall asleep with Jon’s back pressed against his. It’s good to hear Jon fall asleep, though, and as time wears on it’s easier for Martin to goad Jon away from work to sleep a few hours.

The more of himself Jon reveals the harder Martin falls for him. Especially after Jon accuses him of being a ghost during the Prentiss attack. Even with the guilt Martin feels every time he looks at Jon mummified in bandages. That was Martin’s fault. If he had just paid more attention then he wouldn’t have lost Jon and Tim in the tunnels. He does everything he can to try and make up for it; despite Jon becoming more and more closed off by the day. Intellectually, Martin knows that Jon has gotten like that with everyone, but something deep down makes Martin feel like it’s his fault Jon’s gotten so cold. It doesn’t help that Jon seems to have gotten friendly with the policewoman investigating the murder of the previous Archivist. Tim even seems to think they’re having an affair which does wonders for Martin’s self-esteem. Jon wouldn’t be the first straight man Martin has ever had a crush on but Martin was pretty sure Jon wasn’t straight. Again, he wonders if he’s done something wrong to push Jon away.

After Jon stumbles out of his office covered in blood claiming to have had an accident with a bread knife Martin finds all the excuse he needs to regularly drag Jon to the canteen to make sure he eats something. The silences during those lunches are hard. They had eaten together before but now Jon wasn’t talking to him. The most Martin could get out of him were a few one-word answers. He tries not to think about how it reminds him of his mum.

“So,” he tries for the millionth time while Jon picks at his sandwich. “Did I tell you what happened while you were at physical therapy the other day?”

Jon doesn’t say anything but he looks up with a gaze that bores into Martin.

“Uh...A little girl came in alone with a statement, she must’ve only been eight years old,” Martin says. Jon looks at him with an expression that almost seems afraid. “Don’t worry, it recorded fine on digital. She walked right down into the Archive, walked up to my desk, and said ‘Excuse me. My name is Beatrice Walker and I’d like to make a statement about a supernatural occurrence.’ She sounded so grown up and she refused to leave until I had recorded her statement. Turns out her dad was using the library for research and she had just wandered off.”

“What was her statement about?” Jon asks to Martin’s surprise.

“Oh, a hamster with mysteriously changing spots.”

“Ah,” Jon replies thoughtfully. “Not much need for follow-up there, I suppose.”

“Not unless you really need me to track down the shop where her parents picked up the new hamster.”

He catches the briefest of smirks from Jon before the conversation dies again.

After that Jon’s coldness and paranoia comes out in the form of a screaming accusation over letters Jon found in the trash. Martin barely manages to make it to the bathroom before he bursts into tears after coming clean about his CV. Tim thankfully doesn’t check on him while he silently curses his taste in men. Jon doesn’t meet his eye for the next week in what he bitterly hopes is guilt. He does seem slightly more willing to talk with Martin at lunch, though.

Then Jon goes missing. After trying to get Martin and Tim to go home early because Jon was feeling under the weather; he disappears. Not before apparently bludgeoning someone with a pipe and isn’t that exactly what he and Tim need to see as soon as they get back from a two-week kidnapping by a spooky door monster?

With Sasha gone, Jon missing, and Melanie King being suddenly hired by Elias, whatever’s left of Martin’s relationship with Tim deteriorates. More so when Martin becomes the only one in the world to believe Jon could be innocent. It’s probably that that makes the police detective “investigating” Jon so actively hostile toward him. Apparently, people say he and Jon are “close” and that probably only means the lunch thing but he wants to imagine it’s something more. Like people are somehow picking up that Jon likes him back.

When Jon comes back to confront Elias it’s all Martin can think to do to fall back on his tea-making. He ducks into Jon’s office with a piping cup of the overly sweet tea he spent months perfecting to Jon’s taste and finds him with his face buried in his one non-bandaged hand.

“Jon?” He calls as gently as he can while he closes the door behind him. “I brought you some tea.”

It’s when Jon looks up that Martin notices the bloody mess down the front of his shirt.

“You’re hurt. Let me go get the first aid-”

“No!” Jon interrupts frantically. “Just...Could you just stay with me for a moment?”

Martin acquiesces and they sit side by side on the sofa in Jon’s office in silence until Jon starts sniffling into his tea. He offers Jon a hug and Jon all but dives into his chest to cry. It’s the saddest most broken thing Martin has ever heard and it’s all he can do not to pull Jon into his lap and curl around him protectively.

“Martin...I-I...I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For everything. For Sasha and Prentiss and...and for the way I treated you. You didn’t….no one deserves that.”

“None of that was your fault and I sort of deserved it. I didn’t actually know what I was doing.”

“You didn’t deserve it,” Jon insists before going back to quietly crying into Martin’s jumper. Martin doesn’t respond. He can’t recall the last time someone’s apologized to him. At least not like that. He’d been told off most of his life for not doing things up to people’s standards. A few people over the years had told him he didn’t deserve it but Jon was the first person to apologize. No wonder Martin was falling in love with him.

Damn it.

Cuddling doesn’t become a regular occurrence for them by any means but Jon begins doing more to seek Martin out after that. They eat lunch together more often and Martin stays up late to talk to Jon while he’s abroad. It drives home how deeply buried into Martin’s heart Jon has become. Especially after he comes back after going missing for a month and has the audacity to joke about being moisturized by a clown mannequin for a month.

He wonders if Jon feels the same way. Sometimes Jon will smile shyly at him, and he can almost believe that Jon would be interested in a relationship if the world wasn’t ending. The last time they speak before the Unknowing they’re in document storage.

“Are you ready?” Jon asks as he shifts nervously.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Martin signs. He heard what happened to Melanie. He knows what’s likely to happen to him. Some small part of him is screaming to just tell Jon his feelings like it’s the climax of an action movie.

“Stay safe,” Jon says.

“Come back,” Martin replies. Jon offers him a hug. It’s no movie kiss but it allows Martin to hold Jon as close as possible. Jon himself is hanging off of Martin’s neck and it feels like a final goodbye.

Then Elias confirms what Martin has always suspected deep down. That his mother never loved him or if there was a time when she did, she stopped when his father left. Even after everything. After he spent years taking care of her. After he had to quit school to care for her. All she ever saw was his father. All his transition did was to remind her further of how much he looked like his father’s son. At least it was worth it. To distract Elias so Melanie could find evidence to arrest him.

Then Peter Lukas shows up and reveals that Elias planned to get arrested. Worse than that, he offers Martin a promotion of sorts.

Then they get the news from Yarmouth. Tim’s body is found in a charred heap, Daisy is missing, and Jon is dead in all but brain activity. At least Basira is physically alive.

Martin spends as much time as he can next to Jon. He’s used to loving someone who can’t love him back. Maybe this is all he’s destined for. Love unrequited. He talks to Jon’s dreaming corpse. Tells him about his day, reads him poetry, even a statement, but nothing draws Jon out of his coma.

Then his mother dies. He barely has the emotional strength to mourn her. Instead, he scatters her ashes and mourns his childhood lost to trying impossibly to earn her love.

After the Flesh attacks, Martin makes a decision. He’ll join Lukas. It’ll probably lead to his death but what did that matter? His mother was gone and didn’t care about him anyway. Tim and Sasha were gone. Jon was basically gone. Basira and Melanie were the only people left that he vaguely cared about and by doing this he could at least protect them.

He visits Jon one last time in the hospital. He’s still covered in wires and his eyes still flit around violently behind his lids as Martin sits down next to him and takes his hand.

“Hey Jon,” he says quietly. “I...This is the last time I’m going to see you...Probably ever. I know, I know old dramatic Martin surely he’s exaggerating. I’m not. The Institute is in danger and...I have a way to keep Melanie and Basira a little safer, so I’m doing it. I just came by one last time to say...Jon, I...I love you. Goodbye.”

He gets up and presses a kiss on a part of Jon’s forehead not covered in wires before leaving. It’s alright that he doesn’t say it back. No one ever says it back to Martin.

When Jon wakes up everything becomes that much harder. Suddenly he had a reason to live and the way Jon pursues him makes him almost believe...No, even completing the thought would be dangerous for all of them. Jon trusts him enough not to be constantly badgering and that makes it worse. When Jon is there the Lonely makes Martin resent his presence and when Jon’s gone Martin resents his absence.

The final, most excruciating pain is when Jon comes after him in the Lonely. He’s excepted his fate in the chilling numbness of the Lonely. Maybe that’s why he says it. The certain, inevitable rejection would be numbed utterly. So he says it.

“I really loved you, you know?”

And Jon looks broken. Even after he rips Peter’s statement from him. Even when he reaches for Martin’s face with hands that seem far too warm and makes him See. Knowing Jon loves him isn’t like “knowing” his mother loves him. Instead of a lie born in Martin’s mind to stamp down the fear of rejection, it’s a reality pouring from Jon’s mind mingled with Jon’s fears of rejection.

Jon’s hands still feel too warm compared to the icy chill of the Lonely as he leads Martin out. Still, he refuses to let go all the way through the tunnels, the Institute, talking to Basira, packing at each other’s flats, and on to the train. The way to Daisy’s safe house feels like a blur and when they finally arrive it’s all Martin can do to remember to take off his binder before collapsing into bed with Jon’s warm arms around him.

He wakes to Jon’s quiet crying. The awful, stifled thing that breaks Martin’s heart.

“Jon,” he whispers.

“Martin? Did I wake you? I’m sorry, I’ll-”

“It’s alright, Jon,” he assures as he swaps their positions so Jon is tucked firmly against him. Jon makes another broken noise and Martin can’t stop himself from crying, too.

“I-I’m here, Martin. You aren’t on your own,” Jon soothes and Martin almost has to laugh. They lay crying and comforting each other until they both fall back asleep.

When they wake up properly they take stock of the safe house’s pantry and make a list of things to pick up in the village after breakfast. Martin gives in to the temptation to buy a new notebook to try and write poetry in. They have enough canned food to survive to the next ice age so they pick up perishable items like milk, bread, butter, and eggs. Jon also picks up fresh peaches and a box of Martin’s preferred tea. It’s easy to pretend like they going on a normal shopping trip as they walk up and down the aisles to check things off their list.

They return to the cabin and settle in. Martin sits on the sofa and tries to write out a poem while Jon tries to read a book from Daisy’s personal collection. After a while, Martin beings to feel Jon’s gaze on him.

“Is there something on my face?” He tries casually as he’s met with an expression he’s never been on the receiving end of.

“I was just thinking about how much I love you,” Jon sighs. Martin can’t stop the noise that comes out of him. All his life trying to earn love and Jon just says it while Martin’s thinking of a synonym for ‘yellow.’

“I-I don’t expect you to reciprocate,” Jon says quickly, his soft expression suddenly turning worried.

“But I do.”

“Oh…Oh!”

“Yeah.”

Jon starts giggling and it’s impossible for Martin not to follow suit until happy tears stream down both of their faces.

[dherzogblog]

The Birth of The Daily Show: 25 Years of Fake News and Moments of Zen

It was July of 1995 and I had left MTV to become President of Comedy Central. It was the basic cable equivalent of going from the NY Yankees to an expansion team. I was on the job just two weeks when I received a call from Brillstein Grey the high powered managers of Bill Maher, host of one of the networks few original programs, "Politically Incorrect". We were informed Bill and his show would leave the network when his contract expired in 12 months. It was a done deal. Bill wanted to take his show to the "big leagues" at ABC where he would follow Night Line. Comedy Central was left jilted. Terrible news for a network still trying to establish itself. We had a year to figure out how to replace him and the clock was ticking. So began the path to The Daily Show.

It was very much a fledgling Comedy Central I joined, available in barely 35 million homes, desperately seeking an identity and an audience. It was just over three years old, born into a shot gun wedding that joined two struggling and competing comedy networks, HBO’s Comedy Channel and Viacom’s HA!, Watching them both stumble out of the gate, the cable operators forced them to merge, telling them: "We only need one comedy channel, you guys figure it out”. After some contentious negotiations the new channel was born and the red headed step child of MTV and HBO set out to find the pop culture zeitgeist its parents had already expertly navigated. The network had yet to define itself. The programming consisted mainly of old stand up specials from the likes of Gallagher (never underestimate the appeal of a man smashing watermelons), a hodgepodge of licensed movies (“The God’s Must be Crazy and The Cheech and Chong trilogy were mainstays) and Benny Hill reruns. The networks biggest hit by far was the UK import “Absolutely Fabulous”, better know as “AbFab”. Comedy Central boasted a handful of original shows, including the wonderfully sublime "SquiggleVision" of “Dr. Katz”, the sketch comedy "Exit 57" (starring the then unknown Amy Sedaris and Stephen Colbert) and of course Maher’s "Politically Incorrect". In retrospect I don’t think Bill got enough credit for pioneering the idea of political comedy on mainstream TV. Back then he was the only one doing it.

Politically Incorrect performed just fine, but got more critical attention than ratings. It was a panel show, and I had something a bit different in mind to replace it. I knew we needed a flagship, a network home base, something akin to ESPN's Sports Center where viewers could go at the end of a the day for our comedic take on everything that happened in the last 24 hours….."a daily show". I had broad idea for it in my head. I would describe it as part "Weekend Update", part Howard Stern, with a dash of "The Today Show" on drugs complete with a bare boned format to keep costs low so we could actually afford to produce it. We could open with the headlines covering the day's events (our version of a monologue), followed by a guest segment (we wouldn't need to write jokes...only questions!), and finish with a taped piece. Simple, right? We just needed someone to help flesh out our vision.

Comedy Central was a a second tier cable channel then and considered a bit of a joke (no pun intended). It had minuscule ratings, no heat and even less money to spend. Producers were not lining up to work with there. Eileen Katz ran programming for the channel and the two of us began pitching this idea to every producer who would listen. One of the first people we approached was Madeleine Smithberg, an ex Letterman producer and had overseen "The Jon Stewart Show" for us at MTV. We thought she was perfect for the role. “You can’t do this, you can’t afford this, you don't have the stomach for this, it will never work ” Madeliene said when we met with her. We could not convince her to take the gig. Ok then....we moved on. The problem was we heard that same refrain from everybody. No one wanted the job. So after weeks being turned down by literally EVERYONE, I said to Eileen: “We have to go back to Madeleine and convince her to do this with us"!

Part our pitch to her was we would go directly to series. There would be no pilot. The show was guaranteed to go on air. We had decided this show was our to be our destiny and we had to figure it out come hell or high water. As a 24 hour comedy channel, if we couldn't figure out a way to be funny and fresh every day...what good were we? We told Madeliene we were committed to putting the show on the air and keeping it there till we got it right (for at least a year anyway). That, plus some gentle arm twisting got her to sign on. Shortly after that, Lizz Winstead did too.

Madleiene and Lizz very quickly landed on their inspired notion of developing the show and format as a news parody. It brought an immediate focus and a point of view to the process . All of the sudden things started to take shape and coming to life. Great ideas started flowing fast and furious while an amazing collection of funny and talented began to come on board. Madeliene and Lizz were off to the races. Now all we needed was a host.

The prime time version of ESPN's Sports Center was hosted by Dan Patrick and Keith Olbermann back then and it was must see cable TV. But I had recently started to notice another guy hosting the show's late night edition. He was funny, with a snarky delivery reminiscent of Dennis Miller. His name was Craig Kilborn. On the phone with CAA agent Jeff Jacobs one day, I asked if he knew happened to know who repped him? “I do" he said. "We just signed him”. Within days he was in my office along with Madeleine, Lizz, and Eileen who were all a bit skeptical about the tall blond guy with the frat boy vibes sitting across from them. After opening the meeting with a few off color comments that would probably get him cancelled today (an early warning sign fo sure), Craig ultimately won them over and we had our host.

FUN FAC#1: Minutes after the news of Craig's hiring went public, Keith Olberman's agent called me directly to ask why we hadn't considered hiring him?

Ok, we had a host and producers...but what to call it? After sifting through dozens of ideas for a title, Madeleine called me one day and said, "I think we should just call it what we've been calling it all along...."The Daily Show". As we approached our launch date we taped practice shows and took them out to focus groups to get real life feedback. The groups hated it.... I mean with a red hot hate. They hated Craig, the format, the jokes, everything. We were crushed and dejectedly looked around at the room at one another. "Now what?" “Either they’re wrong, or we are". I said I think they are...but it doesn’t matter, we're doing this!" We never looked back.

The show took off quickly garnering some quick buzz and attention, we felt like we had crashed the party. Well, sort of. We had no shortage of fun, growing pains and drama along the way. The Daily Show version 1.0 was about to unravel. In a December 1997 magazine interview Craig made some truly offensive and inappropriate remarks about Lizz and female members of the staff. Whether it was poor attempt at humor or just plain misogynist (or both) is beyond the point. It was all wrong, very wrong. Craig was suspended for a week without pay. Lizz left the show. In the moment I chose to protect the show and its talent more so than Lizz. That was wrong too. It's more than cringe worthy looking back now, and I regret not making some better decisions then. My loyalty to our host was later "rewarded" when in the Spring of 1998 Kilborn's team, a la Bill Maher, unceremoniously informed us he had signed a deal to follow Letterman on CBS when his contract expired at the end of the year. No discussion, a done deal. Comedy Central jilted again. Like Maher, Kilborn wanted his shot at the network big leagues and we had a little over six months to figure out how to replace him. We all know how that chapter ended. That search would eventually reunite us with Jon Stewart who along with The Daily Show took Comedy Central and basic cable to the "the big leagues" on their own terms, redefining late night comedy in the process The rest, as they say, is "Fake News" history.

Fun Fact #2: before approaching Jon (who I did not originally think would be interested) I initially offered the job to a chunkier, largely unknown Jimmy Kimmel, fresh off his co hosting duties on "Win Ben Stein's Money" ...only to have him turn us down.

My fascination with late night began as a kid. I remember how exciting it was to stay up to sneak a peek at the Carson monologue and watch him do spit takes with his chummy Hollywood guests. Later on I also loved the heady adult conversation Dick Cavett would have with everyone from Sly Stone to Groucho Marx. But it was the comedic revolution of Saturday night Live in 1975, followed by Letterman's game changing show in 1981 that truly established late night as the coolest place on the television landscape. I could only dream of one day being part of it.

25 years on, I couldn’t be more proud of The Daily Show and its legacy. Those days helping build it alongside Madeleine, Lizz, Eileen and the team were among the most satisfying (and fun) experiences I have ever had. It was thrilling to take a shot at the late night landscape and try and make our mark, especially when no one thought we could.

I am prouder still of what Trevor Noah and his staff have achieved since they took the hand off from Jon, evolving and growing the show through a new voice and lens. I think my personal "Moment Of Zen" will last as long as Trevor remains behind the desk, allowing me to selfishly boast of having hired every host this award winning and culture defining franchise has ever had.

25 years later. it remains as relevant as ever, a bona fide late night institution, standing shoulder to shoulder with all the great shows that inspired us to start.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 26: Jon

When Jon’s grandmother passed away peacefully in her sleep, not long after his twenty-fourth birthday, he quickly discovered that her life insurance and savings weren’t enough to cover all the bills that needed to be covered and put the house he’d grown up in on the market. He only vaguely remembers the whole procedure, as he was in something of a state of shock at the time, but he does remember accepting the first offer presented to him despite the realtor’s comments that he could “probably hold out for a bit more” if he wanted. Thus, he’s the only one not really startled at the speed with which he, Martin, and Tim find out that they’ve got the house.

To be clear: He’s not startled at the speed. He is, however, startled that they got it. Surely someone must have been willing to pay more for it, been better qualified. But no. They learn their offer has been accepted less than a week after the Primes’ disastrous encounter with Basira’s partner and the closing is scheduled for the following Friday. Martin theorizes that their position at the Magnus Institute gave them some extra clout. Tim jokes that it’s his charismatic personality. Jon frets that Elias might have had something to do with it for nefarious purposes.

Sasha finally does some research and tells them that it’s being sold by a pair of siblings barely out of their teens whose parents died unexpectedly and probably just need the money fast.

Martin doesn’t have much, just the little he managed to bring with him to the Institute when first escaping Jane Prentiss and the few things he’s re-acquired since then, and Jon’s things are still packed up from when he declined to renew the lease on his flat in August, so it’s mostly just Tim who needs to decide what he’s keeping and what he’s ready to part with or needs to replace. It takes them the better part of two Saturdays, but they manage to get everything boxed and sorted in time to move out the last full weekend of September.

The moving-in process is surprisingly fun. Sasha and the Primes even come to help (Tim suggests the latter so that Martin Prime knows his way around the house from the get-go, which is actually really sensible) and they make a party of it. Tim insists on setting up the sound system first, then gets everyone to contribute a certain number of songs to a playlist on some app he has on his phone. He puts it on shuffle and lets it play while they work together on the various rooms.

“Oh, my God,” Sasha moans after the eighth song that she evidently didn’t pick comes on. “Do any of you listen to a single band that’s put out an album since 1984?”

“Yes,” Martin says indignantly, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“Remasters don’t count.”

Martin Prime grins. “None of mine have come up, either.”

“What did you put on?” Sasha asks suspiciously.

She gets her answer a few minutes later when, after shuffle coughs up a Spice Girls song they all tease her mercilessly about, an honest to God sea shanty comes on. Tim and Jon laugh at Sasha’s dramatic, despairing groan, but it’s hard not to respond to the Martins’ enthusiasm as they—surprisingly—harmonize along with the recording while they set up the living room.

They’re almost done assembling the new bed Tim bullied Jon into buying (“You’re not in uni anymore, you don’t need to be sleeping on a futon, and anyway, when was this made, the Thatcher premiership?” “Brown, and shut up, Tim.”), which is the last piece of furniture they need to put together, when there’s a sound from the front door—two firm, solid knocks, audible all the way upstairs. Jon nearly drops the screwdriver as his heart kicks against his ribs. It’s stupid, and he knows it’s stupid, but two knocks like that always makes him think of that book.

Tim makes a noise in the back of his throat. “God, hope the music isn’t too loud.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Martin says, but he sounds uncertain. “I-I mean, it’s been ages.”

Jon pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll check.”

He hurries out of the bedroom before anyone can comment on the clear break in his voice. He is, and there is no way to deny it to himself, legitimately afraid of what might be outside. The likelihood of it being a being of another entity is slim, but…well, there was Mr. Spider, and Jane Prentiss knocked on Martin’s door more than a few times to keep him off-balance, so there’s always the chance. It’s something he feels he can deal with, though, so he heads out to face it.

He does not, however, expect to open the door and be faced with what is either a small child or a casserole dish with tennis shoes.

“Hello,” a tiny voice says brightly from behind the dish. There’s a bit of shifting, and then two big brown eyes and a mass of curls appear over the rim. “I’ve brought you a cake.”

Jon will deny to his dying day that those words freeze his blood in his veins and make his heart stutter to a stop, but since this might actually be his dying day, he’ll be lying if he tries. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

“And a casserole, too,” the child continues, completely oblivious to Jon’s unwarranted panic attack. “That’s not as much fun, though, but Nan says it’s important to eat good, hearty food when you’ve been doing lots of work and that cake shouldn’t be a whole meal. I think there’s no point in being a grown-up if you can’t eat whatever you want, but…” The child heaves an enormous, dramatic sigh that seems too large for such a small body. “My Nan’s very, very old, and you don’t get to be old if you don’t do something right, so she must know what she’s talking about. Anyway, we made the casserole with lots and lots of cheese and she said that was okay, so at least it’s a little better.”

“Ah—thank you?” Jon manages. “H-here, let me…take that.”

He manages to extract the casserole dish, which certainly feels as if it’s laden with cheese; it weighs the proverbial ton. Quite possibly a literal one. It’s solid enough to anchor Jon to reality, though, and he studies his benefactor. The child can’t be more than seven or eight, at the most, with a round face and limbs hidden in an oversized, threadbare sweater that looks like it’s been handed down through more than a few generations. Dangling from one arm is a wicker basket that does indeed appear to contain a cake.

“It’s a chocolate cake with marshmallow frosting,” the child says. “I tried to write ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ on it, but I didn’t put the tip on the piping bag right and it came off, so now it’s just a mess, but it’ll taste just as good, I promise. My Nan makes the best cakes.”

Jon smiles in spite of himself. “I don’t think I have enough hands to take it from you now. Would you mind bringing it into the kitchen for me?”

“Oh, sure!” The child practically hops over the threshold. “I always wanted to see what this house was like on the inside. Tibby used to babysit for me sometimes, but she always came over to our house, never me coming over here. Nan says it’s better that way, and Tibby always said it was laid out exactly like all the other houses, but it’s not the same as seeing it for yourself. Firsthand knowledge is best, that’s what I think. What do you think?”

“I—I think I agree with you,” Jon says. He also feels a bit like he’s staring at his younger self. “I assume you live in one of the other houses on the row?”

“Two doors down,” the child agrees cheerfully. “With the window boxes. My Nan likes to garden a bit, but she can’t bend over so much anymore, so Toby set up the window boxes for her a couple years ago.”

“And, uh, who is…Toby?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you knew. Toby McGill. He and Tibby—that’s his sister Tabitha, but everyone calls her Tibby—they were the ones selling this house after their parents died. He’s at Surrey University now and he says he’s going to stay out there when it’s all said and done, and Tibby got a job on a boat.” The child sounds deeply impressed. “I want to be a sailor someday, too. Can you imagine getting to see the whole wide world by water and getting paid for it, too? I’d never want to leave. I told Tibby she has to save a spot on the crew for me and she laughed and promised, so I can’t wait. I’m going as soon as I grow up. I’m not going to university. You don’t need to go to university for everything, you know. I know Nan really wants me to go ‘cause Mum didn’t and neither did Dad and she doesn’t want me turning out like them, but you can turn out well even if you don’t go to university, can’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Jon says gravely. He casts an involuntary glance in the direction of the stairs, thinking of Martin. “One of my housemates didn’t go to university, and he’s one of the most brilliant people I know.”

“How many of you live here, anyway?”

“Just three of us.” Jon has no idea how much this child has seen and how many people he knows are in the house at the moment.

“Oh. There used to be three of us in my house, too.” The child scuffs a toe against the carpet just before they step into the kitchen. “And then there was going to be four, but Mum died and the baby did, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says softly, feeling a pang. “I grew up with my grandmother, too.”

The child looks up at Jon and smiles, in such a way that Jon can’t help but smile back. “And you turned out okay.”

“Debatable,” Jon says. He sets the casserole dish on the counter. “I’m Jon, by the way. Jonathan Sims.”

“I’m Charlie. Charlie Cane.” The child smiles up at him and hands over the basket. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Tell your grandmother we said thank you. I don’t know that any of us will have the energy to cook tonight. We’ll bring back the dishes tomorrow.”

“There’s no hurry. Nan doesn’t go anywhere.” Charlie flashes Jon a grin that’s missing two teeth, then turns and waves to the doorway. Jon glances up to see Martin, looking somewhere between worried and amused. “Hi! I’m Charlie Cane. Welcome to the neighborhood. Do you live here, too?”

“Um…yes. I’m Martin Blackwood. It’s…nice to meet you?” Martin raises an eyebrow at Jon.

“Charlie and his grandmother made us a casserole,” Jon says, gesturing at the counter. “And a cake.”

“That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” Martin smiles at Charlie and winks, although Jon doesn’t quite understand why.

“Welcome.” Charlie’s beaming smile could probably light the house for a week. “I’d best go before Nan thinks I’m doing something stupid again. See you later!”

He’s out the front door before Jon can respond, or even blink. He looks back to Martin, who isn’t even trying to hide his amusement. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Jon. We were just wondering if you were okay. You were gone for a while.”

Jon gestures vaguely at the front door. “I don’t think that child has many people to talk to. Or at least not many people who will listen to him.”

Martin snorts. “I think you’ve got yourself a new best friend.”

Jon almost wants to say something flippant like Just what I need, but thinking on it, he actually doesn’t mind all that much. “Considering how much I would have given to have an adult pay that kind of attention to me when I was his age, I think I can handle that.”

Martin reaches over and pulls Jon into a hug. Jon lets himself be comforted for a moment, then extricates himself gently and smiles. “Come on. Let’s see if the others are ready to eat.”

As it turns out, the others finished putting together the bed and even made it while Jon talked to Charlie, so they’re all too happy to come into the kitchen for a hearty meal. It’s exactly as cheese-laden as Charlie promised. Jon recounts his conversation, to general amusement, although something flickers briefly across Martin Prime’s face and Jon Prime shoots Jon an understanding and slightly frightened look when he repeats Charlie’s opening words. If anyone else notices, they give no sign of it.

Tim lets the music keep playing while they eat. Jon mostly tunes it out, no pun intended, and he rather suspects the others do too. But just as they’re scraping their plates clean—the food is delicious, and Tim declares he’s going to try and charm Charlie’s grandmother out of the recipe—Martin Prime suddenly tilts his head to one side, as if trying to catch a sound. A smile twitches at his lips, and he stands up and holds out a hand to Jon Prime. “May I?”

Jon Prime looks startled for a split-second, then smiles—no, grins—and places his hand in Martin Prime’s. He lets Martin Prime pull him away from the table and into his arms, and the two of them start slow-dancing.

Jon pauses, fork suspended over his plate, and watches them. Jon Prime lets Martin Prime lead him in a simple box step, one arm draped casually over Martin Prime’s shoulder, while Martin Prime’s hand rests firmly at his waist; their other fingers are laced together in a way that would make it difficult to telegraph intended moves if they didn’t—probably—know each other so well. The space between them is so little it’s a wonder they don’t constantly trip over each other’s feet, and before long their foreheads touch. The song is gentle and plaintive, encouragement from one partner to the other to trust and relax and allow the first to take care of the second, a promise that the second person won’t be considered weak or lesser if they allow themselves to be comforted.

I promise you’ll be safe here in my arms…

Martin Prime lifts his arm and spins Jon Prime around gently, and when Jon Prime comes back into the closed frame, he leans his head against the shoulder where his hand isn’t resting and closes his eyes. Martin Prime pulls him closer and rests his cheek alongside Jon Prime’s as they continue dancing. It’s one of the most intimate and romantic things Jon has ever seen, and he almost has to look away from it.

Almost. Not quite. Something keeps him drawn, and there’s a tiny part of Jon’s brain that suggests it probably isn’t just the pleasure at seeing someone who’s basically him safe and happy and in love mixed with the vague sense of longing for something like that—maybe not that exactly, but something like it. It may also be that watching the Primes slow dancing means he doesn’t have to look at anyone else.

The song plays itself out. Martin Prime turns his head slightly; Jon Prime turns his at the same time, and their lips meet gently in the middle. This time Jon does look away. He’s never quite been able to figure out how he feels about kissing, to be honest; it’s one of the things that sent his and Georgie’s relationship down in flames, was the fact that he always acted like you think I’ve got poison in my lip gloss, according to her. But he finds himself wondering for a moment what Martin’s lips would feel like against his, if they’d be as soft and warm as the rest of him. If it might make a difference to kiss Martin instead of Georgie, or Meredith, or Kelly. And that’s not a question he’s comfortable asking himself just then, let alone trying to answer.

The scrape of a chair breaks his attention, and he looks up to see the Primes sitting down like nothing happened, although they’re still holding hands. Tim clears his throat. “Who wants cake?”

The cake is, as promised, a bit of a mess—it looks like someone tried to tease out the blob created by the icing tip popping off with a toothpick or something, but the resultant design looks like the pictures someone showed Jon once of a web woven by a spider that had been fed caffeine, and the fact that the icing is bright red doesn’t help—but it is absolutely delicious.

Afterward, Tim and Jon store the leftovers while Martin and Sasha start on the dishes. Jon Prime glances at the kitchen clock and touches Martin Prime on the shoulder. “We should probably go. The later it gets, the more likely that…someone might cruise by the Institute, and I’d rather not risk that.”

Martin Prime squeezes Jon Prime’s hand gently, and Jon swallows on the sudden surge of nausea. They haven’t seen anything of Detective Tonner, and Basira didn’t say anything about her when she showed up last week to switch out the tapes, but the memory of the Primes’ faces when they stumbled back to Tim’s place to change and return his car is a hard one to shake. Even though Jon Prime swears he and Daisy eventually became friends, it’s the eventually that sticks out, and Jon isn’t sure what he’ll do if Daisy turns up at the Institute. It’s also obvious that the Primes are more afraid of her than they’re letting on.

Tim opens his mouth, probably to invite them to spend the night or something, but Sasha beats him to it. “Can you wait a few minutes? I’d rather not walk to the tube station by myself, if it comes to that, and I think you said there’s an entrance to the tunnels near there.”

Jon Prime frowns slightly. “I…don’t think I did, but there is.”

“We’ll walk with you, Sasha,” Martin Prime assures her.

Tim sighs theatrically. “I feel a little better, which is a relative statement not to be taken as approval.”

“Your objection is duly noted.” Sasha hands Martin a plate to dry.

All too soon, everything is cleaned up, just as the playlist comes to an end, and there’s really no way of stalling them further. There’s a round of hugs and see-you-Mondays, and then Sasha and the Primes head out the door, leaving Jon, Martin, and Tim alone in their new house.

It’s not that late, comparatively, so Jon suggests a card game. They’ve played most nights since Sasha went back to sleeping in her own flat; they’ve played a couple of games of Rummy or Go Fish, and Tim once tried to teach Jon and Martin a game he learned from his grandparents that uses a forty-card deck (Martin picked it up quickly, Jon did not), but most of the time they play Crazy Eights. Tim declares that they’re going to keep playing until either he or Jon or both manage to overtake Martin’s score, which is clearly going to be an impossible task, as he’s up by nearly a thousand points and consistently wins at least three or four games a night. Still, they give it a valiant effort. After Martin manages to go out while both Tim and Jon still have an eight each in their hand, though, they decide to call it quits for one night.

“Someday I’ll figure out how you keep doing that,” Jon says, shuffling the deck lightly before putting it back in the box.

Martin shrugs. “Practice, I guess? I used to play with my granddad a lot when I was younger. We kept a running total, too, and I think I was up three thousand points or so when he died.”

Tim gives a low whistle. “How old were you?”

“Nine. We’d been playing pretty regularly since I was five. At least one game every time I went to visit.”

Jon thinks back to the conversation he and Martin had in Tim’s kitchen the morning after Prentiss’s attack. “Is this the grandfather who had the cherry trees?”

“You remembered.” Martin looks pleased. “Yeah, he was my mum’s dad. I never met my dad’s family, that I remember anyway.” He pauses. “You, uh, you told Charlie you were raised by your grandmother. Was that…?”

Jon didn’t know Martin was there, but he’s kind of glad he doesn’t have to figure out how to bring it up. “My father’s mother. She was…formidable. My father died when I was two, from an accidental fall, and my mother died a couple years later. Surgery complications.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says softly. “That must have been hard on you.”

“Harder on my grandmother, I think. I was barely old enough to remember them.” All Jon remembers of his father is his laugh, and he’s fairly certain that most of his memories of his mother come from his aunt.

Tim leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Is she still around? Your grandmother?”

Jon shakes his head. “She died just before I started working at the Institute. What about yours, Tim?”

“My dad’s dad is the only grandparent still around. I think.” Tim worries at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. “I’d like to think someone would call me if something happened, but I don’t know.”

Martin hums sympathetically. “Is he…in a home?”

“Not as far as I know. Last I heard, he was still living with my parents. Moved in when Granny died, just after I left for university.” Tim sighs. “We’re not…close. After Danny…”

Jon reaches over and touches Tim’s arm gently. “It must be hard on them, losing a son. No parent expects to outlive their child.”

“That’s just it. Mum refuses to believe he’s dead.” Tim smiles weakly. “No body, you know? Dad isn’t sure, but he also thinks I know more than I’ve told them. Grandfather all but accused me of having a hand in Danny’s disappearance.”

“What?” Jon blinks, shocked. “How could anyone think you’d—you would never.”

“I know, but…well, Dad’s family was always a bit conservative, blue collar and all that, and I’m…well, me. I think that’s why Dad encouraged my hiking and camping and all that. Hoped it would knock some ‘sense’ into me,” Tim says with a wry twist of his lips. “Once I came out as bi, though, I think they decided there was no hope left for me. It just got worse after Danny died.”

Martin’s expressive face closes down, and Jon’s stomach lurches. This is the most they’ve talked about their families in…ever, he thinks, but from the little bits of information Martin—and Martin Prime, for that matter—have let slip, Jon has formed a very unfavorable impression of Martin’s mother. He’s always kind of had a hazy idea that Tim’s family situation was better, especially after he heard the pride in his voice when he talked about Danny when giving his statement, and finding out that it wasn’t much better than theirs…

“How old were you?” he asks, not sure why. “When you—told them.”

“Seventeen. There was a guy I’d been seeing—nothing serious, really, but we had fun together—and we went out for Valentine’s Day. My parents were confused because they knew my girlfriend and I had just broken up before Christmas and I hadn’t mentioned another girl, so I told them about Steve.” Tim gets quiet for a second. “Mum cried. Dad just…told me to stop upsetting my mother and never brought it up again. Not until Grandfather started in on me.”

Jon swallows. ��You’ve a great deal more courage than I have. I—I never admitted to my grandmother that I ever had any interest in boys, let alone dated one.”

“Only one? You’re missing out.” Tim’s grin is a pale echo of his usual one, but it is at least genuine. “How ‘bout you, Martin?”

“A few.” Martin relaxes with a visible effort that makes Jon’s heart ache. “Been out since I was fourteen. Mum reacted…about as well as she reacted any other time I told her something she didn’t like or did something she wasn’t expecting. I never brought anyone home to meet her or…really talked to her about my dating, and she only ever brought it up in relation to herself. Like saying it was a good thing there wasn’t any risk of me passing on any of my numerous undesirable traits to a helpless child.”

“I don’t think your mum understands what ‘bisexual’ means,” Tim points out.

“Probably not, but it doesn’t matter. I’m gay.” Martin grimaces. “I’m also ace, so no risk there anyway, but…”

Jon wants to say any child would be fortunate to count you as a father or I can’t think of a single undesirable trait about you, but what actually comes out is, “Ace?”

“Uh, asexual. It’s—I don’t…get attracted like that. Romance, sure, aesthetic stuff and all that, but not…” Martin gestures vaguely. “Tried it anyway, for a couple of guys I was with, but i-it didn’t go well.”

Jon’s world view shifts abruptly on its axis. Tim, though, looks suddenly worried. “Are you okay? They didn’t—”

“No, no,” Martin says quickly. “It wasn’t—I just don’t like it. That’s all.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Never bothered telling Mum that part. She wouldn’t…I’ve done enough damage.”

Tim pulls Martin into a quick one-armed hug, and Jon reaches across the table to squeeze his hand as gently as he can, but they change the subject after that.

They end up sitting up for a while in their new living room, relaxing. Tim props his feet up in the recliner and works on a crossword; Jon curls up at one end of the sofa with a book he’s been meaning to read for years that Jon Prime assures him he’ll love; Martin sits at the other end and knits. It about bowled Jon over completely when he learned that Martin made most of the sweaters he wears, but the sight and sound of him working away has become increasingly familiar in the last few weeks, especially after the Primes and the rest of the crew collaborated to get him an array of needles and knitting wool in all colors of the rainbow for his birthday. Jon usually finds the gentle clicking of the needles soothing, but tonight it’s just a hair distracting, and he keeps glancing up from the page to watch Martin’s fingers as they expertly manipulate the yarn or Tim tap the eraser of his pencil thoughtfully against his jaw while he contemplates an answer. He’s not even quite sure what he’s looking at.

Finally, Tim lays down his puzzle with a sigh. “I think I’m gonna turn in,” he says, sounding oddly reluctant. “Long day and all that.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna—” Martin works a couple more stitches and folds up his project. “Probably a good stopping place for tonight.”

Jon considers saying he’s going to stay in the living room and finish the chapter he’s on, but if he’s being completely honest, he’s been on the same page for however long it’s been and hasn’t taken in a single word. Silently, he slides the scrap of paper he’s currently using as a bookmark back between the pages and closes the book. “Well. Good night, then.”

“’Night, Jon.”

The bedrooms are all upstairs, two on one side and one on the other with the bathroom handy, and the three of them wish each other goodnight again before disappearing into their rooms. Jon closes the door and looks around the room, his room.

There’s not much to it, to be honest. A nightstand, a dresser, a battered desk he’s had since he was a child, a lamp and the bed. He sets the book on top of the desk and changes into his comfortable sleep clothes, then crawls into the bed and pulls the covers up over his shoulders.

It’s…odd. No, not odd. Jon can’t quite think of the right word for it. But the sheets feel unfamiliar against his skin, and they don’t smell right, either, probably because they’re new. The mattress that felt perfectly comfortable when he tested it out in the store doesn’t seem to afford the same comfort now, and he wonders if the floor model has simply had much of the stiffness tested out of it over time. Even the pillows, which he did retain from his old bedroom setup, seem determined to thwart his attempts to find a comfortable position.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, arm draped over his midsection. He won’t fall asleep like this, he’s always been a side-sleeper, but his mind is a seething roil of emotions and he needs to get his thoughts under control before he can even have a hope of getting comfortable enough to sleep, he guesses.

Asexual. Jon probes at the word, at what it describes. I don’t get attracted like that. I just don’t like it. Honestly, until meeting Georgie, Jon had no idea that sort of attraction really existed; he thought it was just something out of the lurid romance novels his grandmother favored and he’d read once or twice in sheer desperation. It was something she’d wanted, though, so he’d tried a few times, but his efforts hadn’t satisfied her and he never really saw what all the fuss was about. He can take it or leave it, preferably the latter.

He never knew there was a word for it.

Suddenly, he wants to talk to Martin about it, about how he realized, how he knew. Where he found the word. If there are many more like—well, like them, he supposes. If that’s one of the reasons he was reluctant to tell Jon how he felt. He wants to ask about Martin’s experiences, if they were bad just because his body didn’t want them or for some other reason. A part of him also wants to cry from sheer relief. He isn’t broken. There’s nothing wrong with him. Well, not in that respect, anyway.

He sighs heavily and rolls onto his side again, plumping the pillows and curling one arm around them. They’re too flat, he thinks idly, too soft and yielding. Which is odd, because that’s never bothered him before. He can’t seem to get warm, either, which is also bizarre because it’s been an unusually mild day for late September and he’s under the duvet he’s had for years, which suddenly seems too light and insubstantial. The room is too quiet and still. It all feels…wrong, somehow.

Jon closes his eyes and stubbornly tries to force sleep, to no avail. The sense of wrongness pervades his being, curling through him and keeping him tethered to consciousness. He runs through the list of problems he seems to be having and tries to come up with which one might be keeping him awake. The only thing he can think of is the unfamiliar mattress. Everything else is exactly the way it was in his old flat.

And when was the last time you slept there? The thought hits him all of a sudden, and his eyes snap open. He forgot. The last time he slept in his apartment was the night before Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute. Ever since then, he’s been sleeping in Tim’s living room…or in Tim’s bed. With the others.

That’s all it is. He isn’t used to the silence of being alone. He’s not used to not knowing, right away, exactly where Tim and Martin are and if they’re safe. He’ll just go and check on them, see that they’re safe, and he’ll be able to get to sleep just fine.

He throws back the covers, slides his glasses back on, and heads into the hallway. Jon somehow ended up in the room by the bathroom, while Tim and Martin are on the other side of the hallway. Martin’s room is first, though, so Jon heads there. He’s as careful as he can be. Martin is probably asleep by now. He definitely seemed tired while they were still in the living room, and Jon wonders if he lingered because the other two were still sitting down there. It makes him feel slightly guilty, like he should have called it a night earlier so Martin can get some sleep. And after all, they did have a very emotionally draining conversation, which probably exhausted him as well. All that runs through Jon’s mind as he slowly, slowly eases the door open and peers around it to see into Martin’s room.

It’s sparsely furnished; nothing but a bed and one of those flimsy pop-up cloth jobs bisected into cubes, which is serving as his dresser. Martin’s laptop and phone sit on the floor, both connected to their chargers. The bed is mussed slightly and shows signs of having been occupied, but Jon’s heart rate accelerates when he looks at it. It’s empty.

There’s no sign of a struggle, he tells himself, and he heard nothing, so surely everything is fine. Martin’s probably just in the bathroom, or downstairs getting a glass of water or something. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Jon will just…go check on Tim and Tim will be fine and then he’ll go find Martin and make sure he’s fine and it…will…be…fine. He pulls the door closed and turns to Tim’s room.

The door is slightly ajar, and there’s a faint glow coming from the room. Jon hesitates, then taps lightly on the door three times before easing it open. Tim is sitting up on the bed, cross-legged and leaning forward slightly. And—Jon’s shoulders slump in relief—Martin is there, too, on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off the side and the other tucked underneath him. They’re talking quietly, but both obviously exhausted. They look up at the sound of the door opening and watch Jon stand in the doorway. He opens his mouth, then realizes he doesn’t know what to say and closes it again.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Martin asks gently. The circles under his eyes are almost black.

“No,” Jon admits. “I—I just wanted to—” He breaks off, still not sure what to say.

Wordlessly, Tim holds out a hand. Jon lets the bedroom door shut behind him as he comes forward and takes it. Martin wraps an arm around him from behind, and the two of them pull Jon onto the bed and into a lying-down position. Tim rolls over and snaps off the lamp by his bed, then pulls the covers up over all three of them. Jon manages to reach down and snag the middle to help.

“Better,” Tim murmurs.

It’s not a question, but Jon hums in agreement anyway. Trying for levity, he says, “Shame to waste money on new beds, though.”

“We’ll be able to sleep there eventually,” Martin says. Jon only realizes how much stress was in his voice when it’s drastically lessened. “At some point we’ll probably want the space. But for now, there’s this.”

“For now, there’s this,” Jon agrees. He tilts his head back briefly to rest it against Martin’s shoulder, and Martin scoots in closer.

Tim does, too, the two of them sandwiching Jon securely between them. “Get some sleep,” he says. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Jon yawns and closes his eyes, and it doesn’t really surprise him when he falls asleep straightaway. The nightmares are as present as ever, but in the morning, he can almost fool himself into believing they weren’t so bad.

Almost.

[broadstbroskis]

surprises- pt 1 | mat barzal

welp, here we go with barzy baby fic! how long’s it going to be? your guess is as good as mine! but i’m excited to start sharing with you guys and i’d love to hear what you think!

warnings: mention of the pandemic/quarantine

-----

The timing was pretty poor, you could acknowledge that. 

Stuck in your apartment as a result of social distancing, you’d grown bored quickly. Working from home was only so exciting and your company’s slack channel was often getting more and more ridiculous as you and your coworkers searched for things to talk about (debates had thus far included best and worst Taylor Swift song, best and worst Harry Potter book, and ranking coworkers' new baby names).

Your roommate had left you on your own, in favor of quarantining herself with her relatively new boyfriend (ignoring your cries of betrayal as she left) so when your neighbor and friend from across the hall had come knocking, you welcomed him with open arms. “I’m bored out of my mind.” Your eyes are wide as you pull him inside.

“How do you think I feel?” You didn’t even notice the bottles of wine in Mat’s hands but you’re grateful for them as he settles them on the counter. “The only thing I can do is workout right now.”

You give him a look. “Yeah, because that’s what you need to be doing.”

“I’m going to lose my washboard abs.” He whines overdramatically, and that’s what sets you off.

Technically you’re still supposed to be working, but you know for a fact you’re not the only one who’s started drinking already and as long as you stay logged in for the next hour, no one will care. You and Mat quickly work your way through the first bottle and he’s popping the second one, while you log off your work account and place the take out order for pizza. 

The second bottle goes almost as quickly, but then the two of you slow down once the food arrives. Mat pops the third bottle in your apartment after dinner, when the two of you settle in together, very closely, much closer than usual, for some Netflix.

You’re not really sure who makes the first move; you know you’re leaning against him and that his arm is around you, brushing against your shoulder, but the next thing you remember, you’re in his lap and his hands are eagerly tracing every bit of skin they can find.

That you end up in bed after that isn’t surprising. That it keeps happening is a little surprising. But, well, there’s not really a lot else to keep you occupied.

And it’s lot more fun to spend your days fucking Mat than doing almost anything else. There’s apparently a lot you two have been missing out on that you could have been doing. 

Eventually, things go back to normal- or as normal as they could be after the pandemic that occurred-and despite the fun the two of you had during your quarantine, you fall easily back into friends and neighbors. Mat gets back to real training, a modified game schedule, and then into playoffs, where after crashing and burning in the first “round” (if you’d like to call it that), he heads back home to Western Canada for a shortened summer to catch up with family and friends.

You’re back at work, excited to be with people again. You and your coworkers institute happy hour Friday’s, where you all start ducking out of work two hours early-summer hours, your boss is calling them, completely ignoring the fact that no one else in your company is having them-to go to the bar, hang out, and just catch up after spending the long weeks apart. They usually end up turning into more of a shit show, with the office group chat often blowing up the next morning with complaints about how hungover people are.

It’s after one such happy hour that you first notice your issue. You wake up Saturday morning, roll over, and then immediately rush into the bathroom to throw up. Within the next hour, that happens four more times. 

You’re lying as still as possible on the couch in the living room when your roommate comes out of her room and straight up laughs at your misery. “It’s not funny.” You whine at her, even though it makes you kind of nauseous to even talk.

“Yes it is.” Molly snickers. “You were home by like 8. For a lightweight like me to get to sit here and watch you be hungover as fuck when you didn’t even have this crazy night, this is my Christmas. Welcome to the club, bitch!” She cackles, not unkindly, but definitely remembering all the times that you and your friends had laughed at her when she’d been in your position.

You barely even hear her, as the first part of her sentence registers, and you bolt upright, immediately regretting it as you do so. You were home by 8. You hadn’t even had that much to drink, begging off a third drink after a headache had started. There’s absolutely no reason for you to be feeling this way.

“You’re right!” You’ve learned from your mistakes and you slowly lower yourself back down to the couch. “I must have eaten something funny.” You’re already starting to feel a little better, you think; it wasn’t nearly as nauseating to lower to the couch. You’re actually almost feeling like you could stomach some food.

“Ugh.” Molly scoffs in disgust. “Couldn’t you just let me have this?”

“Want to watch some Netflix and order breakfast?”

“Fine.”

And as the day goes on, you feel a ton better, even feeling well enough to join Molly and her boyfriend for dinner at one of your new favorite places. It’s another early night and you hold off on booze, just because your stomach’s still feeling kinda queasy from the morning.

And it’s full on rolling again the next morning. You’re back in the bathroom again first thing, which is where Molly finds you, a look of concern on her face. “So, what’s going on?”

You close your eyes, a little more sure that the nagging thought from yesterday morning might be true. “I think we need to take a walk.”

She gives you a look. “To where?”

“Drug store.”

She inhales a sharp breath. “To buy?”

“I think you know what.”

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t be real to me until you said it.”

You stand up shakily, reaching for your toothbrush. No use in putting this off longer than you need to. “Yeah, me either.

Molly squeezes the arm that’s reaching out for your toothpaste comfortingly and then turns to leave and get ready herself.

-----

Once you’ve got far more pregnancy tests in your basket than you’ll hope to ever need in your life, Molly looks at you. “Did you want to take them all home or?”

“Or what? Take them here in CVS? This isn’t fucking Juno, Molly! We have an apartment!”

She shrugs as the two of you start walking up toward checkout. “Maybe you just didn’t want to taint your bathroom with those memories.”

That’s a good point. “I’ll just use yours.” You crack and the two of you burst into laughter, for the first time all day.

It feels so good to laugh that you don’t even notice someone calling out for your roommate. “Moll!” You both look around for the familiar voice, searching for Molly’s boyfriend, but you’d been so distracted by your laughter that you don’t realize how close he is until he speaks again. “Holy shit! Is there uh-something you need to tell me?”

Brian’s actually right there-like standing next to you, in line. Molly’s eyes are wide, looking between you and Brian in a panic as she’s unsure how to answer, so you step up. “They’re not for her; they’re for me.”

“Oh.” Brian says. Molly breathes out a sigh of relief. He looks over at you. “Uhh. Do I need to kick somebody’s ass?”

You burst into laughter and Molly slugs him on the arm. “Bri!”

“What?” He protests. “I’m just trying to be supportive.”

You’re still laughing. “Not yet.” You tell him. “I’ll keep you posted.” Brian’s great; the more time you spend with him, the more you grow to love him and the more convinced you become that he’s absolutely perfect for Molly. But there’s a zero percent chance he’s going to be able to beat up Mat, who’s probably got a good 3-4 inches and at least 30lbs. on him. 

Brian grins. “Done deal. Should I go grab some-” He pauses. “Well I was going to ask if I should grab some booze to get this party on the road but that doesn’t seem appropriate. Sparkling cider? Orange juice?”

“There’s no point in having orange juice if there’s not champagne in it.” You tell him.

“Ohh, go hit that juice bar we were at last week!” Molly requests. 

“See you in a few!” Brian salutes.

“I love him.” You tell her, as he exits the door.

“You can have him as a baby daddy.” She offers.

“I might take you up on that.” You pay for the absurd number of pregnancy tests and begin walking with her back home.

She scoffs. “Yeah, like you’re gonna need a stand in.”

You’re actually pretty nervous of that fact.

-----

A few hours later, you’ve got a string of positive pregnancy tests sitting in a row on the living room table. Not even one negative giving you a sliver of hope. Brian and Molly are drinking for you, for all three of you, and you’re sitting in your corner of the couch numbly staring at them.

Suddenly, you can’t take it anymore. You reach for your phone and press the contact for the one voice you need to hear now.

Mat answers almost immediately, laughing, sounding like he’s having a great time, doing...whatever he’s doing back at home. Sounding young and carefree, like the 23 year old he is. Like the 23 year old you usually sound like.

“Hey!” You can practically hear him grinning through the phone.

“Hey.” You are...decidedly not grinning, but you do your best to stay upbeat and positive. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, immediately, so you must not have done too good a job.

“Nothing.” You tell him. Despite what all the tests are saying, you don’t want to say anything until you call your doctor first thing in the morning. And this certainly isn’t a conversation you want to have with him over the phone if you can help it. “Just-a little bit of a crazy weekend.” Not necessarily in the sense you’d usually be referring, but not a lie, all the same.

“Big parties?” Mat teases.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath and trying not to cry. “Something like that.”

You can practically hear him frown. “Are you sure you’re okay, YN?”

“Yeah.” You tell him. “Just wondering when you’re coming back so I don’t have to water your plants anymore.”

“Do I still even have plants?” He asks skeptically. “I know what your black thumb is like.”

“I guess you’ll see when you come back!” The answer is no. There were no plants. You and Molly kept swearing you’d go out and replace them with new ones before he came back, but you were sure he’d be able to tell. He always could.

Mat laughs. “I know what that means.” In the background, you hear someone call for him and he shouts for them to fuck off. 

“You got to go?”

“We’re about to go finish our hike.” Mat says, apologetically. “Have to get down the mountain now.”

“Ugh.” You scrunch your nose.

“Alright, city girl.” He teases. “I’m sure I’ll talk to you soon!”

“Excuse you, I am from Larchmont!”

He laughs again. “I think that’s probably worse.”

“Don’t fall down the mountain.” You tell him dryly.

“Is Molly there? I want to make sure you aren’t holding a voodoo doll right now.”

You laugh. “Bye Mat.” He bids you the same and you hang up, feeling much better than when you called.

Still anxious as shit, but at least Mat is still the same Mat.

You wonder for how long that will last after you tell him.

[theteej]

Lee-Jackson Day, yet again.

The feeling creeps in, like a slow fog in the morning.  A sense of helplessness, of grief, of powerless confusion.  It's a freezing feeling, and I feel everything grind a little slower inside me, like the gears of some fading automaton.  This feeling has snuck on me like clockwork these past three years, unwavering in its unpleasant reaction.

I feel it long before I realize why it's happening.  Here in California people make idle references to "the three day weekend."  But for four years, it was something a hell of a lot worse for me: Lee-Jackson weekend, and its accompanying violent fuckery. 

Nearly two decades after Confederate commander Robert E. Lee died the Commonwealth of Virginia commemorated his birthday (January 19) as a state holiday in 1889, adding the birthday of fellow Confederate soldier Stonewall Jackson in 1904 (January 21).  Lee-Jackson Day became a state holiday in third week of January, a tribute to the rehabilitation of Confederate rebellion and a chilling moment of celebrating in the face of terrorized black people the lamentable loss of the slave state.  Absurdly, the state simply slapped Martin Luther King onto the whole equation when MLK became a federal holiday; from 1983-2000, there was Lee-Jackson-King Day, truly a nonsensical mishmash that made a false equivalence between honouring white supremacist slaveholding and a civil rights leader.  From 2000 to 2020, the two were separate, creating a strange standoff on either side of the weekend, Lee-Jackson on the Friday, MLK on the Monday.

I of course knew none of this prior to 2014, when I flew out to Washington and Lee University on a job visit on Martin Luther King Day.  Faculty gave nervous glances at the queer, black candidate who'd arrived just after the weekend, but I still didn't understand until the next year, when they rolled into town.   The Confederates came by the dozens, setting up gigantic Confederate flags directly in front of my workplace, slapped up huge signs screaming that Lee was being disgraced by the "new" changes at the University (which had finally acquiesced in taking down Confederate flags in the central chapel on campus that they still made students of colour attend, under the watchful statue of a dead Lee, to partake in school activities), and they would yell at us, challenging us to see them in their unmelanated victimhood.

It fucking hurt every year.  It hurt every year to see the town I lived and worked in invaded by these entitled white men, women, and children, who spewed invective, who openly missed enslavement of people like me, and who loudly made their sense of disenchantment and complaint very known.

You know what hurt more? The fact that that it was absolutely a right response to the moral bankruptcy of Washington and Lee University, and the white administrators and my fellow colleagues rarely openly responded to it as such.  The entirety of Washington and Lee's largesse, its attractiveness, is its storied 'heritage.'  But that heritage is one of enslavement, of white supremacy, of violence.  And it has never, ever been repudiated.  Instead, it's a shitty compromise, where we hold all the slave-built buildings, the memorial chapel that worships Lee, and we think if we wish hard enough, it wouldn't be violently anti-black, and it wouldn't be a complete mockery to hold the institution as thus.

I needed a job after my PhD, and it was a good one, this job in Virginia.  I had enough funding to do research in South Africa, I had curious and thoughtful students, and for the most part I had thoughtful colleagues.  But the place is an open sewer with decorative bricks.  It is a pit of violence and hatred that is as papered over as the thin-lipped smiles I encountered from my white colleagues and the sorrowful shrugs they offered me without doing anything.  It was the dean who shook her head in commiseration but told me to head to another town (ironically, Charlottesville) the entire weekend rather than see the Confederates occupy my town, the stretch of street in front of my apartment, for four days. It still hurts.  It still bothers me.

Two years in, after KKK recruitment flyers were spread around the town, we formed an anti-racist group.  It was largely well intentioned white liberals, headed in particular by problematic professors who wanted to speak over people, but it was something.  And we decided to finally have an MLK parade.  And in a turn of pettiness, we petitioned to have the parade on Saturday, the day the Confederates usually marched.  And we beat them to the permit.  And all hell broke loose.

I and other people got doxxed online.  i got death threats in my email and my picture was circulated as one of the problems threatening Southern heritage.  My mother cried over the phone and worried if I'd die.

We marched on that parade day and it felt significant.  But I also had to deal with deeply disingenuous white townsfolk who made false equivalences. Stephanie Wilkinson, who would make headlines a year and a half later for finally drawing a line and refusing Sarah Huckabee Sanders service at her expensive restaurant, publicly equated Martin Luther King marchers and the Confederates as 'outside problems' and asked for a neutral free speech zone to accommodate both. I saw the hypocrisy of whiteness and accommodation long before the siege of the Capitol.

Working in Virginia from 2014-18 was a rewarding experience for my career, and yet it came at a cost.  It fucked me up badly.  I had to endure, politely, the daily mendacity of polite white society--of people who wanted to imagine that this was "a good town."  And when I wasn't being threatened personally by Confederates I was being gaslit by professors like Robin LeBlanc or Jim Casey who insisted that they were the good ones beyond reproach and that they were the arbiters of what racism was or wasn't.

I am grateful and acknowledge that I have a career because of Washington and Lee, but if I could do it over again, I don't think I would.

Sometimes I still wake up afraid.  My anxiety became a regular companion in those four lonely years.  I felt belittled and gaslit and frankly humiliated, no times more frequently than that interminable fucking weekend in January where in the freezing weather, I was forced to say out loud that it was absurd that I was being asked to accommodate--with kindness no less--the vicious false victimhood of shitty Confederate whites and worse still the well intentioned crocodile tears of my white liberal colleagues.

When the University of San Diego offered me a job I left what was fundamentally an abusive relationship.  But it never leaves you.

And every fucking year since I've been back, even in the counterintuitive summer warmth of these January weekends (it was 83F/28C today), the chill creeps in.  Part of me wants to unclench in the false calm of the California sun.  That we aren't in the middle of another moment of cruel perfidy, where the people with actual structural power perform their victimhood and demand once again that people like me die, or at the very least, be broken in the dust for the soothing of their petty, pointless pride.

And that's why, after the Jan 6 Capitol assault, another Lee-Jackson Day fucks me up.  Because despite the fact that the Commonwealth of Virginia finally, FUCKING FINALLY discontinued the holiday in the summer of 2020, they're back in Lexington today.  Celebrating once again, with huge flags. Taking up space.  And the university does nothing, just victimizes new black faculty trying to quietly write their way out of hell, and reminding the black people still living there that they are always to be seen as obstacles to be crushed. I can't.  It breaks me, still.  Perhaps because I've cruelly come to realize that this isn't over. I moved three thousand miles away and yet those vicious complainants who see people like me as a threat to their minor existence aren't just invading Lexington.

They're assaulting the Capitol. With precious few consequences. And I've few places to run.

[southeastasianists]

'Usually I can earn between Rp.300,000 and Rp.800,000 (A$31 to $83) a night, just for one performance. Nowadays, since I live with my sister and have no wages, I help in her warung to show my gratitude,’ says Singgih via Whatsapp. In addition to assisting at the roadside warung in Parung, West Java, Singgih also uses his Instagram account to help his sister sell her homemade rengginang, a kind of traditional cracker. The government’s restrictions on movement and activities in response to COVID-19 have been in place since April. Fortunately, Singgih’s sister’s warung has remained open, but for musicians and other arts industry workers like him, the story is one of uncertainty and a daily struggle to survive.

Singgih, 29, is originally from Grobogan in Central Java. After graduating from the prestigious Indonesian Institute of the Arts (Institut Seni Indonesia, ISI) in Surakarta, Singgih has worked as a pengrawit or gamelan musician in Jakarta. He says before COVID-19 art performances were held in Jakarta each Saturday and Sunday, day and night. But now, ‘during social restrictions, all my job offers have been canceled or postponed. Until when, I don’t know.’

The art of playing gamelan instruments is called karawitan. The term comes from the Javanese word rawit which means intricate or finely worked. According to scholars, the music also matches this description. It is argued that the gamelan orchestra uses a more complex system than western music. The music produced by the gamelan orchestra is built from elaborate components, including both loud and soft instruments. One of the soft instruments, which adds melodic layers, is the singers’ voices. Karawitan divide the singing parts into the male singing, called gerongan, and the female singing, called sindenan.

Prior to COVID-19, the Javanese arts, especially karawitan, were flourishing in Jakarta, where the majority of residents are Javanese, and there was high demand for traditional musical performance to accompany slametan (blessing events). For Javanese, slametan are held to celebrate weddings, birthdays, circumcisions, the inauguration of a new house or building and commemoration days, among other events. Those who can afford to will rent a full gamelan orchestra and karawitan group to play. At the top end of the price scale, hosts may hold a wayangan: a performance of Javanese shadow puppets accompanied by a large karawitan group.

Who are the musicians making up Jakarta’s gamelan ensembles? Most pengrawit and pesinden (female singers) come from Yogyakarta, Central Java and East Java. Some graduated from an SMKI (Sekolah Menengah Karawitan Indonesia, vocational high schools for traditional arts), others from ISI like Singgih. However, the majority of pengrawit and pesinden in Jakarta are in fact self-taught. ‘Graduating from ISI doesn’t guarantee that a person can play gamelan properly,’ says Warsiah, a 50-year-old pesinden who lives in Kramat Jati, East Jakarta. ‘It takes a lifetime of learning and commitment to be a skilled artist.’

Warsiah came to Jakarta from Wonogiri in Central Java when she was just 16. She first worked selling jamu (a traditional herbal beverage) and did not begin to learn karawitan until she was in her thirties. ‘The pengrawit who heard me singing for the first time told me that my voice matched with the sound of gamelan. I felt encouraged. That’s when I began to learn properly,’ said Warsiah. She regularly attended karawitan rehearsals in Tanjung Duren, Ciledug, and Bekasi. Five years after her first encounter with gamelan, she took her first job as a pesinden.

Warsinah explained that becoming a pesinden meant she was able to leave her job as jamu seller. ‘I remember – it was the 2000s and I was booked as a pesinden every Saturday and Sunday. Imagine this! In the morning I would sing in a slametan event. Then I would go to a wedding ceremony. At night I was hired to accompany wayangan performances. I no longer had time for my business,’ says Warsiah, laughing with joy.

Pesinden are paid more than pengrawit. In recent years, for one karawitan performance in Jakarta, Warsiah is paid between Rp.700,000 and Rp.1 million. When accompanying an all-night wayangan performance, Warsiah earns Rp.1 million. This is different in her hometown. ‘Ten years ago, in my village in Wonogiri, a pesinden could be paid Rp.150,000 even for accompanying a wayangan performance from dusk till dawn.’

Singgih also thinks that his earnings in Jakarta are comparatively good. ‘Imagine this,’ he says. ‘For accompanying an all-night wayangan performance in Central Java, I get Rp.250,000 – if the event is big and the puppeteers are well known. In Jakarta, for the same effort, I can get Rp.500,000 – that’s the minimum fee for pengrawit accompanying a wayangan in Jakarta! So, I just worked on weekends and I could rest on weekdays.’ PSBB

On 10 April, the Jakarta governor Anies Baswedan issued social distancing regulations for an initial period of two weeks. The large-scale social restrictions, or PSBB, were then extended into June. Violations of PSBB carry penalties, including for not wearing face masks in public spaces.

With restrictions on social and cultural activities, the possibility of being paid to perform on stage disappeared overnight. Even before the regulation was introduced, Singgih and Warsinah were already seeing many social and cultural events being canceled or postponed. In addition to performing, both also teach karawitan, earning an additional monthly salary, but during PSBB art studios and universities where they normally teach have also been closed. Soft instruments in the gamelan ensemble / Rahmadi Fajar Himawan

‘I am kind of grateful that all of this [PSBB] happened during Ramadan,’ Singgih reflected. Ramadan ran from 23 April to 23 May this year, and karawitan and wayangan performances are not usually held during this time. Some slametan, such as weddings, are never held during Ramadan out of respect for those who fast. ‘It’s like a coincidence, right?’ Making a living

In April, Joko Widodo announced that the annual mass exodus (mudik) during Ramadan was banned. This meant Warsiah and Singgih, like millions of other Jakartans not native to the city, were unable to celebrate Eid in their hometown. Normally at this time, with performances not allowed during Ramadan, they would return home and gather with family, and after Eid, go back immediately to Jakarta to take up opportunities for work. This year, unable to perform or return to their hometowns, musicians like Warsiah and Singgih have stayed in Jakarta where they are doing whatever they can do to survive.

Warsiah started making jamu again. She charges Rp.10,000 per bottle and promotes it through social media. ‘It’s not bad – it supports me,’ she says. Warsinah has a mushroom farm near her house in Kramat Jati and also an egg farm at her family home in Wonogiri. Though her farms are not large, she feels lucky to be able to support herself during PSBB. ‘But I can’t go to my hometown to celebrate Eid,’ she says.

Some, like Warsiah, make food or beverages or do sewing to make a living and they use social media such as Facebook or Whatsapp to promote their goods. Others like Singgih, rely on the support of their family and work in the family business.

In April, the Ministry of Education and Culture launched a program called Pendataan Pekerja Seni Terdampak COVID-19 (Register of Arts Workers Impacted by COVID-19). The ministry’s stated aim was to make an inventory of arts workers financially impacted by the pandemic. With the data collected, they would aim to distribute donations to those who had lost income. No specific amount of compensation was announced. A similar program was also launched by the City of Jakarta’s Department of Culture, called Pendataan Pekerja Seni di Jakarta yang Terdampak Secara Ekonomi Akibat COVID-19 (Register of Arts Workers in Jakarta Economically Impacted by COVID-19).

There are currently three options for government assistance for musicians like Warsinah and Singgih. Besides the compensation payments, the ministry aims to include musicians in existing social programs, namely Program Keluarga Harapan (Family Hope Program) or Kartu Prakerja (Pre-Employment Card). The ministry is also encouraging any arts workers ineligible for both those programs to perform through online platforms, including its own newly established Budayasaya. Although it is still early days, it does appear that artists who already have a high profile are making good use of online platforms like this. However, it is less clear if they will benefit performers and musicians like Warsinah and Singgih who are less well-known.

The Ministry of Culture and Education created the Budayasaya platform on Youtube, Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, to broadcast arts performances.

As their incomes are less than the limit of Rp.10 million per month, Warsiah and Singgih hope they will be eligible for inclusion in these existing social safety net programs. However, there is another potential hurdle: to be classified as an arts worker, you must not have received income from non-arts-related work. Ironically, this may yet prevent musicians from receiving government assistance as they have needed to use their non-arts skills to survive this far.

On 26 May, the Ministry of Education and Culture finally distributed payments, called PL2B, to those arts workers deemed eligible who had registered back in April. Each successful applicant received Rp.1 million as a one-off payment upon completion of documents required by the ministry. The City of Jakarta’s Department of Culture distributed similar payments in early May.

Like more than 40,000 other arts workers who registered with the ministry by the deadline, Singgih put a great deal of hope in the government programs. I contacted him again in late May via WhatsApp to ask how his application went. He was not one of the lucky ones. His application for compensation was rejected. ‘But PSBB will end soon, right?’ he asked me hopefully. I asked him what he would do if PSBB was extended further. ‘Actually, I have no idea,’ he told me. ‘For now, I hope all of this is stopped immediately.’

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Their Hero Academia: Funeral for a Friend

Presenting the next raw and unedited chapter of my on-going, next-gen, My Hero Academia fic, Their Hero Academia!

Earlier chapters can be found here Note: This installment takes place during the same week as the previous few post-Internship chapters

Tuesday

“Welcome home, Himari,” Eri said, as Kota opened the door to the young girl’s bedroom.  No, not just a young girl.  Their daughter.  Three years old, with purple skin, pointed ears, and darker purple hair, her parents lost in a Villain attack and not even a distant relative to claim her.

They’d spent the better part of the year preparing to adopt her, getting to know her in short visits. It had been a long process, but they were both Pro-Heroes (albeit it teachers, rather than active in the field) of good reputations, with references ranging from Deku to All Might.  The approval process had been rather simple when it came down to it.  That she was a doctor and Kota highly trained in first aid was likely another factor in their favor.

“It’s so big!” Himari said, her eyes lighting up.  “I don’t have to share?”

“All for you,” Kota assured her, bending down to her level.

Himari gasped and threw her arms around him.  “Thank you,” she said.  “Thank you.”

Eri could understand her joy.  The foster system was by no means terrible, but far from perfect and still far too overburdened.  The room was decently sized, but to the small girl, it must have seemed like a palace. The colors were mostly pink, Himari’s favorite according to the conversations they’d had, and there were plush versions of some Pro-Heroes, including a well-worn and much loved “Deku-Bear” that Momo had made for her as a child.

“We got you a lot of things we thought you’d like,” Eri said.  “But if you want something different, we can try that too.   We’ll help you everything all set up in the morning, okay? But right now, it’s getting late, and you need to sleep.”

She nodded rapidly, like a bobblehead doll.  “Okay!” Himari looked back and forth between them rapidly.  “Can we… can we read a story first?”  There was so much need in that little voice, so much crying out for a little time, a little space to call her own.  It practically broke her heart.

Eri smiled.  “I don’t see why not,” she said.  She went over to the small bookshelf and selected one of the books there.  “All Might Goes to the Farm.  This was one of my favorites when I was a little older than you…”  Of course, she hadn’t learned to read until she was nearly seven years old, so she’d had a late start on that.  But the All Might Goes to line of books were best sellers to this day, so hopefully they’d do the trick.

So they got Himari ready for bed, with new night clothes, helping her brush her teeth, and finally settled her into the bed.  Eri set on the edge, book tilted so they both could see, as Himari reached out and put her arms around her.  

She could feel her heart melting already.

***

Later, Eri plopped herself down on the couch, Kota joining her a moment later.  He put an arm around her and gave her a small squeeze.  “So, we did it.  We’re parents.”  To her, it sounded equal parts pride, happiness, and fear.

“We did,” she agreed, leaning against him.  “Think we’ll get it right?”  

“I think we’ll do the best we can,” he said.  “And we’ve got lots of people we can turn to for advice too.”

Neither one of them had had what could be called a normal childhood.  Kota had been raised by his aunt and her teammates on a nature preserve. She’d been tortured and experimented on for years, before being rescued by Deku and adopted by Dad and later by Mom. And as much as she loved her parents, they were hardly the most conventional of individuals, especially Dad.

Certainly, she’d had a mother.  But she hadn’t had a mom until Mom had married Dad, and that hadn’t been until she was twelve, though Mom had been “having sleepovers” for years before that.  So despite all the books she’d read, she didn’t have much of a firsthand perspective on what a mom was supposed to do for a young child.

She hoped she was up for it.

“Aunt Shino and the rest are coming down a couple days before the funeral,” Kota said, “so they can meet Himari.  Uncle Yawara promises he’ll keep Aunt Ryuko down to a dull roar.  I have my doubts.”

Eri laughed at that.  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she said.  “Dad’s coming by for breakfast tomorrow.  And Mom’s coming down later in the week.  She’ll get to know her whole family before too long.”

“How mad is he that we kept it a secret we were going to be adopting?” Kota asked.  He was, to this day, incredibly scared of Dad.  Which, given the numbers of times Dad had tried to put the fear of him into Kota when they were dating wasn’t surprising.  

“Not at all,” Eri said. “He already knew.  I don’t know how, but he already knew.”

Kota’s mouth opened and closed a couple times before he shook his head.  “Why am I not surprised?”

“He did say we did a pretty good job though.  He’s just that good.”

Kota just laughed.  “Yeah, that’d do it.”

They were parents.  Of a beautiful little girl, who might someday call her mom.  It had taken her a while to feel safe enough with Dad, and had taken a lengthy explanation from Deku and Mirio as to just what a dad was, before she’d felt comfortable calling him that.  Himari could take all the time she wanted, as far as she was concerned.  

She hadn’t been this afraid in years.  But she’d also never been happier.

***

Wednesday

Nemuri felt a splitting headache coming on and took her glasses off to rub her eyes.  There was a frightening amount of paperwork involved in keeping U.A. running, much of which accumulated itself on a daily basis.   However, as if he had been sensing the end was near, Nezu’s paperwork prior to his death had been completed in its entirety.  It didn’t surprise her in the slightest.  There was very little that had been able to surprise him.

She wasn’t unused to the paperwork.  She’d been the Vice-Principal for many years now, ever since Nezu had suggested she put her interpersonal skills to work there, rather than in the classroom. Another correct decision from him and, again, unsurprising.  But now, with him gone, the thought of dealing with twice the mountain of paperwork until a new Principal could be found simply made her brain ache.  

They still didn’t have a clue who that would be.  She certainly didn’t want the job.  She was happy with her current position.  And if she was honest, the Hero Public Safety Commission wouldn’t have allowed it anyone. While U.A. was, technically, a private institution, they received enough of their funding from the Commission for them to have considerable influence over policy.  And she’d butted heads with them often enough over the decades that they’d never have accepted her, even if she wasn’t quite as “R-Rated” as she used to be, trading her flashy costume and dominatrix gear for a sensible if not completely modest suit jacket and skirt.  She kept the boots though.

She never had quite forgiven them for giving in to pressure from “concerned citizens” and getting laws passed on just how naked a Hero could be, though.  Definitely none of their business!

She was tired.  The stress of the Nomu attack over the weekend, the death of Nezu, and the need to provide the children with some measure of structure, normalcy, and for those who had been involved, the counseling they needed, had all taken its toll on her. And she hadn’t seen Hizashi since Saturday.  She really needed… release, but that didn’t look like it was coming anytime soon.

The door to her office opened and her secretary poked her head in, her pink hair the texture of cotton candy piled high on her head.  “Vice-Principal Midnight?” she asked.  She looked worried.

Nemuri looked up.  “Yes, Hironaka?” she asked.  Her headache was definitely starting to kick in.   Whatever was going on, she had a sense it wasn’t going to be good.

“There’s some men here from the Center for Quirk Research.  They want to talk to you.”

A deep, sinking feeling settled in her stomach.  “Did they say what it was about?”

Hironaka frowned. “They said it was about the Principal’s…” she stumbled over the words, “remains.”   The way she said it made it clear she was repeating what they had said.

Yep, there was the headache.

Fortunately, they’d anticipated this.  “They’re still outside the gate?”

“Just like you asked. I said I’d have to get your approval to let them in.”

“Good,” Nemuri said. “Tell them we’ll meet them by the fountain in the main courtyard.”

She pushed back from her desk.  “Time to round up the boys.”

***

Technically, it was the boys and the girls, but that didn’t have quite the same ring to it.  But they’d anticipated this and made plans for it. Each of the staff she’d asked to meet her out in front of the fountain was chosen carefully for this specific meeting. Herself, of course, in her role as Vice-Principal.  All Might, as the elder statesman of their faculty and profession, even with his Quirk long exhausted.  Shota, for reasons which needed no explanation.  Skyline, Figure Sk8, and Hopper had all been invited because they could all annoy the fuck out of anyone, and because they were all more than capable of kicking significant amounts of ass if the situation called for it.  And Hawkeye, just in case things got rough.

“Is this really a good idea?” Skyline asked.  “I mean, I like messing with authority figures as much as the next guy, but...”

“Shut up,” Shota said, giving the American-born Hero a glare.  “You’re here to be the ugly American, not ask questions.”

“Ooouch,” Figure Sk8 said, putting an arm on her friend’s shoulder.  She reminded Nemuri so much of Tensei when she smiled.  She and Mic had never had children of their own, but she loved the girl, and the children of other friends, like Eri and Kota, like family.   “He’s got you there, Skyline.”

“They’re coming,” Hopper said.  His tongue shot out and licked his eyes.  

Just two of them, fortunately.  One was a balding and officious looking little man, the other a bruiser easily as tall as All Might, who looked like he had been stuffed into his suit for the express purpose of intimidation.  Against normal people, it might have worked.  But against seasoned Pro-Heroes like them?

Not a chance in hell.

The men stopped in front of them and presented their ID’s.  Shota took both and examined them, pulling a small device from his scarf and scanning them.  After a moment, it beeped and flashed green and he nodded.  “Genuine,” he said, handing the ID’s back.

“I am Professor Kudo,” the balding man said by way of introduction. His eyes lingered warily on the assembled group of Heroes.  This clearly wasn’t how he had expected this to go. “And this is Ueno, one of our security agents.  I am here on behalf of the Center for Quirk Research.”

“We’re aware,” Nemuri said, not bothering to disguise the irritation in her voice.

The others were hanging back, letting her take the lead in this, though none of them appeared relaxed. Hawkeye kept one hand on one of her pistols in a show of dominance, maintaining eye contact with Ueno.  In a showdown between the two, Nemuri knew who she’d put her money on.

“And you’re here for…” Nemuri prompted, her finger tracing circles in the air to tell them to get on with it.  The sooner they stated their preposterous claim, the sooner she could kick them out.

Professor Kudo reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper.  “Ahem, yes, I, ah, have a document here authorizing us to claim the late Principal Nezu’s body.”

They had known this was coming.  In life, Nezu had been a lab rat before finding his freedom.  He had fought long and hard to prove his worth and “humanity” and gain the acceptance of the government, the Hero Commission, and the public at large.  He never spoke about his past beyond the most basic details, though All Might and Recovery Girl knew more than some.  But what was known as that he had suffered greatly at the hands of humans who had thought him nothing more than a curiosity to be studied.

As one of the rare animals with a Quirk, beyond the horned horses sold as unicorns to the mega-rich, it stood to reason someone would want to cut him open after his death.  They’d had to log the details of his death, of course, there was no hiding that…  But the thought of what these people wanted still burned.

“Let me put this in words I’m sure you’ll understand,” Nemuri said.  She made a gesture with her right hand and her riding crop dropped into it from its storage spot in her suit jacket. She took a step forward and smacked Kudo’s hand with it, making him cry out in alarm and drop the document.  

“Go fuck yourself.”  

Kudo stumbled back in surprise.  “You can’t… I have the proper authorization! Signed by the director himself!”

Behind him, the giant Ueno tensed.  

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Shota said, “don’t.”

“It’s a lovely day,” All Might said.  “It would be a shame too to spoil it with violence.”  Nemuri wasn’t worried about him if things got rough.  Even in his seventies, he was still more powerfully built than many men, with a lifetime of experience behind him.  That his tone carried a slight warning about who would be impacting the violence on whom did not go unnoticed by the men.

Kudo, however, was proving himself to be a very stupid man.  “I am an officer of the government!  And I have been authorized to claim those remains for research!”  He was practically turning purple with fury. “Do you know what we might learn?!”

A crack of gunfire exploded at his feet, forcing him to step back again, bumping into Ueno’s broad form.   Nemuri spared a glance over her shoulder and saw Hawkeye had discharged her gun.

“You… you could have hit me!” Kudo shrieked.

“Please,” Hawkeye said, “if I wanted to hit you, I would have.  Super-Accuracy, remember? That was a warning shot.”

Kudo looked around, his eyes settling on Skyline, Hopper, and Figure Sk8.  “Surely one of you must have some sense?”

“<Sorry,>” Skyline said, switching back to his native English, “<I don’t speak Japanese.>”

Figure Sk8 brushed her white forelock out of her face.  “They just keep me around ‘cause I’m pretty.  I don’t make the decisions.”

Hopper shrugged.  “All the sense in the family went to my older sister.  *Croak*”

Nemuri let a sinister smile cross her face.  The kind she used to put on when putting the screws to some Villain.  “And even if we wanted to—which we don’t—Nezu’s going to be cremated, as per his last wishes.  He was a lab rat in life.  We weren’t about to see him become one in death too.”

Kudo flushed red with anger, pointing a finger accusingly.  “You were told when we contacted you to hold the body for examination! This is deliberate defiance!”

“Oh,” Nemuri said, “have we been… naughty?” She shrugged, tilting her head to the side slightly. “We really do appreciate the warning, by the way.  Gave us plenty of time to prepare a proper welcome.”

“You.. you… you…” Kudo babbled, too incoherent to find the right words.  “You’ve making a grave mistake.  I’ll take this defiance all the way to the highest levels of the government!”

Nemuri looked behind her, getting a small nod from everyone, even All Might, who had drawn himself up to his full height, any of the goofy demeanor he used around civilians completely gone.  He had been one of Nezu’s few friends and took the protection of him in death very seriously.

“You’re welcome to try,” she said.  “There’s not a teacher here who wouldn’t back up what we’re doing.  And I’ve got any number of Pro-Heroes in my rolodex who would just love to hear what you were thinking of doing to our beloved Principal.  You know, Pro-Heroes like Ingenium, Shoto, Deku.”

He growled. “This.  Isn’t.  Over.”

“It is for now,” Shota said. His eyes were glowing and his hair was up.  “I recommend you both leave.”

Kudo held his gaze for an impressive two seconds before looking away and starting to walk off. “Come, Uedo.” The giant grunted and followed after.

“Skyline, Aizawa, see them out,” Nemuri said.  

When the officials were out of sight, she finally let herself feel the tension she’d been feeling, nearly sinking to her knees.   That could have gone much, much worse.  

All Might helped to steady her.  “You did well, Nemuri.  Nezu would have been proud.”

She shook her head. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat. But there’s going to be consequences for this.”

“Then we’ll deal with them when they come.”

***

Thursday

“All Might,” Nemuri said as she entered the teacher’s lounge.  The school day was over and she’d already made certain that the other teachers had cause to be elsewhere.  Shota was, predictably, curled up in his sleeping bag in the corner. One of these days, he was going to have back trouble from all of that.

All Might looked up from the videos he was watching from the day’s Heroics classes.  1-C by the looks of it.  She could see Yoru Kan, their former fellow teacher Vlad King’s young daughter, and Haya Tanaka, the girl with the Comet Quirk who’d crashed into the 1-A dorms early into the term, protecting a “bomb” from other students in the class.  

The start of the term felt like a lifetime ago.  The Quirk Virus seemed to have vanished as mysteriously as it had first appeared, with no one the wiser to its origins, no matter the investigative power they had thrown at it.  

“Battle trials, eh?” she asked.  “I’m glad to see you finally learned not to start the classes with that.”

All Might gave her a sheepish grin.  “Yes, well, live and learn, I suppose…   What can I do for you, Nemuri?”

She took the seat next to him.  Super-Ball’s, judging by the decorations.  There was a picture of his husband, a man with a minor ice Quirk who worked as a bartender, if she remembered correctly, and stack of selfies, inscribed “From your friendly neighbor bouncing ball.”

All Might’s own cubicle was filled with pictures of his wife, son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren, unsurprisingly, and one picture of a pretty, smiling, muscular woman with dark hair.  There were also plenty of scribbled crayon drawings, including one where someone older had clearly helped the artist print “Super Mighty Fire Maid,” which, if she remembered correctly, was the current chosen future Hero name of his youngest granddaughter, Mako.

“It’s about the principal job,” she began.

He gave her a kind smile. “Well, if you want this old man’s opinion, you’re certainly more than qualified for it.  You’ve certainly got my support if you want it.”

Nemuri shook her head and smiled.  “I’m happy with my current position.  And we both know the Hero Commission would never accept me, especially not after the feathers I ruffled yesterday.”

“The CQR can’t possibly have that much influence…”

He may have been the former Number One Hero, but All Might was blessedly naïve at times.   “Hardly the only thing,” she said.  “But that’s definitely a contributing factor.  But I’ve been thinking it over and discussing it with some of the others.  And I’d like you to take the job.”

It was a little more complex than that, but even with the influence and “recommendations” of the Hero Commission, some degree of autonomy was assured.  Selecting staff was one of them.  It was the only reason they had some of the teachers they’d had and did.

“Me?” he asked.  “I couldn’t…”

“You’d still be able to teach some classes now and then,” she assured him.  “And keep tabs on your grandson.”

“I haven’t done that…” He wilted slightly under her gaze.  “Nearly as much lately.”

Nemuri sighed. “You’re the best of us, All Might. Even now.  With everything going on in the world right now, with Nezu gone, with the mess I just made of everything…”

Of course, she’d had the backing of the other teachers and staff when she’d told them off.  But as the Vice-Principal, she still felt it fell on her.  “We need to show the world that we’re still U.A.  That we’re still strong and capable of going forward.  We need to show them we’re still worthy of their trust.  And you inspire all of that.

“You’ve more than earned the right to do whatever you want in your golden years, All Might,” she told him. “But I’m asking you do this.  For U.A.  For the students.  Please.”

“You do know I’m absolute rubbish when it comes to paperwork, right?” he asked.  

“Then we’ll get you another secretary.  Take the damn job.”

Both their heads snapped to the corner of the room, where Shota’s head was poking out of his sleeping bag.

“How long have you been awake?” Nemuri demanded.  That damn man was still a ninja.  It was insufferable!

“Long enough,” Shota said. “Nemuri makes a convincing argument though.  Of course, if we did get shut down and I didn’t have to deal with the kids anymore, I might actually have a chance to get some decent sleep.  So do what you want.”  He rolled over and was back asleep in seconds.

“There is the matter of my replacement as the first year Heroics teacher, though,” All Might said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “This is rather serendipitous, actually.”

She sometimes forgot just how smart All Might actually was.  “I take it you’ve got someone in mind?”

He nodded.  “Yes.  He’ll take some convincing, though.  And perhaps a bit of time to get fully up to speed.”

Okay, now she was intrigued. “I’m sure we can manage an effective transition plan.  But who’re you talking about?”

He told her.   She blinked slowly for a moment, then let out a laugh that startled All Might so badly he nearly fell out of his chair.   “I knew you had a sense of humor, but…”

He shook his head. “No joke.  He needs this.  And he’ll be good for the students, ultimately.”

“That’s it,” Shota said, somehow back in their conversation, “I quit.”

“No quitting!” she snapped, fixing him with an icy glare.  “If you quit, I’ll give Hizashi permission to hang around with you all day and night.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t test me, Eraser.”

Nemuri returned her attention to All Might.  “Well, I do trust your judgement.  If you can talk him into it, I think we can make it work.”

***

Saturday

With the funeral on Monday, the staff of U.A. had decided to go drinking.  There was a place near campus that Present Mic had discovered ages ago and it had been a tradition ever since. Kukiko Iida watched as Midnight carefully took the contents of the three smaller, brightly colored drinks set before her and poured them into a larger glass.  With a look of absolutely concentration, she stirred it with a straw until it turned a color Kukiko was pretty sure there wasn’t actually a word for. What was more worrying was this was the third time and the third combination the older woman had tried tonight.

Of course, given her dad’s stories about what Midnight had been like in her younger days, none of this was a surprise.  She apparently got more experimental the drunker she got.  

She leaned over to her left and whispered to Samidare, “I will give you five thousand yen if you take that and drink it.”

He gave her a look which suggested he’d rather try lying to his sister.  “Not on your life.”

“Coward.”

“I’m twelve years older than you.  I will have the hangover from hell if I drink that.  And Midnight will kill me if I come between her and her alcohol.”

“Coward,” she repeated, but leaned back over to her right.  “What about you, Michael?  You want to give it a go?  Five thousand yen.  Cash.”

Michael Skyline, despite the “stupid American jock” act he often put on to fool others (or to get out of work) was not an unintelligent man.  He shook his head, which sent his mane of blonde hair flying.  “Not on your life.”

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about hangovers too,” she teased.  “You’re only twenty-eight.”

“And you’re barely twenty-three,” he said.  “How can you drink me and Samidare under the table?”  He was on his second glass; she’d already moved on to her fourth.

“High speed metabolism,” she told him.  “And you’re a coward.”

“But I’m an alive coward,” Michael said.

“They know we can hear them, right?” Aizawa, sitting across from them, asked Hawkeye, who was sitting to his right.

“I don’t think they care,” she replied.  Both of them were still on their first drinks, sipping them slowly.

“Stop trying to be a bad influence, Iida,” Battle-Fist said.  Kendo Tetsutetsu pinched the bridge of her nose.  A gesture, Kukiko noticed, her daughter tended to copy when frustrated.

“Does it count if I’m the youngest one?” Kukiko asked.  “Can you influence up?”

“How’s your niece, by the way?” Kukikio asked.  “Your sisters were out of the fighting, right?”

“Right,” Samidare said. “Thank heavens for small favors. Tsu and Satsuki were both too far out to get involved.  But Asuka’s fine.  She got hurt earlier, before the fighting, so she wasn’t involved either.  But she’s fine now.  Whole family’s fine.  What about yours?”

“Uncle Tenya’s fine,” she said.  “Uncle Shoto too.  The Twins saw a little bit of action and Izumi wore herself out, but they’re good. As long as Momo doesn’t try and use it as an excuse to try and pull her again.  Don’t know how long Uncle Sho’ can talk her out of it.”

“Be a shame if she did. Girl’s got a lot of potential.”

Kukiko frowned. “She’s worried about her.  Guess that’s a mom’s job.”

Not all the teachers had been able to come, of course.  Doc Clock and Water Spout were busy with their new adopted daughter and most of the second and third year Hero teachers had begged off.  

“Okay, now this little beauty is complete,” Midnight said, possibly not having heard their attempts at drink thievery.  She took a long swig of her drink.

“Well?” FireFox asked, the whiskers of his red panda head twitching.  “What’s it taste like?”

Midnight considered this, licking her lips in such a way that both Samidare and Michel suck in a sharp breath.  “It tastes like… purple,” she declared after a moment.  “Veeeery purple.”

“Nemuri, dear,” a voice from the far end of the table asked, “don’t you think you ought to have some water?”

Midnight made a face and gave the green-haired woman a slightly intoxicated glare.  “Why are you here again, Inko?”

Inko crossed her arms. She only had a non-alcoholic fruit cocktail sitting in front of her.  “Because the last time you all engaged in these shenanigans, my husband came home drunk as a skunk at three in the morning and trying to sing.  So I’m here to remind you all to be responsible.” She used her Quirk and brought her drink to her hand.  “And you’re going to be, aren’t you?”

“Yes, dear,” All Might said, looking somewhat nervous at becoming the target of his wife’s ire. In their defense, All Might rarely joined their drinking excursions, claiming it was a “young person’s game” so they might have gotten a little overly encouraging when he did.  But hey, they’d made sure he’d gotten home safely, right?

Inko held Midnight’s gaze for a moment, before Midnight let out a huff.  “Fine,” she growled.  “I’ll drink some water.”

“Thank you, dear,” Inko said. FOOSH!

“What the heck, dude?!” Super Ball, who was sitting next to FireFox, asked.  “How about a little warning the next time you set your drink on fire?!”

“Fire make drink good,” FireFox told the Homeroom teacher seriously.

“I’m literally made of rubber!  What if I melted?”

“Would it shut you up?” Aizawa asked.

The table erupted into laughter over that.

“I wasn’t joking,” Aizawa deadpanned.  An awkward silence followed, as no one could tell for sure if he was joking.

“Ahem,” Midnight coughed, breaking the silence.  She stood, albeit unsteadily.  “I just want to say…  I just want to say…”  She frowned, trying to remember the words she wanted.  “I just wanted to say thank you.  All of you.  I know this past week’s been rough on all of us.  But we’ve pulled together and pushed forward.  You guys…  you guys and Mic…  you’re my family.  And I’m grateful for all of you.   We’re… we’re gonna keep going.  No matter what.”

She raised her glass. “To U.A.  And to Nezu!”

Kukikio and the others raised their glasses.  “To U.A.! To Nezu!”

***

Monday

In his many years, Toshinori had attended many funerals.  As the Number One Hero, it had been expected of him to pay his respects to his fallen breather.  He’d seen far too many fellow Heroes die in the line of duty.  Until his son had broken the back of villainy rather decisively, it had been far more common for Heroes to live hard and die with their masks on.  Even then, it was still a dangerous profession, and he felt both very guilty and very lucky that he had been able to retire and live to an old age.

There had been funerals where there had been almost no one to mourn for the fallen, like his late Master’s, just him and Gran Torino.  Others, like Best Jeanist’s, had drawn Heroes and mourners from across the country, so beloved was the man.  

For Nezu, it seemed as if the entirety of Japan had shown up.  There were Pro-Heroes, including his son and his family, and many more, many of whom had been students under Nezu.  There were police and politicians.  There were Support Equipment designers, Agency staff, and ordinary civilians, lawyers and businessmen and others, who had been students in other courses as well; Nezu had done a remarkable job connecting with all his students.  There were former U.A. teachers.   There were all sorts of current and former police officers, his friend Police Chief Naomasa Tsukauchi among them.  Even Deputy Hero Commissioner Hawks was in attendance.  

In the courtyard before the main building, a small statue of Nezu had been raised, painstakingly crafted by Pixie-Bob and Cementoss.  It depicted the Principal on a pedestal, smartly dressed as always, sipping tea from a cup and looking out over the whole campus.

Principal Nezu

Served XXXX – XXYY

“To go beyond, you must first train the mind.”

Around the statue, present and former teachers, staff, and their families had gathered.  Other mourners filled the stands of the Sports Festival, with everything being broadcast on the big screens there.

Toshinroi approached the small podium they had set up, his eyes sweeping over the assembled.  Aizawa and Emi, with Young Eri and Kota, Nemuri and Hizashi, and all the rest.  Most looked mournful, of course, but Hizashi was sobbing openly, leaning on his longtime girlfriend’s shoulder.  His eyes finally settled on Inko and he drew a moment of strength from her.

“Unlike many of you,” he began, “my time at U.A. ended before Nezu joined its staff.  I didn’t meet him until I was already an established Hero, though I’m given to understand I may have been one of the first humans he had significant contact with following his… escape.  But he has always been someone I could trust, a source of advice and wisdom, and someone I was proud to call a friend.”

He took a breath.  “Nezu made no secret of the fact that he was not, in fact, a human with animalistic characteristics, but instead an animal uplifted by the presence of his Quirk.  It would have been easy enough for him to have hidden it.  Certainly, there are members of society today who look far less like a “human” than he did.  No one would have questioned it.  But he did not believe in hiding who he was.  And he had fought, rather viciously, for his right to exist and live in the world of man.  So he would not hide.

“What fewer people know is that before he was a principal, before he was a teacher, before he was a Hero, even before he was a free citizen… Nezu was a lab rat, quite literally.   He was experimented on and tortured, daily.  It left him with scars, both mental and physical, that he carried with him every day. In those times, he saw deep injustices, firsthand.  It made him dedicated to seeing that no one should suffer as he had.  He engineered his own escape.  He studied human society and law, and successfully argued for his own freedom.  And then he set about making good on his promise to do the same by others.

“Nezu was a transformative presence at U.A.  As a teacher, he pushed for U.A. to expand its scope beyond the traditional Heroics Courses, reasoning that if U.A. were to produce the best Heroes, then should it not also produce the best Support Designers, the best managers, the best students in general?  It was Nezu that pushed for additional academic rigor, transforming it into the institution it is today.

“It is safe to say that there are many Heroes out there today who would not be the successes they are, if not for Nezu.

“And when I was at one my lowest points, the strength that had served me for decades failing and my own health falling apart, it was Nezu who showed me a new way forward.  He reminded me that I had more to offer, that I could teach the next generation of Heroes.  I wasn’t good at it at first, not by half. But with his guidance and the guidance of others, I eventually confirmed his faith in me.  Faith I am not so certain I deserved.

“But he has always made this a place for everyone, student and teacher alike, could reach their full potential, where they could feel safe.  There have been many times where there have been students in need, in need of safety, in need of an escape, in need of guidance, in need of someone who actually cared about them.

“Nezu always made sure U.A. would provide.  He had no family save for U.A. and its staff and students.

“U.A. is mostly automated, but Nezu knew the name of every single person working here, from the workers in the cafeteria to the teaching assistants, to the maintenance crew.  He knew how to make everyone feel valuable.

“And until the moment of his death, Nezu was fighting for U.A., for this country, and for its people. He was working tirelessly into the night, coming up with plans and contingencies for our safety and future.”

Toshinori paused, as a tear rolled down his cheek.  He forced himself to go on.

“He had seen the writing on the wall coming for a long time.  He had never been certain what his lifespan was, but he knew he was getting older, getting slower, even needing a cane these last few years.  But he was determined to use his every last moment for us.

“We can do no less than continue to honor his vision and go beyond.”

Toshinori looked to the statue.  “To that end, we dedicate this statue to him.  He wished to leave no earthly remains, and we have honored that request. Nezu was neither a religious nor spiritual being, but he understood the levers of faith and the power of mourning and remembrance.  We look to his vison to continue to guide us, and hope that wherever he is now, he is at peace and rest at last.”

He walked away from the podium and touched the statue.  “I will miss you, my friend.”

***

In a hidden bunker, belonging to the League of Villains, Doctor Ursa looked up from the compound he was analyzing.  The day’s news had focused on the death and funeral of U.A.’s principal.  It had captivated the League’s leader’s attention.

“A pity,” their leader said.

“Sir?” Ursa asked.

“Nezu was a remarkably intelligent creature.  Too heroic for his own good, but I am certain he, of all people, could have been made to see reason.  Still… with U.A. in chaos, our plans can continue!”

“Of course, sir,” Ursa replied.  “It will still be some time, however, even with the supplies the other members liberated while the Nomu distracted the Heroes.”

Their leader made an impatient noise.  “I suppose it will have to do.  And perhaps a little more time spent waiting for the other shoe will rattle them more.   Our Virus taught them to fear their Quirks.  The Nomu attack showed them how fragile their Heroes are.  Now… we can show them a different path.”

[newstfionline]

Headlines

Images of brutality against Black people spur racial trauma (AP) Since Wanda Johnson’s son was shot and killed by a police officer in Oakland, California, 11 years ago, she has watched video after video of similar encounters between Black people and police. Each time, she finds herself reliving the trauma of losing her son, Oscar Grant, who was shot to death by a transit police officer. Most recently, Johnson couldn’t escape the video of George Floyd, pinned to the ground under a Minneapolis officer’s knee as he pleaded that he couldn’t breathe. “I began to shake. I was up for two days, just crying,” she said. “Just looking at that video opened such a wound in me that has not completely closed.” Johnson’s loss was extreme, but, for many Black Americans, her grief and pain feels familiar. Psychologists call it racial trauma—the distress experienced because of the accumulation of racial discrimination, racial violence or institutional racism. While it can affect anyone who faces repeated prejudice, in this moment, its impact on Black people is drawing particular attention. The unfortunate irony is that the very tool that may be helping to make more people aware of the racism and violence that Black and other people of color face is also helping to fuel their trauma.

Critics question `less lethal’ force used during protests (AP) When a participant at a rally in Austin to protest police brutality threw a rock at a line of officers in the Texas capital, officers responded by firing beanbag rounds—ammunition that law enforcement deems “less lethal” than bullets. A beanbag cracked 20-year-old Justin Howell’s skull and, according to his family, damaged his brain. Adding to the pain, police admit the Texas State University student wasn’t the intended target. Pressure has mounted for a change in police tactics since Howell was injured. He was not accused of any crime. He was hospitalized in critical condition on May 31 and was discharged Wednesday to a long-term rehabilitation facility for intensive neurological, physical and occupational therapy. His brother has questioned why no one is talking about police use of less lethal but still dangerous munitions. “If we only talk about policing in terms of policies and processes or the weapons that police use when someone dies or when they are ‘properly lethal’ and not less lethal, we’re missing a big portion of the conversation,” said Josh Howell, a computer science graduate student at Texas A&M University. The growing use of less lethal weapons is “cause for grave concern” and may sometimes violate international law, said Agnes Callamard, director of Global Freedom of Expression at Columbia University and a U.N. adviser.From 1990 to 2014, projectiles caused 53 deaths and 300 permanent disabilities among 1,984 serious injuries recorded by medical workers in over a dozen countries.

Coronavirus Global Death Toll Passes 500,000 (Foreign Policy) The coronavirus pandemic, about to enter its fifth month this week reached two grim milestones over the weekend: More than 10 million people have been infected with the virus and over 500,000 have died of it. Europe has seen the most deaths of any continent, although its overall caseload is declining. The situation in the Americas is more concerning: Two countries—the United States and Brazil—account for roughly 35 percent of all COVID-19 deaths worldwide and both countries are still seeing new cases in the tens of thousands daily.

Virus hits college towns (NYT) The community around the University of California, Davis, used to have a population of 70,000 and a thriving economy. Rentals were tight. Downtown was jammed. Hotels were booked months in advance for commencement. Students swarmed to the town’s bar crawl, sampling the trio of signature cocktails known on campus as “the Davis Trinity.” Then came the coronavirus. When the campus closed in March, an estimated 20,000 students and faculty left town. With them went about a third of the demand for goods and services, from books to bikes to brunches. Fall classes will be mostly remote, the university announced last week, with “reduced density” in dorms. Efforts to stem the pandemic have squeezed local economies across the nation, but the threat is starting to look existential in college towns. Communities that have evolved around campuses are confronting not only Covid-19 but also major losses in population, revenue and jobs.

Band’s pandemic diversion leads to every-night gig in park (AP) What started as a way for two musicians to get out of the house during the pandemic has turned into nightly concerts at the boathouse in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park—with fans who expect them to play three to four hours a night, seven nights a week. “One day I came here with my guitar out of nowhere, to just get some fresh air. And people just started coming over. And then they were like, ‘Thank you!’ And then it took a life on its own,” said Alegba Jahyile, leader of Alegba and Friends. Jahyile, a Haitian raised in New York who plays guitar, drums and bass, recalled a woman who cried at one concert. “You made my day,” she told him. “It’s been a terrible week for me and my family. Listening to you, singing, I felt the joy, I found a little bit of serenity, of peace to my day.” The area has steps that are good for sitting. It’s also adjacent to a grassy hill where people can bring children and dogs, spread blankets, plop down lounge chairs, and picnic while listening to the music.

World Food Program warns of ‘devastating’ pandemic impact in low- and middle-income countries (Washington Post) The World Food Program (WFP) warned Monday that the socioeconomic repercussions of the coronavirus pandemic will be “devastating” and could trigger food shortages for millions of residents of low- and middle-income nations. In the countries in which the organization operates, the number of people suffering from hunger is estimated to rise by more than 80 percent by the end of 2020, in comparison with pre-coronavirus times. Latin America and Africa are among the most heavily impacted areas. “This unprecedented crisis requires an unprecedented response. If we do not respond rapidly and effectively to this viral threat, the outcome will be measured in an unconscionable loss of life, and efforts to roll back the tide of hunger will be undone,” WFP Director David Beasley was quoted as saying in a release. “Until the day we have a medical vaccine, food is the best vaccine against chaos.”

Iceland’s president wins second term (Foreign Policy) Icelandic President Gundi Johannesson won a second term on Saturday in a landslide victory. Johanneson won 92 percent of the vote, while his right wing challenger Gudmundur Franklin Jonsson received just 7 percent of the vote. The Icelandic presidency is a largely symbolic post, although the president can exercise veto power over legislation.

Britons are fatter than most in the rest of Europe, says PM Johnson (Reuters) British Prime Minister Boris Johnson said on Monday Britons were significantly fatter than people in most of the rest of Europe, admitting he had lost weight after contracting the novel coronavirus. Speaking to Times Radio, Johnson said: “I have taken a very libertarian stance on obesity but actually when you look at the numbers, when you look at the pressure on the NHS (National Health Service), compare, I’m afraid this wonderful country of ours to other European countries, we are significantly fatter than most others, apart from the Maltese for some reason. It is an issue.” “Everybody knows that this is a tough one, but I think it’s something we all need to address.” Johnson did some press ups to show he was “as fit as a butcher’s dog” in an interview with the Mail on Sunday newspaper, just months after he fought for his life in hospital against the coronavirus.

French court convicts former PM Fillon of embezzling public funds (Reuters) A French court on Monday found former French Prime Minister Francois Fillon guilty of embezzlement of public funds in a fake jobs scandal that wrecked his 2017 run for president and opened the Elysee Palace door for Emmanuel Macron. A French court on Monday found former French Prime Minister Francois Fillon guilty of embezzlement of public funds in a fake jobs scandal that wrecked his 2017 run for president and opened the Elysee Palace door for Emmanuel Macron.

Hard times even for homeless (Worldcrunch) Speaking to German newspaper Süddeutsche Zeitung, anthropologist Luisa Schneider described one homeless girl she’s followed. “Before the crisis, she was able to study and wash in cafes or libraries. Neither is possible now.” Schneider expects more Germans to sleep on the streets in the coming months. “Many networks have now collapsed. Even homeless people who used to support each other are now losing sight of each other.” In France, government authorities and NGOs were able to accommodate 177,600 people with shelter during the lockdown period, reports Le Monde. The government has invested more than 2 billion euros helping those without homes, including requisitioning 13,300 hotel rooms. Yet France’s emergency phone number for homeless assistance remains overwhelmed, with over 200 calls on average daily and many unable to secure a temporary housing situation. And as the country continues opening up, it is unclear how long the special accommodation period will last.

Polish election (NYT) Polish President Andrzej Duda failed to win enough of the vote in Sunday’s election to avoid a runoff, according to exit polls, forcing him into what is expected to be a tightly fought contest with the liberal mayor of Warsaw Rafal Trzaskowski next month. Although Duda came out ahead on Sunday, analysts expect that to change in the runoff election in two weeks, as opposition voters whose support was split in the first round unite around Trzaskowski.

Russian state exit polls show 76% so far back reforms that could extend Putin rule (Reuters) Russian state opinion pollster VTsIOM said on Monday that its exit polls showed that 76% of Russians had so far voted to support reforms that could allow President Vladimir Putin to extend his rule until 2036. The nationwide vote on constitutional reforms began on June 25 and is being held over seven days as a precaution against the coronavirus pandemic. If approved, the changes would allow Putin to run twice for president again after his current term expires in 2024.

Militants attack Karachi stock exchange, killing at least 3 (AP) Militants attacked the stock exchange in the Pakistani city of Karachi on Monday, killing at least three people—two guards and a policeman, according to police. Special police forces deployed to the scene of the attack and in a swift operation secured the building, killing all four gunmen. There were no reports of any wounded among the brokers and employees inside the exchange and a separatist militant group from a neighboring province later claimed responsibility for the attack.

China forces birth control on Uighurs to suppress population (AP) The Chinese government is taking draconian measures to slash birth rates among Uighurs and other minorities as part of a sweeping campaign to curb its Muslim population, even as it encourages some of the country’s Han majority to have more children. While individual women have spoken out before about forced birth control, the practice is far more widespread and systematic than previously known, according to an AP investigation based on government statistics, state documents and interviews with 30 ex-detainees, family members and a former detention camp instructor. The campaign over the past four years in the far west region of Xinjiang is leading to what some experts are calling a form of “demographic genocide.” The state regularly subjects minority women to pregnancy checks, and forces intrauterine devices, sterilization and even abortion on hundreds of thousands, the interviews and data show. The population control measures are backed by mass detention both as a threat and as a punishment for failure to comply. Having too many children is a major reason people are sent to detention camps, the AP found, with the parents of three or more ripped away from their families unless they can pay huge fines. Police raid homes, terrifying parents as they search for hidden children.

Thailand opens its borders to some (Worldcrunch) Thailand will allow pubs and bars to reopen on Wednesday and plans to let in some foreign travelers after recording five weeks without any community transmission of the coronavirus, a government official said. Pubs, bars and karaoke venues will be able to operate until midnight as long as they follow safety guidelines such as ensuring two-meter spaces between tables. Foreigners with work permits, residency and families in Thailand will also be able to enter the country, but will be subject to a 14-day quarantine. Visitors seeking certain types of medical treatment such as some cosmetic surgery or fertility treatment could also be allowed into the country.

Balcony churches: Kenyans find new ways to worship in lockdown (The Guardian) The children hang over the balcony railings on Sunday morning. In the parking lot below, a four-person band test microphones and practise harmonies. A moment later, the group fills the Mirema apartment complex in Nairobi with music: “I’m happy today, so happy. In Jesus’s name, I’m happy.” The Rev Paul Machira, a tall, slender beanpole of a man with greying hair, leaps around energetically, encouraging the balcony worshippers to join in prayer. Sporting green overalls embroidered with his nickname, Uncle Paul, the 43-year-old has been traveling around apartment complexes across Nairobi, bringing his balcony services and Sunday school to families since the Covid-19 pandemic closed down places of worship in Kenya on 22 March. Pairing dance moves with their tunes, the band encourage children and their parents to spend the hour dancing and praying together. When Machira realises that a crowd has gathered on the balcony of the apartment building next door, he shifts to a “360 service” to include those neighbours. Machira’s services are by invitation only. He says that the group have had to skip services because some of the neighbours have objected to “noise-makers” in their complex. Machira’s group have been booked for as many as four services in one day before. This popularity means that they sometimes have to split into two, renting an additional van and musical equipment to cover more ground.

[carmenlire]

Meet Me in the Stacks Ch. 3

read from beginning

read on ao3

As soon as Yoongi hears the overhead announcement that the library is officially closed, he’s shutting down his computer at the reference desk and heading towards the back to grab his things. It’s one of the last Sundays of the season that they’re open and he’s eager to enjoy the end of his weekend before coming back to work for another six straight days.

He passes by Taehyung who’d been assigned to the computer area for today’s shift and winces a little as he sees his coworker helping three different people print while trying to hurry them along as quickly and subtly as possible.

When Yoongi gets to their workroom, Jin and Jimin are already packed up and ready to head out.

“Is Namjoon at the restaurant already?”

Jimin laughs as he types something on his phone. “Of course. He rode his bike there and already put in his name for a table. We should be seated as soon as we get there. Hobi-hyung just drove straight to the restaurant on his way back into town so he'll be there, too.”

Groaning, Yoongi makes sure he has his wallet and keys before shuffling over to the door. “Thank God. I’m hungry and need to vent.”

“Ah, Yoongi-chi, what pissed you off today?”

Grumbling as he opens the door and still sees Taehyung helping the last patron, Yoongi just mutters, “I’ll tell everyone later.”

Jin and Jimin hum in understanding, knowing that they never talk shit about patrons when they’re at work and can be overheard.

The three of them leave through the staff entrance at the back, Jimin making eye contact with Tae to make sure he knows where they’ll be waiting, and Yoongi squints at the bright early evening sunshine.

It’s a little past five o’clock but it’s still warm. Yoongi feels a little like a bat or a particularly grubby mole as his eyes literally burn at the brightness.

Jimin sees his suffering and has the audacity to laugh. “Hyung, you should get out more, enjoy the fresh air. You look like a baby vampire.”

Yoongi snorts. “Fuck off, Jimin,” he retorts absently.

Thankfully, it’s not too much more before Taehyung comes tumbling out of the staff entrance.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, looking like he’d just stared death in the face. “I didn’t think I’d ever make it out of there.”

Everyone laughs in commiseration at their friend’s dramatics. “We were losing hope too,” Jin snickers before patting him on the shoulder. “But you’re free now and Yoongi’s about to start eating his foot so let's get to the restaurant.”

They decide to walk since it’s such a nice day and not for the first time, Yoongi begrudgingly admits that he really does love living in a small town where everything is within walking distance. The library is just a few blocks from Main Street, closer to the school, and Main Street is chock full of small businesses-- everything from a coffee shop to the soap store that he spends way too much at every time he visits to a world-famous toy store that makes their little corner of the world especially hectic during the Holidays.

There are a dozen restaurants, each with their own specialty, and Yoongi is glad that Namjoon had chosen the barbeque place for his week’s pick. The six of them go out every Sunday evening for what they’ve taken to calling family dinners and while he’ll never admit it aloud, Yoongi loves this little tradition of theirs.

It’s a pleasant walk, less than fifteen minutes, and Namjoon’s bike is clearly visible near the front. When everyone walks in, they see Hoseok and Namjoon at their favorite table in the corner. A messy few minutes later as everyone settles, and Yoongi breathes a sigh of relief at sitting down and being off the clock and away from hell, at least for the next fifteen hours.

“So,” Taehyung starts, skimming over a menu he could probably recite at this point. “How was your weekend, Hoseok-hyung?”

Hoseok grins, taking a sip of his coke that he must’ve ordered before everyone else arrived. “It was wonderful, Tae-ah. I’m glad I put in for this weekend off. Going back home was fun, especially since the weather was so nice, and my mom sent me back with enough food to feed an army.”

“Well, we know where to stop by for dinner this week, don’t we,” Jimin asks and Hoseok groans good-naturedly.

“I’m glad you had a good time, even if you left the rest of us to suffer in your stead,” Taehyung says solemnly and Namjoon snorts.

“What happened this afternoon, Tae? I know Yoongi texted me last night about how awful things were at closing yesterday but you look, no offense, a little wrung out.”

Yoongi interjects before Taehyung can reply. “You act like you don’t remember how Saturdays used to be. If we’re not dead then it’s Bedlam. Just because you’re management now doesn’t mean you should be so impervious to the plights of your staff. After all, if it weren’t for us common librarians--”

Everyone, including Namjoon, groans at the familiar spiel. “Stop bullshitting, hyung. Did I not cover the desk all week with you last month when Jin took off and we were short staffed in the evenings? And did I not have to calm down Cerano when he almost went nuclear at the prospect of, God forbid, having to pay for his 132 single-sided color prints?”

Grumbling, Yoongi just rolls his eyes. “At least you didn’t get hit on by a woman looking old enough to be your grandmother yesterday. And I couldn’t very well offend her delicate sensibilities and tell her I was gay as fuck, so I just had to smile as she had the audacity to pinch my cheeks and call me a goddamn dumpling. When I tell you that I’m entitled to financial compensation--”

“The union pays a fair wage, you know,” Jimin breaks in mildly and Yoongi just glares at the flagrant disrespect.

Before things can get any more out of hand, though, Namjoon calms everyone down. “Well, it’s good to know that the building’s still standing and that my department is making me proud even when I’m not there.”

Everyone scoffs and as the topic turns to talking about potential plans for the group to go on a weekend trip together over the summer, Yoongi reflects that he’s really quite glad he took this job in a small town a few years ago.

Yoongi hadn’t always known what he wanted to do. He’d majored in history in college-- minoring in a few other areas that caught his interest-- but knew he didn’t have the patience to pursue his Ph.D. and become a professor. He’d always had fond memories of his own library back home, though, of reading any book he could get his hands on, of his mom taking him every week when he was still young enough to participate in children’s programs.

As graduation had started looming, Yoongi had applied for an internship at a research library and had fallen in love. He loved learning and helping others find what they wanted made him feel good, like he was making a difference, even if it was such a small one. As soon as his last semester had began and his internship had wrapped up for the summer, he’d started applying for Masters programs in Library Science and had learned very quickly that there is a lot that goes into making libraries run smoothly and stay relevant to the masses.

He’d been roommates with Seokjin and Namjoon during college and while he’d wandered from library to library for a few years, trying different types of institutions to see what fit and what didn't, his old roommates had started as entry level librarians in a small town a couple of hours away from university.

The three of them had stayed in touch and Yoongi had treated them to a celebratory dinner whenever Namjoon was promoted to first assistant manager and then manager of the adult services department. Seokjin, for his part, was content enough in his role, tending to his collections and away from the pressure of dealing with the director directly and having to make all those big grand strategic plans for their department and library at large.

Namjoon thrived in his new role and when he’d reached out to Yoongi, let him know that someone was retiring and they’d have a spot open, Yoongi hadn’t hesitated to apply.

His best friend hadn’t been part of the interview committee and all around, that made things easier. He’d been offered the job the next day, started within a month, and had quickly found himself surrounded by idiots.

He loved it.

Yoongi’s been at the library for a few years now and while the whole department is full of dumbasses, they have the highest circulation of any neighboring library and Namjoon keeps them all in line with firm but fluid leadership.

Moving to a new town is always nerve wracking but Yoongi likes to think that he’s settled into things. He had Namjoon and Seokjin but his other coworkers in the department became fast friends, welcoming him with open arms. Of course, he’d heard stories about Hobi and Jimin and Taehyung-- but they had heard stories too and they had seemed to be friends almost before he even started his new position.

All in all, things were good. Yoongi didn’t absolutely hate his job, he had good friends, and he lived in a quiet neighbourhood with a bustling town life that he rarely participated in but knew he could if he did.

Yoongi’s thoughts break off as he hears Jimin’s peel of laughter. Tuning back into the conversation, he hears Hoseok exclaim, “You should see the way Yoongi turns red whenever he comes up to the desk. I thought his ears were gonna catch fire the last time he helped him.”

Glaring, Yoongi demands, “What the hell are you cretins talking about now?”

It’s Namjoon who laughs. “Everyone was filling me in on your admirer. I can’t believe you’ve had to tell him where the computers are six times and you haven’t lost your patience yet. It must be love,” he teases with a grin and Yoongi plots murder.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Joon-ah,” he says stiffly and resolutely ignores the fact that it’s getting a little warm in the restaurant.

Thankfully, everyone simmers down as the waitress comes by with drinks-- Hoseok and Namjoon ordered for everyone while they were waiting-- and it’s time to order food.

That only eats up so much time though and soon enough, Yoongi’s back in the hot seat and cursing his existence for moving here and landing himself with a bunch of idiots.

“So hyung,” Taehyung starts with a wide smile. “Have you gotten Jungkook’s number yet?”

Yoongi just narrows his eyes. “How do you know his name?”

Taehyung waves the question away. “Oh, we’re getting to be friends,” he answers airily.

Jimin giggles and it’s a little concerning how devious it sounds. “Sometimes he comes in and you’re not there so we got to talking one day when Taehyungie and I were at the desk together. He really is cute, isn’t he?”

Feeling like he’s chewing glass, Yoongi grits out, “I guess if you’re into that kind of thing.”

“And are you into that,” Hoseok asks with an infuriating smirk. “You know, tall and toned and with those tattoos--”

“The way his hair falls into his eyes,” Jin adds dreamily. “The way he dresses like he wants to tell you to fuck off but then he speaks and he’s the cutest, most polite thing you ever saw--”

Yoongi tries to keep from smiling but sees from the way Namjoon’s eyes sharpen as he watches him and knows he’s not being as subtle as he’d like. Knowing that he has to say something, all Yoongi can manage is, “So maybe I think he’s attractive. That doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen.”

“And why not,” Jimin asks, genuinely curious. “You like him, he likes you--”

“How on earth can you know that,” Yoongi cuts in flatly. “He’s never done anything to show he’s interested in me as more than the librarian who knows where the copier is.”

He’s stunned when the entire table groans in unison.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Hoseok asks, looking a little put-out. “As if Jungkook doesn’t make a beeline towards you whenever he comes to the library.”

“Like he doesn’t know exactly where everything is by now and like he isn’t a reasonably well-adjusted adult who could figure things out by himself but still asks you for help just so he can bask in your grumpy little gremlin presence for a few minutes--”

“Wait what,” Yoongi breaks in, shocked. “What do you mean he knows where everything is? Every time he comes in, he needs directions.”

“Yeah, from you,” Seokjin says pointedly.

“If he doesn’t see you at the reference desk, he doesn’t even look at us,” Taehyung adds. “At least before I introduced myself and pulled him into a conversation. The most we ever got from him was a wave and a little smile.”

From his periphery, Yoongi sees Namjoon open his mouth and he closes his eyes in defeat, knows that his friend is about to put the final nail in the coffin that has been Yoongi’s frankly impressive ability to downplay his feelings and any hope that they might be reciprocated.

He’s right.

Namjoon looks sheepish as he adds his two cents. “If this is who I think we’re talking about, I’ve seen him around.”

Looking intrigued, Hoseok prompts, “Do tell.”

With a wary glance in Yoongi’s direction, like Namjoon is afraid he’ll just lunge across the table to shut him up, Namjoon explains, “I was walking back from a managers meeting and saw someone in the New Nonfiction section? He was a little distracted looking at the cover of a book and someone bumped into him. He was admittedly pretty hot so I wasn’t running back to my office like I usually am--”

Jin snorts but Namjoon merely plods on, neck a little warm, “Anyway, I heard the patron who bumped into him ask if he knew where the scanner was and Jungkook told them. I was ready to step in but he had it handled. A few minutes later after I talked to Jimin-ah at the computer desk, I looked up and he was actually helping the old woman scan her papers.”

Nodding along like it confirms everything they’ve been saying, Hoseok looks smug. “He’s not only a gentlemen but he knows how to use technology.”

Jin stabs into his starter salad that's just been placed in front of him before pointing his fork with a cherry tomato hanging off the end at Yoongi. “Snap him up before someone else does, Yoongi-chi.”

Taeyhung laughs. “Yeah, you know Jimin and I are always looking--”

“Shut up,” Yoongi pleads quietly as he brings a hand up to his temple. “What the fuck,” he mutters to himself, wondering what Jungkook’s aim is here.

“Isn’t it obvious, hyung,” Namjoon asks, making Yoongi realize he must’ve spoken aloud. “He’s trying to woo you.”

With an unattractive snort, Jin tacks on, “I know it might be hard to believe, but some people think you’re cute.”

Yoongi blinks but Jin doesn’t let him say anything before his tone turns philosophically wry and he’s continuing, “Some people really like the grump look. Admittedly, I didn’t think odds were on that you’d find someone at work when all you do is glare at your computer screen mutinously and whisper under your breath about running away to a fishing village in Florida but here we are and Jungkook seems like a nice enough guy, albeit one who makes me worry about his taste in men, if he likes them so prickly--”

“Oh but hyung,” Taehyung breaks in mischievously, “Have you really seen Yoongi with Jungkook? He turns into a little kitten, I swear--”

“Yah, I’m still your hyung, you brat,” Yoongi interrupts darkly. “Would it kill you to show a little respect?”

“But he’s right, Yoongi.” Jimin would almost look apologetic if it wasn’t for the devilish gleam in his eye. “I’ve seen you stutter when Jungkook asks you a question and as soon as you see him, your whole face lights up. Granted, I don’t think most people would be able to notice but your dourness is only, like at a one out of ten instead of off the charts. He even makes you smile when he’s being adorably awkward, too.”

“Too,” Yoongi repeats, squinting a little.

Taehyung nods solemnly. “You’re a mess around him, Yoongi-hyung.”

“A match made in heaven then,” Hoseok crows and the rest of the table laughs.

Yoongi’s just trying to stop his thoughts from spinning out of control at the fount of information that just dumped all over him. Deciding he needs a quick break to get himself under control, he moves his chair back, merely offering, "I need to go to the restroom," when Jimin looks at him in question.

The group waves him on, having a merry time, and Yoongi rolls his eyes even as he huffs out a fond laugh at their antics, even if they're at his expense.

They come to this restaurant at least once a month-- they all love barbecue a little too much-- and Yoongi's sliding around tables and heading towards the restrooms near the front of the building. He spends a few minutes at the sink, and when he looks at himself in the mirror, he winces seeing that his face definitely didn't hide his reactions to all the ribbing about Jungkook.

He collects himself and feels better as he washes his hands and goes to head back to the table. Swinging open the door, he's passing the hostess stand when he hears someone call out his name. "Yoongi?"

Looking over, Yoongi freezes when he meets Jungkook's eyes. Out of everyone in town, Yoongi despairs, he just just had to run into his crush when he'd just gotten himself back under control. He only hopes that none of his friends are looking over or he'll never hear the end of it.

"Hi, Jungkook," He greets warmly. Not seeing anyone obviously with him, Yoongi asks, "Are you eating alone?"

He's all set to ask Jungkook if he'd like to join him and his friends-- and he knows, he knows, that his friends will have way too much to say if he brings him back to his table but there's a little voice in his head that points out that Jungkook seems pretty new in town and if he's eating out at a restaurant alone, he might like some company and apparently, Jungkook is already friends or at least friendly with the devil twins and it might not even be so bad to eat with Jungkook, to see how he acts with the most important people in Yoongi's life, that he'd love to spend more time with him outside of the library-- but all of his rambling internal wishes are for naught when Jungkook just smiles sheepishly and nods towards where the hostess is walking towards them with a bag.

"I'm just picking up takeout, don't worry."

Yoongi nods, thinking of what he can say to add to the conversation before the silence grows too long and awkward between them. "This is one of the best restaurants in town. Even their takeout is amazing."

Jungkook grins and reaches out for the bag the hostess holds, murmuring his thanks before he turns fully to Yoongi. "I might have a serious weakness for their lamb skewers. I come here like, twice a week at least," he admits with a little laugh and Yoongi doesn't know why, but he's endeared.

"That's what I usually get," Yoongi says and watches Jungkook's eyes light up.

"Really, Yoongi-ssi?" Yoongi nods, feels his face get warmer which is infuriating since he had just cooled down but Jungkook suddenly looks a little nervous as he bites his lip. Finally, looking at Yoongi a little shyly, Jungkook says, "Maybe one of these days we could get lamb skewers together?"

Before Yoongi even has a chance to respond, Jungkook's eyes are widening and he's almost backtracking. "I know that we don't really talk outside of the library and that even when we do, you're always helping me but I thought it might be nice to talk-- outside of your work, sometime. If you wanted to, of course! I don't mean to put you on the spot and I know it must be awkward to have to tell someone who sees you at your work no but please feel free to if you don't want to--"

"Jungkook-ah," Yoongi finally breaks in just for Jungkook to obviously cut himself off and take a deep breath. "I'd like that."

"Yeah," Jungkook asks, hopeful, eyes wide and the hint of a smile curling on his mouth.

Yoongi had mostly talked before he'd let himself think but it's not like this isn't what his friends were just hinting at. He's still loathe to get his hopes up but if this is Jungkook making a move or trying to be friends, then Yoongi definitely doesn't want to discourage that. And while he knows he's a flustered mess, he'd really like to hang out with Jungkook more, especially outside of work. "Yeah," he confirms with a smile of his own, tentative and small, just to watch Jungkook grin.

It's almost blinding. Yoongi loves it.

"Great," Jungkook says. "We'll definitely do that then."

Yoongi can't think of anything to say besides repeating Jungkook again. "Great," he says, abashed and drops his eyes to stare at Jungkook's combat boots.

Looking down, he doesn't see the way Jungkook's gaze softens, turns into something gentler and unforgivably enamored.

It's silent between them for a moment and Yoongi's used up all of his brainpower to get this far so it's a little startling when Jungkook suddenly shifts and lifts his bag a little, apologetic. "It was really great running into you, Yoongi-ssi but I should probably get going before my food gets cold. I'll see you soon?"

Nodding along to whatever Jungkook was saying, Yoongi blinks a little before offering, "Hyung."

Jungkook tilts his head a little, confused, and Yoongi takes a breath. "You can call me hyung. If you want."

This time it's Jungkook's turn to look away, flustered and happy, but he's meeting Yoongi's eyes again a split second later. "Okay, then. Hyung. I'll see you later?"

"Okay, Jungkook-ah. I'll see you later. It was nice running into you like this."

Jungkook waves with his free hand, smile bright as he steps toward the door. "Bye, hyung!"

Yoongi watches him stride past the big window and sighs a little to himself. He doesn't really know what the last five minutes were but he's happy and a little nervous but definitely feeling good.

Knowing that his friends will probably start looking for him soon, he take a deep breath, wills the blush he just knows is high on his cheeks to fade, and walks back to their table.

Everyone smiles at his return and he takes his seat quietly, listening to Hoseok update everyone on how his parents are and what he did this weekend back in his hometown. He's not really paying attention to the conversation though, too wrapped up in what just happened with Jungkook and if it means what he really wants it to mean and how it might connect to what his friends had been telling him before he'd left the table.

There's a pause in the conversation as the waitress brings their meals out and Yoongi debates with himself on bringing Jungkook back up but he wants to be sure, can’t quite stop the hope from sparking but before it starts raging out of control. He just needs one last bit of reassurance.

Taking a deep breath, his quiet voice breaks through the pandemonium that’s his friends making fun of him.

“So he really doesn’t need help,” he asks, out of nowhere, trying to pretend the answer isn’t important to him, like he’s not hinging on his friends’ next words. “He only singles me out?”

Jin’s eyes soften as he looks at him and Yoongi feels both put on the spot but comforted as one of his oldest friends just nods softly. “I’m telling you, Yoongi-yah, Jungkook is at least interested in you.”

“Definitely,” Jimin confirms nodding earnestly. “Did you know that he’s had his office printer set-up for weeks now but still comes to the library to work sometimes? But hyung, if he doesn’t see you then he just wanders in the books for a little while before grabbing one and checking out. He really is just coming to the library for you.”

“Maybe you should give him a chance, hyung,” Taehyung encourages and Yoongi smiles despite himself.

His friends really do mean well even if they’re a pain in his ass most of the time.

“I don’t know,” he says, unsure and not bothering to hide it. “What if I do something, or let myself think something means something, and it turns out he’s just a nice guy who’s polite and I read way too much into things?”

It looks like Hoseok is praying for patience but his voice is soft and nothing but supportive and understanding as he replies, “Then you still put yourself out there and that’s something to be proud of. Plus, you’re both so awkward and nice that it wouldn’t ruin anything. You could at least be friends.”

“As your manager,” Namjoon breaks in and Yoongi stiffens a little wondering if this is going to be one of the times when his friend has to be the bad guy. “I don’t see anything wrong with talking to him outside of the library or even asking him on a date. You’re never presumptuous or pushy, hyung. If he even hinted that he wasn’t into you like that, you’d back up and remain professional. I don’t see any issue with you crushing on a patron.”

The rest of the table cheers now that they have their boss’ approval and Yoongi pretends like he doesn’t feel the same relief.

“Whatever,” he finally says when the expectant looks of his friends starts to be a bit much and he feels like he has to speak. “We’ll see what happens but I’m not in any rush to make a fool of myself.”

“Ah hyung,” Jimin says, wrapping an arm around Yoongi’s shoulders, “You’ll be fine. It’s not like Jungkook doesn’t look ready to bookmark your ass as soon as you give the okay.”

Yoongi chokes, reaching for his water, and all of his friends laugh at his flustered face, rapidly turning red. He hates them, he really does.

But then Seokjin pats his shoulder and deftly turns the topic back to work and how he’d almost gotten into a fight with a group of teenagers who’d called him an ancient hag when he’d merely told them to lower their voices a little, and Namjoon looks like he’s seeing his department demerits flash in front of his eyes and everyone’s laughing as the heat is taken off of Yoongi and he decides that this isn’t so bad, after all.

He doesn’t know if anything will come from his conversation with Jungkook tonight, so he decides not to say anything, doesn’t want to give anyone any more fodder against him-- really doesn’t want his friends to get so excited that it makes him hope, too. He’ll see what happens and maybe he won’t try so hard to hide his feelings.

Ignoring a voice that sounds suspiciously like Jimin telling him that he’s already shit at hiding his feelings, Yoongi forgets about crushes and guys who can be both hot and adorable at the same time and enjoys the rest of his family dinner with his friends, thinking about how his life is made up of small moments like these that all string together to make a pretty good existence, all in all.

[sevenfactorial]

On the topic of math REUs

So I’m finally getting around to writing about this (also using it as a a draft for when I talk about REUs at math club next semester lol). This is based off my singular experience so of course it’ll vary quite a bit. Also yeah, it got really long.

First, some context. I went to an 8 week program several hours away from home at a mid-sized public university. It’s math department isn’t tiny, but mine is bigger I think (it has a math grad program while the REU school doesn’t for one) and definitely does more research (I go to a R1 school, the REU school is not). My REU was also in a mid-sized town compared to the small city I’m used to. There was two math projects going on, with 4 people on each plus a student from the university working with my project on a different grant and two professors mentoring each group. In addition, they support a much larger chemistry REU who we were housed with.

The Research

I worked on algebraic graph theory (the pure math project, while the other group did applied math). Specifically we looked at the abelian sandpile model, also known as chip firing and some other names.

We weren’t given a specific question and were more encouraged to find our own questions within the topic. We found the freedom really nice and interesting, but also felt like we would have gotten more done if we were given a narrower window of things to look at. Many REUs are given a specific question/project (the other group did) so it varies. Coming up with research questions is often considered harder than making discoveries themselves so it was frustrating in a way but I'm also glad I got to deal with it.

With 5 people working on the topic, we split up and formed groups multiple times through the summer. All of us ended up working on one question(looking at a group defined by sandpiles on strongly regular graphs; I’m not going to get into detail about the material itself but message/send an ask if you want to know more. You can also probably find our final write up online once our mentor posts it) but also had personal/two or three person mini-projects going on. My main one was not particularly successful since I eventually realized I was trying to do something similar to a conjecture that has been open since the 90s (abelian sandpiles was started in the 80s, possibly 70s?) which was sort of disappointing but still interesting.

We worked more computationally than I’m used to since graphs are just... kinda weird and the algebra was sort of borderline what we were capable of learning and doing in a short time. Note that you don’t have to have a strong background in the topic to work on an REU. You don’t have to have any background often times; the mentors will likely do a crash course on it during the first week or two which is intense but works just fine. I happened to have a little and one of my labmates had done algebraic graph theory research before, but the mentors didn't assume much prior knowledge (the application should be clear about if they do expect you to have certain background but typically, they just assume you’ve taken several math classes and have experience with proof writing. maybe a linear alg or programming class).

At the end of the summer, we did a presentation for the other group and anyone else in the department who wanted to attend and wrote up a final report together. Some programs expect something publishable, though I get the impression most are more aiming for “something that can be published with heavy refinement.” We’re encouraged to present at our home institution or at conferences if we can/want to and have a decent chance of getting funding from their department to do so if necessary.

The Work Day

Working at the REU is definitely the closest thing I’ve had to a standard job. The first weekish, we met at 9:30 and 1:00 each day for the background crash course lecture, with a break in between to work without the mentors and get lunch. The students would then work without the mentors until 5. After the first week or two, we only had a meeting with the mentors once every day or two but continued to work roughly from 9:30 to 5, with a lunch break from 12 to 1. This was really mostly our choice to do so. We all did some work outside the work day, but nothing like the amount of homework we're used to as math students. A lot of us found it baffling how much free time we had.

We were given several options for places to work in the math building and everyone typically worked in the same room but it wasn’t forced either. Sometimes I spent the afternoon in the library if I decided I couldn’t take social interaction and did work at a coffee shop downtown a couple mornings. We were also able to visit the mentors in their offices outside of meeting times.

They also did tea once a week where a different faculty talked about their experience/path to their current career and gave advice for grad school and the like.

Outside of Work

The mentors and organizers did a couple events. We were close to DC so they took us one Saturday (I went back on my own to visit counter-example another weekend which is when the squirrel encounters happened), one mentor hosted a memorial day bbq at his house and another did a game day at hers. Another mentor is an amateur astronomer so he took us up to a mountain top to stargaze one night which was fantastic. All the math students (from both projects plus those who were students there and were around for research or whatever) were invited to all the events and chem REU students were also invited to some of them. Likewise, we were invited to some events hosted by the chem REU though I went to less of those.

Mostly though, we were left to our own devices outside of work hours. We were put in a dorm which was effectively a 2 bed 2 bath apartment for 4 people which included a kitchen (we were able to buy meal swipes on a faculty plan and I bought some but mostly cooked). I didn’t bring a car so I often went grocery shopping with one of my labmates or roommate since the nearest grocery store was a bit over a mile away.

Downtown was a lot closer though, so I often walked there on my own to a restaurant or coffee shop. They had a nice downtown area with a lot of food options so that was really fun.

We were nestled between several forests so me and some of my labmates went hiking on Saturday and me and some of my roommates attempted camping once as well (story and some pictures here: https://sevenfactorial.tumblr.com/post/186095927170/yesterday-me-and-my-roommates-went-camping-except).

I was also able to keep up with various friends at home. A few of us read a linear alg book together for the first month or so of the summer and I continued playing d&d with a few of my friends on a bi-weekly basis via video chat (we usually do it over video chat in the first place actually), though we intentionally skipped during the last two-ish weeks of my REU.

This is obviously very dependent on where your REU is but kinda gets the gist of what a lot of programs do in terms of activities. Activities tended to be announced/planned pretty last minute though, so it’s a bit of a guessing game.

My Take Away

I liked going to my REU. For me, the most valuable things was definitely getting to meet math people from other places and having different experiences from what I’m used to.

I really love my department at home but comparing experiences was fascinating. Whether that’s what subjects are offered or how things are structured or how we interacted with our department, it varied a lot. Having that knowledge is useful in my opinion.

Life experiences are also really different. Two of my labmates are from small liberal arts schools in the NE and one is from an engineering college on the west coast. There aren’t fireflies on the west coast, for example, and not many in new england either, so everyone else was fascinated by how many there were (there were slightly more there than I’m used to since I live in a larger city, but not enough for me to find it unusual).

I also grew up in the same city I go to undergrad in too so spending two months somewhere else was really valuable for me. I had never been away from my parents for that long (I tend to not spend a lot of time at home but I visit for short amounts of time frequently) but I will be going out of state for grad school since there aren’t any grad programs in my state that I’m interested in. My parents were encouraging but pretty freaked out about me being gone for two months (we all survived).

TL;DR My REU was a bit like an intense but flexible job where I was able to work on an interesting project and meet a lot of people with similar yet very different experiences from my own. I recommend applying!

[prophetandprincess]

X X X X X X X

Hello All! I am still coming to terms that Endgame is out, I saw it, and I survived to tell the tale with only minimal tears! I think it was a satisfying ending to the journey that we started way back in the day. Now, let’s head back in time to see what Alex is up to before even Age of Ultron happened

“Where’s the fire, Parker?” Alex called as Peter all but ran out of their lab section on Friday. She had to dodge other students, calling out apologies as Peter seemed to have no problem moving through the crowd. He was pretty thin, but it seemed a little odd that he was so good at bobbing and weaving.

Peter pretended that he hadn’t heard Alex, even though she knew that he had from how he hunched his shoulders even lower. He got to the stairwell first, but with a burst of speed, Alex was able to grab onto his arm. Peter successfully wiggled out of her grasp, but his backpack was not so lucky. Papers, pens, a calculator, and gadgets that Alex had no idea what their use was went skittering all over the stairwell. There was a collective groan from the other students, and some jeers, as people moved around the carnage.

“You’re like a one woman wrecking ball, aren’t you?” Peter sighed as he started to gather up the gadgets before they were trodden on by the caffeine filled zombies of the student body.

“Well, if you would have stopped to talk to me, this wouldn’t have happened,” Alex hissed as she gathered up the papers while attempting not to drop any of her own things. “I said we were going to have a conversation and now you’re acting like I’m a leaper.”

“I’m busy,” Peter grabbed everything, leaving some pens to their fate, and shoved everything into his bag.

“Make time,” Alex snapped as she shoved the papers into his chest. She was about to continue her rant, but the top piece of paper caught her eye. It was an application that held the crest of Imperial College of London for a foreign exchange program.  

“Harper, I get it, we need to talk, but there is something happening right now that I need to get to. Do you get me?” Peter gave her a meaningful look as he shoved the papers into his bag.

“Are you going to England?” Alex countered, not really paying attention to the look or what he was trying to tell her.

“Alex, please…” Peter gave a huff as he ran his fingers through his hair. “How about this, come to dinner at my house tomorrow. You’ll get free food, we can work on the project, and you can ask your questions, okay? I’ve gotta go.”

“Alright, alright, fine,” Alex was a little confused by everything. “Text me the address later.”

Peter gave her a small smile before dashing down the rest of the steps and disappearing outside. Alex moved at a much slower pace, wondering why Peter would be looking to go to London, especially knowing what he did at night. She also didn’t understand why she felt so upset about it, only a week ago, she thought he was a stalker. It kept nagging at her, even during her time at Stark Tower, and it was creative enough to work its way into her nightmares.

Saturday was a grey morning as Alex got up to start getting ready for her first day working on the extra credit assignment. Professor Warren had stated that a driver would pick her up promptly at eight and Alex had hit snooze three times, but she still took time to check twitter. After the normal memes and conversations about celebrities that Alex really didn’t care about, there was a news story about a scientist’s apartment that was completely ransacked the previous afternoon. Spiderman had been seen around the building, but it was unclear if he had been the one who when into the place.

“Well, that is something to ask him about,” Alex sighed as she continued her preparations. Hadn’t Jake mentioned something about a scientist being attacked when she talked to him at some point? It could be a coincidence, but it seemed rather…concerning.

Alex’s phone started to ring, making her jump. The fear turned to confusion when she saw it was the front desk number.

“Johnathan, is there a problem?” Alex asked as she finished dressing.

“There is a…man sitting out front in an SUV that said he was waiting for you. Should I call the cops?” Johnathan, who was new on the weekends, asked.

“No, someone was supposed to send a driver for me, I’m guessing that’s him.” Alex said slowly, wondering what this guy looked like to make the doorman so concerned.  

Alex saw exactly why Jonathan was concerned when she got down to the lobby. The man standing outside the SUV was large, stone faced, and looked as if his nose had been broken at least three times. He just nodded his head as he opened the door for her, never speaking a word, and then he started to drive her toward the Ravencroft Institute. Alex wondered what the hell she had gotten herself into as a couple rain drops splashed onto the windshield.  

“Oh this can’t be right,” Alex looked through the windshield between the wiper blades at the large stone structure that loomed up in front of the car. It reminded her of a medieval castle that had been turned into a prison at some point. She wasn’t exactly sure what she had been expecting, but this was far more foreboding.  

“Ravencroft Institute, state your business,” the guard at the outer fence asked, hand on the gun at his hip, when the driver rolled down the window.

“Alexandra Jade Harper, student assistant to Dr. Miles Warren.” The driver’s voice was deep and gravelly, which Alex realized she should have expected. Of course the man who looked as if he used to work for the mob had a six pack a day voice. Maybe he was a mobster at night and this was just his day job. Who was she to judge?

“She’s on the list. Drive through, she can pick up her badge and sign the papers at the front desk.” The guard didn’t even look into the back seat before taking a step back and tapping his ear. “Open the outer gates for a visitor.”  

Soon the car stopped in front of a large stone arch, the doors obscured by the gloom of the surrounding stone and the dark clouds that were releasing a light drizzle onto the asphalt. Alex’s mind suddenly went to the line from Dante “Abandon hope all ye who enter here”, not exactly what you wanted to think about when entering a psychiatric facility, especially one that housed criminals.  

“I will wait out here for you.” The driver unlocked the doors before slipping on his sunglasses, even though it was raining, and folded his arms over his chest.

Alex waited for a second, attempting to collect herself, but staring at the darkened doorway wasn’t making her feel any more excited about her decision about taking this extra credit assignment. Finally, Alex sent out a quick text to Peter, stating that if he didn’t hear from her by the time for dinner, to send out the National Guard, and got out of the SUV. As she approached the door, Alex realized that sending a vague text like that to a vigilante might not be the best idea, but she was hoping that he was so busy or sleeping and he wouldn’t see it until she was done with the interview and sample collection.

There was a little comfort in the satisfying click of her heels as she approached the front desk, smoothing out her skirt in the hopes of calming her nerves. She had no idea what the dress code was for interviewing someone who was deemed criminally insane, so she went with professional. Red sweater, black pencil skirt, panty hose even, and black pumps. Her hair was down to hide her earrings, but she still didn’t feel all that confident or professional.

The interior of Ravencroft Institute wasn’t any more inviting than the outside. The floors were concrete, the walls were gray, and the ceilings were just a latticework of exposed pipes. Alex had been in prison before, and this had the same feel with industrial touches. The front desk was located behind bullet proof glass, and neither of the guards even attempted to give a smile as Alex approached the opening.  

“Hello, I’m Alex – Alexandra Harper,” Alex’s voice shook a little. “Professor Warren sent me to collect samples and interview one of your…patients?”

“Sign in and take the clipboard to fill out the forms.” Neither guard looked up at Alex or corrected her use of the word patient instead of prisoner.

For imposing at the building seemed from the outside, the lack of basic curiosity from the guards was even more disconcerting. In one of the cracked plastic chairs that were just begging to snag her panty hose, Alex stifled a yawn as she skimmed over the paperwork. The forms were the run of the mill stuff, if you get murdered or maimed, you can’t sue us. They were forms she had signed a number of times, but they seemed more menacing when she realized that the likelihood of being maimed, murdered, or other horrible things were much more likely here.

“Finished,” Alex attempted to sound chipper as she slid the clipboard to the guards.

“All personal belongings will go into a locker,” one guard said as he got to his feet, heaving a huge sigh. “You will be pat down as well to make sure you’re not smuggling anything in. Doctor Warren has had equipment approved and it will be given to you when you get to the subject in question.”

“The extra credit better be freaking worth it,” Alex muttered as she picked locker nineteen, her lucky number, and punched in the code to lock it. Not having anything to defend herself with, especially after the alley attack, made her even more uncomfortable.

“Alright, come through,” the guard waved here to walk through the metal detector, which thankfully didn’t beep because of her earrings, before a thorough pat down. “Here’s your visitor’s badge, which you will need to show a guard at every door. There is also a panic button on the clip in case anything happens. You’re going to cell G-9.”

That was it, not even any explanation how the panic button worked, before the guard disappeared back into his little control room. There was the loud click of the doors locking behind her. The sound of her heels clicking was no longer comforting as she walked down the hallway. Alex showed her badge to the guard standing at the elevator and she hoped he was armed more than necessary. He punched in a code to a pad that had no markings on it and waited without saying a word. It was like a Buckingham Palace guard that was armed for the zombie apocalypse.

The door slid open, showing another guard waiting in the small silver box the badge. Alex thanked the guard outside, though he didn’t even look at her, before stepping inside. There were no buttons in the elevator, but it started to descend soundlessly. Alex was pretty sure she had a nightmare like this before, the doors were going to open and there was going to be a boogeyman there. Though if it was a more recent nightmare, it would be The Winter Soldier, or just a tidal wave of blood. You know, super cheery things.

“It’s seems scarier than it is, Miss,” the guard said, making Alex jump. “We have only had one security breach, about a year ago, and since then they have gone a bit overboard. Even that situation, it wasn’t anything major.”

“Better safe than sorry, right?” Alex gave him a nervous smile. The fact that there had been a security breach, even if it was a year ago, was not exactly comforting.

“Especially with the people we have here, but there is no reason for you to look so jittery, you’ll be safe.” The guard gave her a reassuring smile underneath the visor of his riot gear. “You don’t want to let them smell fear. It’ll just make them rowdy.”

“Just like every other man I’ve ever met,” Alex muttered, not completely reassured by that information.

“You need anything, just push that panic button. Take no prisoners.” The guard gave that one last piece of advice as the elevator stopped.

Alex wasn’t sure if that was guard humor or not, but she couldn’t bring herself to laugh. Instead, she took a deep breath, a nod of acknowledgment and stepped out of the elevator. Alex put a little steel in her spine as the doors slid closed, and started forward. If there was one thing she was good at, it was bullshitting confidence.

It was surprisingly quiet, no screaming, laughing, or whimpering. After seeing so many movies set in insane asylums, she had expected pandemonium, but everything seemed controlled and contained. Each cell had a glass door with a safe like lock and a guard positioned alongside each in the shadows, as the light was pretty atrocious. None of the guards looked at her as she passed. The sound of her heels on the concrete floor mixed with the sound of water dripping somewhere, unnerving Alex more than screaming or manic laughing would have.

Cell G-9 was easy enough to find as there was a metal cart with supplies and a plastic chair outside the glass door. Alex said hello to the guard, who didn’t move a muscle, before taking a deep breath and looking into the cell. The lighting was no better, but there didn’t seem to be anyone in there.

“Don’t mind Jason,” a voice in the back corner of the cell called, making Alex jump. “He’s not supposed to talk to the dangerous criminals and must think that it also applies to pretty girls.”  

The voice was rather gentle, and cultured, which was surprising given the less than gentle and cultured surroundings. Alex’s eyes finally adjusted to the low lighting and could make out a pair of legs in orange cloth and white prison shoes against the back wall, though the rest of the body was still impossible to see.

“My name is Alexandra Harper and I’m Professor Warren’s assistant on the research project that you’re a participant in,” Alex took a seat on the edge of the chair, crossing her legs in an attempt to appear calm and professional. Don’t let them smell fear and take no prisoners. She had a job to do and she was going to do it, end of story.

“Well, you sound smarter than the last psychologist they sent to analyze me,” the voice continued, white shoes shaking a little. “The poor thing could barely get a word out, his teeth were chattering so badly. That begs the question, how did the good professor headhunt you for this particular assignment?”

“I’m not a psychologist, I’m a biochemist,” Alex wished she could see his face, it would make her feel a little less nervous. “And I wasn’t headhunted, I’m one of his students and this is an extra credit assignment. I just have to collect some skin and blood samples and then conduct a short interview. I hope that isn’t an issue, Mr…”

“Your honesty, as well as your company, are refreshing,” the legs disappearing into the shadows before the speaker walked into the light provided by the one recessed bulb in the ceiling. “Mr. Osborn, Harry Osborn to be precise, but you can just call me Harry. No need to be formal if we are going to be seeing each other every week.”

Alex had pictured what the person on the other side of the glass would look like since she had said yes meeting them, but the former head of one of the most powerful companies in the world had never even popped into her mind. It was all over the news that Harry Osborn had a nervous breakdown and that was why he was removed as the company CEO, but she had no idea it had landed him in a criminal asylum. What had he done to wind up here?

“Miles, Professor Warren, didn’t tell you who you were coming to see, did he?” Harry’s smile was soft as he sat down on the edge of his cot. His hair was a mess, but other than a jagged patch of scaly looking skin on the side of his face, he didn’t look all that mutated. What had caused the mutation? Something at Oscorp?

“He did fail to mention that the person I was coming to interview was worth probably over a million dollars, but what else is new?” This whole assignment was bizarre.  

“I know that feeling, never getting the whole truth to ensure that you do what someone wants. Since I was a child, everyone has always been after something from me, but no one was ever honest about it.” Harry tilted his head as he studied her for a moment, before giving the ghost of a smile. “Also, I want to point out, I am worth a lot more than a million, even locked up in here.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Alex gave him a smile as she looked down at the clipboard on the metal cart. “Now, it sounds like the psychologist when through these questions with you before, so I’m guessing you’re primed with the right answers. Is that right?”

“If it was anyone else who asked, I would say no,” Harry laughed, but it wasn’t dark or twisted. It was light and soft, and sounded very out of place in this setting. “However, I like you, Alexandra. Everyone else tried to adopt the persona they thought would best get me to talk, nice and cordial or stern and cruel. You are just talking to me like a person.”

“Last I checked, you are still a person, so I don’t see any reason to treat you otherwise.” The conversation was alarmingly comfortable and Alex found herself even liking Harry a little bit. “Also, please, call me Alex or A.J. Alexandra is just so…

“You don’t like Alexandra? I think it fits you, regal and gentle.” Harry tilted his head as he studied her. “You expected me to be less sane than I am right now, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t really have expectations,” Alex looked down at the clipboard again, reminding herself that she had a job to do. “So, are you going to answer these questions or not?”

“How about this?” Harry crossed legs and shimmied to the end of the bed, blue eyes sparkling. “For every question you ask me, I get to ask you one.”

“You can ask, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll answer,” Alex conceded. “You’re also not getting any blood or skin samples from me.”

“Fair enough, you start,” Harry gave her a smile, showing slightly pointy teeth.

Alex asked the first question and Harry was answering before she finished asking it. However, he was patient and repeated himself slowly, pausing so that she could easily transcribe it accurately.

“Where are you from?  It’s obvious that you aren’t native to New York,” Harry propped his head up on his folded hands.

“A tiny Midwest town on a not so tiny farm,” Alex relaxed in the chair a little. Harry had to be close to her age, something she would have to google later, but in the slip on shoes and jumpsuit, he seemed younger.

The rest of the hour continued in the same vein, Harry asking innocent questions and Alex providing vague answers. While she felt relaxed, telling a mentally unstable criminal detailed facts about herself did not seem wise, but she saw no problem with her favorite color or what her zodiac sign was.

“I have a question that’s not part of the assignment, if you don’t mind,” Alex said as she motioned for the guard to open the little area in the door that would allow Harry to stick out his arm for her to collect the samples.

“I get to ask another question then,” Harry said as he rolled up his sleeve and slid his arm out without any protest.

Alex snapped on a pair of gloves and opened the container with medical supplies. It was rather simple, a couple vials of blood and a small skin sample. Relatively noninvasive and painless, if you weren’t scared of needles. Professor Warren had given her a lesson about how to properly collect samples when she agreed to the assignment, but her hand still shook a little as she placed her hand on his arm to make sure he didn’t flinch.

“Calm down, Alex,” Harry said softly, looking up through his lashes and giving her a smile. “I promise one little needle stick isn’t going to bother me. What’s your question?”

“Earlier, you said ‘less sane than I am right now’” Alex slid the needle into Harry’s arm, he didn’t even flinch. “Does that mean that, because of whatever happened, you have a fluctuating mental state?”

Alex knew that the likelihood that whatever happened to Harry had nothing to do with Hydra, but a fluctuating mental state made her think of James. If she could get a brain scan on how his brain functioned during one of these episodes, maybe that data could be used in her research on a way to help James once he was found.

“Whatever happened, well, I did it to myself,” Harry said as Alex gently cut out the skin sample. “I had a rare genetic condition and there’s no cure. Slowly, I would have become an invalid, dying before my time, a husk of a human being. The only thing my father ever gave me.”

Alex looked up at Harry and was surprised to see that he was watching her intently. There was something about the way his blue eyes focused on her, the strange light behind them, that sent a small shiver down her spine. She could feel his pulse hammering as she pressed gauze to the small incision. There was an itch in her wrist, but she ignored it as she secured the samples, disposed of everything, and stripped off her gloves.

“At Oscorp,” Harry continued, voice even softer that he was basically whispering, “we had a cure of sorts, but it hadn’t been tested on humans. Well, it had accidentally been tested on one. It was my only hope, so…I took it.”  

“It didn’t go well,” Alex realized that they were almost nose to nose through the glass, feeling as if she moved away she would break something. This was not an answer to the question she asked, but it was still fascinating and she didn’t want Harry to stop talking.

“Well, my condition has slowed if not been stopped completely due to the mutations that the serum caused,” Harry gave her a ghost of a smile. “However, at times, I’m not myself. There are physical transformations as well and they’re not pretty.”

“Well, that will remind me to never skip the proper scientific procedures in my research,” Alex tried to joke, but it was an awful attempt. “I’m sorry, about the illness and…what came after.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Harry pulled his arm back, rubbing the back of his hand as the opening was secured once again. “The transformation, it taps right into my rage and I don’t care what’s right or wrong, just what I want. Sometimes I remember what I do, sometimes it is something I’ve wanted to do all along, other times…”

They were standing there, looking through the glass at one another, deep blue eyes looking into light blue. There were equally deep purple bags under both sets of eyes. Alex realized that she was barely breathing, completely entranced with what he might say next. It felt weird, to be staring at someone she had just met and hanging on his every word. Was she really so tired that he was having such an effect on her or did it have to due to the setting that the conversation was taking place in?

“Other times I do something I regret, like kill an innocent woman, one about your age, just to hurt someone who had wronged me.” Harry was studying her face, to see how she took the news. “They didn’t put me in here because I look good in orange.”

Alex finally blinked and took a step back, processing the information she had just been given. It wasn’t like she didn’t know more than her fair share of people who had blood on their hands. Steve during the war, Sam as well, James had killed people right in front of her, and that didn’t even count the people at Stark Industries. Harry seemed genuinely upset by what he had done, but did that change the gravity of the act?

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Osborn,” Alex said as she got ready to leave, turing to the guard. “Yours as well, Jason.”

“Harry, please, and I meant what I said about your honesty being refreshing. That’s why I told you the truth, I’m hoping that you come back next week for the next interview. I do like you better than anyone else that Miles, the professor, has sent me.”

“Take care of yourself, Harry,” Alex said with a small smile. “I’ll see you next week.”

Alex walked down the hall, feeling a little braver, letting her eyes drift over to the cell doors. There was nothing to see in most of them with the small glimpse that she got, but in a couple she would see the back of a head. There was only one that had a man standing at the door, looking out at her. He was older with wispy blond hair and round glasses. The expression on his face as she passed could only have been described as concerned. Then she was passed the window and stepping into the elevator.

There must have been a changing of the guard while Alex was interviewing Harry because it was a silent elevator ride up to the main floor. While the whole experience was far more than she had expected, there was a glimmer of hope that this extra credit might do some actual good for more than just her GPA. Alex was going to have to ask Professor Warren about what his research was actually focused on to understand the scope of what they were doing.

Alex was patted down again before the doors were unlocked and Alex was able to collect her things. The slight drizzle had advanced to a full-blown thunderstorm when Alex dashed to the waiting SUV. It wasn’t until they had pulled away from Ravencroft that she looked at her phone. Six missed calls and two voicemails. A heart in her throat, Alex listened to the first one.

“Harper, it’s me, Peter Parker. I’m not sure what you meant by your text, but you not answering your phone is not doing a lot for my anxiety. Now, I know you don’t like me following you around, I get it, you’re an independent woman and everything, but when you send me that text and I then can’t trace your cell phone signal, that goes way past anxiety. I know that I have been ignoring you and avoiding you, and I’m sorry, but like this is just cruel and unusual punishment. I invited you to dinner! I promise we’ll talk! As soon as you get this, I mean the immediate moment, call me.” Peter spoke so quickly that it took Alex two listens to the message before she caught all of it.

Alex sent Peter a quick text, saying that she was alright and would call him once she was back at her apartment. While she doubted that would placate her lab partner, she didn’t really want to have the conversation with the possible mob member by night driver able to eavesdrop. Instead she hit the other voicemail to listen to, hoping that Peter hadn’t done something stupid like call in a missing person’s report.

The first couple seconds of the message was just silence, and Alex was about to hang up, before there was a deep inhale on the other line.   

“Alexandra,” James’s voice was shaky and heavily accented. He started talking then, but it was in fluent Russian. Alex picked up a word here and there, but it was mostly nonsense to her. There was no pain or anxiety in the tone of his voice, but Alex could have thrown her phone out of frustration. Apparently, he had slipped back into his programming a bit, but at least he didn’t sound in danger.

The voicemail ended, but Alex couldn’t pull the phone away from her ear. Each phone call was a little glimmer of hope attached to a blade inserted straight into her heart. To hear his voice, to know he was alive, made butterflies awaken in her stomach. It also made her remember that when he was free of the programming, he wanted nothing to do with her. God, how did this become her life?

“Miss Harper, thank goodness, I was worried about you,” Jonathan said as he opened the door to let her out of the SUV. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine Jonathan, thank you.” Alex gave him a smile as they headed into the apartment building. “It was part of a job, I’m sorry to not warn you.”

“I don’t like the look of that man, Miss.” Jonathan shook his head as he went behind the front desk. “Please be careful.”

“Always.” Alex was starting to get tired of all the males in her life believing that she needed a bodyguard. Yes, she got into trouble more than your normal citizen, but she was self-sufficient. However, Jonathan was just trying to be nice, so there was no reason to take his head off.

“There was also a rather persistent young gentleman here to see you earlier. However, since you weren’t home, I told him I’d tell you he stopped by and sent him away. He even tried to sneak past me.” Jonathan sniffed in disdain.

“He’s fine, Jonathan, he’s just a friend from school.” There was a very small list of young gentlemen that Alex knew and only one who would attempt to sneak by the doorman. Peter really must have been worried about her, but how did he know where she lived? He had said something about tracking her cell phone too, which was a conversation they were going to have to have.

By the time got to her apartment, she was bubbling with rage. She stabbed Peter’s contact picture with more force than necessary and put her phone to her ear. The call was answered almost immediately, though Peter was apparently out of breath because he didn’t say anything right away. There was also the sound of water somewhere in the background, maybe he had been in the shower?

“Alexandra, where have you been? You dropped off the face of the earth after sending me a cryptic text. I stopped by your apartment and you weren’t there, the doorman wouldn’t tell me where you had gone. I almost called the cops!” Peter rambled.

“Funny, Peter, I don’t remember you being my keeper,” Alex’s voice was a cold as ice as she kicked off her heels. She noticed that her window was open, letting some cooler air into the apartment. She could have sworn it that she had closed it before she left.  

“You texted me!” Peter’s voice climbed a couple octaves.  

“Just as a precaution, it’s a girl thing. I should have just texted Monica,” Alex grumbled as she walked over to the window.

It was still storming pretty heavily now and she didn’t want anything in the apartment getting wet. There was a little fumbling as she pinned the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she reached between the curtains to push the window closed. There, on the other side of the glass was Peter Park, wet and looking rather sheepish.

“Jesus Christ!” Alex stumbled backward, the phone falling onto the floor. He was very lucky that she didn’t carry a gun or he would have had to attempt to dodge a bullet on her tiny fire escape.

“Most people just go with Peter,” he gave her a smile as he hung up the call. “Can you let me in? I’m starting to grow mildew out here.”

“What the hell are you doing out there?” Alex’s voice was a little shaky, though now probably because of anger.

“Okay, maybe this wasn’t my best thought out plan,” Peter admitted, pushing wet hair out of his face, “but I panicked when you wouldn’t answer your phone and I couldn’t get its GPS location. You really should get someone to give that doorman a raise, by the way, he was rather forceful, but still polite with me.”

Alex huffed, but he looked so pathetic out there bent at the waist to look in the window and dripping wet hair, that she had to let him in. It took her a little time to get the screen up, but finally Peter slithered into the apartment. Alex directed him to the bathroom, so he didn’t drip all over the place, before lowering the screen and closing the window. Luckily, there was a clean towel in the closet, even though she hadn’t done laundry in weeks, and she tossed it at Peter before she started to change out of her interview clothing.

“So, where exactly were you today that blocked cell phone signals and made you worried enough to text me?” Peter called from the bathroom. Alex heard wet clothes hitting the tiles and prayed that he wouldn’t walk out in just the towel.

“It’s for this extra credit assignment I’m doing for Warren. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was getting into. I never intended you to track my cell phone. How can you even do that?” Alex called as she tugged on a hoodie and a pair of yoga pants.  

“I’m Spider-man,” Peter said, waiting out of the bathroom towel drying his hair. As if to make his point, he was wearing his suit, well the bottom half of it. He was really only using it as a pair of pants, the rest scrunched up around his waist to show a lot of ab muscles.

“There’s a drier down in the basement, if you want me to take your stuff down,” Alex offered. “However, you’re going to have to supply the dollar.”

“I don’t think I have a dollar on me,” Peter shrugged. “You’re doing extra credit for Warren? Since when? I wasn’t offered extra credit.”

“I would have told you all about it, if you would have talked to me the past couple days instead of acting like I had the plague.” Alex pointed out. “And since when are you planning on going to London? You didn’t think that you might need to mention that to your lab partner?”

“I thought we weren’t friends?” Peter countered as he perched on the edge of the battered trunk that was her coffee table, a small smile on his face. “It’s just an application and even if I do get selected, I wouldn’t leave until next semester. We wouldn’t be lab partners anymore. How do you know the head of the anti-vigilante division of the NYPD?”

“Michael had the misfortune of being the officer on duty when I had some issues last year and he just can’t seem to get away from me,” Alex shrugged, jumping up onto the kitchen counter. “Are we still having dinner with your Aunt tonight?”

“She has a shift at the hospital today, so I figured we could get pizza or something so she doesn’t have to cook and we can get some work done on that project. Though apparently you have extra credit…” Peter trailed off, dropping the towel and picking up the notebook on the table. “What’s all this?”

“None of your business,” Alex jumped down and snatched the notebook out of his hand. “And for some reason Professor Warren really doesn’t like you, so that’s probably why you weren’t offered an extra credit assignment.”

“He really didn’t like you either, until recently,” Peter pointed out.

He had a point, but Alex wasn’t going to tell him that. Whatever the reason for Warren’s sudden interest and like of her was, it was helpful. There is that whole saying about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Still, maybe on Monday she would stop by office hours and see if he would give her any more details about what they were working on, exactly. While she was fascinated by Harry, there were a thousand different biochemical avenues that his case could do down, and she should probably figure out which one.

“There was another reason I stopped by your place,” Peter said as he looked up at her, hair drying at erratic angles on his head.

“You don’t say,” Alex rolled her eyes as she sat down on the couch.

“Have you heard about the attacks on scientists? Their apartment’s being trashed, as if a wild animal was in there?” Peter leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees while Alex nodded. “When I couldn’t get a hold of you, I was worried whatever it was got to you, so I came by to check out your place. While it was dirty enough that someone may have ransacked it, there were no scratch marks. Then you called and here we are.”  

“Since you’re investigating, I’m guessing it isn’t really a wild animal being set loose by like PETA to protest animal testing?” Alex was a little touched that Peter was so worried he had come to check up on her, even though it was ridiculous.

“No, no, I’ve caught glimpses of him and if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a werewolf,” Peter sighed. “However, it wasn’t a completely selfless reason I stopped by, I wanted to make sure that you haven’t told anyone at Stark Tower about me.”

“Why doesn’t anyone at Stark Tower know about you? I mean, you guys are in the same line of work.” Alex really hadn’t given any thought to the idea, but shouldn’t the Avengers be recruiting Peter?

“Because I draw the line at aliens,” Peter laughed before turning serious. “I was in New York for the battle, with those things pouring from the sky. There was nothing I could do and honestly I want no part of that. Besides, someone had to take care of the smaller threats while the Avengers are off saving the world.”

“I’d be even more worried about your mental state if you hadn’t been scared by that,” Alex smiled. “I mean, you’re just a scientist in spandex. Aliens are a bit above your pay grade.”

“I’m not just an inventor, I have a few more tricks up my sleeve, but I would have been totally out of my depth.” Peter laughed as he got up and stretched.

“Is that so?” Alex raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

Before Peter answered, a ringing phone can be heard from the bathroom. Alex hopped up and grabbed it out of the soaking wet jeans Peter had thrown over the tub. Peter was right behind her and his face fell when he looked at the readout.

“Another scientist apartment was just called into 9-1-1.” Peter was moving toward the window before the words were out of his mouth. “If I get there first, maybe I can find out what this guy is after.”

“Peter wait a-” Alex didn’t even get to finish the statement before he was out of the window and perched on the railing of her fire escape.  

“I’ll call you later about dinner,” Peter called before he vaulted over the railing and fell out of sight.

“Parker,” Alex screamed as she scrambled out of the window. Gripping onto the railing, Alex looked over, rain be damned. There was not a splattered lab partner on the ground, in fact, there was nothing in the alley. She heard his laughter and turned her head in time to see a streak of full suited up Spider-Man swing around the building. Alex remembered the white substance that he used when fighting, was it webbing? Damn it, she was curious now.

Slamming the window shut, Alex stripped off again as she was once again soaked and collapsed on the couch, closing her eyes. It had been one hell of a day and it wasn’t even noon. She was tired. Her phone buzzed, a text from Jake asking her about what dates would be good for his trip to the Big Apple. It was just a jumble of letters and Alex couldn’t even figure out a good reply. So she just closed out of the message.

All Alex wanted was a nice long rest. No college to worry about, no vigilantes or superheroes, just for everything to stop. For a second her finger hovered over Sam’s contact picture, for him to tell her everything was alright, to come over and talk with her. However, she couldn’t bring herself to make the call. She scrolled down and got to Steve’s number, the one she should have called the moment that she got James’s voicemail. Once again, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Instead, she turned on her side and listened to James’s voicemail again and again.

[orbemnews]

Retailing’s Tumultuous 12 months Started Earlier than the Pandemic The retail trade was within the midst of a change earlier than 2020. However the onset of the pandemic accelerated that change, basically reordering how and the place folks store, and rippling throughout the broader financial system. Many shops closed for good, as chains lower bodily areas or filed for chapter, displacing everybody from extremely paid executives to hourly employees. Amazon grew much more highly effective and unavoidable as hundreds of thousands of individuals purchased items on-line throughout lockdowns. The divide between important companies allowed to remain open and nonessential ones pressured to shut drove customers to big-box chains like Walmart, Goal and Dick’s and worsened struggling shops’ woes. The attire trade and a slew of malls had been battered as hundreds of thousands of Individuals stayed house and a litany of dress-up occasions, from proms to weddings, had been canceled or postponed. This 12 months’s civil unrest and its thorny points for American society additionally hit retailers. Companies closed due to protests over George Floyd’s killing by a white police officer, and so they reckoned with their very own failings when it got here to race. The challenges confronted by working dad and mom, together with the associated fee and availability of fundamental baby care through the pandemic, had been keenly felt by girls working at shops from CVS to Bloomingdale’s. And there have been questions across the remedy of employees, as retailers and their backers handled staff shoddily throughout bankruptcies or failed to supply hazard pay or ample notifications about office Covid-19 outbreaks. Many Individuals felt the retail upheaval — the trade is the second-biggest non-public employment sector in america — and a few shared their experiences this 12 months with The New York Instances. ‘That’s what I did my entire life’ Joyce Bonaime, a 63-year-old in Cabazon, Calif., has labored in retailing for the reason that Seventies. Prior to now 14 months, she turned one among many retailer staff whose lives had been upended by bankruptcies — first at Barneys New York and extra lately at Brooks Brothers. Ms. Bonaime had spent about 10 years as a full-time inventory coordinator for a Barneys outlet at Desert Hills Premium Retailers close to her house, overseeing the delivery and receiving of designer wares, when the retailer filed for chapter and liquidated late final 12 months. “Barneys handled folks very badly on the finish there,” Ms. Bonaime mentioned. The retailer, she mentioned, despatched inconsistent messages about severance funds and the timing of retailer closures, which restricted folks from discovering different jobs simply earlier than the vacation procuring season. After Barneys, Ms. Bonaime secured a full-time stockroom place at Brooks Brothers in the identical outlet mall. However the pandemic pressured the shop to briefly shut in March, and he or she was furloughed. She anticipated returning as soon as the shop reopened this summer time. However Ms. Bonaime’s job was terminated this month and misplaced her well being advantages. She is now accumulating unemployment checks for the primary time in her life. When Ms. Bonaime began her profession, working at shoe shops and finishing a administration coaching program at one chain, retailers had a distinct relationship with staff and communities, she mentioned. “We went by means of coaching on the bones within the foot and the muscle groups; we knew loads about our trade,” she mentioned. “We’d attain out to native excessive faculties and work with the cheerleading crew and discover a shoe they appreciated for outfits and provides them a reduction and ensure they’d the suitable sizes.” Ms. Bonaime, who’s getting by proper now, feels caught. She had deliberate to work a number of extra years earlier than retiring, however her choices are restricted. Companies on the outlet mall are struggling — and it was already exhausting to interview final 12 months as a lady in her 60s, she mentioned. Amazon is hiring, however she is anxious concerning the threat of accidents in a warehouse. “This pandemic simply adjustments every thing as a result of I might don’t have any drawback getting a job in any other case,” she mentioned. “I simply don’t suppose there’s going to be something in retail, and that’s what I did my entire life.” ‘I used to be collateral harm’ Quickly after the pandemic hit, Nordstrom mentioned it could completely shut its three high-end Jeffrey boutiques, which had been based by Jeffrey Kalinsky and bought by the retailer in 2005. Mr. Kalinsky, a Nordstrom govt who had targeted on bringing designer attire to the retailer, retired as a part of the transfer. The Jeffrey shops, in New York, Atlanta and Palo Alto, Calif., had dressed the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow and even been lampooned on “Saturday Evening Dwell.” The primary location, in Atlanta, would have celebrated its thirtieth anniversary in August. Mr. Kalinsky, 58, mentioned in an interview that he was recovering from Covid-19 on the finish of March when he turned conscious that the shops may stay shut after a brief closure. “It felt like I had a gun pointed at me,” he mentioned. “The oldsters I all the time handled at Nordstrom had been all the time very clear, and I can solely surmise that they had been place themselves to get by means of this era — and I used to be collateral harm.” He had as soon as instructed the Jeffrey employees that it was like the unique solid in a Broadway musical, acting at an “wonderful stage” for patrons daily. The toughest a part of this 12 months was telling staff concerning the closing, he mentioned. “That day was in all probability essentially the most troublesome, emotional day of my total life,” he mentioned. “I felt simply gutted. It was indescribable.” Staff have instructed him that they “miss the merchandise, they miss the edit, they miss the specialness.” His aim was for Jeffrey to hold the perfect merchandise however “promote it an setting that was very democratic,” he mentioned. “I wished to showcase all of it and wished all of it to be subsequent to one another. I wished the friction of Gucci subsequent to Dries subsequent to Comme des Garçons. I wished to really feel the strain in a great way as a result of that, in my view, is how the proper closet is.” Enterprise & Economic system Up to date  Dec. 23, 2020, 8:59 a.m. ET Mr. Kalinsky hopes to discover a job designing for an American model, saying he isn’t ready to retire from retailing. He wonders if Jeffrey might have survived the pandemic by working with distributors and landlords. “We had a powerful enterprise, a beautiful clientele, and we’d have been nice — however did we now have a piggy financial institution for Covid? No,” he mentioned. A person with a van Trent Griffin-Braaf began this 12 months feeling extra assured than ever. The transportation firm he created to ferry visitors from inns within the Albany, N.Y., space to native sights just like the racetrack in Saratoga Springs was catching on. However when the coronavirus shut down tourism, weddings and conferences, Mr. Griffin-Braaf’s passenger vans had been idled and his enterprise was in jeopardy. “We had been actually in a tough place,” he mentioned. Within the late summer time, his firm turned a provider for Amazon and shifted to e-commerce deliveries. His crew of 70 drivers and different employees embody immigrants from Africa and India, employees laid off from eating places, a struggling nail-salon proprietor and up to date faculty grads “simply attempting to determine it out” through the pandemic. His drivers cowl a 150-mile radius round Albany, together with many rural areas the place the variety of Amazon customers is growing, he mentioned. “All you see round right here is Amazon,” he mentioned. “Come work for Amazon.” Lots of his drivers had been incomes 10 hours of additional time per week through the peak vacation season. “I really feel blessed to be busy, as a result of so many individuals aren’t proper now,” he mentioned. Mr. Griffin-Braaf, 36, has not given up on passenger vans. He has began driving employees residing in elements of Albany with restricted public transportation to their jobs at distribution facilities and different companies removed from bus traces. On the weekends, he volunteers the vans to drive households to go to family members in upstate prisons. Mr. Griffin-Braaf, who served time in jail years in the past, mentioned that long run, he hoped to have tractor-trailers to maneuver e-commerce packages throughout the nation, and to supply van service in different “transportation deserts” across the state so folks might get to work. “I understand how exhausting it’s to get a job should you don’t have a automotive, and I’ve seen how exhausting it’s whenever you don’t get visits in jail,” he mentioned. “I’ve lived these items.” ‘We’re glad you’re right here’ Lauren Jackson and her two sisters inadvertently selected the improper time to open the primary Black-owned magnificence provide retailer of their hometown, Buffalo: March 7, two weeks earlier than the state ordered them to close down. So the sisters reopened it as an “important enterprise,” stocking hand sanitizers, masks and different pandemic requirements. Their retailer, the Hair Hive, reopened in early April, which helped them construct a buyer base whereas opponents stayed closed. “All the things occurs for a purpose,” mentioned Ms. Jackson, 28. She and her sisters, Danielle Jackson and Brianna Lannie, had talked about opening the shop for a number of years. It’s 5 minutes from their childhood house on the east facet of Buffalo, a predominantly Black neighborhood the place their dad and mom nonetheless stay. The sisters had been initially intimidated about attempting to interrupt into the well-established trade. “We didn’t wish to inform anybody in order that they wouldn’t say, ‘You possibly can’t compete with them,’” Ms. Jackson mentioned. “We didn’t even inform our dad and mom.” The sisters acquired a mortgage from a member of the family and one other from a Buffalo nonprofit. Lauren Jackson mentioned she had watched different Black-owned companies in her neighborhood come and go over time, together with salons, barbershops and eating places that usually closed as a result of the youthful era didn’t wish to take over after the founding relations retired. Ms. Jackson needs to interrupt that development. “Lots of people come into the shop as a result of we’re Black-owned,” she mentioned. “They really feel snug realizing we are able to relate with what’s occurring with their hair. They inform us, ‘We’re glad you’re right here.’” ‘Petrified of what could be coming’ In June, as the primary wave of the coronavirus was lastly coming below management in New York, Feisal Ahmed acquired a name from his supervisor at Macy’s. Would he prefer to return to his job promoting luxurious watches when the shop in Herald Sq. reopened? “I’m already there,” he instructed his boss. “Put me first in line.” Mr. Ahmed was in his early 20s and a current emigrant from Bangladesh when he began working at Macy’s in 1994. He met his spouse within the retailer, was capable of make a down cost on a home in Astoria, Queens, and saved up sufficient cash to start out his personal laundry, which he finally bought. “I owe loads to this job,” he mentioned. However after an preliminary feeling of aid and pleasure to return to work after 4 months of lockdowns, actuality set in for Mr. Ahmed. He has gone some days with out promoting a single watch, for which he would earn a fee. Final week, enterprise picked up for a number of days, pushed by last-minute Christmas procuring, but it surely was nowhere close to a traditional vacation tempo. “The pandemic, job safety — individuals are scared to spend cash,” he mentioned. Nonetheless, Mr. Ahmed feels fortunate. In New York Metropolis, retail jobs make up 9 p.c of private-sector employment, and lots of have been gradual to return. At shops promoting clothes and clothes equipment, employment is down greater than 40 p.c from a 12 months in the past, in keeping with a current report by the state comptroller’s workplace. Mr. Ahmed mentioned that as a member of the Retail, Wholesale and Division Retailer Union, he had sure job protections. However he worries about what the winter will carry, because the pandemic continues to maintain many patrons away. “Staff are terrified of what could be coming,” he mentioned. Supply hyperlink #began #Pandemic #Retailings #Tumultuous #Year

[joehas]

Q&A with John O´Loughlin.

A BIT ABOUT YOU

Q1 Who are you and what do you do?

I am Joe Haslam and I´m the Executive Director of the Owners Scaleup Program and a Professor at IE Business School in Madrid. At IE, I teach classes on scaling and scaleups to University level students, to MBAs and to Senior Executives.  

I´m also a director a number of companies, mainly scaleups or startups started by serial entrepreneurs. I do a lot of speaking at conferences (now mostly virtual) as well as writing and podcasting.

To quote Peter Drucker “Entrepreneurship is risky mainly because so few of the so-called entrepreneurs know what they are doing” Having spoken to maybe 500 founders in the last ten years, I´ve a fair idea what you should not do to scale a business. I put the emphasis on not making known mistakes so that you give yourself the best chance to figure out what it is you need to do.

Q2.      What is your background?

After graduation from UCC, I went to London to work for Perot Systems as a Consultant. That was a great status job but it was no way to live so I came back to Ireland.

A group of us left consulting to set up a company called Marrakech during the dot com era. We raised over seventy million dollars and grew to over 250 people. This is where my interest in scaling up comes from.

After four years, I moved to Madrid to do an MBA at IE Business School. The first weekend, I met this girl and we are still together. In terms of lifestyle, I think that Madrid and Berlin are the two best cities to live in Europe.

Q3. Favourite business news resource?

CB Insights is a wonderful resource. It tells you, often on one page, who the cool companies are in each sector. My students absolute love this visual storytelling.    

I used to read The Economist every Saturday morning when it arrived on paper but I got out of the habit of doing this when i subscribed online instead. This makes no sense, I know, but habits are powerful.

My news now comes from links I find on Twitter. I think it´s a wonderful resource and it allows me to keep in touch with the news from places i previously lived in. You don´t have to live in Silicon Valley anymore to keep in touch with what is going on there.  

Q4. If I was to ask for a business book recommendation?

Trillion Dollar Coach: The Leadership Playbook of Silicon Valley's Bill Campbell is a great way to understand the importance of coaching. Coaching is much misunderstood. It´s not about telling someone what to do but to help them to find the answers themselves. Business should be like sport where everyone has a coach.

I think every man should read The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer. It has helped me a lot to understand how women feel in certain circumstances. Some men think they are helping but they are doing exactly the wrong thing.

Scaleup books are many. The best is Scaling Up by Verne Harnish. High Growth Handbook by Elad Gil is very Silicon Valley but also very well structured. Blitzscaling by Reid Hoffman is a strategy I disagree with but you have to read it anyway. Scaling by Roland Siebelink makes the really important points in a way that you cant miss them. Growth and Scaleup Enablers for SMEs by Veijo Komulainen is deceptively useful.

Q5. Are you listening to any good business podcasts at the moment?

Like a lot of people, I listen to Kara Swisher and Scott Galloway twice a week. I can see why it annoys people but its makes business fun and that is welcome. In contrast the a16z podcasts are much richer in content but you do have to force yourself to listen to the end.

In terms of scaleup resources, we are very well served. There is Scaleup Valley by Mike Dias, Masters of Scale by Reid Hoffman, Notion Capital´s “Pain of Scale” and The Scaling Startups Podcast by Ross Sheil.

While listening in the car or walking to work is better than nothing, I also recommend that you group listen. By this I mean to schedule a meeting with the management team. Listen to it together and then discuss immediately.

Q6. What’s your best bit of business advice?

I have got loads of this.

Find out what you are good at and get even better at it. Find out what you are bad at and get other people to do it.

Getting a “No” only means “no” today. Failure is part of the process of growing, so don´t take it personally. If you are shooting for big things then you should expect to fail.

Follow up. I see this all the time. Someone makes an intro, you have a meeting but you move onto another meeting before mining the first one fully.

Vulnerability is a super power. Ask for help. People are mostly good and will help if you are open about asking for it.

Q7. What do you do to wind down/relax?

I run 5km, 5 times a week. I also swim 1,000 meters twice a week. I hate bicycles though so I am not a Mamil.

As you get older, if you don´t do physical exercise then everything falls apart. Also it´s a time to think. And thinking cannot be done in short batches. I can think of many problems where the solution only came after thinking uninterrupted about it for more than half an hour.

Stress is a real issue so i try to have one entire day every week when i have no meetings or deadlines. This takes the pressure off and lets me go into random areas as opposed to the here and now. We have really only four productive hours a day, so I try to block off those and then do other not so intellectual tasks the rest of the time.    

ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS

Q8. Why are you in the news?

I´m never not in the news. It´s part of my job to be in the news! Last week it was Saudi Arabia, the week before India, the week before that South Korea.  

Engaging with people is how you learn. I´m really hard on my students who come to class just to listen. E.M. Forster's quote “How do I know what I think until I see what I say” captures this exactly.  

To quote a friend of mine from a private conversation “clear, strong writing was now a differentiator in the tech industry in the same way design had been in the early 2000s, when Apple schooled everyone on what actually created value.  Tech companies had spent ten years catching up on design, investing in talent and buying up studios—but they didn’t yet correctly value written communication. Internally, to customers, or to the public”

Q9. What is your biggest business challenge at present?

I have never had any expectation of stability so the Coronavirus disease (COVID-19) is just what it is this year.  There are always challenges, they just have different names.  

It is now more difficult to travel to Madrid for the Owners Scaleup Program, particularly from Latin America. A good Professor can creates an atmosphere in a classroom that is hard to match online. They also miss out on the social part of the program. Eating Cachopo and drinking Mencia in Restaurante Asturiano Carlos Tartiere is an important part of the Program.

I used to travel 20 weeks a year to promote IE Business School so that doesnt happen either anymore. Nothing beats going to a country to get to know something about the people in your classroom. In February, I did a six city tour of Mexico (Monterrey, Guadalajara, Mérida, León, Querétaro, CDMX). I haven´t left Spain since.    

Q10. What are you doing to address this?

We have moved online. But not online just in the sense of recording a video but my classes are now live. Death by Powerpoint is now gone as everyone is much more comfortable contributing from their happy place. On video, everyone is equal.  

I was also very lucky in that three years ago, I agreed to shoot something called a High Impact Online Program (HiOP) which is series of short videos and readings which is more like a Netflix series than a class. We .. ahem ... scaled up the course on Scaleup.

IE invested a lot of money in a production team to create this, especially as everything was new so we didn´t really know what we were doing. I am also using something called the WOW Room a lot more for classes. This has 48 screens shaped in the form of a “U” and with up to 200 degree vision. The reality now is that Professors are turning into TV Presenters.  

Q11. In terms of your scaling journey, why have you picked the UK?

In most countries in the world where I visit, the term scaleup is unknown. The exception is the UK where because of the work of the ScaleUp Institute, I´m usually not starting at zero.    

Going back to about 2014, a series of reports were done by organisations such as Deloitte and PWC as well as institutions such as the LSE highlighting the importance of SMEs to the UK economy and what could be done to scale them up.

While the situation since then has not got noticeably better, the UK has managed to put  place a lot more of what SMEs need to scaleup than other countries have. As an example the Enterprise Investment Scheme (EIS), the Seed Enterprise Investment Scheme (SEIS) and the Social Investment Tax Relief (SITR).

Q12. Where are the biggest opportunities in your sector over the next 3 years?

If there is a case for Brexit at all it is based on the idea that convergence and cooperation has dampened animal spirits of UK Entrepreneurs. Now that Brexit has happened, there is an element that average is over and that it´s get big or die.

One student of mine compares it to Russia's Shock Therapy is the aftermath of the dissolution of the USSR. It is likely that some people who have always had the ambition and the capability will use Brexit as the trigger to make aggressive bets and to double down on a new business model to catch an exponential wave.

While this is easier said than done, I think every SME needs to take a hard look at itself and redefine challenges as opportunities to grow.  There is help out there and people who want to see you succeed.

Joe Haslam 1 December 2020