#Los Angeles Doctor On Demand

[hotshotsxyz]

hope for the future (got me on my knees)

(buddie) (s8 spec) (2.4k words) car crash spec <3 title from bastille's hope for the future, which, imo, is one of the eddie songs of all time cw: blood (like. a lot)

Eddie’s not supposed to be here. He’s not—

He’s—

God, he’s not supposed to be here again. He’s not even on shift. But Buck is.

It was a favor. He’s covering for a last minute absence on C shift. So now he’s—

He’s on shift and he’s lying in the middle of the road and he’s not moving. And Eddie. Can’t. Breathe.

“Buck!” someone shouts, and Jesus it sounds like their entire world just crumbled. Eddie’s throat feels raw like—

Oh.

He’s the one screaming.

Buck’s three feet away from him, sluggishly bleeding out on the pavement. Shannon’s six feet under in a graveyard halfway across the city. Buck’s ribs are giving way beneath Eddie’s hands. Buck’s blood is soaking through his jeans. It’s staining him, his skin, his mind.

He—

“Sir!” Someone snaps. “You need to—shit, Diaz?”

No, that’s—it’s not Eddie who’s broken and unmoving on the ground. It’s not Eddie who’s going to die with or without a tube down his throat.

It’s—

It’s—

Two pairs of hands grab him, yank him away.

“No!” Eddie screams, thrashing wildly at whoever it is that thinks they can keep him from Buck.

“Diaz, stop!”

He can’t. He won’t.

“You have to let them help him.”

They won’t do enough. Only Eddie will fight for him hard enough. Only Eddie knows how to bring him back. An animalistic snarl climbs out from his chest.

“I’ve got a pulse!” a paramedic Eddie doesn’t recognize shouts. She’s a floater, probably.

A floater is holding Buck’s life in her hands. Does she even know? Does she know that the world will stop turning if he’s not in it?

Eddie’s knees hit the pavement. Distantly, he feels the sting. Mostly, though, he feels Buck’s blood. It’s on his hands and soaking through his clothes, painting him red, red, red.

Two firefighters carefully roll Buck onto a body board and lift him to the stretcher. For a split second, it’s 2019. Eddie’s watching his wife die. He’s holding Buck’s hand and trying not to stare at his mangled leg.

“Diaz! Now or never, are you coming with us?”

He doesn’t feel himself move, but between one blink and the next he finds himself in the back of an ambulance staring down at his—

His—

Buck’s eyelashes flutter and Eddie can’t do this.

“Please,” he sobs, clutching Buck’s hand. “You—you have to—”

He’s squeezing too hard. So hard he might break Buck’s hand, but he’s terrified that if he lets go, so will Buck.

The floater moves to intubate, but before she can Buck heaves a shuddering breath and opens his eyes.

Eddie thinks he might be screaming again, only this time the sound is trapped deep inside him.

“Eds… hurt?” Buck manages.

He must be. He’s dying maybe, because that’s the only explanation he can think of for the creeping numbness in his limbs.

“He’s fine, Buckley,” the floater says.

She’s wrong. She doesn’t— how could she? She doesn’t know that every piece of Eddie that’s worth anything is dying right alongside his—

“I can’t wait any longer,” she says apologetically before shoving a plastic tube down Buck’s trachea. He chokes on it, and oh, Eddie’s choking too.

The ambulance slows and Eddie’s about to bang against the wall, about to demand they keep going, when the doors are flung open revealing an entire trauma team dressed in pristine scrubs.

The floater rattles off Buck’s vitals and the injuries they know of.

As they pull Buck from the back of the ambulance, one of the doctors catches Eddie’s eye. He nods, and Eddie hopes to God that means he knows that Los Angeles will be swallowed by the sea if this man doesn’t live.

All at once, Buck is gone and Eddie’s left standing next to an ambulance that could be the last place he ever hears Buck speak.

“Diaz, you okay?” The C shift captain whose name Eddie can’t be bothered to remember right now asks.

No.

No.

No.

He doesn’t answer.

…

There’s blood on his face. Buck’s blood. Eddie doesn’t— he’s not sure how it got there, but now that he sees it, he can feel it too. It’s tacky and drying and God, there’s so much.

Gentle hands turn him away from the mirror.

“No,” Eddie says as his sluggish brain recognizes Bobby. “No, no he can’t—“

Bobby was there when—

He held Eddie. Let him weep into his shoulder. Stood steady as Eddie’s world crumbled to pieces.

“He’s in surgery,” Bobby says.

“They don’t know,” Eddie babbles.

Bobby’s face creases in concern. “Know what, Eddie?”

“He’s— he—“ He can’t force the words out.

“Eddie,” he repeats forcefully.

“I love him,” Eddie croaks.

Bobby, steadfast and solid, cracks.

One sob escapes his chest, then another, and soon they’re both sliding to grimy bathroom floor, trying not to shatter entirely.

“I can’t lose another—“ Bobby gasps.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. Bobby can’t lose another child. He can’t lose another spouse. Not now, not when he’s just begun to understand the depth of what he’s been denying himself for what feels like his entire life. Not now, not ever. Not— not, Buck.

The bathroom door bangs open and Hen steps in. Tear tracks stain her cheeks, but Eddie can’t bring himself to analyze her expression further. If Buck’s— Eddie wants to live in a world that hasn’t quite ended as long as he possibly can.

“No update,” she says quietly.

She grabs a few paper towels and wets them in the sink. She kneels in front of Eddie and brings one to his face. He flinches back.

“Eddie?” she asks.

He swallows past the lump in his throat. “What if…”

What if the blood staining his skin is the last piece of Buck he gets to keep? What if he dies on the operating table? What if he’s already dead? Eddie can’t— he won’t let anyone take the last of him away.

A harsh sob drags itself past his lips.

“Oh, Eddie,” Hen whispers, and why do people keep saying his name?

No one— he’s never heard it so many times from anyone but Buck. He doesn’t want to hear it from anyone but Buck. He shakes his head and presses his hands to his ears.

Hen says something else, but all he can hear is the whoosh of his own pulse, and it’s so unfair. Shouldn’t his heart know not to beat until he’s sure Buck’s will again?

“Eddie,” Hen says, taking his hands. “Let me, please.”

He can’t bring himself to agree, but he doesn’t fight back when she raises the paper towel to his face again. She pulls it across his skin in gentle drags, but it’s cold and Eddie can’t help but think uncharitably that Buck would’ve waited for the water to warm before he wet the towels.

When she’s done with his face, Hen guides him to the sink to wash the blood from his hands too. For a split second, Eddie wonders if Buck washed his blood away in this same sink after Eddie was shot. He wonders if Buck’s hands shook the way his are shaking now.

“That’s good Eddie, there you go,” Hen encourages him softly.

He bristles at her careful tone. Nothing she says can make any of this better or worse, not unless she can tell him with absolute certainty whether or not Buck will survive the night.

“I grabbed your duffle from the station,” she continues, and it’s only then that he notices his own bag slung over her shoulder. “Think you can get changed?”

Eddie nods mutely. Distantly, it occurs to him that this is part of what makes Hen such a good paramedic— her ability to meet someone where they are. He peels off his henley and exchanges it for the long sleeve LAFD crewneck she hands him.

He swaps his pants next, and for the first time, wearing a piece of the uniform feels wrong. He couldn’t— he wasn’t a medic today. If it had just been him and Buck out there, Buck would be dead already. He’d, what? Held his torn skin together? As if that was the wound that was going to kill him. Shannon didn’t even bleed when she died.

“Maddie and Chim are waiting for you,” Hen says, nodding toward the door. “I’m going to sit with Cap for a little while, okay?”

Again, Eddie nods. He stumbles through the door and into the arms of a woman who, for all they share, he barely knows.

He can’t bring himself to look her in the eye. She’ll know, he thinks, know that he didn’t do enough. Know that he failed one of the three people she loves most in this world.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks into her hair.

“For what?” she asks shakily.

“I should’ve— I didn’t—“

“You were there,” Maddie says. “You made sure he knows he’s not alone.”

Eddie swallows harshly.

“He knows what he’s fighting for,” Maddie continues. “Thank you.”

He wants to shake her. He should’ve done more. He’d demanded it once of a different team of doctors, and then he couldn’t even—

He was there and it didn’t matter. Buck’s still dying in a sterile operating room.

Maddie pushes him toward a chair next to Chimney in the waiting room, then sits on his other side. They talk to him, Eddie thinks, but he doesn’t hear a word.

…

“Family of Evan Buckley?”

Eddie’s on his feet before he’s even made a conscious decision to stand. Maddie follows quickly behind him, and— oh, Bobby’s in the waiting room now, too.

The doctor smiles at them, and while Eddie’s sure it’s meant to be reassuring, every second that passes without news is more excruciating than the last.

“Mr. Buckley did well in surgery,” she says.

Eddie’s entire body sags, like a marionette with its strings cut. Hen’s subtle but steadying hand on his back is the only reason he doesn’t collapse to the floor right then and there.

“He’s not out of the woods yet,” the doctor continues, “but his CT was clear and we were able to locate and repair the source of his internal bleeding.”

“He’s going to be okay?” Maddie asks, high and watery.

The doctor nods. “We’d like to keep him a few days for observation, but barring unforeseen complications, we believe he’ll make a full recovery.”

Maddie presses a hand to her mouth and nods, eyes shining.

“The effects of the anesthesia should be wearing off soon, I can take two of you to his room.”

To Eddie’s surprise, Maddie takes his hand. “We’ll—us,” she says.

Eddie looks at Maddie, then Bobby. “Are you—are you sure?”

“Go,” Bobby says. “He needs you.”

Eddie’s not sure that’s true, but he sure as hell needs Buck and he—he thinks this is probably one of those times when he’s allowed to be a little selfish.

“Through these doors,” the doctor says, leading them back with a wave of her key card.

…

He’s pale, unnaturally so. It’s like, despite the massive transfusion he received, there still isn’t enough blood pumping through his veins. Eddie wishes he could wring out his shirt and return every drop he took.

“Eddie, what happened?” Maddie asks softly.

Eddie shakes his head. “I, uh, I wasn’t supposed to be there,” he says haltingly.

Maddie takes his hand with the one that isn’t holding Buck’s and squeezes.

“I don’t think he knew I was there,” Eddie continues. “It was just… God, Maddie, it was a coincidence.”

Eddie closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath.

“It came out of nowhere. They were responding to a fender bender, wouldn’t have even been a call except one of the drivers was stuck in their car, I think. He was helping someone when it—there was a car. And then he was just—I couldn’t—he—”

Maddie squeezes his hand again. “You know, I—” she hesitates, then nods like she’s made a decision. “I’ve never seen him happy the way he is with you.”

Against Eddie’s will, a pained noise escapes his throat. “I don’t know why,” he admits. He looks down at his feet.

“Sure,” Maddie says, blowing out an amused huff.

“He’s so good. He walks into a room and everything gets brighter. He’s the sun,” Eddie says helplessly.

Maddie’s smile turns impossibly fond. “You love him,” she says. It’s not a question.

A smile of his own spreads unbidden on his lips. “How could I not?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath.

Eddie whips his head around and sees Buck, eyes open, lips parted.

“Eddie,” he breathes.

He should be panicking, maybe. Throat closing, heart racing, but—the singular feeling in his chest is relief.

“Hey, Buck,” Eddie says, incapable of and unwilling to keep the warmth from his voice.

“You—” Buck blinks twice, slow, like he’s trying to keep himself awake.

Eddie lays a hand on his ankle and squeezes. “Rest,” he says. “I’ll stay.”

“Stay… s’nice,” Buck slurs as he slips back into sleep.

“For what it’s worth,” Maddie says after a long moment, “pretty sure he loves you, too.”

Eddie watches the slow rise and fall of Buck’s chest. “Yeah,” he says, biting down on a grin that’s far too wide for the ICU, “I think he might.”

“Could take a second for him to work that out for himself,” Maddie says.

Eddie lets out a soft chuckle. “Oh, I know,” he says. “Gives me time to pick out a ring,” he jokes. Kind of.

Maddie laughs and shakes her head. “Is this your way of asking for my permission to propose?”

“Well I’m not going to ask your parents,” Eddie replies, wrinkling his nose.

Maddie’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Could you imagine if I said no after all of this?”

“I’d ask him anyway,” Eddie admits.

“Good answer,” Maddie says.

Eddie laughs. “Oh, so that was a test?”

“No,” Maddie replies, shaking her head. “But he deserves someone that chooses him no matter what.”

“I do,” Eddie says with conviction. “I will.”

“Then yes,” Maddie says. “Just—don’t ask him in the hospital.”

[fluentmoviequoter]

Not So Grumpy

Requested Here!

Edit: Read Part 2 Here >

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!wife!pregnant!reader

Summary: Tim is grumpier than usual, and when you decide to visit him at the station, the rookies get an idea of why.

Warnings: pregnant reader. fluff!

Word Count: 1.8k+ words

A/N: Softie Tim? Softie (and clingy) Tim. This takes place sometime during seasons 1-2.

“Don’t start,” Tim says, sitting beside Angela.

“Whoa, okay,” she replies with a laugh. “Glad to see you’re in such a good mood.”

“That sounds like starting.”

Angela puts her hands up, smiling as she turns away from Tim. “Chen, good luck.”

Tim rolls his eyes, wishing his mornings could go differently. It’s been several weeks of his persistent bad mood, and everyone who has to deal with him is curious about what’s causing it.

“Bradford, can I- could I maybe get you something?” Lucy offers softly.

“No.”

✯✯✯✯✯

You wake up curled against Tim’s side, his arm extended over your waist. His alarm is going off, and he’s smacking the nightstand beside him in a poor attempt to turn it off.

“You have to go to work,” you remind him, kissing his cheek as you move farther up in the bed.

“I’m good,” he replies, sighing as he finds his phone and turns the sound off. “Right here.”

He rolls closer to you, his hand sweeping over your stomach as he looks into your eyes. Tim can be persuasive, but you’ve gotten used to this routine over the last few weeks.

“I’d love for you to stay, I really would, but I don’t think your boss would appreciate it,” you say.

Tim groans, pressing his face against your neck as his arm tightens around you.

“You got clingy,” you tease, running your fingers through his hair and gently scratching his scalp.

“And you won’t let me stay,” Tim mumbles.

“It’s not my fault you wanted to be a cop.”

“You would-“ Tim pauses, sitting up so you can hear him. “You would deprive me of staying at your side during a time like this?”

Chuckling at his dramatics, you push your hand against Tim’s shoulder in a pointless attempt to move him away from you.

“Tim, baby, you see me all the time.”

“Not enough. I’m going to come home one day, and there will be a toddler running around, but I won’t remember any of this.”

You close your eyes and lean back against your pillow. “You have to go to work today so you can come to the doctor with me on Friday, right? Just think about that.”

“I can’t. I can only think of you.”

“You start a family and suddenly you’re the most romantic, clingy guy in the world. Where’d the grump go?”

Tim doesn’t reply as he tries to pull you closer. Rolling away from him, you leave him no choice but to get up and go to work. His disappointed sigh makes you frown; you know he’s being dramatic to cover up how he feels.

“Tim,” you call, sitting up as he walks to you. “I’m sorry. I love you, and I really do want you here as much as possible.”

“I know. It’s just harder than I thought it would be.”

You nod, tilting your chin up in a silent request for a kiss. Tim smiles, shaking his head as he bends to meet you. You pull back before he risks getting distracted.

“The grump is back now,” Tim mumbles.

“Hey! Be nice today,” you call after him.

Tim doesn’t reply, and you know he’ll deny ever hearing you say such a thing.

✯✯✯✯✯

Tim slams the door as he exits the shop. Standing with his hands on his hips, he looks at the flat tire before glancing at Lucy.

“I didn’t see it,” she begins, her voice rushed and apologetic.

“Because you weren’t paying attention,” Tim snaps.

“But I-“

“How do you expect to graduate to short sleeves if you can’t even drive, boot?”

“It wasn’t my fault; there was something in the road!”

“Call dispatch,” Tim demands.

“What’s the protocol for this?”

Tim remains silent, leaning against the side of the shop as Lucy racks her brain for the proper procedure. As she radios dispatch and explains the situation, Tim grows grumpier. He’s stranded in a subdivision of Los Angeles with a flat tire that could have been avoided instead of home with you. His conviction about being a cop wanes each moment he’s away from you.

✯✯✯✯✯

Even without seeing the worst of it, you can tell Tim’s attitude has changed lately. His fellow officers and the rookies have been dealing with the grumpiest version of Tim they’ve ever experienced, but you see the clingy, emotional, loving side of whatever is making him act so differently.

After doing a few small chores, which Tim will tell you not to do again, you get ready and decide to pay him a visit at the station. You want to see how he is doing.. mostly, you miss him and want an excuse to see him and hug him.

As you get in your car, you consider calling Tim to ensure he’s at the station and has time for a visitor. He has been protective of you since you met, but it has changed and increased since getting married and throughout the early months of your pregnancy. You shrug, putting your phone away after electing to surprise him instead. 

✯✯✯✯✯

“It would be great if one of you could remember that you’re a police officer!” Tim yells, looking between Nolan, Lucy, and Jackson. “Now you’ve got nothing to say? No excuses? Well maybe you should review those rook books before going out on patrol again.”

He turns quickly, prepared to storm away and find a private place to calm down. When he freezes, the rookies look at one another in confusion. Nolan prepares to speak, and Lucy shakes her head to stop him, unwilling to get yelled at again so soon.

“What are you doing here?” Tim asks.

You step into the bullpen with a smile as Tim rushes to your side.

“Missed you,” you whisper.

“Is that- is she-“ Nolan stutters.

“Pregnant? Yeah. And Tim is… smiling?” Jackson adds.

Lucy gasps, moving in front of Nolan to see better. It’s true: Tim is standing as close as he can, with one hand laid protectively over your stomach while he smiles down at you. His grumpiness, which has made being a rookie nearly unbearable recently, is completely gone, vanished at the sight of you.

“You shouldn’t be up walking around,” Tim frets.

“Then I probably shouldn’t tell you I cleaned the kitchen, huh?” you reply.

Tim shakes his head, his thumb brushing over the swell of your baby bump as he leans forward to kiss your forehead.

“Are you feeling okay?” Tim asks softly.

You smile, moving your chin to gesture to your left. Tim’s brows pinch as he turns, glaring at the rookies until they look away, turning to one another in a fake conversation.

“I’m not going to survive this afternoon,” Tim tells you.

“You’ve been grumpy and mean,” you accuse.

“Look, they’re going to annoy me all afternoon. Stay with me? You can do a ride along. Oh! Or you could go into labor so I can stay home with you for a few days.”

“As great as that sounds, I’m going to pass. I’d like to have a healthy baby when the time is right, not on your schedule, grumpy.”

Tim frowns, his hands on either side of your bump.

“But, I promise to be waiting for you the moment you get home,” you add. “And, maybe, if you just tell them the truth, it won’t be so bad.”

“You’ve never dealt with a boot. Or Angela Lopez.”

“Just because you won’t introduce me.”

“For good reason.”

You smile, raising your chin again before Tim kisses you quickly.

“Be careful going home. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Tim watches you leave, waiting until you’re out of sight to turn back toward the rookies. He jerks back slightly when he sees Lucy standing right beside him.

“She’s so cute! You’re so cute together! Why haven’t you mentioned her, Tim?” Lucy gushes. “And where do you hide that guy that was with her? I’ve never met that Tim.”

“And you won’t,” he promises.

“I think he leaves that side of Tim with her,” Nolan adds.

Tim’s jaw clenches. It’s true, he knows, but he doesn’t want details of his personal life to become an accepted topic for the rookies. He raises his hand, and they silence.

“Just- leave it alone for now, and I will introduce you the next time she visits,” he offers. 

As he says it, he makes a mental note to ask you not to visit without warning so he doesn’t have to follow through. The lie is the only way to have peace while in the vicinity of the rookies.

“I can’t believe you’re going to be a dad,” Jackson muses.

“You’re having a kid?” Angela yells, running down the stairs and grabbing Tim’s arm.

Tim grumbles something unintelligible under his breath before saying, “Yes.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“If it’s a girl, Angela is a great name.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve got a long list of names that are an absolute no-go,” Tim replies, looking between the rookies and Angela.

“How did you figure this out?” Angela asks Lucy.

“She – who is she?” Lucy begins before realizing that she never heard who you are to Tim.

“My wife,” Tim mutters.

“You’re married?!” Angela and Nolan ask together.

Angela slaps Tim's shoulder, frowning when he looks at her with his eyebrows raised.

“I thought we were friends.”

“What gave you that impression?”

Angela gasps, covering her heart with her hand.

“Uh, Tim?” you ask, standing behind him.

He turns toward you quickly, and Angela’s eyes widen as she looks at you.

“Yeah?” he asks kindly, yet another surprise.

“Can you come with me for a second?” You notice the small crowd behind him, officers who seem more interested in you than anything else. “Hi,” you say, waving at them.

“It is so nice to meet you,” Angela begins, stepping toward you before Tim blocks her way with his arm.

“We’ll do introductions later,” Tim says, putting his arm around you and leading you away.

“I’m holding you to that!” Lucy yells.

Tim leads you into an empty interview room, his eyes searching yours. You take his hand, laying it on your stomach. Something happened when you heard his voice earlier, and you want to share it.

“Say something,” you request. “Anything.”

“I love you,” Tim answers.

His eyes widen as he feels the movement of a kick against his hand. He squats before you, moving his hand under your shirt.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” he asks.

You feel another kick, laughing at how your baby already has Tim wrapped around its finger. 

“You promised to make introductions,” you say, interrupting Tim’s conversation with your stomach.

Tim stands, cupping your face in his hands and kissing you. Breathless, you push against his chest as you break away.

“You were right,” you admit. “It would be nice to have you home more.”

“We did it,” Tim whispers, his eyes dropping to your bump.

“I feel like I’m interrupting something,” you mumble.

Tim chuckles, rubbing your back as he leads you to the door.

“Introductions, and then we’re going home,” Tim explains. “Names and nothing more.”

“I would expect no less, Officer Bradford.”

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 1: SOMEWHERE (FAR, FAR) EAST OF THE MOJAVE

synopsis: you wake up in some cabin, half-frozen to death. a man named arthur finds you and decides to have mercy on you, as do his associates.

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: if anyone wants me to start a taglist just lmk <3!! also there's a PROLOGUE before this, please read it before reading this :)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

It’s cold. Above everything else, it’s fucking cold. 

You screw your eyes shut tighter, curling in on yourself. You’re vaguely aware that you’re on your side and in a fetal position. 

There’s a light, faintly, somewhere behind you. You let out a hiss that tapers off into a groan and draw your arms over your head.

“Hey!” A voice shouts. It’s growly and abrasive-sounding. There’s the sound of a revolver’s hammer cocking. “Turn around. Face me.”

You prop your forearm on the floor and push yourself up with more effort than you think would be needed. You pant softly, and your breath mists in front of your mouth. You manage to hold yourself up with both hands on the floor and turn your head to look at the man. 

He’s tall in a way that makes him look down his nose at you. His silhouette is stark against the door – there’s snow outside. You don’t remember it to be… snowing. It’s May in southern California. It doesn’t snow in May in southern California.

The man looks you over, his revolver still pointed at you. His hand is unwavering.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You don’t know why. “Is this your house?”

“No,” the man says simply. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I’m…” You look down at your hands, the way they’re braced against the floor. “I don’t know. I think…” 

Your arms shake, then collapse. Your jaw hits the floor with a dull thud, and your eyes screw shut on instinct.

“Shit,” the man drawls under his breath. 

“W-wait! Wait,” you say quickly. “I’m not on anything. I – I’m stone-cold sober. Like Steve Austin.”

You force a laugh and manage to open your eyes to look at the man. He looks confused – maybe a little disgusted? It’s hard to tell.

“Like, the wrestler?” You say. “Stone Cold Steve Austin?”

The man lowers his revolver, just a little, so that it’s not pointed at your head, but still in your general direction. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, in any capacity. Maybe he won’t shoot you if he thinks you’re insane? (Or maybe that would just give him more of an incentive to kill you.)

“Just – just ignore me,” you say. (Again, you don’t know why. You don’t want to be ignored – you’re very obviously in bad shape.) “I don’t know where I am. I remember being in California, just north of Los Angeles.”

The man scoffs and checks over his shoulder, like he’s checking he’s not being duped. He looks back at you. “California? Really?”

“Yes,” you say softly. You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself the best you can with the way that you’re laying. “South. Right near Mexico – Tijuana.”

The man tilts his head and takes a half-step closer. “You’re bleedin’.”

“I am?” You manage to move your arm and see dried brown blood on your jacket laced with redder, fresher blood. “I am.”

“I just…” You shift, curling in on yourself further. Now that he’s pointed it out, you do feel some type of dull pain in your abdomen. “I’ll be okay. Don’t call for a doctor, or an ambulance. Please don’t call an ambulance. I – I’ll get to a hospital on my own.”

The man shifts on his feet. Was it always this cold? It’s… it’s so fucking cold. And no matter how much you curl in on yourself, there’s no warmth. 

The black returns. 

There’s snippets of conversations you can pick up on over the sound of feet shuffling and the sound of wind blowing outside. One woman gives a few demands to others, while another woman announces that “Davey’s dead.”

You can feel yourself being lifted and laid on something that’s hard against your back. You groan and try to open your eyes and sit up, but can’t. 

The voices grow quieter. There’s a man making some sort of speech – you can’t make out the words. 

You know you’re wavering in and out. There’s the warmth of a man’s hand on your shoulder, and a murmuring voice, still fading in and out: “I commend you… your Creator… who formed you from the dust… angels, and all the saints…”

It takes all your strength to lift your hand and grab him – some part of him. You can barely open your eyes and can’t make out a lot. “Not… dead yet. Fucking pr…preacher.”

Black again. There’s a repetitive, stinging pain in your side. 

Awake, again. Somehow. A woman, her face worn but still beautiful, hovers over you. Her wrinkles are stark in the lantern light. 

“Hello?” You say, your voice a bit slurred.

The woman turns and calls another woman over – this one much younger than her. “Miss Jackson, get Dutch. Let him know Arthur’s friend is awake.”

Miss Jackson turns and walks off with a “Yes, Miss Grimshaw.” 

“Arthur?” You interject. “Is that the man who found me?”

Miss Grimshaw turns back to you. “Yes, Arthur’s the one who found you. I don’t know why he didn’t shoot you.”

You wait for her to say something more. She doesn’t.

“Where am I?” You try. “I remember being in California, just outside of the Mojave. But the Mojave doesn’t get snow in May.”

“That’s because you’re not in the Mojave,” Miss Grimshaw says. “We’re in the Grizzlies.”

“Th…the Grizzlies?” You echo. “Like, Appalachia?”

“Somewhere in there, yes,” she says. “You been out a few days now. Reverend read you your last rites a handful of times.”

You try to sit up, but groan and lay back down. She pushes you down as well, a scowl on her face. 

The door opens with a gust of cold wind. A man steps in, then quickly shuts the door behind him. He hurries over, rubbing his gloved hands together. 

He looks you over, then drags a nearby chair over and sits. “What’s your name, friend?”

You give him your name. 

“My name is Dutch,” Dutch says. “Dutch van der Linde. I think you know by now that you’ve caught us at an… inconvenient time. And you’ll forgive us for not trusting you right away.”

“No, I get that,” you say. “I just… I need a map or something. I need to get back home.”

Dutch beckons for Miss Grimshaw to bring over a map. He opens it and holds it out to you. 

You sit up, slowly, making sure not to do anything too sudden. When you’re upright, you take the map from him and look it over. You don’t recognize anything on the map, but one point piques your interest – the date. The year reads 1891.

“Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but…” You point to the year. “This map seems a little out of date.”

“It’s just eight years,” Miss Grimshaw says. “Most everything is the same.”

You glance up at her, then at Dutch, then at the people around the cabin. Your fingers twitch and crumple the map a bit. 

This is a dream! I’m in a coma! Your mind shouts. I’m in a medically-induced coma because I was shot and holy hell – how the fuck did I go from 2024 to 1899?!

“Right, right,” you say instead. “Sorry. I’m just being nitpicky.”

“Where’re you from?” Dutch asks. 

“California. Near the Mojave,” you say. “Out west.”

“And you would leave all that… virgin paradise…” Dutch laughs and gestures vaguely around him. “For this?”

“I don’t know how I got here,” you say. “I’ve been saying that since I woke up. I don’t…” You shake your head.

“Well, I’m sure we can get you back to your home,” Dutch says. “We’re persevering folk. Do you recognize anything – anything at all – on that map?”

You look down at the map again. It’s all unfamiliar. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, my friend,” Dutch says, reaching a hand out like it’s meant to soothe. “You’re a soul in need. I’m sure we can figure something out somehow. Can you at least tell me what your home is like?”

This is a coma, you remind yourself. I can just make something up. I’m not some person that couch-surfed for half my life. I can be whoever.

“I… it’s odd,” you say to buy yourself some time. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “There’s a few tribes that live in Zion Canyon – the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. I was a courier delivering goods to the Dead Horses. There were two men there that convinced me to stay.”

A Black man – broad, intimidating, with long, dark hair – perks up at the mention of tribes. His dark (almost black, honestly) eyes find yours, then he looks down at the floor again.

“None of it rings a bell,” Dutch says. “But, these men – what’re their names?”

It’s in that exact moment that you realize you just prattled off part of the storyline of Fallout: New Vegas. Then you realize that, if this really is 1899, no one here would know what you’re talking about. 

“Joshua Graham and Daniel,” you say. “They’re white – they work with the natives and help them trade. Joshua’s acting as the Dead Horses’ war chief and Daniel is a healer that works with the Sorrows.”

Yes. You’re totally friends with Joshua Graham and Daniel and the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. And from the way Dutch nods solemnly, you think he believes you. 

You hold out the map and he takes it back, folding it neatly. 

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” you say. “I’ve never even been this far east before.”

“Don’t worry,” Dutch says. “You can stay with us, for the time being. At least until we get to some… some town, or city. Let you rest your feet while you recover. We’re a gang of… violent criminals and degenerates, but we care. I can’t say the same for the rest of America.”

Your hand instinctively goes to your side, where you felt the stinging, repetitive pain earlier. “Right. My side doesn’t feel as bad as before. Thank you for that.”

You look around and slowly swing your feet over the side of the table. A lightning arc of pain shoots down your leg, causing you to gasp and tense. As with everything else, you force through it and stand. 

“I need to get some air,” you say. Dutch just nods. You walk (shamble, really) to the door and open it, slipping outside.

The cold is even worse out here. There’s footpaths in the snow. You stick your hands under your arms and walk one. It leads to a man standing by a fire in front of a cabin, dressed in a winter poncho with a gun in his hands. 

You hold your hands out towards the fire and rub your hands together. It doesn’t replace the warmth you had while you were inside, but it’s still something.

“What’s your name?” The man asks. He shifts the rifle in his hands, but doesn’t move to point it at you. (An improvement, if a small one.)

You give him your name. “What about you?”

“Javier,” Javier says. “Javier Escuella.”

“Where are you from?” You shift your focus to the fire. “Not trying to be rude. It’s just that there’s a few ‘Javier’s where I’m from.”

“Northern Mexico,” Javier says. “You?”

“I’m originally from the South, but I live in the Mojave. I moved to the Frontier to be closer to my sister,” you say. “So I guess we weren’t that far off from each other.”

You look up at the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. It’s the man from way earlier – Arthur. You look back at the fire instead.

Arthur nods at Javier and spares a glance at you before entering the cabin. People are talking inside, and you catch a snippet of voices before Arthur closes the door again.

“It’s too cold to be May,” Javier says. You can tell he’s trying to be polite by making conversation. “I’m not designed for this snow.”

“I know, right?” You laugh under your breath. “Neither am I. I’d go back inside, but I don’t want to intrude. Any more than I already have, anyway.”

“It’s below freezing,” he says. “Everyone needs shelter. Come on.”

With that, Javier turns and walks into the cabin, holding the door open behind him for you. You thank him and follow him inside. 

Inside is a group of men and the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke. You tense when they all turn to face you. Most of them are, in fact, smoking. You nod politely and tuck yourself into a corner, next to a man with a blond mustache. 

A hefty man is sitting across from the blond man, and a much younger Black man is sitting on a table next to him. Javier is by the door, and you try your best to ignore Arthur’s huge presence beside you. You can see him throw a small log into the woodstove out of the corner of your eye.

The man sort-of across from you looks at you, then returns his gaze to the man sitting beside you. “I guess folks miss them… that fell.”

“Well, when I fall, I don’t want no fuss,” the man beside you says.

“When you fall…” The young man waves his hand, which is holding a lit cigarette. “There’ll be a party.”

“A party!” The hefty man echoes, laughing. “Hah, probably.”

You feel the beginnings of a smile start to cross your face. You don’t know these people, and while they aren’t exactly doing their best to welcome you, they aren’t exactly making you feel unwelcome, either.

The man beside you holds out a bottle to you. You hesitantly take it, even though you’re confused. “I don’t want this.”

He pays you no mind and stands, looking down at the man. “That funny, huh?”

“Sure,” the man says, the remnants of laughter still in his voice.

One man strikes another, and it’s loud, absolute chaos. On instinct, your eyes snap to the door. Unblocked. An exit if needed.

Arthur and the young man are holding the hit man back, and the blond man speaks. “Maybe  I don’t feel like being laughed at by the likes of you two!”

It’s going to escalate. You can get to the door. Dutch was right – this is a gang of violent criminals and degenerates. One you want nothing to do with.

But Dutch bursts in with a gust of cold wind. As soon as he sees what’s going on, his face twists. The men dissipate from their tight proximity and distance themselves from each other.

“Stop it!” He snaps. “You fools punching each other when Colm O’Driscoll’s needin’ punching – hard! You wanna sit around, waiting for him to come find us?”

Arthur slips out of the door as Dutch continues. “All of you, we got work to do. Come on.”

The men turn and start to file out of the cabin. You can hear Arthur and Dutch talking outside. By the time you’re outside, most of the men are over by the horses or on one of them.

Dutch is talking quietly to Arthur while they’re both mounting up – you couldn’t hear them if you tried. He straightens up on his snow-white horse and shouts. “Mister Matthews, Mister Smith, Mister Pearson, would you please look after the place? There are O’Driscolls about!”

With that, he snaps the reins and his horse darts off. The rest of the men from the cabin, now all on horseback, quickly follow. 

You resign yourself to following another footpath. This one leads to a partly-sheltered, partly-dilapidated garage-type-thing with something like a kitchen inside. There’s a deer hoist against the wall, but it’s empty.

Your eyes dart to some sort of cauldron-looking pot hanging over a fire that’s mostly coals. You walk over and hold your hands out to it, trying to get warm again. 

“You’re new.”

Your head snaps up to see the broad Black man from earlier. He still has that impassive look on his face. 

“Yes, sir, that’s right,” you say. You introduce yourself. “What’s your name?”

“Charles Smith.” Charles walks and stands beside you, mirroring you and putting his hands out towards the fire. “You were talking earlier about tribes.”

“Yeah,” you say. “What about them?”

“I’ve never heard of the ones you were talking about,” he says. His voice is deep and smooth and calm. (You try your best not to latch onto that sense of calmness. You now know how quickly things can turn.)

“The Sorrows and the Dead Horses?” You rub your nose as you try to think of an excuse. “I wouldn’t expect you to. They live in Zion Canyon – in the Mojave. They’re fairly isolated, but they’re good people.”

Charles hums and his eyes return to the fire. You try to think of something to keep the conversation going.

“Who’s Colm O’Driscoll?” You ask. “I’ve heard his name a handful of times.”

“A rival gang leader,” he says. “Runs the O’Driscolls.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You scratch your cheek. “That makes sense.”

A silence settles over the two of you again. Charles must be comfortable with it. Unfortunately, you’re not. 

“Is there anything people need done?” You ask, glancing at him. “I don’t like being idle for too long.”

He looks over at the empty deer hoist. “We need food.”

“I’m no good at hunting.” You look at the fire and rub your hands together again. “Sorry.”

“You apologize a lot,” Charles says. His eyes flick to you. “You know you don’t have to do that, right?”

You bite back another apology and force a laugh. Your breath mists in front of your face. “Force of habit.”

Charles hums and his focus returns to the smoldering coals that make up the fire. A nagging thought in the back of your head tells you that you made him mad (even though he’s given literally no indication you’ve done so). 

You follow his lead and look at the fire. There’s nothing else to do in this kind of cold, anyway. 

[littlespidermonkey]

I think in the universe where the Cullens aren't in Forks, Bella Swan takes a while to come out of her shell, but when she does, she's witty and passionate and smart as a whip, even if she's still quiet and reserved. She sits with Jessica Stanley, who demands the best of everyone, and tells her friends about her boyfriend down on the rez, who is sweet and caring and funny and good with his hands, who works for everything he's ever had.

After class, during a sleepover, Bella whispers to tell Angie and Jess about the night after prom, even though her father, loving and careless, worries about her only a normal amount and loves Jacob Black like his own. When she gets into Dartmouth--all by herself, through study sessions in garages and with Jessica and in Angela's house--she chooses to go to Stanford instead. She misses the heat and light on her skin, even after falling in love with the rain. Jessica comes with her; Angela and Eric go to U of Washington in Seattle instead, for education and journalism respectively.

Bella makes sure to call every week and then one day she drives down to Seattle and her boyfriend, warm like the sun she loves and at least twice as reliable, becomes her fiancé. The ring isn't especially big or ornate or pricey, but the way she smiles could trick anyone into thinking that it was. All of her friends, new and old, are waiting at the small party afterwards, and Bella laughs the entire time. The engagement cake--chocolate, her favourite--is sweet and moist against her tongue.

She moves back to Forks once she gets her masters in information sciences and becomes the town's librarian. She gets married a month before the move, barefoot in the surf and her old prom dress, both her parents weeping with joy and Billy Black beaming damn near as bright as his son, Sue Clearwater holding his hand.

She raises her kids --both beautiful children, blessed with Jake's thick, long hair--with Angela and Eric's and takes them down to Los Angeles to visit their auntie Jess and her husband Quil, who lavishes them with gifts from her career as a top surgeon. She jokes about having to support Quil's career as an environmental lawyer and displays each and every one of his wins alongside her diplomas. When William Black II decides he wants to be a doctor too, she writes him a shining letter of recommendation to her alma mater. Sarah, who has always been the spitting image of her father, joins and eventually takes over Jacob's mechanic shop.

On occasion, Bella fights with Jacob, even though he's the love of her life. Despite this, she is never afraid of him, and he never stops her from doing what she wants. Instead, he goes out and works on his cars and comes back in an hour later with slightly greasy hands and a bouquet of flowers from Emily Young's little garden, planted to celebrate her cousin Leah Uley's wedding. Bella makes him muffins, recipe courtesy of Sue and missing bites courtesy of Seth, Colin, Sarah, Will, and Claire, with raspberries, not blueberries, just how Jake likes them. They make up, and they make changes, and they go on.

Eventually, both slower and quicker than she realizes, Bella gets old. She lives in fear of losing herself, of losing her husband and her children, like her grandmother had. But she remembers her grandkids to the very end, even gets to meet her first great-grandchild a week before it happens. Her heart gives out before her brain does, too weak and too slow.

It was too full of love, the letter from Jacob says. Sarah reads it. Her father passed a day after his wife--simply too heartbroken to live without her. Much of the town of Forks and hordes of family attend their funeral, remembering a life well lived.

It is an unremarkable life, in the grand scheme of things. She does not live to be a thousand; she is no great beast, with speed like the wind and strength; she does not discover her powers or lead a great defiance. Bella Black, happy and human and surrounded by love, could never imagine wanting anything else.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Bernie Sanders: America Must Confront Its Long COVID Crisis - Published Aug 15, 2024

As the chairman of the Senate Health, Education, Labor and Pensions Committee (HELP Committee), I have heard from Americans of all ages about their struggles with Long COVID and the challenges they face are absolutely heartbreaking.

In America today, far too many patients suffering from Long COVID have struggled to get their symptoms taken seriously. Far too many doctors and medical professionals have either dismissed or misdiagnosed those who have contracted Long COVID. Far too many people with Long COVID have found themselves stuck at home, unable to socialize, unable to work, unable to spend quality time with their families, unable to get out of bed and desperate for help.

That is unacceptable and that has got to change.

Long COVID is real. It is negatively impacting tens of millions of people throughout the United States and the world. We can no longer ignore it or sweep it under the rug.

Earlier this year, I chaired a hearing on the Long COVID crisis. It made me more determined than ever to address this ongoing public health emergency. This is what we heard:

A former athlete from Los Angeles told us that her chronic Long COVID symptoms of insomnia, brain fog, confusion, sleep apnea, heart palpitations, fever and severe migraines prevent her from socializing with friends and leaving her house on most days. Adding insult to injury, her initial symptoms of blood clots, mini strokes, brain swelling, seizures, severe shortness of breath, and numbness in her face, hands, and legs were brushed off by her doctors as just a case of anxiety.

A human resources director at a community college in Southeastern Virginia told us that Long COVID forced her to leave the job she loved three years ago and that she continues to experience extreme fatigue, chronic pain, headaches, and dizziness. These debilitating symptoms have made it difficult for her to just get out of bed and she is no longer able to lead an active life with her children.

A mother in rural Virginia told us that before her 16-year old daughter came down with Long COVID she received straight A’s and was an active member of the school’s marching band. Today, she struggles with extreme fatigue, low blood pressure, an increased heart rate, severe joint pain, nausea, vomiting, a severe inability to concentrate, and depression. Her daughter is now isolated, struggles to do her schoolwork and is slowly working on her GED from home.

Sadly, they are not alone. In America today, nearly 18 million adults suffer from Long COVID. And, despite what you may have heard, Long COVID does not just impact adults and the elderly. It impacts people from all ages and all backgrounds. In fact, nearly 6 million children in our country have been affected by Long COVID.

Further, recent studies have found that only 8 percent of people who have Long COVID have been able to recover from this debilitating disease after 2 years.

What is deeply concerning to me is that Long COVID can affect anyone who has tested positive for COVID—from those who experienced mild symptoms to those who were severely ill. Furthermore, although you may not have Long COVID after your first COVID infection, each reinfection can substantially increase the risk of developing it.

This escalating danger, particularly for those who have suffered repeated infections, poses a severe threat to public health that demands our immediate and focused attention.

Let’s be clear. The impact of long COVID-19 is not just a health issue. It’s an economic one as well. It’s estimated that as many as 4 million Americans are out of work due to long COVID-19. The annual cost of those lost wages alone is about $170 billion a year.

In my view, the time has come to start treating the Long COVID crisis as the public health emergency that it is.

Read the rest of the article at either link!

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Aaron Sibarium

Published: May 23, 2024

Up to half of UCLA medical students now fail basic tests of medical competence. Whistleblowers say affirmative action, illegal in California since 1996, is to blame.

Long considered one of the best medical schools in the world, the University of California, Los Angeles's David Geffen School of Medicine receives as many as 14,000 applications a year. Of those, it accepted just 173 students in the 2023 admissions cycle, a record-low acceptance rate of 1.3 percent. The median matriculant took difficult science courses in college, earned a 3.8 GPA, and scored in the 88th percentile on the Medical College Admissions Test (MCAT).

Without those stellar stats, some doctors at the school say, students can struggle to keep pace with the demanding curriculum.

So when it came time for the admissions committee to consider one such student in November 2021—a black applicant with grades and test scores far below the UCLA average—some members of the committee felt that this particular candidate, based on the available evidence, was not the best fit for the top-tier medical school, according to two people present for the committee's meeting.

Their reservations were not well-received.

When an admissions officer voiced concern about the candidate, the two people said, the dean of admissions, Jennifer Lucero, exploded in anger.

"Did you not know African-American women are dying at a higher rate than everybody else?" Lucero asked the admissions officer, these people said. The candidate's scores shouldn't matter, she continued,  because "we need people like this in the medical school."

Even before the Supreme Court's landmark affirmative action ban last year, public schools in California were barred by state law from considering race in admissions. The outburst from Lucero, who discussed race explicitly despite that ban, unsettled some admissions officers, one of whom reached out to other committee members in the wake of the incident. "We are not consistent in the way we apply the metrics to these applicants," the official wrote in an email obtained by the Washington Free Beacon. "This is troubling."

"I wondered," the official added, "if this applicant had been [a] white male, or [an] Asian female for that matter, [whether] we would have had that much discussion."

Since Lucero took over medical school admissions in June 2020, several of her colleagues have asked the same question. In interviews with the Free Beacon and complaints to UCLA officials, including investigators in the university's Discrimination Prevention Office, faculty members with firsthand knowledge of the admissions process say it has prioritized diversity over merit, resulting in progressively less qualified classes that are now struggling to succeed.

Race-based admissions have turned UCLA into a "failed medical school," said one former member of the admissions staff. "We want racial diversity so badly, we're willing to cut corners to get it."

This story is based on written correspondence between UCLA officials, internal data on student performance, and interviews with eight professors at the medical school—six of whom have worked with or under Lucero on medical student and residency admissions.

Together, they provide an unprecedented account of how racial preferences, outlawed in California since 1996, have nonetheless continued, upending academic standards at one of the top medical schools in the country. The school has consequently taken a hit in the rankings and seen a sharp rise in the number of students failing basic standardized tests, raising concerns about their clinical competence.

"I have students on their rotation who don't know anything," a member of the admissions committee told the Free Beacon. "People get in and they struggle."

It is almost unheard of for admissions officials to go public, even anonymously, and provide a window into confidential deliberations, much less to accuse their colleagues of breaking the law or lowering standards. They've agreed to come forward anyway, several officials told the Free Beacon, because the results of Lucero's push for diversity have been so alarming.

"I wouldn't normally talk to a reporter," a UCLA faculty member said. "But there's no way to stop this without embarrassing the medical school."

Within three years of Lucero's hiring in 2020, UCLA dropped from 6th to 18th place in U.S. News & World Report's rankings for medical research. And in some of the cohorts she admitted, more than 50 percent of students failed standardized tests on emergency medicine, family medicine, internal medicine, and pediatrics.

Those tests, known as shelf exams, which are typically taken at the end of each clinical rotation, measure basic medical knowledge and play a pivotal role in residency applications. Though only 5 percent of students fail each test nationally, the rates are much higher at UCLA, having increased tenfold in some subjects since 2020, according to internal data obtained by the Free Beacon.

That uptick coincided with a steep drop in the number of Asian matriculants and tracks the subjective impressions of faculty who say that students have never been more poorly prepared.

One professor said that a student in the operating room could not identify a major artery when asked, then berated the professor for putting her on the spot. Another said that students at the end of their clinical rotations don't know basic lab tests and, in some cases, are unable to present patients.

"I don't know how some of these students are going to be junior doctors," the professor said. "Faculty are seeing a shocking decline in knowledge of medical students."

And for those who've seen the competency crisis up close, double standards in admissions are a big part of the problem. "All the normal criteria for getting into medical school only apply to people of certain races," an admissions officer said. "For other people, those criteria are completely disregarded."

Led by Lucero, who also serves as the vice chair for equity, diversity, and inclusion of UCLA's anesthesiology department, the admissions committee routinely gives black and Latino applicants a pass for subpar metrics, four people who served on it said, while whites and Asians need near perfect scores to even be considered.

The bar for underrepresented minorities is "as low as you could possibly imagine," one committee member told the Free Beacon. "It completely disregards grades and achievements."

Lucero did not respond to a request for comment.

Several officials said that they support holistic admissions and don't believe test scores should be judged in isolation. The problem, as they see it, is that the committee is not just weighing academic merit against community service or considering how much time a given student had to study for the MCAT. For certain applicants, they say, hardship and community service seem to be the only things that matter to the majority of the committee's 20-30 members, many of whom were handpicked by Lucero, according to people familiar with the selection process.

"We were always outnumbered," an admissions officer told the Free Beacon, referring to committee members who expressed concern about low grades. "Other people would get upset when we brought up GPA."

Lucero hasn't been kind to dissenters. Speaking on the condition of anonymity, six people who've worked with her described a pattern of racially charged incidents that has dispirited officials and pushed some of them to resign from the committee.

She has lashed out at officials who question the qualifications of minority candidates, five sources said, suggesting naysayers are "privileged," implying that they are racist, and subjecting them to diversity training sessions.

After a Native American applicant was rejected in 2021, for example, Lucero chewed out the committee and made members sit through a two-hour lecture on Native history delivered by her own sister, according to three people familiar with the incident. No applications were reviewed that day, an official present for the lecture said.

In the anesthesiology department, where Lucero helps rank applicants to the department's residency program, she has rebuffed calls to blind the race of candidates, telling colleagues in a January 2023 email that, despite California's ban on racial preferences, "we are not required to blind any information."

That alone could get UCLA in legal trouble, according to Adam Mortara, the lead trial lawyer for the plaintiffs in Students for Fair Admissions v. Harvard, the Supreme Court case that outlawed affirmative action nationwide.

Asking for information about an applicant's race when "no lawful use can be made of it" is "presumptively illegal," Mortara said. "You can't have evidence of overt discrimination like this and not have someone come forward" as a plaintiff.

Lucero has even advocated moving candidates up or down the residency rank list based on race. At a meeting in February 2022, according to two people present, Lucero demanded that a highly qualified white male be knocked down several spots because, as she put it, "we have too many of his kind" already. She also told doctors who voiced concern that they had no right to an opinion because they were "not BIPOC," sources said, and insisted that a Hispanic applicant who had performed poorly on her anesthesiology rotation in medical school should be bumped up. Neither candidate was ultimately moved.

Lucero's comments from the meeting were flagged in an email to UCLA's Discrimination Prevention Office, which has received several complaints about her since 2023, emails show. The office has declined to act on those complaints on the grounds that they aren't "serious enough" to merit an investigation, according to a source with direct knowledge of the situation. The Discrimination Prevention Office did not respond to a request for comment.

The focus on racial diversity has coincided with a dramatic shift in the racial and ethnic composition of the medical school, where the number of Asian matriculants fell by almost a third between 2019 and 2022, according to publicly available data. No other elite medical school in California saw a similar decline.

As the demographics of UCLA have changed, the number of students failing their shelf exams has soared, trends professors at the medical school say are connected.

Between 2020, the year Lucero assumed her post, and 2023, when the first classes she admitted were taking their shelf exams, the failure rate rose dramatically across all subjects, in some cases increasing tenfold relative to the 2020 baseline, per internal data obtained by the Free Beacon.

"UCLA still produces some very good graduates," one professor said. "But a third to a half of the medical school is incredibly unqualified."

The collapse in qualifications has been compounded by UCLA's decision, in 2020, to condense its preclinical curriculum from two years to one in order to add more time for research and community service. That means students arrive at their clinical rotations with just a year of courses under their belt—some of which focus less on science than social justice.

First-year students spend three to four hours every other week in "Structural Racism and Health Equity," a required class that covers topics like "fatphobia," has featured anti-Semitic speakers, and is now the subject of an internal review. They spend an additional seven hours a week in "Foundations of Practice," which includes units on "interpersonal communication skills" and, according to one medical student, basically "tells us how to be a good person." The two courses eat up time that could be spent on physiology or anatomy, professors say, and leave struggling students with fewer hours to learn the basics.

"This has been a colossal failure," one professor posted in April on a forum for medical school applicants. "The new curriculum is not working and the students are grossly unprepared for clinical rotations."

Nearly a fourth of UCLA medical students in the class of 2025 have failed three or more shelf exams, data from the school show, forcing some students to repeat classes and persuading others to postpone a different test, the Step 2 licensing exam, that is typically taken in the third year of medical school and is a prerequisite for most residency programs.

Around 20 percent of UCLA students have not taken Step 2 by January of their fourth year, according to the data. Ten percent have not even taken the more basic Step 1—an "extremely high number," one professor said, that will force many students to extend medical school.

"It's a combination of a bad curriculum and bad selection," another professor said, referring to the admissions process. Some students are accepted with GPAs so low "they shouldn't even be applying."

UCLA did not respond to a request for comment.

As medical schools around the country adjust to the Supreme Court's affirmative action ban, the experience of UCLA offers a preview of how administrators may skirt the law and devise public-spirited excuses for violating it.

Lucero has told the admissions committee that each class should "represent" the "diversity" of California, including its remote and rural areas, so that graduating students will return to their hometowns and beef up the medical infrastructure there, officials say.

Race is rarely mentioned outright, and unlike the committee for anesthesiology residents, the committee for students does not see the race or ethnicity of applicants.

Instead, officials say, Lucero uses proxies like zip codes and euphemisms like "disadvantaged" to shut down criticism of unqualified candidates, citing a finding from the Association of American Medical Colleges that, technically, most students with below-average MCATs make it to their second year of medical school. How well they do after that point goes undiscussed and undisclosed.

"We have asked for metrics on how these folks actually do," one committee member said. "None of that is ever divulged to us."

==

Hope your next doctor isn't from UCLA.

Wokeness has a body count.

[killed-by-choice]

Stella Saenz, 42 (USA 1968)

California’s early legalization of abortion claimed many lives even before Roe v. Wade. The law introduced in 1968 allowed “therapeutic” abortion, but defined the requirements so vaguely that abortion was effectively legalized on demand as long as it was done at a hospital. Two of those killed were 42-year-old Stella Saenz and her baby.

Stella didn’t know she was going to die when she entered a hospital in California for a newly “safe and legal” abortion. She underwent the abortion in early 1968, but was already back in the hospital with sepsis by April 11.

Los Angeles County General Hospital tried to treat Stella’s deadly infection. They administered penicillin, but Stella had an undiagnosed penicillin allergy. Already weak from infection, she didn’t survive the allergic reaction. Doctors tried to save her, but she was declared dead on April 13, 1968.

California Department of Public Health classifies Stella's death as both a legal abortion death and a drug reaction death.

Others killed by California’s pre-Roe legal abortions include 17-year-old Cheryl Vosseler, 16-year-old Francesca Sardina, Kathryn Strong, Erika Peterson, Elva Lozada, Cassandra Kay Bleavins, Denise Holmes, Sharon Lee Margrave, Twila Coulter, Sara Lint, 15-year-old Gwendolyn Drummer, Doris Grant, 18-year-old Janet Foster, Betty Hines, 16-year-old Nathalie Meyers, LaSandra Russ and their children.

California Certificate of Death 68-083706

Los Angeles County Coroner's Report 68-3820

California Death Index, 1940-1997 database, Stella V Saenz, 13 Apr 1968; Department of Public Health Services, Sacramento.

California, County Birth and Death Records, 1800-1994, database with images, Stella V Saenz, 1968.

[terrence-silver]

I wonder if Margret was still alive would have made Terry stay in therapy or convince him to go back to cobra Kai

Like for some reason I feel like Milo and her both hate kreese for leaving terry in the 80s like they gave me mother and father vibes with him

---

I imagine Margaret Spencer and Miloš Dadok are like the informal surrogate guardians slash long term employees of an eccentric Billionaire who has no supervision but the people working for him. He's a grown, shrewd competent businessman and not a child sure, but still, that's their grown, shrewd competent businessman

Think Alfred and Bruce Wayne.

Terry Silver has no parents. No siblings. No relatives. No family. No spouse. No children. Not in over forty years. There's technically nobody but his Czechoslovakian Major Domo and his English secretary in the 80's and a mansion large and spacious enough to get lost in overlooking Los Angeles. That's all we ever see anyway. His odd two henchmen in Snake and Dennis, if we count that. In his later years, it is even worse, because don't ever see old man Terry have that level of appearent closeness with any of his staff ever again. Are any of them memorable in any way? Really doubt Carla the maid would've given too many damns about her boss, outside of what her contract and workhours demands or that nameless chef who asked him if he requires him to call a doctor because that's just what one does when one's boss is visibly tripping out. So, read between the lines, one gets the impression, that unlike most employees, Miloš and Margaret knew Terry for quite a while, maybe even since he was a child. Perhaps, they might've worked for his parents even and afterwards, they worked for him. He inherited his working staff. There's this just sense of intimacy almost, like they're well used to his temperament and habits, regardless how extravagant, unhinged and hedonistic they might be. He's there bathing in front of them, issuing orders, joking around, telling them how he's taking time off for revenge and everyone around him is pretty nonplussed about it. This has happened before because that's just how their Mr. Silver's like.

If he ever hit rock bottom where narcotics are concerned, I firmly believe they'd do something (or everything) about it because these seemed like people far too well paid to be shocked by any of it and far too knowledgeable of Terry Silver's character to be genuinely scandalized by anything he did. There's just the weird, underlining bittersweet sadness and tragedy of Terry recovering after the fallout of the '85 tournament and nobody being there for him but Margaret and Miloš after John Kreese left and Cobra Kai was left in shambles.

I personally like to make myself happy with the thought that the pair was employed with him well into their old age and reached an extremely comfortable pension somewhere in the 90's or early 2000's or perhaps, even later; that Terry Silver had them luxuriously settled out on some, say, exotic island after a lifetime of devoted service because these could've been there when for him nobody else was and because it is simply in his personality to go above and beyond to repay what he considers undeniable loyalty towards himself.

[kosmos2999]

In what ways did William Shatner's portrayal of Captain James T. Kirk differ from the way the character was originally written?

You really have to look at the difference between Captain Christopher Pike (portrayed by Jeff Hunter in the first Star Trek pilot, “The Cage”) and Captain James Kirk (portrayed by William Shatner in the second Star Trek pilot, “Where No Man Has Gone Before”) to see the evolution of the Captain in Star Trek.

As originally written, the Captain of the USS Enterprise was a rather dark, tormented man who was already thinking of resigning his Starfleet commission (in the pilot episode) because he was fed-up with the demands of leadership. That was Jeff Hunter’s portrayal of Christopher Pike.

^^^ Jeff Hunter’s Captain Pike appeared as almost a reluctant commander. He was introspective and self-doubting and mostly humorless, and he didn’t want the responsibility of issuing life-or-death orders and leading others into deadly situations.

He didn’t like women on the bridge, either, except for his First Officer Number One (because she had no obvious feminine personality).

Pike was also aggressive. He barked most of his lines, he glared a lot, and he was even violently intimidating (choking a frightened and physically-frail Talosian, for example, and directly threatening to burn a hole through the alien at close range).

^^^ If looks could kill, right. No wonder the Talosians concluded that humans were "too violent and dangerous a species for our needs.”

NBC rejected the first Star Trek pilot for several reasons, including Jeff Hunter’s Christopher Pike, who was considered too intense, angry and not very likable. Gee, wonder why?

Could it be because Jeff Hunter’s controlling wife was often on the set, badgering Hunter as well as the producer and director? That probably made Hunter’s job many times more difficult, and I think it showed in his performance.

When NBC requested a second Star Trek pilot, it was decided to rewrite some characters and do away with others. For example, First Officer Number One was entirely removed from the script; Spock was promoted to First Officer as well as Science Officer; Doctor Boyce (Ship’s Physician and bartender) was also eliminated from the script and replaced with a more down-to-earth country doctor (this was Doctor Piper, who quickly evolved into Doctor McCoy); and Christopher Pike was to be rewritten as a kinder, gentler, more likable Captain.

However, there was a contractual problem, inasmuch as Jeff Hunter had signed to do only one pilot and a series (if NBC bought it)…but he didn’t sign to do two pilots and a series. Gene Roddenberry and Desilu Studios really wanted Jeff Hunter to continue working on the show, but they knew they’d have to cajole Hunter (and his overbearing wife) into signing for a second pilot.

So, Roddenberry called Jeff Hunter in for a post-rejection screening of The Cage to discuss character revisions and signing another contract for another pilot. This is where it got messy.

Desilu production head Herbert Solow was at the screening and described it best:

“In the eyes of the New York and Los Angeles television world, Star Trek was already a failure. But we knew differently and looked forward to running the completed pilot for our star, Jeff Hunter. We hoped it would convince him to do another pilot. Gene and I waited in the Desilu projection room for him to arrive. He never did. Arriving in his stead was actress Sandy Bartlett, Mrs. Jeff Hunter. We traded hellos, and I nodded to Gene. He flicked the projection booth intercom switch. ‘Let's go.’

“As the end credits rolled, and the lights came up, Jeff Hunter's wife gave us our answer: ‘This is not the kind of show Jeff wants to do, and besides, it wouldn't be good for his career. Jeff Hunter is a movie star.’ Mrs. Hunter was very polite and very firm. She said her good-byes and left, having surprisingly and swiftly removed our star from our new pilot.”

–Herb Solow, Inside Star Trek: The Real Story

So, Jeff Hunter just vanished from Star Trek. He wasn’t fired, as some claimed…he quit. Or, more precisely, his beast of a wife quit for him. Two years later (1967), after Star Trek was a success, Jeff Hunter divorced his wife.

As it happened, there was another actor invited to that same screening (quietly taking notes), and that actor was Bill Shatner, who was waiting in the wings when Jeff Hunter opted out.

Thus entered the new Captain of the Enterprise, James R. Kirk.

^^^ Yep, he was actually named James R. Kirk in his first Star Trek appearance: It says so on his tombstone in “Where No Man Has Gone Before,” the second Star Trek pilot.

Shatner’s Kirk was basically just the opposite of Hunter’s Pike. Captain Kirk was thoughtful but not deeply introspective; he was not tormented but was supremely confident and never self-doubting; he loved his ship and crew, but was willing to take life-or-death risks with both; he was perfectly comfortable with women on the bridge (or just women in general); and he could be humorous, if a little irritating.

^^^ Captain Kirk was a more likable, humorous and confident alternative to Christopher Pike.

Captain Kirk, unlike Captain Pike, was always a ready negotiator, offering an olive branch first and only turning to violence as a last resort; indeed, even in violent scenes, Kirk was typically defending himself.

In short, Shatner portrayed Kirk as a role model for kids. Shatner fully realized that Star Trek was a kids’ show, first and foremost, so he played a kid’s idea of a starship captain…and nailed it.

It became apparent from the second pilot onward that Kirk’s human warmth was a perfect balance for Spock’s icy Vulcan logic (which evolved as the first season of Star Trek progressed). Their dynamic became pure gold for the series and the movie franchise.

^^^ DeForest Kelley’s emotional and quick-tempered Doctor McCoy assumed the role of a counter-character playing against Spock, while Kirk became the reasonable middle-man between the two, and so was born the legendary trio.

By Charles Austin Miller, Investigative Journalist and Publisher.

Found at Quora:

[directactionforhope]

Example Submitted Post

No more kids with cancer: Clean up the Santa Susana Field Lab

Video: A Change.org-made feature video explaining the situation and the story of the organization's founder, whose daughter got cancer.

From the organizers:

"Sign to demand that California's EPA and the Dept. of Toxic Substances Control (DTSC) enforce the AOC cleanup of the Santa Susana Field Lab and prevent any more children from getting cancer...

My daughter’s childhood was stolen from her, and it haunts me to know her cancer might have been avoidable.

She, like [dozens of other] children, grew up within 20 miles the Santa Susana Field Lab, land which was developed in the 1940s to conduct rocket engine tests and secret nuclear research. In 1959 an uncontained partial meltdown of a sodium reactor caused such a devastating radiation leak that many consider it to be the worst nuclear disaster in U.S. history – and it was completely covered up for years.

Our community has up to 60% higher cancer rates, 20% higher invasive breast cancer rates, and we have the reports to prove it. It is the Department of Toxic Substance Control’s job to clean up this mess. They know our children are sick and dying, but they aren’t taking any meaningful action against those who own the land – Boeing, NASA and the Department of Energy.

The Woolsey Fire, which began on Santa Susana Field Lab, may have exposed millions of people in Southern California to the chemical and radioactive waste from the site, via ash and smoke. It proved once again that we will not be safe until the site is 100% cleaned up."

--

Info

Action Type: Petition

Source organization: Parents Against Santa Susanna Field Laboratory

Where: Southern California, specifically western Los Angeles, the San Fernando Valley, Simi Valley, Thousand Oaks, Chatsworth, and anything between those areas.

In person or virtual: Virtual. You can sign from anywhere, especially in the United States.

Time/date range: Petition started in 2017, ongoing, because Boeing is refusing to comply with the required cleanup plan they signed.

Here's the link again!

Anything else: This nuclear meltdown is the reason my grandfather died young of cancer. It's the reason 6+ members of my family are at lifelong elevated cancer risk, me included.

Everyone who has lived in this region, which includes a large area of Los Angeles, needs elevated levels of cancer screenings, especially for children, yet basically no one knows that.

(More on this here, if you're from any of the cities I listed PLEASE look into this and talk to your doctor about increased cancer screenings asap!)

[zaenight]

CRAZY BUT SHE'S MINE CHAPTER 24 FINAL CHAPTER

"I SWEAR TO GOD IM GONNA POP THIS KID OUT RIGHT NOW IF SOMEBODODY DOESN'T GET THE DAMN KEYS , SOMEONE SOBER!" Jackie exclaimed in pain , gripping onto Ez's arm.

"I got them , here , go ! Lets go everyone to the cars , sober people behind the wheels !" Angel exclaimed as Luisa told them The sons were outside.

"BABY REYES IS COMING!" Tig exclaimed bursting in.

"SHUT UP ALE-GET THE KEYS!" Jackie yelled out in Pain.

Finally making it to the car They drove off too the hospital , the sons driving the too drunk too drive mayans.

"No , no , Mierda!,we're almost there mom , you can't birth the baby in the back of a truck!" Illiana groaned , as Jackie cried out in pain.

Felipe gave his truck , and offered to watch maverick for Luisa and angel.

Angel drove , with Luisa in the passenger side , in the back Jackie had her head on Ez's lap , and legs on Illiana's lap.

"Im gonna kill you!" Jackie groaned , as Ez played with her hair.

"We're almost there Camila." He said , as she gripped his hand.

"Yo I think im gonna throw up." Angel said as Luisa smacked him.

--------

The sons had to leave a bit Early , much to Tigs dismay , but he demanded pictures.

"Im gonna kill you , OH FUCK!" Jackie said pushing.

"C'mon Camila , you can do it Mi reina." Ez said , As Jackie pushed , as she screamed , a loud wail filled the room.

"It's a girl , A beautiful baby girl." The doctor said , as the baby cried.

"Do you have a name?" The doctor asked , as He let Ez cut the umbilical cord.

"Esmae "Marisol" Reyes , that's her name." Jackie said as Ez Sat by her , Passing her the now calm baby , kissing the tired woman's forhead , painful labour , and a natural

birth with no medication took a toll on the woman's body.

"You did it Querida." Ez said as She held their baby.

"No , We did it Ezekiel." Jackie said with a glance , small smile on her face.

---------

"Angel , Luisa , we want you to be Esmae's godparents." Ez said to his brother and future

sister-in-law.

"Esmae?" Angel questioned.

"Esmae "Marisol" Reyes , thats her name , That's your Goddaughter ." Jackie said sitting up with the help of Luisa , Illiana was holding Esmae , gushing over her new baby sister.

Angel's eye's lit up as Illiana passed Esmae to him , and he cried , he fucking cried.

"Shut up." He said to Ez , who chuckled.

The club members all got their turn to hold baby Esmae , Later on Gurero and bottles left , along with Luisa who had to take care of maverick.

"Hey? before you went into labour you wanted to tell me somthing?" Ez questioned , the club asleep outside , while illiana slept on the couch in the room..

"Ezekiel I want to get married and be your old lady , I love you." Jackie said as Ez had a smile on his face.

Until the door burst open , Illiana popped up , Esmae started to cry , and jackie stared at the police.

The club was in cuffs , cursing the police.

"Mayans Mc , your under arrest for mutiple charges." Frankie told them.

"Just let me hold my little girl

and say goodbye to my wife

and kid before you arrest me

and the guys, please." Ez told him , as illiana handed the baby to him , holding her with one arm , he wrapped another around Illiana , Jackie's hand rested on his knee.

"Los amo a los tres, y cuando salga, nos casaremos y todo eso, Jackie, te lo prometo, lo siento." Ez told them , kissing Esmae's forhead one last time , Before putting her in Jackie's arms , and holding his girls one last time , before he was taken away in cuffs.

(I love the three of you , and when I get out , We're getting married and everything Jackie , I promise you that , Im sorry.)

----------

*~*8 YEARS LATER*~*

----------

"Dad's getting out soon , he hates when we go visit because he doesn't like us seeing him behind the glass but really he loves it because then he knows we're okay." Illiana said, she was now 24 , although she looked the same as the day Jackie met her , she still lived with them of course , She's had girlfriends , but none of them worked like it did with Natalia.

"Let's go , let's go!,

he's gonna think it's

a normal visit but really

we're going to bring

him home." A now eight year old esmae exclaimed , never getting to hug her father , due to the glass.

"Ok , ok , come on you two ." Jackie said , as Sally barked , Jackie laughed.

"Ok , you Three , there happy , lets go , lets go!" Jackie exclaimed as The three girl's and the Pit walked out the door.

--------

Ez reyes , and the Club had gotten Eight years to life , or so they thought , the warden saw there good behaviour , and without their knowledge was going to release them.

Gurero had patched in Nestor and Bottle's due to the request of The club , the threeupdating the reyes brothers of their family.

They also play Princesses with Esmae , Illiana uses the pictures of them in tutu's and tiara's as blackmail.

Luisa brings the now ten year old maverick over for playdate's , the two cousins adore eachother.

The Sons adored the little girl , she was a ball of sunshine , in this dark world.

----------

"Ezekiel Reyes , you have visitors." The guard stated.

Usually they just took them out for visiting , so Ez was a bit confused , Especially when he saw his brother and the club being taken to the visitor's room.

"DADDY!" Esmae exclaimed , So did Maverick as They ran to their fathers.

As the men picked up their kids , the gave a confused glance.

Jackie walked over to ez , Pulling him into a long kiss.

Illiana laughed , as Esmae made a gagging noise , hugging her father , and with much suprise she walked over to Bishop , pulling him into a hug.

"What-" Ez was about to say as Jackie laughed.

"Your out Ez , Free , YOU BOYS ARE COMING HOME!" Jackie exclaimed.

"Wha-How?" Creeper stated confused.

"Good behaviour , and a bit of womanly manipulation , and a bit of help from Emily , She's a hell of a lawyer." Jackie stated as her and Luisa smirked at eachother.

"NOW LETS GET YOU TWO MARRIED!" Illiana exclaimed.

"Right now!?" Ez exclained.

"Yes right now , Mom has the dress , we got the suits , we got the ven- LET'S GO VAMOS!" She exclaimed As Esmae frabbed her father's hand , and Illiana grabbed her mothers.

"What the fuck!" Angel exclaimed , as Maverick wacked him.

"Language!" The boy said as Luisa chuckled , pulling angel into a kiss.

-------

They did it they got Married , Letty and hope cheered as she walked down the Isle , Illiana and Esmae holding flowers and the rings , Felipe officiating the wedding.

"Do you Ezekiel "Lorenzo" Reyes take this lovely bride as your wife." Felipe said.

"I do " Ez said.

"And do you , Camila "Jackie" Vincent , take my idiot son , as your husband." Felipe said.

"I do." Jackie snorted, as Ez rolled his eyes.

"You may now kiss the fucking bride , trata a su hijo correcto." Felipe said , as They all Cheered.

(treat her right son)

Did I mention Tig walked her down the Isle , no well he did.

---------

*small smut*

--------

"Fuck , I've been wanting to do this since I saw you." Ez growled.

Jackie moaned as he thrusted into her , Holding on too the bed sheets , knuckels turning white .

Ez kissed her chest , listening to her moans , made him fuck her even harder.

As he came in her He rested his head on her shoulder , her hands tracing shape's on his bare back.

"I fucking missed you Ezekiel." Jackie said.

"I fucking missed you too Camilia , you and your fucking Crazy ass." He said as they laid side by side.

"Im crazy but-" She was cut off by a kiss.

"Your mine." Ez said as their kiss was turned into round two.

---------

THANK YOU FOR READING CRAZY BUT SHE'S MINE , THE SECOND BOOK I HAVE COMPLETED.

-------

HERE ARE MY OTHER BOOKS THAT YOU MIGHT LIKE.

--------

WANHEDA COMMANDER OF DEATH // BRANDON CARVER (THE WALKING DEAD)

MAMA DIDN'T RAISE NO BITCHES // EZ REYES & NESTOR OCTEVA (MAYANS MC)

HIS GIRL // JOSÈ MARQUEZ (CLUBHOUSE 2004)

HIS DOWN BITCH , HER CHOLO // ERNESTO MENDOZA (HOPE RANCH 2002)(COMPLETED)

READ ALL ABOUT IT // BROOKE DAVIS (ONE TREE HILL)

THE DRAGON AND HER KNIGHT // BELLAMY BLAKE (THE 100)

[dogueteeth-fhr]

what else if not family

A speculative moment between Beck and their Hollow Ground, Imelda.

sfw | Beck, Hollow Ground | AO3 Link

Available to read below the cut.

It’s not hard to see just how much it affects them. Hand sliding from what was supposed to be a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before you even realized what you were doing. They'd flinched when you'd raised it in the first place. The furrow in their brow deepened, still-healing scar over their eye twitching with pain at the motion. Healed-not-healed, red raised and ugly still, and you couldn't help the frown. It's not exactly hard to find a doctor capable of applying the right salves, instructing the right kind of aftercare. And yet they didn't, and it scarred. Ugly? Not quite, you've seen worse on your bruisers if you ignore the other scars on their face, but if they'd let you, you wouldn't have allowed them to keep it. Was it from that little accident they had? It's too clean. No warping at the edges, like a hot knife scoring butter. You doubt that a car crash is that intentional in its damage. You don't need to be an expert to know that. It looks like the Rangers aren't the saints they pretend to be.

You can't say you're surprised. Los Diablos is far from a city of angels.

They were tense, even with the sympathy you tried to project. Caring. You weren't touching to hurt, and  you'd thought your expression would communicate that, if not your powers, ineffective as they may seem on Heartbreak. But it never hurts to try. It never hurts… to try. Like you used to.

When they were little.

It was an allowance of theirs, to let your hand make contact in the first place. It's a push of yours, a demand, rightful because they're yours, whether they like it or not, act like it or not, to raise your hand and place it on their cheek instead. You are the kingpin of Los Diablos, and what you want, you get, and what you wish to do, you do. Consequences are for those powerless enough to deserve them.

You are not such a woman. Maybe it's that confidence that saved you. You heard once that dogs can smell fear. Maybe you heard it from Noe. She loves her little books and facts. 

And they'd gone so remarkably stiff like one. Like a dog. Eyes hard, mouth twitching as if holding back an impulse. To bite? Probably. But they stayed. Was it curiosity, shock, or your own luck of the draw that kept their teeth at bay? Something else entirely, with the way they remembered to breathe when your thumb ghosted their cheek? You've grown closer over the last couple months… not without your ups and downs, of course. You demand. They rebel, or worse, ignore you, and do their own thing. You threaten, and they shut it down with a threat of their own. Then they come back a few weeks later with a gift. An appeasement, and you hate how it works. You hate how you sometimes give into the urge to give one back, even when they don't deserve it, haven't earned it. Give and take, posture and defuse. Politics and pettiness. Uneasy alliances. What else is family?

Goosebumps arise along their exposed hands, their neck shivering before you allow your nails the gentlest of scrapes against their skin, by the hairline, inducing a low, cut-off groan and a bone-deep shiver. You can’t help the small smile. They were always like this. Not quite as touch-starved, never, you made sure your little sister never missed out on affection, but just a little scratch of the nails and Heartbreak turns from a snarling mutt to a kitten in your palms. Just like Espera–

No. Not Esperanza.

They are not Esperanza.

Not a sister, for one. Heartbreak, Cerrísa, is a person. And Esperanza was all fire and bitterness, too angry at the world and you, too proud to let you reduce them to a puddle with a bit of affection. You thought Heartbreak was the same. The ruthlessness at the gala, breaking the Ranger’s golden boy, was amusing and familiar. Reading the newspaper to hear Deveraux’s pretty little head had parted from its body, courtesy of a certain villain, intriguing and tasteful. Your auction, reduced to barbaric chaos, left in disarray like a child leaving toys scattered in the playroom for their caretaker to clean up, messy and arrogant. It’s something Esperanza would have done. Something you saw reflected in that face upon your meeting, eyes so similar yet so different, yours brown and theirs green. You'd thought that they were wearing contacts but you've come to realize that something caustic, something admittedly unsettling and real is set in those poisonously lime green eyes. Something different that isn’t your dead sister.

Something different that makes Heartbreak shudder in your palms, head slowly bowing. You’re not used to that. Not without your influence. They’re different in that way, too, but at least it wasn’t hard to piece together how you couldn’t influence them once you read between the lines. But similar all the same. So, so similar. The small little displeased grumble Heartbreak tries to play off as discontent is ruined by the way their neck tilts to accommodate your scratches as you shift, wrist tiring. Similar in the way they wince, trying to hide back a bit of pain when your nails dig a bit too deep, and you lessen the force, and your heart aches at how the effect is immediate. Soft. Soft touch, soft scrapes, a sensitive scalp, and how long has it been since they were touched like this? They act as though it’s the first time. Perhaps it is. You doted on Esperanza like this. She liked having her head scratched this way. Similar. She never would have allowed herself to slowly crumple like this, eyes shuddering closed, leaning, leaning… and their head is on your shoulder, cradled, allowing some facsimile of a hug. Different. They stiffen as their forehead hits your shoulder, heart rate spiking beneath your fingertips, panicked, muscles tense— and you shift your hand to the crown of their head, let the fingers play and tousle and scratch, and you can feel the way their eyelashes shutter closed on your collarbone as they melt once more. Similar. But not Esperanza. It hurts, and your smile is bittersweet, because maybe they aren’t Esperanza, but they’re still close enough. Family. Blood. 

A good pet to have, either way. Muzzled or not, as long as you can keep it tame. Docile. Complacent.

Who knows? If you play your cards right, maybe it’ll even let you slip a collar on it. Make them truly yours. Family. Useful. Why have one when you can have both? There's things you don't know yet. Pieces of the puzzle between Esperanza and Cerrísa that don't fit, disjointed and awkward, and you think they hold the answers. The key. The truth? At least something close like it. You're glad they don't get to see the expression on your face, however it looks. How did Esperanza die? Why do they look like her? What the hell happened? Answers you aren't entitled to. Not yet.

But you will be.

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

in case anyone wants to be sad with the note to self i put when i wrote this document at 3am here it is: Note to self: a bit ooc that beck would let Imelda touch them like this, let alone fall asleep near them, but. Hmm. What if Regina used to do something similar? Comfort touch as a way to calm and appease and manipulate. Could very well be a Pavlovian response by this point. Can't resist. Maybe that's why Beck panics a bit. It's bc they realize that they're responding to the Pavlovian effect but they're powerless to do anything about it before they fall asleep.

[psalm22-6]

Source: the Los Angeles Herald, 16 August 1902

"Say, what's become of Fatty Malloy?" "Fatty? Oh, he cracked a gofe, an' a ' collar glued him before he could blow, an' the beak handed him a ten-spot." "Poor Fatty! I'm leary that he'll croak in the stir. Say, did you hear about Dutch Charlie? He got on his upper an' I grafted a benny an' was sent to the band house." "Dutch Charlie's a dead one. What's Jimmie Burke's graft row?'" "Jlmmie's a stall for a dip. Him an' his pal got a jacket last week." Had this conversation been a real one, as it might well have been, how many readers of this article chancing to have overheard the talk, would have had the slightest inkling of its meaning? Yet there are men who use these seemingly meaningless words and phrases and convey their meaning in them more readily than in the more polite forms of every day conversation. The questions and answers that serve to introduce this article are in the language of the professional criminal — a language which is as strange and as interesting and as full of revelations as any that could engage the attention of the student. [. . .] The very nature of this language and the use to which it is put demands that it be constantly changing. Criminals use it not so much for the sake of slangy and forcible expression, but to be able to talk while in the presence of honest people without having their conversation understood. Victor Hugo recognized this fact, and in his immortal "Les Miserables" he devotes several intensely interesting chapters to the language of criminals which he calls "argot." Many attempts have been made to prepare dictionaries of the criminal's vocabulary, but the fact that this vocabulary is so variable must always make the attempt a failure. Police officers try to keep themselves informed as to the changes In this remarkable language and in Kansas City none has been more successful in doing so, probably, than Detective Charles Sanderson. [. . .] The following list, however, contains, in addition to those already given, some of the most commonly used terms: Bilked—Fooled. Brltch—Front trousers pocket. Boobie hatch—Police station. Bit—Share. Caught up—To confess. Cold—Dead. Chop—To stop. Croaker—Doctor. Bum or phoney—Spurious gems or Jewelry. Crack—To make an assertion. Case—A dollar. Cup—To take. Cuducer—A conductor. Ditch—To throw away. Dummy—Bread. Dog—Sausage. Down below—Alluding to the penitentiary. Duck—A can of beer; to get away. Dick—Sheriff, constable or officer of any kind. Damper—Money drawer. Boost—To shoplift. Dan—Dynamite. Ducket—A ticket. Dos—A bed. Derby—A good haul. Elbow—A detective; also a bull; a harness bull is a uniformed officer. Fall money—Money put up for a man in trouble. Framed up—To make complete arrangements. Frisk—Search. Flag—To stop. Front—A good showing. Flash roll—Bills wrapped around paper to make a big showing, used by confidence men. Got it all—Life imprisonment. Gam—A leg. Glim—Spectacles. Gun—A thief. Gun. cannon or dip—A pickpocket Goods—Money. Hop—Opium. Hotel man—A hotel thief. Hooker—Woman thug. Hopscotching—Taking chances. Heel—A sneak thief. Holster—A shoplifter. Hoof—To walk. Instrument—One who picks the pockets of a man. John O'Brien—A freight train. Jug—A bank. Jerve—A vest pocket. James—A jimmy, a small crowbar. Knockout—A drug dope. Knocker—One who interferes. Kicks—Shoes. Kick—A pocket. Knowledge box—A college. Kangarooed—Given a false trial. Kip—To sleep. Leather—A pocketbook. Lam—To run.

[ncisfranchise-source]

The NCIS franchise expands on November 14 with the premiere of the first international series, and sure, it might be quite a long plane ride for a crossover, but we’re, of course, already wondering if we ever might see one. Could anyone from the mothership or Hawai’i or even Los Angeles or New Orleans make their way over to NCIS: Sydney?

“Crossover episodes are part of the DNA of the show, and fans of the show love those episodes for good reason,” Sydney showrunner Morgan O’Neill tells TV Insider. “We’ve definitely talked about it. There are obviously challenges to that just geographically. We’re 9,000 miles from the closest bit of America. But that said, never say never. It’s a pretty attractive part of the world for people to visit, so being able to twist someone’s arm from one of the other franchises to come out and shoot an episode or two out here is not beyond the realms of possibility.”

The drama showcases just how gorgeous Sydney is, something O’Neill, who was born and raised there, is proud to come across. (He returned to make the show after 15 years in Los Angeles.) “It is one of the world’s great cities, and astonishingly, I think it’s bizarre that this show hasn’t happened in this place already when you consider that you have the opportunity to get NCIS agents working with another agency as fish out of water in the world’s largest harbor on the world’s largest island in the most contested patch of ocean on the planet. It writes itself. So we’re hugely thrilled to be the first international franchise of the NCIS universe, and we’re really hopeful that it opens the door to audiences around the world to how incredible this country is and how dangerous and challenging and far away and unique and exotic it is as well.”

NCIS: Sydney puts together a multinational task force to keep naval crimes in check, with NCIS Special Agent Michelle Mackey (Olivia Swann) and her 2IC AFP counterpart, Sergeant Jim “JD” Dempsey (Todd Lasance), in charge. Also on board: AFP Constable Evie Cooper (Tuuli Narkle), Special Agent DeShawn Jackson (Sean Sagar), forensic pathologist Doctor Roy Penrose (William McInnes), and forensic scientist Bluebird “Blue” Gleeson (Mavournee Hazel).

Now, just because there might not be a crossover (yet) doesn’t mean there won’t be plenty for fans to enjoy regarding the franchise’s history. There will be Easter eggs on the new show.

“One of the really fun things about NCIS as a whole is that it does do that Easter egg game pretty strong. It sets things up, and it’s reluctant to pay them off immediately,” says O’Neill. “It really sort of demands the audience to strap in and watch the whole season or all the seasons of the show. We definitely wanted to lean into that. It’s part of the fun of watching the show. It’s part of the fun of being a long-term fan of the show is that you collect those Easter eggs, and when they pay off, they really feel like you’ve earned them.”

So expect Easter eggs throughout the first season — and “hopefully in seasons beyond that,” he adds. “For fans of the show, I think you’ll ping them pretty quickly and just kind of lock them away in the back of your head. And certainly, across the first season, we’ll pay off a few of those Easter eggs in ways that I hope are really satisfying for the audience.”

[justaprick]

🎮 — what are three of your oc's favorite hobbies?

🔶 — does your oc know cpr? do they have any other medical expertise? (😂)

🍎 — where was your oc born? do they still live in/around their place of birth or do they live somewhere else? how do they feel about their birthplace?

🎮 — what are three of your oc's favorite hobbies?

traveling; borabora, the maldives, italy. places that are expensive and exotic. the more he can brag about it the better. with the travel comes skiing, snorkeling, wine tasting.

🔶 — does your oc know cpr? do they have any other medical expertise? (😂)

what does he look like to you? a doctor? don't worry about it.

🍎 — where was your oc born? do they still live in/around their place of birth or do they live somewhere else? how do they feel about their birthplace?

los angeles, california. spends a lot of time going between new york and cali for work. it's a demanding job but it's got its perks.

[dungeoncrawls]

mór brennan ; a-rank healer of the lunar hounds • wields a military grade tranquiliser gun • weak to bad back which aches at the slightest provocation • best described as caustic but unpretentious • vibes of sometimes you have to break bones to mend them, often poison tastes sweeter than medicine  ;  a ‘ nice ’ doctor is not the same as a ‘ good ’ doctor, but some people need to learn this the hard way  ;  there is no universe in which death can be held at bay forever, not even with all the power in the world.

[ statistics. ]

given name : mór meaning : unknown — great (?)

surname : brennan meaning : little raven

age : thirty - five place of birth : christchurch, new zealand date of birth : 12 october 1988

gender : none pronouns : they / them / whatever orientation : asexual

face claim : emily browning height : 1.55m / 5'1" weight : 50kg / 110lbs hair : brown, long eyes : brown clothing : antipodean farm - core ( baggy t-shirt, frayed jean shorts & gumboots ).

[ biography. ] tw cancer, death.

born on a rainy spring afternoon in christchurch, new zealand, mór brennan was never entirely average. from the moment they were born, wailing as if the entire world had offended them grievously, their parents knew mór would be a handful.

they were a quiet child for the most part, unless something displeased them. when that occurred, mór became loud. very loud. they were never shy to express disdain or distaste, and got along much better with the animals on the family farm than the students at their primary school.

mór was seventeen and about to graduate when they were awakened. it was terrible timing, missing out on multiple final exams due to being bedridden. though, for someone like mór, who never had much interest in a formal education anyway, it wasn't that much of a tragedy.

with their newfound affinity for healing, mór spent even more time on the farm, helping with the animals. they weren't interested in trying to heal people until their uncle — one of the few human beings mór tolerated — fell ill.

as it turns out, however, even the power of an awakened wasn't enough to cure melanoma. mór's uncle passed away when they were twenty-three, after four years of battling the disease. in their grief, they moved away from their family, to the other side of the world — los angeles.

mór was twenty-eight when they were scouted by the lunar hounds. they'd gained a reputation for being a skilled healer — despite their atrocious bedside manner. initially, they refused the offer, preferring to operate on their own and only having to deal with people on their own terms — but eventually, the need for job security won out. there's always demand for healers both in and out of dungeons, so when they're not swearing at teammates for getting hit ( or tranquilising the fuckers to drag them out of there themself ), mór can often be found in one of the hospitals of los angeles, doing their utmost to invent a way to heal incurable diseases.

[ abilities. ]

as an a-rank healer, mór can heal all but the most grievous of wounds — if they feel like it.

targeted healing : can provide more concentrated healing to one ally. requires concentration, takes between one to five minutes depending on level of injury.

general healing : can heal allies within a certain radius. requires less concentration to maintain, but can only heal minor injuries ( scrapes, cuts, etc ) and reduce inflammation for things like dislocated limbs or broken bones.

that being said, mór's specialty is off-field healing — away from the combat, where they can force their patient to lie down and they can target specific injuries, set bones and even treat concussions. not to mention it sets their back off less. hence the tranquiliser gun — it's great to take out immediate dangers in the vicinity of them, but even better to sedate know-it-all fighters and tankers.

[ connections. ]

patients : tankers or fighters who just keep getting injured and mór is their go-to healer — for whatever reason. maybe they're a fount of endless positivity who can't read a room, maybe they enjoy getting on mór's nerves ... maybe it's a deal between their guilds and nobody is enjoying it.

fellow healers : coworkers, associates, mentees ... all viable connections for other healers to have with mór. maybe someone who disapproves of their methods / attitude ?