#Maybe I will try to be a firefighter after five years in education. Maybe. I. Will.

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

I’m like if a feral cat and a Clydesdale had a baby

[punkpoemprose]

Single Bells- A Kristanna Oneshot

Rating: G (General Audiences) Universe: Modern AU, Librarian Anna, Single Dad/ Firefighter Kristoff Length: 8239 Words

A/N: Merry (day late) Christmas Val! @val-2201 I’m sorry I got a little bit behind. As per the usual the word count got away from me a bit so I ended up needing a little time to finish, haha. You said you enjoy single parent AUs so I hope you enjoy this little piece about single Dad Kristoff needing to solicit assistance from a very nice red headed librarian!  I hope you had a wonderful holiday and that your New Year will be full of joy!

Anna wasn’t supposed to still be at work, but if there was one thing she couldn’t say no to, it was a kid with a research project. Especially a first grader with beautiful blonde ringlets dragging her frazzled looking father to the information and research desk that Anna had been staffing for the day. Normally she worked only as the children’s librarian, but since two different librarians were out on maternity leave, she’d been willing to shift gears and wear many hats.

They’d come to her desk within the last five minutes of her shift, but Anna hadn’t mentioned it. It was two weeks from the last day of school for the winter holiday, and if her suspicions were correct, the father and daughter were working on a particular project for which she’d assisted four other families in the last few days.

Teachers loved to assign festive work before the holidays, but sometimes she wondered if they really thought through the fact that heavily parent involved projects were sometimes more stress than they were fun. She'd helped quite a few families try to determine what their ancestral traditions had been. Some, she was happy to report, did have legitimate plans to include them in their celebrations after the project conclusion. That at least made her feel like some good was coming out of the stress.

“I have a presentation to do!” the little girl announced with a smile that revealed a missing front tooth.

She was dressed in the brightest green coat she'd ever seen and her little hat, that she'd already pulled away to reveal static filled curls, was made to look like a reindeer. She couldn't help but feel that this was going to be another kid who insisted upon celebrating a newfound tradition. If she was, in fact, working on that project.

Anna grinned in return, noting the child’s enthusiasm for the project she was in the library to work on. She’d said it perhaps a bit too loudly for some of the other librarians’ tastes, but for Anna there was nothing like the boisterousness of young children. She supposed there was a reason that her office and the children’s area in general had been relegated to the basement. Being upstairs still felt strange.

“That’s due tomorrow,” the father said, sounding a bit miserable but looking mostly defeated.

He had a bit of scruff to his chin, and the bags under his eyes told Anna that he probably hadn’t slept well in weeks. It was a common sight with parents around the holidays, exhaustion and uncharacteristic scruffiness. Not that she really knew whether his scruffiness was uncharacteristic, having never seen him before in his life.

“Uh oh!” Anna said, directing her attention at the child rather than the father, knowing that she was much better at working with kids than adults, “We’ve got to work fast then, huh? What’s the presentation about?”

The little girl nodded, “It’s about Christmas traditions! I told Daddy on Monday that we needed to do it, but he forgot.”

When Anna looked toward the father out of the corner of her eye, she saw him flush. It was Thursday, so she imagined that they’d had some time to complete it. She wouldn’t judge him for the timing of course, she barely could keep herself on a schedule somedays, let alone a six-year-old. She also made a conscious effort to not judge any of her patrons, even the ones who came in asking about unique topics.

She’d once had a woman come in asking for an entire book on just Guinea pig costumes, and she wasn’t sure whether she should be more concerned for her guinea pig or that the library system had not one, but six books on guinea pig costuming. Last minute project fell somewhere toward the bottom of the judgement list.

“I didn’t forget,” the dad said, sounding very tired, but not particularly upset, “I’ve just been busy, and I didn’t realize it was Thursday.”

Anna smiled and then looked at the dad, “It happens to all of us. Can you two narrow down the kind of Christmas traditions you’re looking for?”

The dad looked embarrassed again.

“She needs to pick a specific country to look up traditions from and she wants to pick the one my family’s from.”

“Oh, that’s easy enough,” Anna said with a nod, “Where is your family from, and we’ll go from there!”

“That’s kind of the problem,” the man said with a sigh, “I don’t know.”

***

They were in the children’s area, on one of the library’s iPads at one of the kid sized tables. The little girl, Ivy, was in her glory. She’d spent more time commenting on the posters on the walls and snowflakes on the ceiling than she had focusing on the task at hand, but Anna didn’t really mind. It was easy enough for her to hold a conversation with both the girl and her father as she searched for clues about the man’s heritage. Really all they had to go on was his last name.

  Bjorgman. Kristoff Bjorgman.

“I think that my parents were maybe immigrants. I was adopted when I was just a little older than Ivy, but I’d been in the system since I was maybe two or three? I don’t remember them, and I was never given any records. My birth certificate was created when I entered the system, so it doesn’t have either of their names on it. Just mine, and that was just because it had been pinned to my shirt when someone dropped me off.”

Anna couldn’t help but feel as though that was terribly sad, but the man, Kristoff, and his daughter didn’t seem phased by it. It was just another detail of life for them she supposed, but she couldn’t imagine not remembering her parents. All she had of them now was memories, and a few knick-knacks that had managed to be saved after the house fire.

She tried not to think about that though, and it was easy enough to direct her attention back to the man sitting across from her.

He was much too large for the table, and he made the child’s chair he sat in look comically small. He was handsome, and by Anna’s estimation, not much older than she was. He was maybe 26, tops, and she couldn’t imagine having a kid of her own.

“Your adoptive parents don’t know anything?”

He shook his head, “No more than I do. The information just doesn’t exist I guess.”

“She didn’t want to do her Mom’s family’s traditions?” she asked, fishing only a little bit. 

She thought that maybe given the level of flustered he seemed to be exuding might be indicative of him being a single dad. She hoped not on the one hand because that was such a difficult position to be in, but also he was the first cute dad she’d run into that wasn’t significantly older than her. So she wanted to make sure if she was ogling him in the chair it was something that she could do with a clear conscience.  

“No, and even if she did, we don’t really know anything about hers either. She’s passed on. It’s just us.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry…”

He shook his head, “It’s alright.”

He looked over at his daughter then, smiling at her softly as she pushed her little chair back and walked over to the bookshelf to grab something out of the easy reader bin. She’d looked bored for a little while and was now clearly determining that this was grown up work that she didn’t want anything to do with and therefore was free to explore.

Anna couldn’t help but grin when she saw her pluck out a Mercy Watson book. She loved those. She must be reading a little beyond her age group to be reading it for fun.

Turning her attention back to the ipad, and away from the little girl who was eagerly plopping herself into a beanbag, she looked at the search results she pulled up with his last name. The information on the screen was pretty much what they already knew. His first and last name were Nordic of some kind.

“So we’re looking at Sweden, Norway, Finland, Denmark, or Iceland. We can make an educated guess based on where you lived when you were a kid based on the census data from that area as most immigrant families move to areas with other people from the same country, or where there’s a strong presence of the culture they’re familiar with.”

“Well… I was born here, I think. Or at least this is where I got put into the system, which is why I moved back here a few years back.”

 Anna lit up, she didn’t have to do any more searching. Any vaguely Nordic last name in their town generally meant one thing.

“I can say then, with 90% certainty, you’re Norwegian. Not that it helps right now, but have you ever thought about taking a DNA test? Kids tend to just have more heritage questions as they get older and if you both take one it can help with any genealogy research."

"That's a lot of certainty for just a last name and a town," he said, looking surprised as he met her eye.

"Oh, well I mean Arendale was named for the Arendelle family and was founded by Norwegian immigrants so most of the population is descended from Norwegian families. Most immigrant families from Norway still settle here when they come over from the states. I mean there’s a little Norway downtown." 

"Oh," he said, "You just knew that? I guess it's probably something that comes up often…"

"Yes, but well also I'm an Arendelle. It's been drilled into me since I was born. We turned the family manor into a museum a few years ago. I used to give tours when I was in my master's program."

"That's…"

"Extremely boring,” she interrupted, not wanting him to trouble himself to find something nice to say, “Except on field trip days. Which is how I decided working with kids was for me. Adults, eh. No offense of course."

"None taken,” he replied, grinning, “Why do you work at the research desk then?"

"I'm actually a children's librarian," she said happily, glancing over at his daughter who had looked up over her book at them with interest as they talked about information valuable to her project again. Anna motioned with her hands like she was opening a book and then gave her a thumbs up which the girl returned with a grin.

"I'm just helping out because a few of the librarians are out on maternity. If you want to see what I usually do you should come for my ornament making sessions. I'm doing them every day after school and then in the mornings on the weekends until the day before Christmas Eve."

He looked almost impressed.

"Daddy! We have to!"

"Now she's tuning in," he said with a sort of shy smile that was quickly accompanied by a shrug. "Come here sweetheart, you have to pick a tradition. We're pretty sure I'm Norwegian."

"And I know so many traditions!" Anna told the girl brightly, "we don't even have to search!"

“Hooray!” she said with a grin, carefully sliding the book’s ribbon bookmark into the page she had marked with her thumb before running over to where her father was seated.

She crawled up on his lap, book still in hand.

“Can we pick one that talks about food?”

He laughed and as he tucked the little curly head under his chin he mouthed, ‘bottomless pit’.

Anna couldn’t help but feel that before she left for the evening, she’d be processing a minor and adult card sign up and checking out a Mercy Watson book and perhaps even a Norwegian cookbook.

“No! Wait! One about ornaments! I love ornaments!”

Maybe, she thought, a craft book too.

The dad rolled his eyes playfully from up above where his daughter could see and Anna did her best to stifle a giggle. These were the moments where she loved her job most.

***

They'd come for her craft time the next day, and Ivy had told her how well she'd done at her presentation and how she'd been proud to already know a bunch of the other Norwegian traditions other kids had shared.

Now though she was busying herself with playing with the other kids, the usuals that Anna had introduced to her by name.

Her blonde head was bobbing along in a conversation as the kids built a large block tower together, and she could see her dark little eyes gleaming with mischief as they discussed knocking it down when they were all done. Anna had never in her life been more grateful that they had foam instead of wooden blocks.

“She looks just like you."

Her hair was just a little lighter than his, and her eyes a little darker, but there was something in her features, her expressions that was an identical copy to her fathers. Even only having met them the day before, she could tell that she definitely took after him.

“I hear that a lot, and it’s funny… Not like really funny, I mean, it’s just interesting because Ivy’s not mine,” he said quietly as the little girl played with the other children.

Most of the other parents had been content to talk amongst themselves. They were regulars and they were comfortable together, being mostly moms. Anna noticed that they were occasionally glancing back and forth between the two of them surreptitiously. Or at least as close to sneaky as a group of nosy 30-something women could be.

“I usually don’t tell people that. I don’t know why I told you that.”

“It’s par for the course for librarians. We’re like bartenders, just with books,” She replied a bit too quickly.

He looked down at his feet for a moment then met Anna’s eye again, smiling a bit nervously, like he’d worked something out in his head, and then took a deep breath.

“I mean legally speaking she is mine, just so you don’t think I stole a kid. After her mother died, I adopted her. Genetically she’s got another Dad out there somewhere, but her mom, Evelyn, she never mentioned him. I don’t think he was ever involved.”

“Oh,” Anna said, feeling her face grow hot at the misconception, “I’m sorry. So Evelyn was your…?”

She knew she was probably just digging herself a deeper hole, but she felt a warmth flutter to life in her heart. He’d mentioned before that Ivy’s mom had passed on, but she’d assumed that he was her biological father and that was why she called him Dad. That he’d been adopted, and then he’d adopted a child after meant a lot. That made her realize that her interest in him, regardless of how new and how impossible, was rooted in more than looks.

“Neighbor,” he said quickly, like he was afraid of her saying anything else.

She stared at him, surprised by the answer, watching him blush under her gaze.

“Sorry, I’m just used to people thinking we were… you know, together. She was just… she was so young. I wouldn’t have been with her like that, she was just a neighbor and a friend. I think she had a rough life. She didn’t talk about it much, but when she moved in next door to me she was working a bunch of odd jobs with crazy hours and Ivy was two. Evie was eighteen. I think her parents might have kicked them out or something, so I would watch Ivy on my days off because Evie didn’t have anyone and it was just me and my dog anyway, so I had plenty of free time."

He took a breath. Before Anna could find the words to say, he kind of sighed and shrugged, deciding to say more. Anna just focused on his eyes while he talked. There was a deep love there and she could tell it was for Ivy.

"I started taking extra days off here and there with my vacation time because Evelyn started to not feel well and she would go to the clinic a lot. Sometimes she would wait for hours for someone to tell her she was stressed or whatever. When they found out it was cancer it was too late. It was less than a year before she was gone. When no family came forward for Ivy, I did. She was three then. I’m the only dad she knows. The only parent she knows really. I didn’t have many pictures of her mom, because she was my neighbor and I didn’t think to take some when we found out she was sick, but we talk about her.”

Anna thought she might cry.

She was no stranger to loss, but she’d never heard of anyone doing anything like that before. She tried to step up for strangers and community members a little but each day. She donated to charity and worked with the economically disadvantaged, but she’d never changed her life forever just to help someone else. She’d never been able to see herself stepping up that far.

“You adopted your neighbor’s kid.”

She let her eyes tear up, her throat felt tight.

She could certainly see that beneath the sort of gruff exterior he first offered, there was a kindness that ran through him. She could see it now, as she had before when he’d been focusing on helping his daughter. He had a lot of love in him, and it was obvious when he glanced back over to where Ivy was playing and smiled.

 “Well I fostered her first, but yeah. I mean my parents did it for me, and I guess I didn’t want to roll the dice and hope that someone else would be as kind when I had the means… at least financially. I’m three years in and still working out the rest. I just feel lucky everyday they let me adopt her with my work schedule and everything.”

“I think,” she said quietly, trying not to cry, “I think most parents are. Even the ones who’ve had their kids from the start.”

“Thank you for saying that. I don’t know many other parents, so it’s always a guessing game about whether I’m doing the right thing.”

 He looked back from Ivy and caught a glimpse of Anna’s expression. She saw him frown and look genuinely concerned. She wanted to tell him not to worry, but he found the words quicker than she did.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, sorry. I’m not great with people.”

He held a hand out to her, paused for a moment like he was wondering what he should do, and then rubbed the back of his neck with it.

Anna shook her head and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, giving the moms staring at her openly her best and most polite look of “it’s fine, but also mind your own business”. They seemed to get the picture well enough, returning to their own conversations with only a mildly mischievous and conspiratorial gaze at each other. Anna was sure she’d have plenty of texts later from the library mom chat asking what she and the “hot dad” had been talking about.

“No, you’re fine. I’m kind of an emotional person. I’m just happy for you two. She loves you so much, I can tell. She deserves to have someone who loves her just as much.”

He smiled softly and then nodded, putting his hand back down at his side and appearing to relax slightly now that the topic was back to just Ivy. He still looked as tired as he had the day before, especially now after she’d accidentally worried him.

“She’s a special kid. She’s not like me very much, even though I’m raising her. She’s so optimistic and brave and sort of stubborn… which I suppose she could have gotten from me, but really she’s great and I’ve been so lucky to have her."

Anna nodded in return, wiping the tears away on her sleeve.

“Yeah, I can see that. And I don’t mean to pry but… you look a little tired. I hope she didn’t make you pull an all-nighter on that project.”

He sort of chuckled at her lame joke, and she appreciated the attempt at acceptance of her levity. She was never particularly good at intentional humor. Most people just laughed when she accidentally tripped over something or had chocolate on her face and didn’t notice.

“No, no all-nighter. I’m just exhausted.”

“I hear parenting does that to a person.”

He nodded and then sighed, giving her a sort of nervous look before looking beyond her to Ivy.

"I don't mean to tell you my life story. Even though, I kind of already did, but… I just feel bad when I can’t give her the world, you know? Like, I finally wanted to do a big at home Christmas for her this year. We were going to go home to see my family like usual, but my Dad just had some pretty serious back surgery and even though he loves the kids my sisters and I agreed not to flood the house while he’s recovering.”

She nodded along some more, knowing that he probably didn’t have anyone to vent this sort of thing to. She wasn’t a parent herself, but working with so many young children meant that she talked with plenty of parents, and she at least comprehended a bit of what it was like. She couldn’t pretend to understand fully, but she didn’t mind listening to parents when they needed to breathe. She particularly didn’t mind listening to Kristoff.

He looked back at her with a sort of exasperation that she was familiar with. He looked like he’d just run a marathon in his head. He looked like her after inventory day.

“You know I never realized how much my mom did for us for the holidays, you know? It’s one more week of school, and then I have to find a babysitter for the days I’m not off during her winter vacation. I barely managed to negotiate for Christmas off at the firehouse as it is, let alone to find all that time. The guys are great and sometimes I can bring her to work if I don’t have anyone to watch her because someone usually stays behind or one of the guys will have their wife or older kid there for a visit, but around the holidays… there’s a lot of fires you know. Not really a place to bring a kid. I have shopping to do, wrapping, we have to get a real tree because she really wants one, and then there’s cookies to bake, and God I’m just glad she hasn’t asked about those elf things because I don’t think I could pull that off too.”

“That seems like a lot.”

“It is, and that’s not even the half of it. We have to get a wreath to bring to her mother’s grave, and it’s so hard to find in the snow because it’s just a small grave marker so it’s really a whole day affair. I don’t mind, but I don’t want to run out of time to do everything else. She wants to go caroling and see santa and make ornaments… which thanks for this by the way, it was nice. She’s very proud of her star. It’s just with work and everything it feels like there’s not enough time.”

Anna nodded. It was a common concern with the other parents, but most of them had more hands to help, less work, and more practice at it.

“I can help.”

She didn’t think before she spoke. She was absolutely shocked by her own words even as she said them. They were practically strangers, and he was venting about his difficulties as a single dad while she was trying not to notice how perfectly chocolate brown his eyes were, or how easy it would be to imagine him in a firefighter’s calendar. Or rather, trying not to let herself wonder whether AFD had plans to put out a firefighter’s calendar this year.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You weren’t,” she said, watching as some of the moms began to get their kids ready to leave, knowing her window of opportunity to get her thoughts out was closing by the moment, “I offered. I’m great at wrapping and I love to shop. If you’re looking for help I’m happy to give it.”

He looked at her for a long moment, until Ivy ran over and pulled on his pant leg.

“Daddy,” she said, “Can I have some candy? Danny’s mom brought candy canes and she said I had to ask you first.”

He looked to Anna for a moment, and she understood the concern in his eyes.

“Oh, you mean Mrs. James! She’s so nice. She brings candy for us all the time. She’s been bringing Danny here for storytime and crafts since he was just a little baby.”

She could understand his concern. She was always a little worried herself when the parents brought things to share, especially if the parents were fairly new. It was one of those fears that was mostly irrational, but one really never knew.

He looked back to his daughter and gave her a stunning smile that made Anna melt on the spot.

“Yeah sweetheart that would be fine. Please and thank you, right?”

“Always!” she said, running off in the direction of Danny’s mom who was waiting with a cheeky smile, staring again at Anna and offering her a wink.

“Were you serious?” Kristoff asked, breaking her concentration as she tried to give Mrs. James a ‘please don’t interfere’ look in return.

Not that it would do her any good.

“About Mrs. James? Of course. I’d never encourage anyone’s kid to take candy from a stranger I couldn’t personally vouch for.”

“No, I…” he was flushed again and Anna realized that she’d missed a point. She was making him ask her, just like she’d said he didn’t have to.

“I meant about the help.”

“Oh, yes! Of course I meant it! I love the holidays and I’ve been working a little more than usual but I still have plenty of time.”

“Your boyfriend wouldn’t mind? I’d hate to take time away that you could be spending together around the holidays.”

“I… I don’t have a boyfriend.”

She was almost certain that there was a look of interest in his eye when she said it, but as quick as it was there, it was gone.

Maybe, she thought, she wasn’t the only one interested.

“Then I’d love the help,” he said with a nod, “For Ivy’s sake.”

***

Anna wasn’t sure she’d ever enjoyed anything so much as she did being Kristoff’s personal Christmas elf. She’d given him her mother’s family recipe for Norwegian butter cookies, an answer to Ivy's now rampant desire to learn about those traditions, and she’d picked up stocking stuffers and amazon packages and bits of this and that. She’d wrapped gifts and brought them to the fire station for safe keeping. Somehow, she’d managed to mostly do so when Kristoff was out on a call, or when he wasn’t working at all.

It was unfortunate as she wanted to see him, so she was pleasantly surprised when five days before Christmas she’d received a text message from Kristoff inviting her to help him and Ivy go tree shopping. She’d seen them at two separate decoration making events before it, so she supposed that it was only right for her to help them select the canvas on which to display Ivy’s beautiful work.

Ivy had, of course, been on a mission during the trip.

“Color, smell, and needle retention,” she’d said in her little, but very certain voice.

Anna had later learned that she didn’t actually know the meaning of the word retention, and that she’d learned her tree picking skills from a YouTube video, but she had been nevertheless impressed.

She’d helped Ivy pick, and then she’d helped, with mixed results, to strap the six-foot tree to Kristoff’s car. He’d mostly brought it inside his apartment himself, but when Anna had turned to leave, Ivy had caught her hand, and Kristoff had shyly offered her some hot chocolate. They'd sung Christmas carols, lead by Ivy and decorated the tree together with some ornaments that his friends from the firehouse had given them and the ones that Ivy had made herself. Anna wished she had her old childhood ornaments. Ivy, she knew, would have loved one.

The rest of the week passed much the same until, two days before Christmas, Anna found herself finishing her last ornament and story session with the kids before the holiday. It was a bittersweet thing, being swept up in the excitement of children looking forward to Christmas but knowing that she wouldn’t see them again for a while after.

Ivy, who had been in attendance, was busy playing with her new friends, and Kristoff, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Anna for the whole session, was speaking with her again.

Anna couldn’t help but note how quickly they were getting to know each other. She couldn’t help but blame the holiday in part. Not only was she doing more story and craft sessions in the evenings than she normally would, but she’d also been helping him make the holidays for Ivy. She supposed it was inevitable that they would talk, and in their conversations get to know each other a bit better.

The topic of conversation now, was a wrapping accident on one of Ivy’s “little” presents, a slime kit. It was from Santa, but Anna had accidentally wrapped it in the paper she’d set aside to wrap gifts from Kristoff in. The tag though, still said “from Santa”.

“So you’re sure you don’t mind,” she said quietly, low enough that they kids couldn’t hear her, “I know some kinds are just really perceptive, so I don’t want her to see that dad and santa have the same paper and realize what happened.”

“If she notices I’m just going to tell her that Santa accidentally ripped the wrapping paper coming down the chimney and had to rewrap it in some of my paper to keep it a secret until Christmas morning.”

She nodded. It was a brilliant plan.

“That’s so smart,” she was thoroughly awed, “I come up with a lot of little fibs around the holidays to keep the magic for the kiddos, but that one’s just genius.”

He laughed and shook his head, “Maybe I’m better at this than I thought.”

“You really should give yourself more credit.”

His smile softened then, “As should you. I can’t believe that you just offered to help a stranger put Christmas on for their kid and then actually followed through with it.”

“Need I remind you that you adopted a neighbor’s child without hesitation? What I did was nothing in comparison.”

He was close to her and stepping closer. She could practically feel the eyes of the moms as they lingered in the room, just to see what was going to happen. Her eyes drifted down to his lips and she felt herself flushing at the thought of kissing him, even though she told herself that they couldn’t, that it wasn’t going to happen. His previous stubble, the ball he’d had to drop to keep his daughter on schedule was now even more pronounced, but in an intentional sort of way. She could imagine how it would scratch against her.

“I wouldn’t call that nothing,” he said quiet, so low that she could barely hear it. “To us, it’s everything. I don’t think I can ever thank you enough.”

She focused for a moment on breathing as she’d realized that she’d been holding her breath ever since he leaned in. It was easy, she thought, to let him take her breath away.

And then the giggling and “goodbyes” of children broke Anna’s focus, and she turned her head to see moms giving her subtle thumbs up, and kids donning coats.

Ivy was skipping towards them, candy cane in one hand and her popsicle stick star in the other. Glitter was flaking off the craft as she bounced towards them, and Anna knew she’d be spending at least the next hour vacuuming. She almost felt bad for the parents who were about to have their houses covered in poorly glued sequins, glitter and foamies.

Almost.

“Ms. Anna!” the little girl said with great excitement, “What are you going to do for Christmas?”

The question caught Anna off guard. The kids had asked her before, but it had never felt like a big deal to tell them the truth. Kids understood more than adults most of the time, and they felt things stronger and they were more open with it, so Anna was more open with them. With Ivy and Kristoff though, just having gotten to know them, and having all sorts of confusing feelings in her chest for him, she wasn’t sure she could take the pitying eyes.

“Well hon,” she said quietly, waving to the other parents and kids as they drifted out as both a politeness and a distraction, “I’m not doing anything. My sister is my only family and she lives far far away.”

“Oh,” the little girl said, looking sad.

Anna couldn’t look at Kristoff, but she could tell he was giving his daughter the soft but chiding look he’d given her a few times in the two weeks she’d known them. The look that said he wasn’t mad at her, but that she’d said too much or her manners were lacking. She thought it was a nice way to remind kids of their behavior and had filed it away for her own use.

“Like Grandma and Grandpa.”

“Yeah,” Anna said in response, “But it’s okay, I’m used to being by myself. I’ll read a book and make myself dinner.”

She knew she didn’t sound particularly believable. She wasn’t even buying it herself. Truth be told her whole apartment was decorated for Christmas, complete with a tree, and she always made herself sad around the holidays thinking about how she’d had so much fun as a kid, but now spent them alone. She always thought that there was an unfairness in showing that to a child though, in showing them that the holiday was anything but magical for some people, so she tried to keep a stiff upper lip.

“That’s okay Ms. Anna,” the little girl said, grinning broadly at her with little tears sparkling in her dark eyes, and stepping close to grab her hand, “You can have Christmas at our house!”

She felt like crying again.

“Oh Ivy that’s so sweet,” she said, her throat feeling tight, “But it’s your family Christmas. You don’t want a stranger there.”

 “You’re not a stranger,” Kristoff said softly, reaching for Ivy’s other hand and giving it a soft squeeze that made the little girl’s smile brighten.

She seemed glad for her dad’s backup.

Anna forced herself to meet his eye, and she found in it a sort of shyness. He looked at her like he was uncertain, but also like he was excited by the prospect. She noted the twinkle in his eyes despite his furrowed brow, the gentle upturn of his lips as he looked at her for an answer.

“I don’t want to intrude…”

“You wouldn’t be. Ivy invited you as her guest. I’d… I’d also like you to come as my guest if you don’t mind. I know you’ve only known us for two weeks, but I think we’d both really like it if you came. Right sweetheart?”

Ivy squeezed Anna’s hand tightly and then nodded, bouncing a bit on her heels as she did so like her whole body was agreeing with her dad.

“Well then,” Anna said quietly, “How can I refuse?”

***

Her arms were full of presents and chocolates when she came to his door, so she had to tap the wood twice with the toe of her boot to knock. She’d been battling herself the entire drive over, trying to decide whether this was the right thing to do and whether she should really be feeling as giddy about the whole thing as she was.

She was basically crashing someone else’s holiday, and she knew that she should feel bad about taking them up on an offer made out of kindness and sympathy, but she didn’t. She didn’t feel bad because she really liked Ivy and wanted to help make Christmas a little more special for her this year. She didn’t feel bad because she really liked Kristoff and even the idea of pretending for a few hours that he felt the same made her heart flutter.

She’d never fallen for a patron before. Nor had she ever been so sure that she loved someone so quickly. She’d had bad luck in the past with similar feelings, but this time she had faith in the rightness of the feelings and the positivity of the situation. Kristoff Bjorgman was a good man, and whether anything more came from it, she was happy to be his friend and to share his Christmas.

She thought maybe if she could have written a letter to Santa though, she would have maybe wished for more. If it wasn’t too much to ask.

She hadn’t so much as put her foot down after tapping the door than Ivy opened the door and ushered her in. Kristoff was watching from just a few feet back, letting her know with a smile that Ivy had been so excited to open the door that she’d been waiting for the knock. She wondered if she’d been waiting for her since she called to let them know she was arriving.

“I waited to open my presents from Santa until you got here Ms. Anna,” the little girl said with zeal, “I wanted you to see!”

Kristoff stepped forward then, helping Anna with her parcels while telling her quietly that she hadn’t needed to bring them. He whispered into her ear about how excited Ivy had been about Santa and how she’d been even more excited to wait for Ms. Anna.

She thought that her heart might pound out of her chest. Less at the thought that Ivy had wanted to wait for her, and more at the fact that Kristoff hadn’t told her not to. That he’d just whispered in her ear, and that he was making it extremely evident that he wanted her there from the very start.

“Ivy that’s so sweet. I can’t wait to see what Santa brought you!”

“I hope I got a Pokémon stuffy!” she said excitedly, running towards the tree that they’d decorated together.

It felt strangely domestic, like she belonged there because her touch was in the tree. Like she was family, and not just a new friend they’d invited to share their holiday.

“You know what?” Anna asked, feigning ignorance, “I don’t know if he did, but I’m sure you’ve been so good this year that you deserve it.”

Kristoff raised a brow at her, and Anna got the message. “Good cover.”

In fact she knew that Ivy had two Pokémon plushies under the tree, one from Santa, one from her Dad, and Anna also knew that there was one more in the box Kristoff had taken from her labeled with the little girls name and Anna’s own.

Being an elf had its perks.

“But first… if you don’t mind, I have a couple special gifts for you two to open.”

“You really didn’t have to,” Kristoff said, giving her a soft, but appreciative look that she knew she would treasure in her memories for as long as she lived.

She knew that she didn’t have to. But they didn’t have to share their Christmas with her either.

And also, she’d already fallen in love a little bit with them both, and she knew that for now presents were a good way to demonstrate that.

“I have a special present for you too Ms. Anna!”

“You do?”

“Yes!”

She looked over at Kristoff, who looked almost as surprised as she did.

“You mean the one we got her at the store yesterday sweetheart?”

“Nope! A special one! I made it, Mrs. James told me how!”

“Huh,” he said with a shrug, “I guess I’ll be as surprised as Ms. Anna then.”

“Would you mind if I gave you yours first?” Anna asked, excited to know what Ivy had made her, but more excited to give the little girl and her father the special gifts she’d gotten them first.

“Okay!” she said excitedly and ran into the apartment proper as Kristoff and Anna managed the process of her removing her outerwear, hanging it up, and him helping her bring in the gifts and treats.

Once Ivy and Kristoff had settled themselves on the small loveseat near the tree, and Anna had brought them their gifts, she settled into the well worn high back chair that served as the only other Livingroom seating.

“Okay. I have some other presents for you guys too, but these are the most important ones, so I want you to open them first, alright?”

Ivy was already tearing into the paper on the box. Not needing to be told twice.

She held up a little soft ornament, and then held it to her chest.

“It’s Mama,” she said in the quietest littlest voice she had ever heard her manage, and Kristoff quickly looked between Anna and the ornament.

It had been easy enough really, to look up Evelyn Taylor. She had a Facebook before she passed, and some friends on the page who mostly lived out of state. There wasn’t much that Anna could find on the page without sending a friend request that she knew, sadly, would never be answered, but there were a handful of photos that she had access to. One of her and Ivy, confirming that she had the right Evelyn Taylor in the first place. The little girl had been two or so at the time the picture had been taken, but her little face had even been then, so strikingly like Kristoff’s. Evelyn even looked a bit like him she thought, like a cousin. The others she’d found included some pictures of the girl with high school friends, a few shots of her looking brave in photos where she’d moved into her apartment, a photo or two of her without hair when she’d been going through chemo.

Anna had gotten them all printed, every single one she could find, and put them in a small box that was under the ornament. The ornament had been a last-minute project. She’d run to the store and picked up printable iron on paper and felt. She printed the photo of Ivy and her mother onto it, ironed it onto the felt, and did her best to channel her mother’s creativity to make a small Scandinavian style embroidered felt plush ornament. It was shaped like a heart, and on one side she’d managed to layer on felt and little stitched snowflakes, while the other held the image on white felt.

She felt a bit bad, of course, about not asking Kristoff if it was okay first, but she thought that the soft look he was giving her may be proof that sometimes it’s better to try for the surprise.

“How…?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she said before Ivy could even get to the box below, “You still have a box to open.”

He looked between her and Ivy for a long moment, like he wanted to say something else as the little girl was excitedly hugging her little ornament, but ultimately, he looked down at his own gift.

“Go on,” she said, eager to see if her surprise gift for him would be met with such excitement.

He opened his gift with less speed, but with equal interest.

She held her breath as he pulled out a small box and a small book.

“Is this… is this a DNA test?”

She felt tension return to her body. He didn’t sound upset really, just surprised, and she hoped that she hadn’t just crossed a line.

“I mean… it’s just… you know, if you ever want to. They’re expensive usually so a lot of people don’t do them, but my sister is in business and she happened to know a guy who knew a guy so I was able to get it for you for nothing. So it’s just if you want to dig in and do some research. You know because I’m a librarian and all. One track mind.”

“Anna…”

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line, I just thought…”

“Anna.”

She looked at him and saw he was smiling, a little bit teary eyed.

“Anna, thank you. I was going to buy one after the holidays. That project Ivy did… it made me realize that I want to know where I came from.”

“Oh… good. I’m…” she sighed, letting the tension leave her, “I’m glad, because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

He smiled, and then looked at the book.

“But… uh, what’s Hygge?”

She laughed at that, feeling happy in a way she hadn’t ever remembered feeling outside of work, and she saw Ivy smiling brightly too, hopping down from the couch to go grab something from under the tree.

“Hygge is a Norwegian and Danish concept… it’s just, you know, since I hope you’re Norwegian like me. Hygge is just that cozy mood that we can’t put into words. I think you feel a lot of hygge when you get a moment to breathe when you’re with Ivy, and I thought you’d like the book. There’s another one I ordered you too, but it won’t come in for a while. It’s all Norwegian fairytales. I thought you might like to read them together.”

He grinned broadly and stood from the couch, walking over to her and taking her hand, “Anna this is…”

But Ivy cut him off before he could finish.

“Ms. Anna! I have your present, are you ready?”

“Of course! I’m so excited,” she said, giving Kristoff an apologetic smile and turning her attention towards the child who was holding something behind her back.

The little girl grinned in response and held up a picture she’d drawn in crayon. There were little green leaves and little white berries. It was immediately obvious to Anna what it was meant to be, and depending on how things turned out, she was either going to ban Mrs. James from the library, or send her a fruit basket.

“Is that?” Kristoff started.

“Mistletoe.” Anna finished.

She felt her face go hot, but then when she looked over at Kristoff, his hand still in hers, she saw him clearly doing some internal negotiating.

“May I… may we?” He asked.

“It is a tradition,” she said quietly, looking over at the little girl and giving her a bright, if not a bit embarrassed smile to let her know that she did in fact, love the drawing.

And before she could say anything else he was helping her off the chair and into his arms. She giggled when he kissed her, his stubble, now an almost beard tickling her skin.

Ivy, ever the encouraging an delighted audience, was jumping up and down.

“Santa must have gotten the letter I hid under the cookie plate last night!” she said delighted, “I knew Daddy liked Ms. Anna!”

Kristoff, ended the kiss a bit abruptly to look over to his daughter, a deep blush on his cheeks that Anna was sure was mirrored in her own.

He didn’t release her though, still holding her close, his touch tender but firm.

“Santa didn’t get a letter under the cookie plate last night,” he whispered low into Anna’s ear as Ivy took back off toward the tree, leaving her drawing on Anna’s chair.

Anna couldn’t help but giggle at his bewilderment. She thought that it was most likely that Ivy had simply dreamed writing the letter. Some kids her age had a hard time remembering what they had and hadn’t done when they woke in the morning.

“Well either the big man is more real than we thought, or Mrs. James has more connections than I thought. Or you know, she just dreamt the whole thing.”

He grinned broadly.

“Well someone must have gotten my letter too,” he said, a little louder, “Because Ivy is right. I do like you. I know it’s fast but…”

“I like you too Kristoff,” she said quietly, “And we can take this slower from here, but for now…”

He leaned in again, kissing her gently. She let her hand slide up, her palm cradling his stubbled cheek.

When they broke the kiss, they rested their foreheads together, the sound of tearing paper and Ivy’s excited cheering behind them.

“Merry Christmas Kristoff.”

“Merry Christmas Anna.”

She’d never been so grateful for a reference desk query in her life.

[space-blue]

A High Magic

The theme being pure dialogue, I did not bother with tags. This is my 8th competition win.

You've always known what you wanted to do then, and that's really admirable. In my case at six I wanted to be a vet, as one does, but by eight I'd caught on enough to want to be a firefighter. You know, helping people and stuff. Intervening. At eleven I had made up my mind that I would become a guru. Seemed to me if I were successful, it'd be the best way to have people take proper care of their dead. Change their habits at the root, the core of their convictions.

It wouldn't have changed the way the masses behave. The world is just too big.

Well, I had to believe, right? Plus everything is interconnected these days, word goes round, people follow trends. Could have made my cult all online and reach people everywhere, even abroad.

I suppose... How did that work out?

I never got around to even try. I don't think it would have been that great a success if people knew the origin of my abilities.

Is it so? I find that surprising! Surely it still is impressive no matter what sparks it?

Most people just pitied me. The folks at the evaluation office did too. Listened to me describe all the ghosts, and what I'd come to understand of hauntings, and why the ghosts always ended up following me around in the end, and they nodded and said how it was quite rare to have magic coming out before eight. You know that gramps, don't you? Earliest magics to manifest are the elemental ones–

Fire, air, water...

Yes, and that's 'cause they take no imagination. Anything more complex and the kid needs to have some understanding of higher concepts. It worried my parents a lot, that concept thing. How I got to see ghosts when as far as they knew I didn't know what death was and never did come home with a dead animal and questions. Least of all seen a dead person.

So they just labelled you with a higher, or spiritual magic and left it at that? Surely people saw the value in that at least? Did no one want to investigate?

Not really. Like I said, it spooked people. My assigned magic counsellor drafted a few career paths for me, spiritual re-connector, grief counsellor, Voodoo witch, whathaveyou. He didn't understand! Everyone just assumed I got to see these ghosts if I wanted to. Everybody with magics, small and big, even feral magics, they get to control when they use it. Dead people, they don't work like that. They're there, following their victim of choice, the person they latched on to, and then they notice me seeing them, and that's it! They jump wagon. Because you see, ghosts are just attention seekers! They have to have it! Talking to them is like bacon down a dog's gullet. Makes them follow you loyally. If you see them, and you react to the stuff they do, they're in attention heaven! Some will even just start reciting their entire lives at you, bitch and moan and groan, it's a nightmare.

I guess, you being dead, as everyone around just ignores you... Even the people dear to you, it's quite hard on the mind.

Gramps, do you know how ghosts are made?

Mmmh... Not really? I have my ideas, monks at my temple do too, every culture thought about what happens to the spirit after death. But I'm sure, considering you're the expert...

Right, I don't though. Nobody really does. Here's my educated guess : They're born of people's attention to begin with. People can't get over the death, they rehash it, might have trauma, dreams, they call out to their dead ones, and that makes their essence–whatever ghosts are made of–stick around. They can then coalesce into whatever makes the flavour of ghost they end up as, depending on their own regrets and emotions and drives. They're kept here by that anxious maelstrom of emotion, and form based on their own worst traits. It's a bad mix. So they'd come to me alright, scare the shit out of me and persecute me, right until the day I figured out that you could make them leave!

Hah! How did that happen?

Was at one of my favourite joints. Mikwa kitchen, run by a couple, maybe five tables–didn't matter, food was from heaven's own canteen. Always got the same damn thing, never got tired of it.

I understand. I was the same with corn dogs. Corn dogs never got old, even if I did.

You know what it's like then, long week, tired, tough time at school, girlfriend getting all in my face about my magic being unmanageable... It was a Friday and I was needing my dose of Mikwan to just–

Relax.

Damn right. Anyway. I'm right outside waiting for my take away to be done, and she drops right out of the tree I'm leaning on! Rope around her neck, face all purple, eyes... You get the idea. She starts screaming at me, and man, it was just too much! So I screamed right back at her! "Fuck you, bitch! You don't fucking get to ruin my Mikwan fucking meal. I don't care about your sad shit story, go haunt somebody who gives a shit!"

Ahaha! That's very colourful, young man, but don't yell so–here, let me top up that glass of yours. Go on–what happened?

It worked. She tried to drop out of two more trees on my way back home, walked right past her, cussing but not giving her a glance, and she gave up. Shortest haunting I had had my whole life.

How old were you?

That day? Twenty.

Mmmh, it must have felt like a long time coming. Did you not try to see a soother?

I did. Biggest shock of my life, that.

Did it not work?

That's just the thing! I went a year after the tree lady. I'd managed to find ways to cope by then, but I couldn't believe I struggled this much still with my magic. It just didn't seem worth it, to keep it. So I go to that well recommended soother. With a high cancelling magic. Could erase abilities down flat. Had to save for four months for that appointment. Dude sits me down, grills me about my reasons for being here, and at least he was agreeing with me! Asked if I had consulted with someone to help "master" my magic first. Told him I plain didn't want it. Nothing wrong with having no magic.

Quite true. Never had a shade of ability myself, hasn't stopped me from being happy.

I didn't picture you as magicless somehow, gramps! I thought you'd have a trick like curling up moustaches or something! Hah! Anyway, man puts his hands on me, frowns...

Oh?

Says I don't have a magic at all.

Whaaa–

I know! And he was adamant. Just nothing there for him to remove! He even refused to charge me. It struck me then. In the eval office, they don't touch you. I mean, not for check ups like mine. First they listen to what you can do, or look if you can show. If you fit in a category, that's all there is to it. Only those with big potentials get appointments with staff with abilities. I never saw one. Lady never touched me, she probably had no magic to be able to tell anyway. What I described to her sounded like a pesky magic that would feed a psychiatrist for years, and nothing more. So they never checked. And then you know how it goes: at school, during civic duties, in the army, they ask but unless you make a big splash, nobody sends you to a Senser, or anyone who can tell for sure...

So you spent your whole life thinking you had a higher magic, when in fact you had...

Nothing. Nothing anyone recognised, at least.

That has to have been a shock.

Tell me about it.

But then, what is it?

That soother called a senser friend of his and sent me in for a free appointment. She too said there was nothing there at all. She was fantastic. Marta Balbin, we're still in touch, she's great. Anyway, she tagged with me in search of a ghost we could squeeze for some good intel that their relatives would validate, to prove I did see stuff for real, you know?

Did you show her how cussing at ghosts makes them go away?

Aha, I wish! But no, that's not quite how it works. With tree lady I got lucky. What you need to do is press their buttons, scratch their itch, tell them what they need to hear. Making them leave requires you to interact with them somehow, and I'd spent two decades avoiding that as much as I could.

Ah, I see, each ghost needs their own special interaction in order to be able to move on?

Precisely.

And so she believed you?

Oh yes, and finally helped me meet with a person with answers for me!

How exciting! Pray tell, young lad, tell me what it is!

She introduced me to the high priest of Enmu, in the capital's temple.

The God of the Netherworld? I suppose it makes sense to ask them.

Prepare yourself to be blown away : it turns out I was dead at birth, for two whole minutes the doctors worked on me, and I eventually breathed. Apparently though as a newborn I'd had no sins to weigh and I had already been given a rank in the Great City. So when I was brought back... I was an official of the Great City.

A foot in life and a foot in the Netherworld? Is this even possible?

High priest was the same! All Enmu high priests are! Apparently outside of ceremonies they spend their time putting ghosts at rest.

That is incredible! How can such a secret be so well guarded?

There are only a dozen people like this in the country, so it's not too hard. They'd have found me sooner, if the magics office had done their job properly and not discounted me as a minor seer or medium.

So are you one of them now? A high priest of Enmu? Working for a God?

Precisely.

And you work with ghosts?

What do you think we're doing here, gramps?

I– What?

You're Jeremya Mikkels, an archaeologist deceased at the ripe old age of eighty-eight, you wrote books on ancient civilisations until the bitter end, didn't you? You loved digging up secrets.

Yes–I... I did.

And I just gave you a great secret. A truth you never knew in your living days. Exactly what you'd been craving. You've regretted not digging up more, haven't you? Well, now you can take this very rare knowledge with you to the Great City.

I can? Yes it's... Yes, I suppose I can.

Leave us with no regrets my friend. Times have changed for me too, I enjoyed our chat, a lot more than if I'd met you fifteen years ago!

I would have haunted you...

And I wouldn't have had anything to say to satisfy you. But now, you can go in peace gramps.

Thank you, lad. I can see it and... it means a lot. I'll bring good word of you.

And I'll seek you out in the next life. We shall talk again, and I will bring you more secrets of this world. Now be gone, Jeremya Mikkels. Cross under Enmu's obsidian gate without regrets.

~~ August 2020 – Theme : Pure Dialogue

[raywritesthings]

You’re the Hero, Laurel

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Thea Queen, Roy Harper, John Diggle, Felicity Smoak, Quentin Lance Pairings: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen, Thea Queen/Roy Harper Summary: Part of Oliver's letter to Laurel after the Undertaking makes everything much clearer to her, and she takes a far more literal interpretation of his words than he perhaps intended. *Can be read on my AO3 and FFN, links are in bio*

As she read the letter over, Laurel felt the walls holding up her life, her emotions, her very being tremble and start to cave in, just like the walls of CNRI only a couple short weeks ago had. And no one was coming to save her this time. Tommy was dead, and Oliver was gone.

She didn’t understand. Did he not want to be with her? After what happened with Tommy, maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe it was wrong, even if Tommy had left her weeks before. And yet Oliver was still professing his love in these paragraphs. Claiming he had to go so that she could save the city on her own. Didn’t he understand she wanted to do it with him? Just thinking of the struggles that awaited her alone now was enough to make her want to curl right back up in bed with some tissues and some kind of comfort food. Or wine. She deserved an early five o’clock for this, didn’t she?

And yet, there was one line in the letter giving her pause: You’re the hero, Laurel. There was an implied not me on the end of that sentence, and that was the thing she couldn’t quite figure out.

She had never called Oliver a hero. She loved him, faults and all, but she’d never been one to go overboard with the praise. She thought he’d had the potential to be something more if he just believed in himself, of course, but she hadn’t used the word hero.

She had called the Hood as much.

And suddenly, Laurel’s tears stopped. She couldn’t really be thinking again that he was — but really, what else made sense? The blame he seemed to carry for Tommy’s death, their sudden estrangement; Tommy must have learned the truth at some point. That was why his jealousy had suddenly boiled over, because Laurel had had a connection with the Hood that had seemed so familiar in a way she’d never been able to articulate.

Oliver surviving the attack at Queen Manor by that hitman after Taylor; his disappearance in the Verdant at the firefighter benefit, only for the Hood to show up; the way he’d acted in her apartment when the Triad attacked; that something he’d said that kept pulling him away. It was his double life, which he’d apparently decided to give up in the wake of the Undertaking.

The Hood hadn’t been seen since the quake, and she knew he’d made it out of CNRI alive. If he continued to fail to appear, that would only make sense if Oliver had gone and left the country.

The enormity of this realization had her rushing out of the door with her keys and racing to the airport in the vain hope that he might just still be waiting to board. She had to call Thea once it became clear she wasn’t going to get a look at the flight schedules for private planes. They told Thea that her brother had left just after dawn, which Thea related to her.

Laurel sank into a chair in the waiting area, head in her hands. What did she do now? Where was he going? He said he needed to do this alone, and part of her wanted to scream because didn’t he realize she needed him right now?

Laurel read over his letter again and again. He might come back someday. Was that someday dependent on the city being better? She’d have no way of enacting that kind of widespread change for years, which was how long it would take her to make it up the ranks of the DA’s office. Assuming she even landed that interview. The law just moved too slowly in their city.

But if she was the hero… 

Laurel looked up. Could she really? The Hood had had to save her so many times. But Ollie was saying he thought she could be better than even him. Okay. Then that was what she’d do. If Oliver didn’t want her holding back, then she wasn’t about to disappoint.

---

Months later, Oliver reluctantly returned to Starling City at the insistence of his former teammates. His mother’s trial was coming up, and countless employees at Queen Consolidated were facing unemployment if Stellmoor International was successful in their acquisition. These were things he was willing to intercede on, if only because they required Oliver Queen and not the Hood.

When he insisted that he would not be returning to a vigilante lifestyle, Diggle and Felicity exchanged a look. “Well, you might not have to.”

He blinked. “Why not?”

“There’s someone new in town, Oliver. A woman,” Digg told him. “She showed up a couple months ago.”

“What do you mean ‘showed up’?”

“That’s when the police started noticing her, anyway,” Felicity took over. “She might have been active before, but their presence in the Glades is severely limited since the Undertaking, and that’s mostly where she’s been active. She’s a vigilante,” she added on.

“Has anyone been killed?” If this was another situation like the Savior, then it was his fault. He had brought this into his city.

But Digg shook his head. “Hospitalized, but no kill count. They’re likening her to a guy that was active in the Glades a decade or so ago. Uses her fists, mostly. It’s why she’s so low on the cops’ priority list.”

“Yeah, so you can sit on the bench for as long as you like,” Felicity remarked. Oliver frowned. “Unless, you know, you want to figure out who she is.”

They were both clearly confident this would sway him. Well, he had work to do as Oliver Queen before even thinking about looking into this woman.

First on the list was visiting Thea, who surprisingly had taken to running the Verdant in his absence. He couldn’t exactly judge her decision not to continue her education, and he was glad she was making something of herself in the way that she wanted. Less pleasing was her resolve not to visit their mother in prison, but Thea was refusing to budge.

They were interrupted by the arrival of her boyfriend, Roy Harper. “Oh, you’re back.”

“And you’re still here,” Oliver replied.

“And late,” Thea added. “Where have you been?”

“Sorry, boss,” Roy said with far too much cheek for Oliver’s liking. “Lost track of the time.”

His sister sighed. “Well, you’ve stopped getting into fights, so I can’t complain.” The couple shared a kiss, which Oliver decidedly looked away from. “Oh, don’t pretend to be grossed out.”

“I’m just giving you some privacy,” he insisted.

“Yeah? Why don’t you go see Laurel? She’s the one that told me you’d left in the first place.”

He looked down, guilt churning in his stomach both at his lack of goodbye to his sister and for his cowardice when it had come to leaving Laurel. He wanted to see her badly, but he had no idea how she might feel about it at this point. How could he explain that he hadn’t been able to stand facing her when knowing he was the reason their city was in ruins and their oldest friend was dead?

“Not sure where I’d find her.” He’d seen enough of the Glades on the drive here to know that CNRI still had to be rubble.

“There’s some fancy shindig the mayor’s holding tonight. She might be at that since she’s in the DA’s office,” Thea remarked.

“He’s not gonna get an invite in time. It’s starting in half an hour,” Roy spoke up. When Oliver and Thea both looked at him, he shrugged. “I watch the news.”

“I’ll see if I can find her there,” Oliver said. “You’d be surprised the kind of doors the Queen name opens.”

Diggle turned the radio up as they were heading back downtown. “Chaos as the mayor’s benefit has just been attacked by armed men calling themselves the Hoods.”

“What?” Oliver sat forward, his head poking into the front seat.

“They’ve been robbing banks, not sure what caused them to escalate.” Diggle glances back at him. “But they cover their faces and wear hoods in your honor.”

Oliver’s hands curled into fists around the leather seats.

“Minor injuries have been reported, with one of the perpetrators being captured after a run-in with the unknown female vigilante, who made a surprise appearance at the event as well.”

“Digg, step on it.” If Laurel was at that event with all of these varied dangerous elements in attendance, he needed to make certain she was alright.

But it turned out Laurel hadn’t been one of the guests, he learned when he arrived to find Detective — or Officer — Lance arguing with Lieutenant Pike while ADA Donner seemed to be trying to mediate.

“She’d been under the weather at work, so I suggested she take the night off. I’m glad it kept her out of all this, certainly.”

“Me too, since as your daughter is not present you have no reason to be at this scene, Officer Lance,” Pike stated with a glare. “Now get back to your beat.”

“Alright, I’m going!” Lance declared, marching in Oliver’s direction. He stopped when he caught sight of him and heaved a sigh as he shook his head. “Guess you’re here for the same reason I was.”

There was no point denying it. “Laurel’s safe?”

“Yeah. Suppose she would’ve been anyway, thanks to that woman. But, uh, you didn’t hear that from me.” Lance walked back out to his car and soon left.

Oliver lingered outside the building, pondering tonight’s events. The woman Digg and Felicity had said operated out of the Glades had come to stop the Hoods. Based on the one man they’d caught tonight, it seemed the Hoods might be from the Glades themselves, which perhaps explained her interest. It also meant she needed to have a pretty good source of information about what was happening in the Glades.

He walked around the side of the building, trying to determine which way she might have entered or made her escape. But as he walked further down the alley, he realized he was being watched. Oliver straightened up and looked around.

“Who’s there?”

A noise above had him squinting up into a fire escape. A figure in dark clothing hurried down the steps, jumping the last distance rather than using the ladder. She wore her hair long and blonde, almost platinum, and a nightstick hung from a belt at her side. Before Oliver could decide how to react, she rushed him.

“Hey!” He threw both hands up, figuring that was as believable a reaction for a billionaire, but all it seemingly did was leave him open for her hug. “Um.”

“I knew you’d come back.”

He knew that voice. And that smile, when she pulled back to give it to him. And that kiss… 

Oliver pushed back on her shoulders, staring at her incredulously. “Laurel?”

“Not so loud,” she cautioned him. “Oh.” Laurel took off a black leather glove, licked at her thumb and leaned in to rub it over his mouth. “Didn’t know that brand smudged that bad. Could just be the color.”

“You- I— what is going on?”

“Exactly what you wanted. Come on, we can talk back at my place.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him along, and he was powerless to argue.

Mostly because he was trying to figure out just how this could in any way be what he’d wanted.

---

Laurel couldn’t believe he was back. She’d seen the car approach as she’d stayed hidden, listening to the police chatter and waiting for the right moment to slip away. Then Mr. Diggle has exited the limo and there he’d been.

Part of her was dying to ask where he’d gone all this time, what he’d done, if he’d worked through whatever he needed to and was here to stay for good. But she held all her questions as they snuck back to her downtown apartment and up the fire escape. Laurel went in through the window and waited for him to enter as well with ease before shutting and locking it again.

Laurel watched him look around at the mountain of blankets on her living room couch and several wadded up tissues on the coffee table.

“Neat, right? In case dad comes to check on my alibi with no warning,” she explained. “Speaking of, let me change.” She turned and went back to her bedroom, leaving the door open as she removed her wig and mask.

“Laurel, you- you’re a vigilante.”

“Yep.” She took out a makeup wipe and applied it liberally to her face. She really was going to have to ditch the black lipstick, even if it did better separate her from her usual colors of choice.

“And you’re okay with me knowing that because…?”

“Because you’re the Hood. Or were the Hood. You don’t have to lie again, I figured it out,” she said, taking off her undershirt and kicking off her boots. She pulled a rolling suitcase out from under the bed and started stuffing everything inside.

“How?”

She hadn’t anticipated him being so at a loss for words. Though when Laurel glanced back, she noticed Oliver’s eyes on her leather-clad backside and chalked some of it up to distraction. Smirking, she pulled her pants down as well.

“Your letter, where you confessed you didn’t think you were a hero.” Laurel covered the distance between them and raised her hand to his cheek. “Which you’re wrong about, but I understood you needing some time after everything that happened in the Glades. So I’ve been doing my best to fill in. Now that you’re back, maybe we can really make a difference instead of just keeping the city afloat.” She reached past him for her bathrobe hanging on the hook attached to her door, but he caught her arm.

“Laurel, when I wrote that, I wasn’t asking you to become a vigilante.”

“Then I’m not sure how you expected me to ‘be the best of you’. I don’t exactly have my own multibillion dollar company to run.” He still wasn’t smiling. Laurel sighed. “Ollie, what the Hood did last year for this city was more than anyone’s tried to do for a long time. You’re the reason anyone in the Glades even survived Merlyn’s attack. I know you feel like you failed, but you didn’t. Not anymore than the rest of this city failed its people.”

“I failed if it means I left you to pick up the pieces.” He shook his head. “You could be hurt or killed out there. If that had happened while I was gone—”

Laurel pulled out of his hold, folding her robe under one arm and walking back over to her bed. “What else was I supposed to do, Oliver? I wanted to do this with you, but I wasn’t going to stop and wait for you to come back. I’m not shutting myself off every time you decide to go anymore. This is my city, too.” She unclipped her bra and shrugged out of it, hearing him walk up behind her.

“What if I help you do this a different way? With the company, with the law.”

“The law’s not going to stop the rest of those Hoods. They’ll be desperate now that their one buddy’s been caught and could flip on them. I really don’t know what they’ll try next, but when I heard the mayor was their next target—”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I’ve got informants. None of them know who I really am.” If Roy Harper, for instance, realized the woman he was passing information to was his girlfriend’s straight-laced mentor, well, he’d probably think he was crazy.

“Give me their names. I can talk to them, handle it—”

She yanked her night shirt over her head and whirled to face him. “That’s not why I did this. I’m not a placeholder for you, Oliver. I’m in this with you, completely. Always have been, always will be.”

His expression turned pained. “And if you die? Laurel, what about Tommy?”

She closed her eyes. “I regret what happened to Tommy every day. But I can’t change the fact he went into that building any more than you could. And I can’t change that, even if he loved me, he was right. We weren’t going to last.” She looked him square in the eye. “Either I could have tried to respect what he did for me by living my life as carefully and quietly as I could while I slowly died inside, or I could honor what he did for me by paying it forward. I’m able to be out there helping people because of what he sacrificed for me. And the more people I save, the more that sacrifice means something. Isn’t that why you do what you do?”

He stared at her, long and hard, without a word. Whatever battle he was waging to find the words, he eventually lost, because instead he grabbed her face and smashed their lips together.

It was a hungry kiss. They were both a little angry, a little desperate, a little bit needing the relief of each other’s company. Her hands roamed up and down his back trying to anchor him, hold him down. His raked through her hair and ran up under her shirt, feeling her abs. Laurel gasped into his mouth when his hands roamed higher, and he stopped. They rested in place, foreheads bent together.

“Are we…?” Oliver looked so uncertain as he gazed into her eyes. Afraid and confused and so, so lost.

Come home, Laurel thought wildly. I left the light on for you. Instead, she snuck her own hands under her clothes and laid them over his. Holding him to her however long he’d let her. “Yes. Always.”

“And forever,” he agreed, covering her lips with his own once more. Laurel reached for his shoulders and jumped, not even needing the slightest boost from him to get her legs around his waist this time. It was a far shorter walk to the bed, too.

Tomorrow, they could navigate how this whole thing worked. In their public lives, in their nighttime personas. Tonight was just for them.

[doyouneedtorant]

april 29, 2019 (time unknown)

This is an old piece that I wrote for an English assignment. It is entitled “The Missing Fairy Princess”. 

It’s backpacking season at the University of Michigan. For those of you who are unaware of what that means, “backpacking” is the process of choosing classes to put in your “backpack” before registering for them at a later date. It involves many hours of obsessing over the course guide and worrying about what the future will look like if you do not get the classes that you need for your major. With that in mind, it’s an extremely stressful experience for someone as manic and worried as me. At this point in my college career, I am bombarded with adults telling me “Oh, you’re just a freshman! You don’t need to know what you’re doing with your life quite yet!” when in reality, this question of “what do you want to be” is single-handedly eating away at my heart. I am a person of many ambitions and yet in a school full of aerospace engineers, aspiring business men and women, medical students, and overachieving triple-majors, I feel as if my creativity has been pushed to the side for a more practical pursuit. In these times, I cannot help but look back at the young girl I used to be who wanted to be everything.

At my preschool culmination, the teachers all asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. All the boys and girls said they wanted to be firefighters and police officers or dentists and doctors. Yet when it got to me, I said I wanted to be a fairy princess. One of the parents laughed at me and my dad essentially told them “Hey, if my daughter wants to be a fairy princess, she can. It’s more original and creative than being a police officer, like your kid.” Now, this is just something my father has told me over and over; I can only really trust him and his memory skills to assume that this retelling of the story is actually an accurate depiction of what happened. Same goes to the time that he told me that the mothers that led our Girl Scout group had to pull him aside, because during arts and crafts, I tried to make a mind-control device to brainwash the other girls. Although I can’t remember a single thing about these events, I’ve heard these stories so many times that I can seriously see them - well, at least in my own imaginative way. I see me shrieking “I want to be a fairy princess!” at the culmination and suddenly I’m in this cute, little purple fairy costume laughing as my dad has his altercation with the other parent. I can vividly see this “mind-control device,” a black-and-white pinwheel that spins as if I was some engineer who could have actually made that at the age of eight. Over the years, these tales have deeply embedded into me that I could be whatever I wanted to be and I had the drive and ability to be or create something inspiring. And at that young age, I could have been a fairy princess. I could have made a mind-control device. And as I got older, I found myself in love with so many things - writing, singing, teaching, learning, math, English, science, animals. I wanted to be everything and when you’re eight, the idea of being everything seems achievable.

Whether or not those stories were true, there’s clearly a path of imaginative behavior that trailed off from then. Starting in elementary school, I was starting to write my own books. Yes, crappy by default, but true pieces of art in the eyes of my younger self. (My debut story was Pretty and Paris, a book about two poodles that discovered they were sisters and then one was kidnapped by a jealous ex-best friend who planned to sell her on the black market. Iconic.) I was making short films about pineapples with jobs and reality shows about my stuffed animals. I started writing music about the food in my fridge and the boys I thought were cute in my second grade class. I learned how to play the guitar and piano by my own hand and I realized I loved to write poetry. In high school, I was in theatre and started writing plays and when adults told me they were good, it encouraged that childlike creativity that had always followed me throughout the years. I was bound for amazing things and that eight-year-old girl could look in the bathroom mirror and recognize it.

But now I am 19. And, yes, that’s ridiculously young and I am fully aware how bizarre it is for me to be saying I can no longer be creative or that I cannot be whatever I want to be. But at this point in my life, there definitely is a limit on the possibilities. I came into college thinking that I would take all the classes I was interested in, that I would be in multiple clubs, that I would have internships lined up for me. But that’s not actually how reality works. There are GEs (the “general education” credits that the school swears you must take to be educated) and prerequisites that you are forced to take as stepping stones. You have a job because the cost of living in a college town is extremely exaggerated, so now the time you have for clubs is cut short. There are internship opportunities over summer but you are so tired from a demanding semester that you cannot even imagine putting in a minimal level of effort until you have to next semester. I think most importantly that the biggest shock was that if you do not do certain tasks, you absolutely cannot be whatever you want. If you do not take Biology 172, you cannot be a doctor; and if you decide halfway through your college career that you want to pursue medical school, the amount of time and effort that you would need to just catch up with the intense checklist of classes for the MCAT would probably kill you. Not to mention if you want to attend graduate school at all, the competitive nature of students today requires you to get an extremely high GPA, despite the fact that classes are gradually becoming more difficult and teachers praise themselves when they fail a whole class with an unreasonably unfair exam.

Not to mention, the stigma around being a humanities major is hard to avoid. My friends joke about me being homeless after college when my useless degree creates a jobless and unsuccessful life. Growing up in Los Angeles and attending a performing arts school warped my view on how people saw art, especially in a school that worships STEM. Where I came from everyone was going to be some sort of creative when they grew up: a performer, a dancer, an actor, a photographer, a playwright. And to be honest, I believed that. I saw my peers achieving great things while they were still seniors in high school and it made that dream seem much more realistic. With that in mind, that creative eight-year-old flew two thousand miles away from her home, destined to achieve these amazing feats, just to be told creativity is only allowed when it is flirting with practicality. Maybe I could have gone to a liberal arts school instead or somewhere more understanding of arts-oriented students, but how can one do that when the University of Michigan has so much to offer? An amazing reputation, a sense of pride that no other school could match, an incredibly talented and intelligent body of students that collaborate to increase the chance of success, a campus that looks like it was plucked from a catalog. I mean, it was a no-brainer. I knew any program I decided to go into would be academically rigorous and extremely insightful. Now, do not get me wrong, the humanities classes I have attended were exactly that, but the fear of not doing enough has become a very heavy weight on my shoulders. Everyone I meet is a future doctor, engineer, material scientist, epidemiologist, dentist, or nurse. Where were all the fairy princesses?

I decided that I needed to do more and went into what I like to call: “Phase I: I am going to be a doctor!” The idea of becoming a pediatrician was attractive; I always adored children, I wanted to find a career where I helped people, medicine and health continuously peaked my interest. So, with this in mind, I launched my pre-med phase and started to plan out the next three years of my life, the classes I would take, the medical schools I liked, what internships I would do over summer. (It’s sufficient to say I am an overthinker.) I registered for, you guessed it, Biology 172 and a statistics class, making my way through the advised pre-med checklist. Things were going pretty smoothly and then I failed two exams, started missing lectures, and had to explain to my father that for the first time in five years, my grades were not amazing. I came to the conclusion that the root of my stresses was Biology 172 and I withdrew from the class two- thirds through the semester.

No more doctor.

Right now, I am looking at pre-health or pre-social work, trying to find something realistic to pursue and the question “Where are all the fairy princesses?” haunts me. I like to ask people what they wanted to be when they were a kid and what they would want to be now, but often the answer makes me sad. My friend who just graduated with a degree in sociology told me he wanted to be a teacher when he was younger. Teachers, unfortunately, are not paid well and so many kids turn their cheek to education, unless it means becoming a professor at a high- paying university. My friend instead got his degree in sociology, but has no idea what he would ever do with it, so he is applying for reception jobs at local hospitals and clinics instead. Another friend told me he wanted to grow up to be a basketball player, but the skill required and the sheer realistic nature of the dream steered him in a different direction. If money or impracticality remained out of the picture, my dream would be performing on Broadway, or being a cast member on Saturday Night Live, or winning a Tony for Best Play, or singing my own songs in front of a giant crowd. However, the fear of failure or not having something to fall back on is honey for my anxiety.

Once again, I want to make it extremely well known that I understand how young I am. I am going to live a long, luxurious life and the worries I have now will all fit into place, and in my fifties I will be laughing with my husband and children about how silly my troubles actually were. But for now, they are real and they are daunting. It feels like everyone knows what they are doing or they are committed to suffering through the difficult classes they need to succeed. And frankly, I’m not. Every time I look in the mirror, I still see my younger self in the reflection - a purple fairy dress on, stuffed animal in hand, smile plastered to my face - and it is hard to not feel disappointed. I want to look back at that little girl and tell her that we did it. I want to tell her we became everything we dreamed of - a writer, a performer, a doctor, a veterinarian, a teacher, a psychologist, an artist, a chef. And although I cannot predict the future, I understand some of these options have been eliminated just by major choice.

To tell sixteen-year-olds that they need to have some basic understanding of what they want to do with their lives by the time they apply to college is utterly ridiculous. The way we have been taught to push ourselves to absurd heights has left no time to breathe in between class breaks. My fellow classmates are either not participating in any social scene so they can study, or they are engaging way too much and developing some form of alcoholism or drug problem before they hit twenty. Those of us who plan to go to graduate school have stopped learning in order to save space for short-term memorization, when in reality, we all went to college in hopes of learning more than we did in high school. No one seems to be super happy about what they are doing in college because despite the fact that adults have raved on about how in college you get to study exactly what you want to study, the opposite has proven itself true. I may be a speck of dust on Michigan’s campus but the alarming rate of students that feel the same way tells me that something is wrong with the whole process. During these next three years, I hope to catch a glimpse of my younger self by diving into activities and classes that excite me, but I worry that one day, she’ll fade away and I’ll just have to wait for my dad to tell me more stories about her.

[crvmsdecorum]

"ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ sᴀʏ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ. sᴏ, ɪ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏ."

( jason momoa, 38, male, he/him) Have you seen KOA NAIHE around ?  I hear they’re an (NEUTRAL) ARMS DEALER/OWNER of ATLANTIS - IN who can sometimes be AGGRESSIVE & DOMINEERING. But I also heard they can be VALIANT & ACTIVE, if you catch them on a good day. They’re usually hanging around ATLANTIS - IN in their spare time. I sure hope they’re alright ! ( emma. )

tw: substance abuse, tw: death, tw: death mentions

Meet Koa Iokua Naihe ; He claims he is the King of Dad jokes. 

He was born in Maui, Hawaii and is the the fourth born out of seven children with the majority of them being boys. Koa was born to native Hawaiian surfer Merliah Pelekai and Samoan-Hawaiian arms dealer Iosfea Naihe. The Naihe family were raised in Samoa. 

It didn’t take Koa long to learn his way around a rifle thanks to his old man and learn the Naihe business. Not only were they in arms dealing, but would provide new numbers and such for stolen cars. 

When he became old enough Koa would pull jobs with his dad and brothers. As they got older, they got more dangerous but Iosfea obviously didn’t care -- all that man began to care about was the money and not the lives of his children. Koa came to see that not long after he had turned 17 when his youngest brother (9) was killed. 

After burying his baby brother Koa knew what he had to do. He went forth to HPD to turn his father in and oh man, it was so hard to Koa. He looked up to his father and it just broke him. The police planted a wire on Koa if him and his brothers were granted freedom from the things they’ve done due to their father. When they agreed, he went for it and by the end of the month? Iosfea was thrown away into prison and locked up for his crimes, and the Naihe brothers? They viewed Koa as a traitor and a coward. 

Seeing he has become a complete outcast due to his actions in saving the family, Koa left and moved to Hawaii. The one other place in the world he always felt at HOME. 

Once arriving to the island Koa was completely lost. He didn’t know where to begin in having a normal life though luckily for him a friend of his mother’s offered him a shelter in her family’s home. There he began to slowly get into the habit of a NORMAL life. The man of the house, Duke Lukela, was a firefighter while his wife, the woman who welcomed Koa into the family was an officer for the Wildlife. 

Koa finally was going to be living the life seventeen year old’s live and oh how he thrived. Just like he did in Samoa, Koa too began to ride and tame the waves of Hawaii and entered several competitions. He never really did care to win them of course if he did, they were a bonus, but he just wanted to be one with the water. As a child his mother would joke and claim he is part from mermaid or maybe even an Atlantean, which that tickled him to death since he was a fan of the legends. 

Thanks to the Lukela family Koa graduated high school and eventually went onto college -- something he never thought would happen to him. He had gotten into the University of Hawaii and decided to pursue a career in Marine Biology. Koa just couldn’t stay out of the water and was a total nerd in biology, so why not go after a career that benefits both? 

Half way through his education and Koa found himself craving the adrenaline he felt when he pulled them jobs off when he was younger. Not knowing really what to do Koa kept quiet about this urge and began to become disgusted with himself for wanting that life. Though soon it began to grow more and it wasn’t before too long you would find Koa on the streets late at night and becoming involved in illegal street races. 

Just like surfing Koa became good at racing, too good in fact that some of those he had beaten believed he cheated. From all of this put Koa up on a high horse and filled with arrogance in him. Soon it all came crashing down on him. One night after defeating someone who had family in high places and Koa found himself coming home to the Lukela family SLAUGHTERED due to his actions. 

Feeling with regret and even more disgusted with himself for what he has done, Koa decided to drop out of college and go dark. He gave into himself completely that craved the danger and decided to go back to what he was born to do: arms dealing. 

Using the money he inherited from the Lukela family, Koa bought himself a piece of land away from the city and turned a warehouse into his business. His first action? Koa made a proposition with the Hawaiian crime family dubbed as, ‘The Company’ and through him he was able to get his revenge on the Lukela family. Koa sold them the best of the best and allow him to come on one mission with them and that was to kill the man who marked the family for DEATH. 

With his revenge satisfied, Koa decided to officially become an arms dealer, but not just to the The Company. To all other gangs on the island and became a neutral ground for them. Many soon began to call his business the Continental due to it’s neutral grounds. Due to his increasing business and a strong bond with just about every head of the gangs, they’ve looked to Koa as a brother and pledged that no harm would come to him and would defend him if need be from another gang. The only gang Koa ever refused to sale his weapons too was the Yakuza. They were the ones who had the Lukela family blood on their hands. 

Fast forward a few years and business is booming for Koa. He became a small millionaire, but when you look at him he didn’t scream it nor screamed his business being illegal. When he wasn’t working, Koa would be out in about surfing, helping out in charities, and even volunteering at Mr. Lukela’s fire station. He had to do something to keep the memory of his adoptive family alive and he did through his actions.

At the age of twenty five Koa gotten married to a local woman who captured his heart, she wasn’t Hawaiian like him. Many called her a haloe due to not being neither Hawaiian or Polynesian, but Koa didn’t care. That next year (2008) she gave him a little girl and it took everything in him to not name her Lilo due to his love of that movie and settled LEILANI NAIHE. That little girl has had Koa wrapped around her fingers since the day she was born. 

Not long after Leilani’s fourth birthday is when Koa’s marriage fell apart. His wife fell down a dark path and began to become addictive to drugs. He tried to help her and put her into rehab programs, but they never stuck. Koa finally put his foot down though when she gotten into a nasty car accident with Leilani who was in the backseat. Just seeing his daughter almost looking lifeless on that hospital bed changed him. Koa went into his wife’s hospital room with a look that screamed rage, and told her that when she is out of the hospital she is to LEAVE -- to pack her bags and leave. 

About a week later his wife was released from the hospital with an order saying she has to go to rehab and Koa put protection on Leilani so his wife wouldn’t go around her. Koa took his wife back to their little family home to where she would pack and slowly began to reminisce, especially after Koa told her that he wanted a divorce. Though one thing lead to another and one final time Koa slept with his wife. How could he not? This was a woman he had been with for almost five years. 

Though him sleeping with her came back and bit him on the ass if that is how you want to see it. Four months later with their papers being already signed and the marriage done, she came out of rehab after finishing it and revealed she was pregnant and that Koa was the father. 

Still having a soft spot for his ex wife, Koa allowed her to live in the Naihe home but she had her own room and Leilani was thrilled to have her mother back home. It was no secret to Koa though when his ex wife wanted to try their relationship again, but he couldn’t. The image of the way their daughter looked never did leave his mind. It was something that would haunt him forever.

He wouldn’t admit it, but things were going smoothly in the Naihe household as her pregnancy went further along. They decided to be surprised at what the baby’s gender will be, as long as the baby is healthy. 

One night though when Koa was out in about doing business is when he got a call he would never forget. Leilani called Koa crying and said Mommy fell asleep after taking some medicine and she couldn’t wake her up. Ending his sale early and promising he would make it up to them Koa fled back home to find the pregnant woman on the kitchen floor with a pool of blood seeping out between her legs. Koa became quickly worried, but that isn’t what fueled his rage, oh no, it came when he saw a needle beside her. She was cooking meth. 

Acting quick Koa called the ambulances and when arriving to the hospital they performed emergency c-section on his ex-wife. While waiting for the results from the doctor, Koa kept telling Leilani she did everything right as she continued to cry in his arms -- saying its all her fault and that she couldn’t wake up her mom. She even blamed herself for the car wreck and learning all of this broke Koa even more. No child should go through this. 

After soothing Leilani to sleep is when the Doctors came and revealed that both the baby and his ex-wife made it out of the surgery but Koa came to quickly learn something else, she had been using for months and it had resulted in their SON being born with a heart defect and will have to spend his time in the NICU. He then named his son, KAIKO NAIHE, who later on will go by Kai. Koa couldn’t pass up the opportunity to give him a name that starts with a K. 

Upon learning this and endangering their son, Koa called the authorities on her and became arrested when she woke up. He then got a judge not long after to have all custody signed over to him and when he did, he officially cut his ex-wife out and ordered protection against him and his kids against her. He hadn’t heard from her since then and he wanted to keep it that way. Koa made a promise to both of his kids when they were born and that was to protect them, to make sure they do not go through a heartache he went through as a kid and he plans on sticking to that. 

Not long after that is when Koa decided to move out of Hawaii for a bit and away from all the troubles from his ex-wife. Just because she cannot come around them, didn’t stop her family from nagging Koa and trying to pressure him into seeing the kids and drop the charges. 

And so, Koa decided was advised to move to Chicago where there are three mafias there. He knew he would have to stay neutral and mainly this time because of Leilani and Kaiko. Pulling his resources together, Koa decided to build a family orientated place and so the drive in theater was built that he named, ATLANTIS - IN. 

When Koa moved to the mainland he made sure his children never forgot where they came from and taught them their culture. Hell, whenever he could he would fly back with them to Hawaii. 

A few years has now passed and Koa is now 38 with Leilani being 12 and Kaiko being 7. His illegal sales are still under the table with not many knowing about it, he planned on keeping it that way for the sake of his kids. Those in the city mainly known him as the owner of the drive in and a generous man who loves his kids more than anything. He is their number one fan. Koa still volunteers as a firefight, but not as much as he did in back on the island and still helped out in charities. He even a few times ran during the Boston Marathon. He even teaches surfing to some of the ‘pale faces’ on Lake Michigan. It was no ocean, but it still had killer waves to surf on according to Koa. 

Personality;; Koa is an all around great guy with a gentle soul. He always mainly seen with a smile on his face and is the definition of selfless. If someone needed help he would give the shirt off his back for them and like I said earlier, he always is there for his kids and has a great relationship with both of them and his employees at the drive in. Despite his bright personality, he does have a dark side to him and that comes with a nasty temper. It isn’t easy for him to forgive someone and if you hurt his kids? Let’s just say you don’t wanna. 

Wanted Connections;; Friends, best friends, drinking buddies, employees, maybe a few fwbs ;), someone his kids call aunt or uncle bc how close Koa is with them, even a few people who know about his illegal sales in being an arms dealer. 

Fun Facts;; 

Koa owns a warehouse on the same road of his drive - in is on, but are not attached to each other. He refuses to do business on the grounds of the family orientated place. Luckily for him, he owns the whole road that they both reside on and has bought all the land around it to keep it that way. 

He speaks several languages -- English, Hawaiian, Samoan, Maori, Spanish, and a little bit Italian. He will tell you knows Russian, but only the curse words.

His daughter, Leilani, is currently playing soccer and Koa can always be found on the sidelines cheering her on. Same goes for his son, Kaiko, who is currently enrolled in karate lessons. 

Each Naihe owns a pet of their own. Koa owns a Siberian husky named Maui while Leilani owns a bearded dragon named Kaili (and a cat named Stitch) and Kaiko owns a snake named Tama. 

[axelsagewrites]

Alec Lightwood*Fiesty

Summary: Jace is an idiot and (Y/N) isn't afraid to let him know. Clary, however, isn't too happy with this and picks a fight with the wrong shadowhunter. After all, is said and done it’s Alec’s job to calm down his fiesty partner.

Ship(s): Alex X reader

Request:  Alec and I are dating and I am almost as sassy as him but I am extremely fiesty. When Clary shows up i have the same opinion as Alec but she doesnt know that we are dating. When Jace brings up the Silent brothers and Clary says she wants to go, I say that its not a smart idea because she might not be strong enough. Clary gets offended by that and starts an argument with me. It escalates to the point where she insults me and I go to attack her. But before I can lay a hand on her, Alec grabs me and holds me back. Jace holds Clary back because he knows that if Clary lays a hand on me, Alec would gladly let me go to beat the shit outta her. I keep yelling at Clary, insulting her as Alec carries me to our bedroom. He closes the door and sets me down, I immediately try to walk past him to go fight Clary but he moves in my way. I tell him to get outta my way but he tells me to calm down. I start yelling at him about how you should never tell a woman to calm down. Then I start yelling about Clary being a bitch and thinking she knows everything when she doesn't, but Alec stops me by kissing me. I kiss back and it gets heated. He ends up picking me up and putting me on the bed. We then have sex to calm me down. (If you don't feel comfortable writing smut you don't have to write smut. But if you do feel comfortable writing smut then it would be greatly appreciated) Then some fluff and Alec teasing me about being fiesty. Thanks and sorry its so long

Warnings: kinda smutty at the end

Masterlist HERE

Wattpad HERE

It's not that I have anger issues it's just some people are stupid. And Jace is one of the people. He's done a lot of stupid things in his life but to name a few; trying to backflip out his bedroom window because he's 'the best' when he was 13, copying Bieber's haircut when he was 14, sneaking out at 15 and having a jager bomb without ever trying alcohol, oh and running a random mundane which could potentially kill her.

The two missions shown to us was either the pandemonium or giving the werewolves at Taki's a warning. I was the lucky one that got to go to Taki's. since I was friends with a couple of the wolves there and was relatively liked by the downworld I stayed for a couple of drinks.

Let me tell you I wasn't impressed when I found my boyfriend and friends huddled outside the infirmary talking in hushed whispers. "Who died?" I asked.

Alec rolled his eyes, "This idiot," he nodded at Jace who looked beyond stressed, "Runed a mundane."

My eyebrows rose and I just stared at Jace who squirmed under my gaze. Jace and I had been friends long before he came to New York since my parents used to live in Idris near his home. In fact, it was him who introduced me to Alec and Izzy when I was 13. Through our friendship, despite him being the 'better shadowhunter' he knows I would kill him. "So, who's planning Jace's funeral?" I asked. Jace rolled his eyes "You think I'm kidding? The clave is going to kill you. Literally. Like dead dead. Like how Izzy looks without makeup,"

Isabelle punched my arm, "Hey! And she's not mundane. The rune didn't kill her,"

"Thank the angel. Because if it did we would all be taking a trip to the silent city," I said, putting my hands on my hips, "Now Jace get in there and figure out what the hell is going on,"

"She's asleep," Jace said.

"And?" I asked, turning on my heels and walking away.

I was going through a couple case files on an institutes computer when I sensed someone sneaking up on me. "Jace," I said, not looking up, "Don't even try it,"

When I heard a sigh and turned around to face them. My favourite trio was there with a random redhead and specky boy. Out of habit, I scanned over the two, inspecting for weapons, possible threats, and anything of importance. We'd been trained to do this, but the girls raised an eyebrow and crossed arms suggested she didn't know this. 

It had been Jace who sighed, "(Y/N), this is Clary and Simon," he said, "Clary's the-"

"Mundane shadowhunter thing. Yeah, I guessed," I nodded towards her rune. Isabelle was basically hanging off of Simon the girl had obviously caught Jace's attention. I shared a quick look with Alec who looked so done with life. "So, what's happening now?"

Jace shifted a little "e should go to the silent city." he started, about to clear his throat. I jumped in "To turn ourselves in? cause that's the only slightly logical reason,"

Blondie sighed "Look Clary can't remember anything about the shadow world, so my thoughts were that the silent brothers go into her head and get something,"

"I think it's an awful idea," Alec said. Jace glared at him but Alec shrugged.

I nodded, "For once he's right," Alec maybe my boyfriend, but we tease the living hell out of each other, "Have you ever thought to make a decision, I don't know, based of logic?"

Before Jace spoke Clary cut in "What's the big deal? I trust Jace and I want to do it," I turned to her with a quizzical look on my face, "You trust a random bloke who tattooed you in your sleep knowing it could kill you then took you to a random church? Did your mother not teach you about stranger danger?"

"Don't talk about my mom!" Clary said. Simon seemed to get more nervous and tried to warn her to stop because he seems to have a brain. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Me? I'm a shadowhunter. A shadowhunter who knows that even if we didn't get our butts kicked for doing any of this that you couldn't withstand the silent brothers," I tell her. Isabelle knows me well so sends me a warning look to back down. When did I ever listen? "you don't know enough to decide,"

"I know plenty!" she whines, "I'm going to college. What are you doing?"

"Trying to stop you dying?" I said in a sarcastic tone, "It's okay not to know everything," I say as if I was speaking to a five-year-old.

She was fuming. I mentally smirked. Alec, however, cut in "This is getting us nowhere. We need to make a decision,"

"Well I'm deciding we're doing it," Clary rushed out, almost tripping over her words, "And that's not coming with us,"

"That?" I ask. "Honey if you don't back off we'll have to have words,"

"What are you going to do? You already said you'd get in trouble if I got hurt," she said ass if she'd won. "Not so smart now?" she smiled, looking to Jace for backup but he looked down, not meeting anyone's gaze.

I stepped closer to her and Isabelle stepped closer to me, keeping me back, "Honey-"

"Don't call me honey!" she cut me off "Why are all you shadowhunters so disrespectful,"

"Earn my respect," I told her, crossing my arms, "Don't waltz in and act like you know everything. You don't tell the firefighters how to put out a fire," 

"I'm just saying you don't need to be so mean," she mumbled.

"And I'm just saying be quiet!" I yelled. I took a breath and recomposed myself "If you want to go to the silent brothers go for it. however, what I, an educated person," I directed that at Jace, "Would do is get you a little training before putting you through a potentially deadly idea."

"That's a good idea." Alec said, "Its better the girl be prepared before if you really want to go,"

"Of course, you'd agree with (Y/N)," Clary whined, "You refuse to even say my name," "Yeah that's because I don't plan on having to remember it," Alec said.

"Do you try to be an ass, or does it come naturally?" Clary asked.

No one insults my man, "Hey! Who the hell do you think you're talking to?" I asked her.

"What do you like him or something?" she asked. "You do don't you? That's why you hate Jace because Alec fancies him. You're just being a jealous kid," Clary said, "Get over it. he's rejected you," She clearly thought she'd cracked my code, but I was about to crack her skull, "It's pathetic,"

Stepping closer, I sized her up. Isabelle stepped back not wanting to be involved. Clary was smirking but I wanted to growl. Simon went to pull Clary back, but Isabelle stopped him. "Alec is my boyfriend, you little skank. And he and Jace are parabatai. It's you who should be worried because your flatter than a toddler and have less chance with Jace than Simon!" I yell in her face. "And if you keep talking about my family, I'll knock your teeth in," "At least I'm not a disappointment to my parents," she says.

I let out a couple short laughs. "Well eh you see," I say between fake chuckles before pulling my fist back. It's about to connect with her face when Alec grabs my arm, pulling me back and hugging me from behind to stop me. I let all hell loose, "Who the hell do you think you are?! Don't you ever dare talk about my parents! I swear to the angels!"

Alec is trying to calm me down but it's hard. My parents were on an undercover mission in Prague and I don't even know if they're still alive. You never talk about shadowhunters parents. The likelihood their alive isn't great. When clary steps forward I know Alec must be glaring at her because Jace grabs her arm, not letting her get closer.

Isabelle looks in between the situation, "Alec why don't you take (Y/N) to your room. Calm down yeah?"

The whole time Alec is pulling me away Clary and I are glaring at each other. Were out of mundane earshot but not shadowhunter so she says, "What the hell is wrong with them?" Alec had to literally drag me.

He pushed me into our room and shut the door behind us. I flopped down onto the bed and crossed my arms. "This is ridiculous. The newbie doesn't know anything and she's gonna say I'm dumb? Hell no!"

Alec can't help but chuckle and I glare, "Feisty much?" I roll my eyes, "You're hot when you're angry,"

"I must be Brad Pitt and Angelina rolled into one right now," Alec walked over and plopped down beside me, putting an arm over my shoulder, "You know I don't get that reference," he says.

I just shake my head, "How are we dating?"

"Because we love each other. And when someone like clary insults the other we almost break the law. Oh, and we're pretty hot together," He shrugs.

I roll my eyes with a chuckle. "Really?" I ask and he hums a yes, "Cocky much?"

"I could show you if we drop the Y," he smirked.

I cringe, "That was the worst joke you've ever made,"

Alec can't help but chuckle, "Yeah it is. Angel that was bad," He cringes as well, and I laugh. "At least you're not as...feisty,"

I hummed, "Really?" I asked, leaning in closer.

He hums and leans closer as well, his breath fanning my lips, "Maybe just a little," he glances at my lips, asking permission. I leant up closing the gap. My hands sneak up to hold his shoulders while he grabs my waist, bringing me onto his lap. He pulled back a little. "I like it feisty though," before closing the gap again.

This time I pushed him back though, so I was still onto, "I'll give you feisty," I mumbled against his lips.

[imagineproduce101]

Im Youngmin Mafia AU

you were a kindergarten teacher at the elementary school in your town

you truly loved your job, having the ability to get students involved in school and their education

as the new school year started, you made sure to get to know each of the students and their families well

there was one student in particular, im youngjae, who you were concerned about

on the first day of school, he’d been dropped off by someone-- they’d left so quickly you didn’t get the chance to talk to them-- and he’d been whisked away at the end of the day

you’ve started noticing that youngjae has issues of some sort with home life

you do an activity with the kids about what they want to be when you grow up and he draws a GUN

and you’re like no sweetie guns are bad let’s draw a firefighter

“but daddy has a gun?”

and you’re like ummmmmmmm

so of course, when you meet im youngmin, youngjae’s father, for the parent-teacher conferences, you’re intrigued

he’s extremely charming, and you find yourself blushing at his small compliments, doing your best to get the conversation back to youngjae’s progression in learning the number line

then finally, as the end of the parent-teacher conference draws to an end, you take out the drawing of the gun, showing it to him

“this is what youngjae said he wanted to be when he grew up,” you said quietly, watching an array of emotions flit across his face

“ah,” youngmin nodded, pulling the paper towards him and tracing the crayon lines carefully

you watched as he shifted in his seat uncomfortably, his dress shirt shifting slightly

you caught sight of a tattoo on his chest-- 101-- and you sucked in a breath, understanding

while the man in front of you was obviously involved in shady business, he looked so upset about the whole thing, and you felt bad 

pulling the paper away, you smiled at youngmin

“mr. im, i just wanted to let you know about that,” you said cheerfully, “i’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. youngjae is an absolute sweetheart to have in the classroom. he’s very helpful to his peers, and does his best to understand and keep working on the tasks he’s given.”

“please, call me youngmin,” youngmin insisted, shaking your hand as he headed out

his hand was warm, and you felt like you’d been shocked

one day, you noticed that youngjae hadn’t been picked up after school, so you brought him back to your classroom

he sat there, playing with the small boardgames and puzzles that you had as you worked on your report cards, checking to make sure he was okay  every so often

the hours passed, and soon, it was past dinner

he was clearly hungry, so you dug out some goldfish and let him have that

“don’t tell dad, alright?” you winked at him, and youngjae giggled, nodding as he shoved a goldfish into his mouth (this is a terrible teacher btw)

you were worried that youngmin wasn’t showing up, but youngjae said he hadn’t said anything about him picking youngjae up late

you looked through the emergency contact cards you had, figuring that you would just call him and see what was up

on the other side of town, youngmin was tied up to a chair, glaring up at choi seungcheol of svt, blood pouring out of his mouth and ribs hurting like hell

“i’m not telling you where we hid the ammo,” he growled, looking up at seungcheol defiantly

“oh youngmin, sooner or later, you’ll have to tell us,” seungcheol smiled, holding up a hammer, “after all, you only have so many bones in your body.”

suddenly, a phone started ringing

another one of the svt members yanked the phone from youngmin’s pocket, showing the screen to seungcheol, who nodded

“answer it.”

“hello, mr. im? ah, i mean, youngmin?”

youngmin visibly tensed in the chair, eyes widening for a brief second. a huge grin spread across seungcheol’s face

“i was just calling to remind you that youngjae is still waiting for you here at the elementary school.”

“daddy, i wanna go home!” youngjae’s high-pitched voice echoed through the room

“youngmin?”

seungcheol ended the call, smiling down at youngjae, “i guess we won’t get to all your bones today.”

“leave them the hell alone,” youngmin shouted after seungcheol as he left the room, motioning for the others to untie youngmin

back at the school, you frowned down at the phone in your hand

“did daddy say anything?” youngjae asked, tugging on your sleeve, “is he on his way?”

“daddy’s just running late,” you replied, worried. he had responded-- why hadn’t he said anything?

suddenly, your mind flashed back to the tattoo you’d seen on his chest

while youngmin was strange, he never picked youngjae up late-- ever

he clearly cherished his son, and you couldn’t see his work, however illegal it was, getting in the way of his son’s well being

frowning, you dialed someone else, heart beating in your chest

one of your friends claimed to that one of her friends was a fairly high-up member of 101, and something about this whole situation seemed fishy

after getting the guy’s number from her, you quickly called him

“lee euiwoong, who am I speaking to?”

you quickly explained the situation, telling him that you were youngjae’s teacher and that you’d called youngmin and hadn’t gotten a response even though you picked up

euiwoong cursed, running a hand through his hair

he told you not to move from the school, that something might be going on

right after he told you that, you heard a loud series of bangs, presumably guns

shaking, you hung up, picking up youngjae and running to a small supply closet, hiding in there

“youngjae, we’re going to play a game, okay?” you said quietly, holding him close

youngjae was clearly scared, shaking as well

“we’re hiding, and we have to be as quiet as possible.”

youngjae nodded, and you put your arms around him, doing your best to comfort the five- year old

you heard loud shouting, the occasional crash, and youngjae whimpered, holding you tighter

suddenly, there was another series of bangs, and the sounds of fighting ensued

“get the classroom,” you heard someone growl

your heartbeat picked up, clutching youngjae tightly

you heard someone walk around the supply closet, and you felt hot tears running down your cheeks, thinking over and over that today was the day you were going to die

footsteps stopped in front of the supply closet, and you felt like the sound of your heartbeat was going to give you away

youngjae sniffled a tiny bit and your heart dropped as the door was wrenched open, revealing an incredibly buff guy with a disgusting grin

“you can’t escape n--”

he was cut off by the pop of a gunshot, slumping to the side in an instant

youngmin rushed over to the two of you, trying to lift youngjae up, but the small boy wouldn’t let go of you

youngmin carefully helped you up, walking you over to a chair and helping you sit down

“are you okay?” he asked, checking both you and youngjae for injuries

“we’re fine,” you assured him, “just a bit shaken up is all. you arrived just in time-- thank you.”

youngmin stared at you, obviously pained, “i should be apologizing, i’m the one who got you into all of this.”

you shook your head, gently rocking youngjae back and forth, “it was those lunatics that got me into this, not you. euiwoong told me about svt.”

“you know about svt?” youngmin looked startled, “you know about 101?”

you laughed at that, “i saw your tattoo the first time we met.”

“and you weren’t terrified of me?” youngmin asked incredulously, “i shoot guys for a living.”

“youngmin, anyone who clearly has so much love for their son isn’t a bad person,” you said quietly, watching as youngjae’s eyelids fluttered shut

youngmin stared at you quietly, eyes looking down at youngjae before back at you

“(y/n),” he said softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “thank you, for all you’ve done for my family.”

youngmin chill with the cheese a bit pls

you end up staying the night at his house because youngjae really won’t let go of you

he insists that you take the bed and he can sleep on the couch, and you feel bad but he really won’t have it any other way

it’s a friday night, so you’re able to stay over

youngjae looks so small and fragile, you feel bad that he had to experience such an intense night

he falls asleep and eventually lets go of you, but you can’t seem to fall asleep after such a chaotic night

you get up to grab a glass of water, hoping that youngmin won’t mind

for some reason, the glasses are on a super high shelf that you can’t reach, even on your tiptoes

“need some help?” youngmin apparently was having a hard time sleeping as well

instead of water, he made the two of you tea, and you sat at his small dinner table

“you know, to be honest, there’s a reason why svt targeted you specifically,” youngmin said quietly, rubbing the back of his head

“i thought it was because of youngjae?” you asked in confusion

“partially, yes,” youngmin nodded, “and maybe this isn’t the right timing to tell you this, but i like you, (y/n),” he confessed, looking over at you over his cup of tea

“you like me?” you frowned, “how? why?”

youngmin chuckled, “you’re... you’re you,” he shrugged, “and i like that.”

“does that mean (y/n) will be my mommy now?”

youngmin turned bright red lmao

aPPARENTLY youngjae had woken up and gone out to the kitchen to see what the fuss was about

“maybe not mommy,” you replied, ruffling youngjae’s messy hair, “daddy’s girlfriend, though, maybe we have a deal.”

youngjae nodded happily, giving you a thumbs up

“wait, really?” youngmin looked at you hopefully, “you’ll date me?”

“yes, really,” you laughed at his disbelief, “but if i get kidnapped on the first date, I’ll have to reconsider.”

thank you so so much to the anon who left this super detailed possible plot that, upon reading it again, i’m realizing was meant for jonghyun, jung jung or eunki, so for theirs i will DEF try to incorporate something similar w/kids, but thank you again!

[delhi-architect2]

Journal - 8 Demands for All Future Architects

Michael Riscica is a Licensed Architect, Speaker and Thought Leader, who is deeply committed in helping the NEXT Generation of Architects succeed in their careers. Michael has helped thousands of ARE Candidates pass their exams and creates ARE 5.0 study materials at The Young Architect Academy.

Dear Future Young Architects,

First and foremost, I want you to know that I love and support each and every one of you! I get really excited about architecture when I look at what is happening with younger generations.

This is partly what inspired me to start the Young Architect blog. I got bored with all the Old Architect blogs. I mean, yeah, all those old white guys are really, really nice people. But I just thought the world needed a Young Architect blog.

I have a few important things I would like to discuss in my letter to “Future Young Architects.” So let’s get started …

1. Please do some soul-searching before you start working on your architecture license.

I don’t believe a vegan diet is universally healthy for everyone on the planet. Sure, many people thrive on it, but everyone has different habits, beliefs, upbringings, lifestyles and (most importantly) physiologies. A vegan diet may be the very worst diet for some people. But a diet is a personal decision: Who am I to tell anyone what’s right or wrong?

I also don’t believe everyone who graduates architecture school needs to become a Licensed Architect. In full disclosure, I’ll admit that at this point in my life I have accidentally stumbled into the business of architectural licensing and I would appreciate it if everyone going through this process would read my very popular book, appropriately titled How To Pass The Architecture Registration Exam. Despite this, I wholeheartedly believe that architecture licensing is not a requirement for “being successful.”

The profession has collectively been fostering the belief that there is only one path: Everyone with an architecture degree needs to become a Licensed Architect. If you don’t get your architecture license, you’ve wasted your expensive education, and you’re basically a loser.I couldn’t disagree more.

Please do some soul-searching before you start working on your architecture license. Make sure licensing is the right thing for you. It may or may not be. Architectural licensing is a very personal decision. It’s as personal as the diet or religion you choose to adhere to. I completely support you in whatever decision you arrive at. Both decisions can and will have positive and negative impacts in the long term depending on what your personal life goals are.

Most importantly, stop letting architects from another generation bully you into thinking you must have an architecture license and that expensive AIA membership, because you really don’t need it — IF they’re not aligned with what you want to accomplish in your life. I have zero patience with this “You’re either with us or against us” approach to inspiring Young Architects toward licensing.

Via Arch Student

2. Please stop waiting for permission.

We all went to architecture school so we could learn how to make cool shit happen.

Then after school was over, you quietly sat and waited for permission from a company, a boss, a client or some other outside force or circumstance to give you permission to share your unique gifts with the world.

Have you ever realized how self-absorbed everyone is? No one is ever going to pay attention to you, unless you grab their attention. No one is ever going to ask you to put yourself out there and share whatever value you have to offer the world.

I’ll say that again … If you’ve been waiting to be asked to put yourself out there, it’s never going to happen. Everyone is way too busy checking how many Instagram followers they have.

STOP WAITING FOR PERMISSION!

JUST DO IT!

3. Please honor and respect the past.

Our parents and grandparents’ generations blazed a fantastic trail that will help us take the profession to the next level. There is sooo much value in analyzing them and seeing what we can learn from their careers — good and bad. Sometimes, finding bad examples can be more powerful than finding good ones.

Study them, learn from them, ask them a lot of questions, use them as a resource and thank them for their contributions to the profession. Apply what you’ve learned to help you figure out what you want to do, how to be successful or how to see the mistakes you never want to make.

Either way, alwaysappreciate and acknowledge their hard work. Tell them how thankful you are to have them as a teacher.

Via JUMO

4. Please volunteer your time.

Society needs your help. Architecture may be a service profession, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need to volunteer your time without getting paid.

We became architects so we could make a difference and make the world a little bit better. And yes, we’re doing that. But you still need to take your architect hat off for a minute: Turn off the computer and volunteer as a citizen contributing to society.

I don’t care how, but you must volunteer. Service means giving your time, energy and attention to someone who needs it. The “I’m too busy” argument is old and tired. You’re always going to be too busy. There will never be a better time, which is why you need to start right now.

Your time and attention is more valuable than your money. Volunteering doesn’t mean throwing money at a problem. And it doesn’t mean donating time to build some silly, glossy art exhibit inside your local AIA office — that no one will ever see. Volunteering means giving time to a person or a cause that genuinely needs your focused attention.

5. Please be yourself … And find situations that allow you to be yourself!

NOTHING is unhealthier than putting on uncomfortable clothes you don’t enjoy wearing, showing up at a job you don’t like and working with people who don’t acknowledge or appreciate you. Day after day, year after year.

Every day you do this, it is the equivalent of feeding your soul a McDonald’s and cheap generic diet soda!

It’s not easy finding an employment situation that is aligned with who you are and how you want to be an architect.

Be realistic with yourself. Do you want to work 50 to 60 hours a week pushing projects and your career? Or do you want to work a maximum of 40 hours a week so you can spend time raising a healthy family? There is no right or wrong answer. Both are definitely noble pursuits. You need to find a firm that is aligned with who you are, how you want to work, spend your time and live your life.

There are a million different types of firms and jobs. It’s often significantly easier to find a new architecture firm that understands what you’re looking for, rather than change the existing culture of an office. It’s a lot like dating, you just have to figure out what you want first.

Image © 2013 – 2014 thehobosapien

6. Please don’t contribute negativity without taking positive action.

The profession of architecture gets thrown under the bus all the time. There is no shortage of bad news or problems in architecture. It doesn’t help that Architects are trained and given college degrees in sniffing out problems or recognizing how things could be always better.

The profession of architecture isn’t fair. It’s not only a big gender or diversity issue, it’s an issue for everyone. Architecture leaves people behind who can’t compete and adapt to change. The profession is supposed to reward hard work and those who can execute. The same time it often treats those same people unfairly.

The truth is: Every single person who has found success with architecture has been burned by this profession at one time or another. People get lied to, not paid and sued. At the same time, the successful ones have taken those setbacks and used them as opportunities for inspiration to keep moving forward. This profession isn’t easy and is highly competitive.

There is way too much complaining about the profession. If architecture has burned you and you can’t use that to take positive action, then maybe you should find another profession. No one wants to be around a person who is complaining all of the time.

Try to connect with the positivity in the profession and people doing great things and making changes within architecture. While we’re not perfect as a profession, only focusing on how terrible it is, without pairing it to positive action, isn’t helping us move forward.

The very last thing I’ll say about negativity is that every industry has its own problems. Nurses, lawyers, doctors, astronauts, golfers, scientists, firefighters, politicians, real estate agents and definitely teachers all have their fair shares of issues in their own industries. I recently listened to a physician tell me about all the trauma she went through in medical school. The grass isn’t greener. The Architects and the AIA aren’t special.

Via Klear

7. Please don’t let architecture ruin your health.

Pretty self-explanatory.

Did you know: Spending one hour each day exercising your body will have a significantly larger impact on your success as an architect than if you spent it sitting in front of that AutoCAD/Revit machine for another hour? You need to get your blood moving, eat REAL food and breathe every day. If your belly isn’t moving, you’re not breathing.

One hour a day isn’t a big commitment for your health and well-being. Unfortunately, your architecture career will do everything it can to try to prevent or rob you from taking this time. Your #1 job is to defend this time and take care of yourself first. Your life, career and everyone you take care of all depend on how well you can take care of yourself. I sound pretty dramatic, but this is the truth.

8. Screw around!

I am the King of Screwing Around. I have the five-year bachelor’s degree in architecture … and a Ph.D. in screwing around and jackassery.

If architecture didn’t give me permission to screw around, I would have ended this relationship many years ago. I don’t care what your Boss or Professor tells you … Design, project management and making money is mentally exhausting work. We’re humans, not architecture machines. So I’m going to screw around a little.

Screwing around is an important part of my creative process — If I didn’t screw around, I wouldn’t learn anything. By taking my mind off the problem to fool around, it helps me focus when it’s time to be serious. This is why I get more work done than everyone else. It’s because I laugh more, while everyone else is serious.

I wholeheartedly give you permission to screw around if it’s going to help you work hard, be focused and do better work. In fact, here are a few stupid blog posts I wrote to encourage your screwing around.

The Architect’s Postmodern Thanksgiving!

The ARE Book Reviews

Gifts and Toys For Architecture Students

Cheezy Architecture Videos

Thank You!

I want to give a shoutout to all of my good friends in the American Institute of Architecture Students. You know who you are. I see all of your conversations and everything you’re working on come across my social-media feeds. The rest of the profession has absolutely no idea how well-networked and supportive of each other you are. I am inspired and excited to watch your careers unfold.

Thank you for being great leaders, helping others and giving unconditionally to make the world a better place.

You all have the power to make massive change across the board. And you’re already doing it! We’ll get there by working hard and staying positive, committed and disciplined!!

Sincerely, your biggest cheerleader,

Michael Riscica AIA

Architects: Showcase your next project through Architizer and sign up for our inspirational newsletter.

The post 8 Demands for All Future Architects appeared first on Journal.

from Journal https://architizer.com/blog/practice/details/dear-future-young-architects-please-quit-screwing-around/ Originally published on ARCHITIZER RSS Feed: https://architizer.com/blog

[firefighterkingdom]

#3 Fire Fighters & PTSD: What Are The Signs & What Can Be Done For It

Well, Hello everybody. Welcome to another episode of FireFighter Kingdom. We’re on podcast, episode number three. My name is Vince Trujillo, I am the co host along with a professional firefighter and president of the New Mexico Professional Firefighters Association Mr. Robert Sanchez. Robert, how are you doing today?

Robert Sanchez: Good. Welcome all the audience on there from FireFighter Kingdom. We’re happy to have everybody here again, once again, trying to educate the firefighters out there, give them some new information.

Vince Trujillo: Yeah, and we have some really good information coming up today regarding mental health and firefighters. But quickly, before we go ahead and introduce our special guest for today’s topic, just a little bit more about Robert for those of you in the FireFighter Kingdom. Robert has been a proud member of the IAFF for over 19 years, and was the longest serving executive officer at the current Albuquerque Area Firefighters Local 244 Executive Board for the last 16 years. Robert has concurrently served as the president of New Mexico Professional Firefighters since 2019. Roberto, you’ve been with the organization for a long time and have done lots of things, man. Thank you so much for all you do.

Robert Sanchez: It’s my honor and privilege actually to be out there just helping firefighters. To be quite honest, firefighters, in the State of New Mexico, the men and women who are paramedic firefighters they’re the ones that make everything happen. And we’re just happy to be a tool for their resources and their success for sure.

Vince Trujillo: Well, as a member of the public, thanks for everything all of you do. So let’s get on with the podcast for today. We are really honored and privileged to welcome our mental health professional Dr. Troy Rodgers. A little bit about Dr. Rodgers.  Dr Rodgers is a police and criminal psychologist based in New Mexico. He has a master’s degree and a doctorate in clinical forensic psychology from the University of Denver. Dr. Rodgers has been the agency director for Public Safety Psychology Group LLC, PSPG, since 2004 and at the present time he works as a consultant psychologist for over 130 local state and federal law enforcement, fire, and correction agencies. Wow I think I got it all out. Doctor, thank you so much for coming on.

Robert Sanchez: Now that’s a whole other podcast I think just-

Dr. Troy Rodgers: I appreciate it.

Robert Sanchez: … the introduction for the doctor.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: I appreciate the time you took, and given the opportunity to talk about the brave folks who are serving New Mexico.

Vince Trujillo: Thank you both! Dr. Rodgers. A couple of things just for personally from my side of things. I was having a conversation with Robert a couple of weeks back in regards to some of the trauma and stressful situations that our firefighters run into.  And as we know from military service and trauma exposure is that these things can build up over time and can really affect our first responder and firefighters. And its something that we in the public maybe don’t think about as much. But the first people responding to a car accident, at home accidents, someone having an acute health crisis like a heart attack, even things like abuse, neglect, pretty much any number of different types of high intensity calls they may get on a consistent basis and have to deal with emotionally or mentally. And that’s why there are great people like Dr Rodgers who help them manage this. And that’s what we’re hoping to talk a little bit about more today. Talk about PTSD a little bit and then also talk about some of what you have to offer, and some recommendations for our firefighters out there. Robert,

Robert Sanchez: So great. So doctor, it’s been an honor working with you for the several years that you’ve been assisting firefighters. Obviously, you do a great job. On a consistent basis we use you, and we see a lot of successful results in our firefighters. And I want to thank you for that and I appreciate that. There’s times where I’ve called you at midnight, or one in the morning and ask you that you would assist us. Firefighters are seeing the public at their worst, and you come and assist and benefit our members tremendously. First thing I want to talk about is you hear about the exposures? You have the one incident exposure, and then you have the chronic exposure. Can you tell me what the difference to that is?

Dr. Troy Rodgers: One of the things that most folks don’t realize about public safety careers is that on a daily basis, folks are exposed to both ends of the spectrum when it comes to events. You’ll sit around and be bored for two, three, four hours, and then all of a sudden you’re dealing with a life and death situation. Or you’re seeing something that the general public is not exposed to, or they’re not aware of. Or they see it on TV, but they can turn the TV off. Public safety professionals aren’t allowed to do that. I often use the example that when you go through the Fire Academy you’re given a backpack. And that backpack you’re going to carry with you throughout your entire career. Every time you take one of those calls, one of those calls that’s difficult.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: That involves a child, that’s a death, that’s something along those lines. You throw a little rock in that backpack. First three, 400 rocks don’t weigh a whole lot. But when you get to three 4,000 rocks, that backpack weighs a ton. It has this cumulative effect. And that’s the buildup we talk about. A lot of folks can understand that one traumatic recall. But they don’t recognize that in addition to that one call, you’re carrying that backpack every day with that exposure that just continues, and is almost routine after four, five, six years of doing this.

Robert Sanchez: There’s one specific exposure that could cause you to have PTSD correct and be… So when you guys recommend someone they have PTSD, they’re diagnosed rather is a good word, and then there’s that one incident that could happen. Is there several exposure incidents that you might not know what’s affecting you and then it is.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: A lot of times folks will go through events, and they’ve learned how to compartmentalize, or to box it off, put it away and do their job. Folks are trained in a moment. “I’ve got to get things done. I’ve got to save people, I’ve got to help people.” So they may experience something, and not even realize that that experience was traumatic, or potentially traumatic, or contributed to potentially creating PTSD. And so they’ll go through two, three weeks, four weeks, and not realize that they haven’t been sleeping well, they haven’t been interacting well, they’re more irritable with family. So that event may have set the stage for another event to come, which compounds that makes it worse.

Robert Sanchez: So the more rocks in the backpack.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: More rocks in the backpack, and the more of those backpack, or more of those rocks that trigger that person. I always tell folks that stress is something that we all experience, but it becomes traumatic if it’s too personal. If it’s too similar to our own life, it’s too overwhelming and we can’t process it. So the more of those rocks you throw in, and the more the big rocks that come in, the more likely folks are to get PTSD.

Vince Trujillo: Doctor, just to interject real quick here, as far as the detecting is concerned, How do you detect it, and or how does the firefighter detect it, and what is the process in regards to treatment? How is it treated?

Dr. Troy Rodgers: How does it come around? A couple of things. One of the things I really emphasize when we talk with firefighters and first responders, many times, is that changes in behavior are a great indicator. If somebody was a very social person, and all of a sudden they’re isolating, they’re not talking with friends. If somebody was a happy person, and all of a sudden they’re irritable and angry. If somebody was slightly cynical, but now they hate everybody and they’re cynical in all their interactions. Those are all warning signs, and we encourage folks to talk with significant others, family, friends, spouse, so that they can give them that kind of feedback. Number one reason-

Vince Trujillo: I would guess that maybe it’s the people closest like family and friends that notice it more so they are the ones that sometimes raise concern first?

Dr. Troy Rodgers: Hundred percent. Yeah. Saying that the number one reason why we get first responders calling us for some sort of intervention, or some sort of counseling is because a family member’s usually said, “I’m concerned about you.” I always tell a story years back at an individual I worked with, and the first phone call I ever got was him. Was a voicemail and he left a voicemail saying, “Hey doc, my wife says I’m an asshole. I need to come see you.” And that’s all he said. We actually started talking about it we realized that it was stress, trauma, depression coming in that was leading to irritability at home.

Vince Trujillo: And then once detected and someone has raised their hand and said there is an issue and need help, what are the next steps?

Dr. Troy Rodgers: There are a lot of different treatments. There are different ways to address it. One of the first things is actually coming into the office, sitting down with either myself or another clinician who’s familiar with the culture, the background. And getting a feel for what is the source of the problem, how severe is it, how many rocks are in that backpack per se. So we can quantify it. And then there are a lot of different approaches. One could be just talk therapy coming in once a week for the next six weeks. There’s other trauma treatments called EMDR, which is a specific protocol which addresses trauma and reprogramming the way the memory sees that trauma. We do other things like activity based work. One of the first things I assigned to most of my clients is you got to start doing sports, or running, or CrossFit, or those sorts of things because that physiologically will help the body.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: Other things we start looking at is what are the habits. Has the person who’s experiencing some of this trauma develop bad coping habits like drinking alcohol. And alcohol in and of itself is not a problem. But when you’re drinking a fifth of vodka, and a six pack of beer to go to sleep at night, we got to talk about that. And I’ll get firefighters that say, “So is a half a fifth of vodka okay.” We can’t that but we got to have that discussion.

Robert Sanchez: So that’s how firefighters are they want to know an exact amount, so they can measure it out. Be precise.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: Right, exactly.

Vince Trujillo: Now how do you see treatments and going through the process helping?

Dr. Troy Rodgers: In terms of cure rate? It’s a tough one to answer that question, or to respond to that question. But let me give you a little bit of an answer that will help relate to your folks is. I always tell folks everything that they’re going to experience, those sort of things we can manage. We can deal with coming in to that first step. We just learn how to cope with it better, how to work through it, how to manage the symptoms. Now, is it going to go away a hundred percent? Probably not. Some of the hypervigilance that folks experience, which is that being hyper aware loud noises, triggering them, those things. We can’t unlearn some of that, but we learn to manage it. We learn to have outlets that deal with it. We learn to process it. And going back to our backpack analogy, we learn to empty the backpack so that it’s not so heavy.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: It doesn’t have that burden. I had a first responder call me about a month ago, and thank me because he had done some work with one of my staff. And during our conversation he said he had one regret and I said, “What was that regret?” And he said, “I regret I didn’t call you guys three years earlier because I wasted the last three years being miserable when I didn’t have to be.” So a lot of it’s just learning to get through it, and manage it so you can get to a better place.

Robert Sanchez: And leading into that doctor, I want to talk about I hate to say it, and just being a firefighter myself. And knowing several men and women in the fire service that we deal with on a daily basis. Sometimes we all have that macho attitude, like it’s going to happen to me where I’m not going to show my weakness, or I’m not going to be that so-called person that has the problem. So we have that stigma in the fire service. And what can you talk about overcoming the stigma, and having a stigma in the fire service? Today’s day seems like it eases up a little bit on it, but there’s still that stigma and how do we get over that?

Dr. Troy Rodgers: One of the hard parts with mental health related issues is that we can’t see them. And because we can’t see it, it’s not like a broken leg, or a broken arm, or something where we can say, “Oh, that’s a problem.” So a lot of times we like to dismiss it, we like to move beyond it. Folks are trained in their academies push through this get stronger, those sorts of things. So one of the first ways to get beyond that is to teach folks the difference between something hurting and something being injured. I’ve been a coach for 20 years, and one of the first things I teach kids is that something that hurts that we’re going to work through, or is that something that’s injured that we need to fix? And if we look at mental health the same way it becomes less stigmatizing. This is something we can address, we can deal with, we can get through and get you to a better place. Because one of the things that public safety folks do a lot of times is they have the rule of three is what I always describe it.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: I’ve got to have three ailments before I’ll go to the doctor. I can’t just have a broken leg and a cold. I have to have a broken leg, a cold, and I’ve got an arrow in my forehead. Now it’ll justify me paying the 20 bucks to go for the. We got to get to where folks are dealing with it proactively ahead of time, and not seeing it as weakness.

Vince Trujillo: Why is it that some Firefighters may see some real issues more quickly than others. I’m assuming that is normal and therefore something that shouldn’t be compared from one person to another in that way?

Dr. Troy Rodgers: There are a lot of factors that contribute. People respond differently to different stimulus based upon their life experience. How they grew up, what kind of skills they were trained as kids, how much resiliency they’ve developed. Their personality style. You’ll meet some folks that are real happy, go lucky. Nothing tends to bother them. Some things just roll off their shoulders, whereas some folks worry a lot. They were raised in a household where mom was always worried. They were always hyper aware of things, and they take on that characteristics. And so a lot of what we see in terms of how the job affects people is their life experience will guide how they deal with things. They may view them differently. It may change their perceptions. I make a joke because I’ve got a 16 year old son at home, and he learned very early in his life that very few things in life are crises.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: You’re not potentially going to die as a result. And so he’s becoming a little bit awake, cynical in his perception and those sorts of things. But he’ll come home and he’ll say, “Hey dad, people at school were all worried about this crap. Nobody’s going to die. It’s not that big of a deal.” So his resilience based on what we’ve taught him is going to help him in the future. So a lot of it comes back to, what people were trained, what skills they have from when they were growing up.

Robert Sanchez: And most firefighters as you know doctor they retire early. So what I’ve seen happen quite a few times. They can go, 19 or 20 years and not have an incident until on their 21st year. Or there can be firefighters that’s in their first year they’re having a incident, or six months in. I guess that’s beyond me that’s up for the doctors to deal with.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: A lot of it’s luck or bad luck, however you want to put it. I’ll deal with folks that within that first year they’ve got a major traumatic incident. And then another one two years later, and then another one three years later. So some of it is just the cards you’re dealt, and how that affects you. Some of it is your ability to then manage those cards. One of the things that we actually see a lot of is folks do a really good job for those 20 years managing all those rocks. And then when they retire, and they’ve got time to think and time to, basically, relive everything they went through. That’s when it actually hits them. We’ll see that right after firemen a whole lot.

Robert Sanchez: So it could possibly trigger even after you’re retired then.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: Right.

Robert Sanchez: That’s interesting.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: We actually see a pretty good amount of folks that do great their whole career, no major mental health stuff. And then three weeks after they retire, they’re in a pretty bad place because now they’ve got time. Now they’re bored. Now they’ve their identity in some way.

Robert Sanchez: We’re fortunate enough doctor as you know, I think a couple of years ago you helped testify in committees on our PTSD bill. So we’re lucky just not this session, but one before we were lucky to pass a House Bill 324 it’s now an Act. And we’re fortunate to do that. Can you explain? Knowing about that bill, again we talked about the chronic exposure and the one incident exposure. I know that before this bill took place and workman’s comp issues, if you had an exposure that you identified. And you reported it through the chain of command up to the workman’s comp level there’s treatment for it, and they’ll possibly pay for what they needed to pay for. Similar like breaking your ankle. So there was one time exposure, and it’s no different than a brain injury, or PTSD. But now we have the chronic exposure. Have you had any running’s with this bill and how we could change to the next legislature because I know there might be some issues.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: Well, the big issue that we’re running into in this particular bill right now is this idea of, okay, now we’re equating PTSD with a lot of these medical issues, which is great. That’s movement in the right direction. We’re de-stigmatizing it, we’re understanding it. We’re seeing it’s real. One of the problems that we’re running into though is we don’t really have a comparison early on in the process to say, “Okay, did the job contribute to this or not?” So we’re getting a lot of folks who are saying, “Okay, did you have this when you came in, or did this develop over time?” So that’s one of these kinks we’ve been trying to work out. Okay, do we start looking at it at higher, so that we have a measure to compare 15 years from now, and say this person has changed based upon that cumulative exposure. So that’s one of the first issues we’re going to have to wrinkle out at some point.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: And then I think we’re also going to have to look at not just PTSD, what other things eventually are we going to equate with that. Like depression that comes from this, or other types of anxiety. So I think this is the starting point for a lot of this.

Robert Sanchez: Well, and I’m glad you brought that up about, kind of like a starting to… I guess when firefighters or first responders, or actually apply for the job, they get hired they take these psychic examinations. Is there going to have to be some type of examination for PTSD? So it would help in the workman’s comp issue of the proving to say that they didn’t have it before they got hired. Would you even recommend that, or do you think the bill should be, we should change the legislature?

Dr. Troy Rodgers: I’ve had a number of chiefs come to me and say, what do we do with this and how do we do it? And I said, I’ve been fairly straightforward at this point I said, “If the bill stays the way it stays, then we’re going to have to go to this approach where we’re doing a pre hire testing, so you’ve got a baseline.” So if the bill stays that way that’s going to be my recommendation. If we adjust it to look at things differently then maybe we don’t require that. But at this point that’s going to be a tough one because where workman’s comp is going to come in is they’re going to say, “How do you determine if the job is what contributed to this?”

Robert Sanchez: Absolutely. And again, being fortunate enough to represent the New Mexico Professional Firefighters or advocacy in the legislature, I look forward to working with you in the next coming sessions to see if we can change it where it actually benefits firefighters. But not only does it benefit the firefighters, it benefits their families.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: Right.

Robert Sanchez: So thank you again for anything. Is there anything that you’d like to add? And again, it’s an honor with me working with you in the past years. And thank you for your constant giving back to firefighters, and it’s always a pleasure.

Vince Trujillo: Yeah, we have a few minutes left. What would you like to leave the firefighters with who are watching this right now doctor.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: A couple of simple things. Just one, thank you for what you do and what you do helps everybody because of the availability, that resource, that safety net for societies. That’s the first thing. Second thing that I want to leave with is just a reminder to the firefighters out there to take care of themselves. It’s very difficult to take care of other people when you’re not taking care of yourself, and so everything else will be compromised. Watch for those warning signs preemptively come in. I had a gentleman I worked with years back that used to call his sessions with me check-ins. He would call them, basically, he was maintaining his-

Robert Sanchez: Preventative maintenance.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: Preventative maintenance. He actually equated it to a car. One time he’d come in about three or four times, and he’d come in about every five or six months. And after the third one I asked him, I said, “Hey, why are we meeting every five or six months?” He looked at me and he goes, “You see my truck outside your window?” And I said, “Yeah, I see your truck and he goes, that truck is 25 years old. And it runs like the day I bought it.” And I said, “Okay, I’m not quite getting what you’re saying to me here.” “Well, you know why it runs like that.” And I said, “Why?” And he goes, “Because every six months I take it in. I get tires rotated, I get it checked, I get all this stuff.” He goes, “So doc, I see you as my maintenance.” And I said, “Well, as long as you don’t tell anybody I’m changing your oil we’re good.” And I said, “We’ll keep doing it every six months.” He did that for the rest of his career.

Robert Sanchez: Well, that’s good to know. One thing I want to leave here is firefighters we’re human too. Sometimes we don’t think we are. And I know sometimes the public don’t think we are, but we have to deal with life issues just like everybody else. And that includes PTSD, depression or whatever the case that the job might bring with it.

Vince Trujillo: Yeah. It certainly does bring things down to reality. Especially, for a layman like me in regards to my public perspective is concerned. We don’t realize that quite frankly, that we expect our firefighters and our first responders to be superheroes, which in my head they are. But we forget about that human element. So thank you as far as I’m concerned for what you do for our firefighters. We couldn’t exist without them, especially during these crazy times right now. So I want to thank you, Dr. Troy Rodgers for participating today. Thank you for volunteering to come and do this podcast for our five firefighters out there. Please keep up your good work, and you stay healthy too.

Dr. Troy Rodgers: Will try.

Vince Trujillo: Thank you so much. And then on behalf of the Firefighter Kingdom and our outstanding host, Mr. Robert Sanchez, we’re going to be singing off now. Thanks so much for listening and hope everyone got some great information on PTSD and how it affects our firefighters. If you’re listening and enjoyed this, please subscribe to the podcast on ITunes & give us a review there. It really helps get the message out more. And share it with someone you know who could use the help. Firefighters thank you so much for everything you do. Robert…

Robert Sanchez: Again, it’s always an honor to do what we can to assist firefighters. And just looking forward to these podcasts. I think they’re more information, more informational to the firefighters. And don’t forget to give feedback on what else you would like us to have on here and to benefit firefighters. And again, peace out Firefighter Kingdom. Until next time, we’ll see you.

The post #3 Fire Fighters & PTSD: What Are The Signs & What Can Be Done For It appeared first on FireFighter Kingdom.

from FireFighter Kingdom https://ift.tt/3cEPgkM

[courtneypcastro]

The Cone of Experience in a Week Capsule

There is not much to reflect on from the past lesson on the History of Technology Education. In summary, from writing on cave walls and stones to using Canvas and Crash Course videos to learn, instruction has evolved along with the evolution of time. There is a question in mind though, was it less effective before? I would say yes and no. Yes, because the works of men in ancient times like the Romans and the Greeks prevailed to this day. In some way, it was better before. Just look at the Colosseum!

Well, I would say no because it’s the technology that we have know that we discover more than there is that meets the eye. Of course, everything has been more convenient. However, just because it’s convenient doesn’t make it more effective.

For this entry, I want to focus on applying the Cone of Experience by Edgar Dale. Why choose this kind of entry? First, it’s super fun to do and second, I think this is why I wanted to be a teacher, because it’s actually super fun to do. So, if you’re not my professor and you’re a teacher who somehow managed to find my blog, I hope some of these ideas are something you would use.

Before I go on, I want to share something about the Cone of Experience.

I mean, tell me that isn’t satisfying to see. Or maybe it’s just me? Alright, maybe it’s just me. Here’s basically what you need to know about the Cone of Experience and all I’ll do from this point is apply it.

My chosen topic is People in the Community. Let’s pretend this is a real scenario:

At the Potter’s Hand School, the Hero Week is being celebrated. The school believes in the power of appreciation and service. This week is dedicated to every person that is part of the community: families, children, workers, leaders, etc. This year, the event focuses on the workers of the community: Teachers, Doctors, Leaders, Engineers, Journalists, etc. The theme will be ‘Your Dream is Everyone’s Dream’. This theme emphasizes that each person in the community is working for a better future for the coming generations. The dreams of children today are every person in the community’s dream. The following plan is the schedule of the week’s activity.

HERO WEEK: Your Dream is Everyone’s Dream

Day 1: INTRO DAY

In the morning, the students will stay in a classroom setting wherein the objective of the week is established. Permission slips for the upcoming field trip that will be happening in four days will also be given out. An overview of the week will be shown to the students and sent to the parents as well.

ACTIVITIES

This is not an activity, rather a classroom set-up. The toys are organized according to their uses. For example, blocks and Lego pieces are in a box with a symbol of architecture or engineering. Cooking materials are put under a culinary symbol. (Picture/Visual Symbols)

The theme song Everything is Awesome from the movie “Lego Movie” will be introduced to the children as an interactive activity. (Still Pictures, Recordings, and Radio)

Students will be given the freedom to group themselves into five (with the guideline of at least three girls and two boys or two girls and three boys to create diversity in one group). Rooms in the school will be set up as an environment of a profession. Each group will go around the school entering each room. In each room, there will be a demonstration and hands on activities. For Example, in the Medics Room, first aid kit (cleaning a wound) will be demonstrated and practiced by the students on manipulative. (Demonstration and Direct-Purposeful Experience)

DAY 2: EXHIBIT DAY

The second day is the least interactive as it focuses more on acquisition through listening and seeing. You can also call the “Info Day” as the set activities really focus on a classroom setting lecture. 

ACTIVITIES

In a classroom, a lecture on Heroes of our Community will be held by the teacher. This activity may be or may not be interactive depending on the teacher. Listen attentively, ask questions, and respond to questions are learning outcomes for this lecture. The teacher then will be preparing the students for the exhibit. (Text/Verbal Symbols)

An exhibit will be held within the school which showcases the different outfits, tools, and nature of a profession. With the use of costumes on mannequins and props, an informative exhibit will be ready for the children to enjoy. This may be interactive by preparing costumes and props that the children might try on. Some professionals may also be present to reach out to the children and inform them of their duty. (Exhibit)

DAY 3: GAME DAY

Children love active play. The third day is the perfect way to drain the children and at the same time prepare them for the coming days. It will be an intramural type of day. The students will be divided equally in diverse groups. They may be the same group as Day one. The following activities may be too much or may not be enough for a day. They are mere suggestions and examples

ACTIVITIES

Paint Me A Picture: The children will be given a scenario related to a profession in the community. They are to portray this scenario that they can hold in place as the judges takes a look at each one. Some examples of scenarios may be woman giving birth, a firefighter at work, archaeologists find something strange in a pyramid, etc.

Build-A-Thon: This relay game is carpentry themed. Each team will be racing to build the strongest and tallest tower of blocks. To do this, each person shall put on a vest and a hard hat and place a block. He/she will shake the next person’s hand to repeat the same step. The team can coach each other on how they will be placing the blocks. The strength and height of each tower will be measured after the game. 

Catch The Criminal: This game is a tag game with a twist. The goal is to be the fastest team. For every round, each team is assigned as the Police. Under a time limit, they must catch everyone else (criminals) by tagging them. The fastest team to catch all the criminals wins. 

Sports Fest: This is not just one game but an intramural in an intramural. The Sports Fest consist of a smaller scale of sports competitions (3 on 3 team sports). Some of these sports are basketball and soccer.

Dodge Ball

Minute-To-Win-It Relay Games

(Contrived Experience)

DAY 4: FIELD TRIP DAY

A TRIP TO KIDZANIA!! WOOHOO!! (https://manila.kidzania.com/en-ph)

DAY 5: SHOWCASE DAY

To end this celebration week, the children will be given the time to voice out their dreams, appreciate other children’s dreams, and applaud those who help them reach their dreams. The students are to wear costumes on this day.

ACTIVITIES

The showcase will feature all of the students as they share their dreams. This may be as simple as “Hi, my name is... When I grow up, I want to be a..., because...” Professionals are also invited to come to this showcase as an encouragement for the children. (Dramatic Experience)

What’s a better way to end a tiring week than just sitting down, watching a movie with a cold drink. That’s just the last activity for the week’s celebration: A Movie Showing. The movie I chose is The Lego Movie because one, the theme song is perfect for the week’s theme, and two, the movie is about a community’s togetherness and solving the problem. (Motion Picture)’

Well, that’s all for now. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed making it. Of course, I hope you’ll have fun executing these activities (if you wish to). So yeah, that’s the Cone of Experience, Preschool Edition!

[toldnews-blog]

New Post has been published on https://toldnews.com/world/is-our-growing-obsession-with-true-crime-a-problem/

Is our growing obsession with true crime a problem?

Image caption Shows like Making a Murderer have given criminal cases worldwide attention

From series like Making a Murderer to podcasts like Serial – true crime seems to be everywhere these last few years.

I put my hands up and admit it – I’m an addict.

For reasons even I don’t understand, crime documentaries have become my default way to unwind.

If I have friends over, I might make an embarrassed joke about my streaming suggestions – but the evidence suggests I’m not alone.

The genre’s growth is inescapable. Almost every week there seems to be a new documentary released and not without controversy.

Some warn we risk glamorising notorious killers and erasing their victims with the coverage. Others have accused programme makers of being selective with evidence.

So is our fascination with true crime problematic? I spoke to victims and the communities directly affected to try and find out.

The survivor

Kathy Kleiner was only 20 years old when she was attacked by Ted Bundy.

He beat her in bed with a piece of wood in the Chi Omega house at Florida State University in 1978.

Before entering her room, Bundy had murdered two of her sorority sisters as they slept.

Image copyright Kathy Kleiner

Image caption Kathy with her son Michael (left) and husband (right)

Kathy was left with a shattered jaw and severe facial injuries. Her mouth had to be wired shut, forcing her to leave college.

Now 61, Kathy says she hadn’t spoken about the experience much until US media recently tracked her down.

This year marks 30 years since Ted Bundy’s execution. You can probably tell because the serial killer seems to be everywhere in 2019.

In February it was reported that Netflix had paid millions to secure US rights to a new movie starring heartthrob actor Zac Efron as Bundy.

The announcement came as the trailer caused uproar online, with some accusing it of sexualising the killer.

Netflix, who had also just released a series focusing on interviews with Bundy, even weighed in on social media.

I ask Kathy, as one of a handful of survivors, what it was like to be continually reminded of Bundy in popular culture.

“I did not ask to be put on the journey with him in his life – with his killing and his abuse,” she says in a phone interview from New Orleans, where she now lives.

Image copyright Sky Cinema

Image caption Efron’s portrayal of Bundy won praise when it debuted at Sundance Festival

But for her, knowledge has meant power.

“I read every book and saw everything I could read and see about him,” she says, while acknowledging others may have coped differently.

Efron has adopted Bundy’s curls and signature smile for the role – and bears an uncanny resemblance to the killer.

“When Hollywood makes a movie they want it to sell, they want people to see it,” Kathy says about his slick portrayal.

“Bundy showed them what he wanted them to see – he was always in control… Zac Efron – he’s playing a part – he’s an actor. He’s doing this the way he was, the way they perceived Bundy.”

You can hear more on this story on the Beyond Today podcast on the BBC Sounds app or online on the podcast’s website from 16:00 GMT on 1 April.

Kathy says she attempted to contact the studio when she heard about the production, but assumes the email was lost among general enquiries.

She admits that she can’t imagine watching as a relative of one of the 30 women and girls he is known to have killed.

Image copyright Getty Images

Image caption Kathy went on to testify against Bundy at trial

“To me they’re the heroes during this, having to endure this publicity,” she says.

She hopes the movie reflects the victims more than the trailer alludes.

“I don’t know how far they dive into the victims,” Kathy says. “So without seeing it and if they don’t do the victims right – then maybe I’ll be pissed.”

The community

Wisconsin has the unenviable reputation of being home to some of America’s most notorious ever crimes.

Manitowoc County sits on the state’s eastern shore. It houses 80,000 residents but is famous around the world for just one – Steven Avery.

Image caption A mural welcomes visitors and celebrates the city’s heritage

Image caption Manitowoc borders Lake Michigan and is a hub for manufacturing

A Netflix series charting Avery’s wrongful conviction on sexual assault charges and re-incarceration for murder became a sensation on its December 2015 debut.

Hundreds of thousands of people have since signed petitions demanding his and his nephew’s acquittal. A second series has already been released and legal appeals are ongoing.

I travel to Manitowoc at the start of March, when a hangover from an unusually cold winter means snow is still deep on the ground.

Before travelling I try to reach out to local officials – but there seems to be an understandable reluctance to speak to yet another journalist coming to town.

The international spotlight has brought uncomfortable attention to the county and its city namesake.

Now, tourists drive over to the Avery family’s Salvage Yard to take selfies. A firefighter tells me the local police have been forced to moderate Facebook comments because of abuse. I’m told threats have forced other officials off social media altogether.

Image copyright CALUMET COUNTY/SUPPLIED

Image caption The entrance to Steven Avery’s property has become an attraction for visitors

One Manitowoc resident determined not to stay silent is Jason Prigge.

As a businessman working around the country, he says the final straw came when a client introduced himself and asked: “Well, did he do it?” in reference to Avery.

Since then, he and his wife Tina have made it their mission to change the outside world’s perspective of Manitowoc. They set up an online web series, The Coolest Coast, to showcase positive aspects of the community like local businesses.

Tina describes the Avery case as a “freak anomaly” and like others I spoke to, points out the Avery property is actually miles outside the city of Manitowoc.

“Reporters come in or somebody from Hollywood comes in to make a show and they get to leave without delving in and really learning who this community is or what it has to offer,” Tina says. “To them it’s just a name, it’s just a story.”

“Imagine if you have a bunch of TV crews park outside of your house and they look at your house and they judge you because of one cracked window,” Jason says about the negative attention.

“They never talk to people that live in the house, but they just look at the house from the outside.”

Image caption Tina and Jason come from a background in civil service and marketing

Image caption The city has seen reporters come from around the world

The couple show me around the area, keen to show it off.

In the cold weather, much of the river is still frozen and has a sparkly glaze. The city’s skyline is dominated by industry and a historic courthouse I recognise from the show, but is otherwise full of quaint local businesses like coffee shops and boutiques. It’s a postcard image I didn’t expect.

They urge people like me not to judge the county and all of its residents from the documentary.

“The cameras and reporters leave but what they’ve left here is a stain which we’re trying to scrub,” Jason says of the lasting damage.

The business

Eighty miles south of Manitowoc is Milwaukee – a city known best for its beer and baseball.

But it is also a destination high on the list for America’s biggest true crime fanatics.

The Cream City Cannibal tour takes visitors around Walker’s Point – the area where serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer lured some of his victims from gay bars.

Its website boasts the tour is “so gruesome that it was banned from Groupon twice”.

Image caption The tour’s owner insists nothing could change his mind about his business

When it launched, local media covered a protest by victim’s families. Critics said it was too soon because the crimes were still in living memory for many.

The tour leaves from Shakers – a bar in the centre of the old gay district. Once owned by the Capone family as a speakeasy and brothel, the location has a dark history of its own.

Current boss Robert Weiss bought it in the 1980s and runs a number of ghost tours from the venue. He says he got the idea for a Dahmer tour when people he met travelling made reference to the killer after he introduced himself as a Milwaukee-native.

Bob also knew the crime well because local police frequented the bar and Dahmer even visited himself.

“I served him drinks for five or six months as he periodically came in,” Bob tells me.

Image copyright Getty Images

Image caption Dahmer was arrested in 1991 and was murdered in prison three years later

About 12 people take the tour on the Saturday night I attend. The weather is freezing cold and it rains and snows throughout.

Those attending are mostly true crime super-fans, but also include a family and a couple celebrating their anniversary.

Our guide talks us through the serial killer’s upbringing, alcoholism and journey towards violence.

Dahmer, who admitted killing 17 boys and men, is considered one of the most heinous criminals in US history.

His murders and cannibalism are described in grisly detail by our guide, who points out infamous locations along our walk.

Image caption Organisers says some family members of victims have been on the tour

The information is disturbing, but not worse than what you may hear on any Dahmer documentary.

Bob insists the tour has historical and educational value, but I notice his bar also sells T-shirts, which feels at odds with that.

“Of the thousands of shirts that we have sold with that likeness on, have we had anyone complain? We have not,” Bob says.

He rejects the assertion they are incendiary, and insists they only started making them because of unprecedented customer demand.

“I think if you are talking about things that are in poor taste, there’s any number of other things that would go above and behind what the shirt is,” he says, pointing to people who buy morbid artefacts like Charles Manson’s artwork.

He also says that he rejected other bad-taste merchandise options, like cannibal-themed food.

Image caption Their “Milwaukee Cannibal” shirt also has “Dahmer 17” on the back

Those attending the tour reject the assertion that it’s in bad taste or comes too soon.

“I’ve always grown up knowing about it,” says one tour-goer named Alex who is in his 20s. “I think it’s just part of our history and rather than hide it and keep it in the background, I think it’s important for people to know about it so they can try and avoid it in the future.”

Another, Melissa from Illinois, had already been on the tour before.

“I don’t think it’s disrespectful to the families,” she says. “I think it’s more of a way of remembering the victims instead of them being forgotten.”

She, like me, admits watching a lot of true crime. She believes the addictive nature of streaming services is behind the boom in their popularity.

The experts

Deborah Allen has seen a “huge jump” in audience interest over the last few years.

She is vice-president of programming at Jupiter Entertainment – one of the biggest producers of true crime television in the US.

The company started making murder shows back in 1998, despite initial hesitancy from TV channels.

“It used to be that the networks saw true crime shows as their dirty little secret,” she says.

Image copyright Jupiter Entertainment

Image caption Jupiter Entertainment’s shows include titles like Snapped – which has had 24 series

In the last decade a number of dedicated 24-hour crime channels have sprung up in the UK and US.

High-budget series may have gone mainstream but there is still a mass of other content made to fill these network schedules too.

The demand means Jupiter now makes about 200 hours of crime shows a year – fuelled by researchers who comb through news stories from around the country.

Deborah says they only cover cases that have been resolved in court, and thinks many viewers take comfort in seeing justice served.

She also says their company listens to victims’ families if they object to a case being covered.

But the recent public distress from the mother of James Bulger about a film made about her son’s murder shows the family’s view does not always prevail.

How controversial James Bulger film was made

Serial’s Adnan Syed loses retrial bid

It’s a similar story behind other popular shows too.

The McCann family did not contribute to a new series about their daughter’s disappearance and Theresa Halbach’s family have never taken part in Making a Murderer.

The loved ones of 1999 murder victim Hae Min Lee said the attention from Serial “reopened old wounds” for their family. Despite this, HBO have adapted that case into a new documentary series – The Case Against Adnan Syed – which follows on from where the record-breaking podcast took off.

Serial, like many other popular true crime series, focuses on casting doubt on a conviction.

This format has an obvious draw for any audience – allowing them to play detective for themselves.

Some programme makers, including from HBO’s The Jinx, have even uncovered new evidence that prosecutors say have helped with cases.

Image copyright Reuters

Image caption The Case Against Adnan Syed started in March on HBO

True crime’s growing popularity means big business in other areas too. There’s now young YouTube influencers covering stories and in the UK, a new glossy monthly crime magazine was recently announced.

In the US, thousands attend CrimeCon every year – an event where fans pay hundreds to see experts and presenters from their favourite series.

A reporter from the New York Post pointed out most of last year’s attendees were female – and Bob in Milwaukee has found the same with his Dahmer tour. He describes his average customer as college-educated women aged 25-37.

So why is it that we are so intrigued – is it pure morbid curiosity?

British psychologist Emma Kenny, who regularly features agrees that we have a natural tendency to be voyeurs and be attracted to darker things.

This, of course, is nothing new and can be seen throughout human history.

Image copyright Getty Images

Image caption Historical cases, like Jack the Ripper, have long-captured public fascination

She points to crime’s prevalence in other forms of entertainment too – including the dramas we watch and the books we read.

Emma says that watching crime shows can trigger chemical reactions in our bodies while we watch, while also affirming our moral views about right and wrong.

She says an interest in the genre is nothing bad but warns people, including myself, about watching too much.

“I think that for anybody who’s watching this kind of stuff you really need to know why you’re watching it, I think. Because you don’t want to desensitize yourself too much,” she tells me.

“Life is best spent around good people doing good things, exposing yourself to the best things in the world that you can expose yourself to… we should never be desensitized to the horror.”

All photographs copyright

[vorthosjay]

You don't need to answer if you don't want to but what caused you to change from being a dumb conservative kid?

Sorry for this turning into such a political saturday, people. This is a way more complicated question than I think you suspect, Anon. I could probably write an essay about it, but I’ll try to keep this brief. This is in no way magic-related (except that I picked the game back up again around 2008 while my mind was changing).

My immediate family are all republicans. I went to catholic school for four years (although I had stopped being a believer at a young age). I was a volunteer firefighter from when I was 16-years-old, and I was a Law Enforcement explorer before that (both of which lean conservative). So, before College a lot of my role models and almost everything I heard about politics and morality was through that lens. Plus, I didn’t know the difference between arrogance and confidence yet, and I was a little asshole because of it.

There’s really no one factor that changed my mind, it was a lot of things over maybe five or six years from my late teens to my early 20′s. I had a really diverse group of friends growing up, so when things in conservative circles started shifting anti-muslim after 2001 I wasn’t having any of it. Working Private EMS in Inner City Baltimore at the same time as I took a politics of poverty course really illustrated how overly simplistic a lot of my views were (even this is oversimplifying it). I’m still ashamed of myself when a friend from high school transitioned and I wasn’t immediately supportive of her. My wife was probably the biggest influence, because we argued politics all the time throughout college.

More than anything though, it was my own education and the political shifts to ‘grassroots’ (theocratic hypocritical) conservatism that exposed the glaring flaws in the republican party for me. I had been raised to believe the party represented something that it was clear they were not. I didn’t want this to be long, but even this explanation is incredibly short and simplistic.

[sammitch15]

Way Down We Go (Part one)

Author: Void_Swearwolf

Rating: NSFW

Pairing: Deputy Jordan Parrish / Reader

Word Count: 4,503

Warnings: Oral (male to female), spanking, no more I think?

A/N: So I’m visiting family in the midwest, more specifically Iowa. Everybody here is super nice and me being from Colorado, where everyone is generally a douche-wad, I am having some serious rage issues. Like really, I dropped my wallet and some lady tapped me and the shoulder said “ You-who. Hi, there. I think you dropped this.” gave me my wallet and walked off. Didn’t take my money, go through it, or just take it in general. Now, this may sound like common courtesy to you, but it personally offended part of me that this lady was so nice to me. So, I get to be here for four weeks, and I’m only seven days in. I decided that writing some rage fucking was in order. Sorry, if this author's note was too long but if you read that whole thing, congrats. You are my target audience and my favorite reader.

P.S: Ryan Kelley is amazing and the best.

(Y/B/F/N) = Your Best Friends Name

(Y/O/F) = Your Other Friend

(Y/L/N) = Your Last Name

I adjusted my hair in the mirror for the millionth time. I didn’t want to go out after the breakup with my boyfriend of two years, Luke, but when my friends found out they insisted. I’d been able to hold them off for a week but there were only so many excuses I could give, so here I was going out a week after my breakup. I pulled my royal blue bandage dress as far down as it would go but it was still too short. My phone buzzed against the counter and it was a text from my best friend.

(Y/B/F/N): Sitting outside in the cab get out here bitch so we can party!!!

I laughed slightly at the text because I know (Y/B/F/N) had been pregaming hard already. I picked up my small men’s wallet and stuffed it in my boobs along with my phone. I put on a pair of heels I’d dug out from the back of my closet and headed out of my apartment. I found (Y/B/F/N) and (Y/O/F) in the cab and they were already pretty plastered. I slid in next to them and they drunkenly talked to me the whole ride about how I needed to go get plastered and have anonymous sex so I could forget about my heartbreak. I was already regretting the ride but they’d begged me to go out so I was. We got to the club and stood in line for a few minutes before we were let inside. We shuffled over to the bar and (Y/B/F/N) ordered a round of vodka shots. (Y/B/F/N) and (Y/O/F) tossed theirs down and I threw mine over my shoulder. I was hoping to get through the night with a minimal hangover. We danced and between every song my friends ushered me back to the bar to get more drinks. I didn’t take any of the shots, the only drink I took was something called “ The Purple People Eater “ and that’s because it was 9 parts sugar and one part booze. I sat down and checked the time on my watch. I’d only been here 45 minutes and my feet ached from these stupid heels. I rested my head on the bar wishing it would all be over.

“ (Y/N)?” I rolled my eyes and sat up to face my ex, “ What a surprise to see you here. I didn’t think you were the kind of girl to drown out your sorrows to a bartender. But you’ll always shock me.” He was blonde and ruggedly handsome and cocky as all hell. It made me seethe on the inside. I just wanted to break my drink glass and stab the shards into his perfect ocean blue eyes. I settled with my comeback.

“ Well, you know. You cheated on me with your ex-girlfriend and your new girlfriend, and you’re new-new girlfriend. So, I really don’t have much lower to go, but you’ve set the bar for me.” He scoffed at my comment. 

“ Well, maybe you should come home with me and be my new-new-new girlfriend. Make it like old times.” Now it was my turn to scoff at his comment.

“  As if.” I turned my bar stool trying to ignore him. He forcibly turned it back around and made me look at him.

“ That’s fine. I’ll just go home to my other three girlfriends. Just know that you’re never going to find someone like me.” I stood up to be right in front of him. Even in heels, I was nothing to his massive figure. 

“ That’s kind of the idea. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m leaving.” I started to walk around him but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back, “ Let go of me.” He looked down into my eyes. Somebody brushed up close to me and whispered into my ear.

“ Just go with it. Don’t worry.” 

I felt a man wrap his arm around my waist and Luke dropped my wrist. I looked over to a see a man with brown hair and green eyes. He was just barely taller than me in heels.

“ Are you okay honey?” I looked at him in shock and disbelief. It must have taken me five minutes to process what he’d said.

“ Y- yeah. I guess. I was just getting harassed by that ex I told you about.” The man looked at me inquisitively and then turned his attention to Luke. Luke looked at him like he was a bug on his shoe.

“ Who the fuck are you?” The brown-haired man looked up at the blonde and was shockingly polite.

“ I’m her new boyfriend. Now, if you could please leave me and my girlfriend alone, we were having a good time.” Luke looked offended by the comment and shuffled his feet around like a child in time out.

“ Whatever, she’s a skank anyway.” He walked away and I wanted to jump around and do a happy dance. I turned to the guy and hugged him as tightly as I could. My words ended up muffled by his shoulder.

“ I don’t know who you are but I owe you my life.” I pulled away and looked at the guy who had a sweet smile on his face.

“ Well, I am the guy you threw you vodka shot on when you put it over your shoulder about an hour ago, but you can call me Jordan.” I was mortified and I hid my face in my hands.

“ My name is (Y/N). I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just didn’t want to come here and really didn’t want to drink so I thought the classic toss over the shoulder would get me through, I didn’t think about the person standing behind me. Are you okay?” He laughed at my comment.

“ Yeah, I’m fine. Nothing some men’s room paper towels couldn’t fix. Do you want to leave here? I know this great little restaurant to get gyros at.” I was so happy to accept his offer.

“ God yes. Get me out of this club before I lose my mind.” Jordan took my hand and led me through the doors of the club and to his car. 

We climbed in and he started driving to the old town district. I took my phone out of my bra and texted (Y/B/F/N) to let her know that I had left and not to wait up for me. I put the phone away and looked over to study the features of the man who had saved me. He was definitely gorgeous. The leather jacket was snug against his arms, his T-shirt was tight and I could tell he worked out, his khakis didn’t leave much to the imagination either. He looked over and caught me staring at him. 

“ Is there something I can help you with?” I giggled and laid back into my seat.

“ Not really. I was just wondering why you saved me?” he looked back to me and then towards the road.

“ I could tell you were in trouble and needed help, so I helped out.”

“ Yeah, but why? Are you just a nice guy or are you helpful for a living?” He laughed at my questions.

“ I guess you could say I do both.” He gave me a grin and wiggled his eyebrows mysteriously. 

“ Ooooh. I’m always up for a good game. Let’s see Education, healthcare, charity, public safety...” His head tilted when I said public safety, “ Alright, you’re in public safety. That means you’re either an EMT, firefighter or police officer. You don’t have the tan that a firefighter normally has, when you asked if I was hurt you didn’t ask any specific follow-ups like an EMT normally does, but you do walk with your arms out as if there’s a gun belt at your hips so I’m going to say you are a police officer in some way.” He pulled into a parking spot and clapped his hands together.

“ Good job. I’m a deputy for the Beacon Hills Sheriffs Department. Those are some really good deduction skills. I’m gonna guess that cops run somewhere in the family?” We got out of the car and I nodded towards him. 

“ Good guess. My step-dad is a police officer and has been for the last 34 years.” We walked into a little small-town café and the man behind the counter instantly shouted when we came in the door. The man was short and had white hair, he also spoke in a really thick greek accent.

“ PARRRISSHHHH. How are you, my friend? Who is this lovely woman you have brought with you tonight?” Jordan walked up to the counter and talked to the man as if he had known him his whole life.

“ I’m good, and this lovely woman is (Y/N). We both came here because we know this is where the best gyros in town are served.” The elderly man laughed and turned towards the grill.

“ TWO GYROS COMING UP!!!” We walked over to one of the booths and sat down. Oru food came out shortly and the gyros were truly the best I’d ever had.

“ Well I know that your name is Jordan Parrish, you’re a sheriff's deputy, and you like to eat gyros. But you know nothing about me other than my name and my ex is a dick.” He laughed and wiped tzatziki from the corner of his mouth.

“ I suppose that is true. So, who are you (Y/N)?”

“ My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N), I work at a gun shop, I’m 22 years old, I briefly played bass guitar, and I like pistachio pudding.” he almost spit out his food but instead chose to swallow quickly and choke on it. When he recovered he laughed at the bio that I’d given him.

“ Well, that’s some interesting information that I didn’t know I needed. I guess I’ve always been more of jello person than pudding. I like the way that it jiggles.” We finished our food but still sat there and talked. 

“ I guess you raise that point, but I never had the patience to wait for the jello to set I like pudding because it’s ready in less than 5 minutes, no wait.”

“ So you like fast paced things.” His eyes got darker and if I wasn’t mistaken he was trying to flirt with me. 

“ I guess you could say that, never been one to wait around too long for anything.” He gave me a smirk. I slipped my heel off under the table and rubbed his leg with my foot as I looked him in the eyes.

“ Are you trying to seduce me?” I leaned into him to whisper in his ear.

“ That depends on if you are going to make me wait any longer?

He got up from the booth and took my hand and to help me out. I slipped my heel back on as he paid for the dinner.

“ Come back again soon Parrish and lovely young lady.” I smiled at the greek man as Jordan led me out by my wrist. 

He opened my car door for me and quickly rounded the car to get into his side. He started the car up and sped off to somewhere. He moved his right hand over to sit on my bare thigh. His thumb traced little swirls around my exposed skin. We quickly turned right into a parking lot next to an apartment building. Jordan parked quickly and ran out of his car. I got out and he quickly walked over and scooped me up, throwing me over his shoulder. 

“ Oh my god, Jordan!” I could hear a small chuckle and he probably had a huge smirk across his face. 

He carried me up some stairs and jingled some keys around before we entered into his apartment. He closed the door and continued to carry me around. His apartment looked good from what view of it I could see.We walked across the apartment and over to an open door. I was then gently flopped onto a bed. I looked up to see a man with a very lustful look in his eyes. He took off his jacket and his T-shirt giving me a very good view of his sculpted torso. His pants were next but he left his boxers on. He dove down onto the bed and hovered over me. I leaned up and attached his lips to mine and the kiss was amazing. Excited and relaxed and rushed and sensually slow all at the same time. I didn’t even notice his hands had moved my dress almost all the way up my body until he broke the kiss to take it completely off me. I hadn’t actually planned on having sex that night so I was in a plain nude bra and some pink boy short underwear with unicorns on them. He stood up at the end of the bed and stared at me in my underwear. 

“ Sorry, I hadn’t really planned on having sex tonight. It’s not exactly lingerie.” He looked down to me hungrily.

“ Not what I was looking at. I was just thinking damn you’re gorgeous.” I blushed super hard and laid my head back against the pillow laughing.

“ Damn that was super smooth.” I got a grin in response and dropped to his knees at the end of the bed. 

I felt him remove my heels and grip my ankles tightly in his hands. He dragged me and one of the pillows down to the edge of the bed. I could feel the heat of his breath on my inner thigh as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband into my unicorn panties and pulled them down. He quickly slipped his index finger into my slick folds and teased at me. I moaned loudly and tried my hardest to suppress anymore from coming out. 

“ It’s okay sweetheart, moan as loud as you want. In fact, the louder you scream my name the harder and faster I’ll go. You better not be quiet.” I bit my lip at the thought. He took a long slow lick up my whole moist core. I shuttered and moaned loudly. I wrapped my fists into the blanket of the bed. He kitten licked at my clit and slowly inserted his index finger into me and curled it. I yelled and screamed his name as he inserted a second finger and started working faster. He switched from licking to sucking and my clit and had me a moaning puddle of a woman. I had massive knot building in my stomach and I knew I was close to peaking. I was breathless and barely able to make a coherent sentence.

“ Jordan, I’m gonna...” Just as I was speaking he bit down slightly on my nub and sent me over the edge screaming as I went. 

He withdrew his face and looked up at me with that grin on his face. He crawled back onto the bed with me. He locked his lips to mine and we worked our way back up the bed so I wasn’t hanging part of the way off anymore. He ground his hips into mine and I could feel how hard he was. He reached over into the nightstand and grabbed a condom out. He tore out of his boxers and quickly rolled the condom on. He joined his mouth to mine and I felt his hands reach around my back to take off my bra. Something about her wallet I felt the straps loosen around my shoulder and he took it off gently. It was thrown over his shoulder and discarded. He positioned himself at my entrance and pushed himself into me, he was considerably bigger than my previous boyfriend and I definitely felt the effects from it. He swallowed most of my moans with his embrace on my lips. He took his mouth from mine and started to move his hips against me. My eyes rolled back in my head and I had my hands fisted into the blankets again. I was moaning and cussing like I’d lost my mind. He picked up in pace and I was barely holding on. Jordan lowered his head and kissed his way down my neck and collarbone until his head was resting in the middle of my breasts. His lips drew their way to the nipple of my right boob. He swirled his tongue around the nipple made it stiffen. When he was satisfied with his work he moved to the left boob and continued the act. His hips continued to thrust at a maddening pace and I was right about to fall over the edge. 

“ I’m so close I’m about to cum,” I spoke softly because my throat was sore from screaming. He quickened his pace and was drawing completely out before slamming back into me. The familiar feeling of ecstasy washed over me and I let another string of cuss words rip from my mouth. He slowed his pace and waited until my high faded away before he pulled out. He kissed me again and massaged my body with his hands. He pulled away and looked at me with his big green eyes.

“ Ready for round 3?” I rolled my eyes and looked at him in disbelief.

“ Who are you? The energizer bunny?” He smiled and kissed my cheek.

“Nah. I’m just really enthusiastic. This time I want you to stay as quiet as you can. No sound at all.” I grinned back at him and waited for him to make his next move. His hands grabbed my waist and flipped me over onto my stomach, then dragged my hips back until my butt was in the air. I grabbed the pillow and brought it closer to me. He positioned himself at my entrance and drove himself into me at a maddeningly slow pace. I bit my lip and tried to stay quiet like he had told me to be. He didn’t pick up the pace he just went maddeningly slow making my body crave more movement, all the way out slowly and back in just as slow. 

“ Jordan, please, just give me something more. I need or I’m gonna go crazy.” He leaned down close to me and whispered into my ear.

“ That’s the point.” He put his hand around my waist and teased at my clit with his middle finger, still going slow. 

I moved my hips around to see if I could get any more friction but he used his other hand to still them so I couldn’t move. I placed my face into the pillow and tried to mute a moan that I couldn’t control. I felt his hand move from my hip and to my ass. He rubbed it for a moment before giving it a quick slap. Not hard enough to hurt but enough to make it pleasurable. I could taste a tiny bit of blood from biting my lip so hard. He picked up his pace a little bit and I could feel the cries of pleasure in my throat begging to come out but I was keeping as quiet as I could. His fingers pinched my clit and a tiny scream came out. He gave a small clap across my other ass cheek. I heard a tiny chuckle come from him and he knelt back down to my ear. 

“ I think we’ve kept this tease up long enough. I can tell you are right at the edge of insanity. Do you want me to stop this?” I nodded my head up and down furiously.

“ Yes.” 

“ I can’t hear you. You’re going to have to speak louder.” 

“ Yes! Please go faster I can’t take it anymore!” He gave a quick kiss to my neck before leaning back up.

“ That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He went from maddeningly slow to furiously fast and I couldn’t handle the transition. I climaxed again but he didn’t stop and kept his pace all the way through my high. My whole body felt as if it were a fire and everything was sensitive. He played with my clit faster and had me quickly approaching again. He touched his tongue to my spine and licked all the way up it placing a kiss at the base of my neck. 

“ I want you to scream as loud as you can. I want the whole neighborhood to know what I’m doing to you.” I followed command and let all the moans that I’d been suppressing crawl their way from my throat. 

That was just enough relief to make me come unraveled one last time. His thrusts became sloppier and he filled the condom with his hot fluid. He crawled out from behind me and tossed the condom in the bin next to his bed. I collapsed and my whole mind was fogged by the euphoric feeling he’d given me. Jordan grabbed the covers and covered both of us up. I felt him press his back to mine and an arm snake around my waist pulling me closer to him. 

When I woke up his presence was gone but the sun was just rising. I looked around for my clothes and found my panties on the floor. I looked around for my bra but it was stuck on the ceiling fan and I was too short to reach it. I found his T-shirt and threw that over me for some general covering. I walked out of the bedroom and found him in the kitchen with his full police uniform on and he was making coffee. 

“ Damn those pants look good on you. Nice and tight.” He turned to me and gave a big grin. 

“ I was wondering when you were going to wake up. How do you feel?” He made a cup of coffee and handed it to me. I gladly accepted and took a big sip from the mug. 

“ Honestly, I feel a little sore. That was definitely a night I won’t forget.” He grinned and stood up from his leaning position against the counter. 

“ Well, that’s good. If you want to get dressed I can drop you off at your place on my way to work.” 

“ Sure, let me go do that.” I walked to the bedroom and starting picking up pieces of my outfit from last night that were now scattered around his room. My bra was still stuck on the ceiling fan and there was no way that I was going to reach it. I opened the door and looked at the deputy in the kitchen, “ Jordan, can I get your help with my bra. It's kind of... stuck.” He quirked his eyebrows and got a puzzled look on his face and walked in the room behind me. I just pointed at the ceiling. He laughed at the piece of clothing that was just dangling there.  His hand reached down to his tool belt and grabbed out his police baton. He whipped it out and used it to pull the garment down. He handed it to me still on the stick.

“ You’re welcome.”

“ Thank you.” He left the room and I got dressed in the clothes that I’d had on the night before. We walked down his buildings stairway and got into the car. I pointed the way over to my apartment which was only 5 blocks from his. He parked the car and looked at me. We exchanged goodbyes and I left his car to go up to my apartment. I got undressed and took a shower. When I got out I looked at my phone and found a text from Parrish. My best guess was that he’d put his number on my phone while I was sleeping. 

“ Can’t wait to do that again. How about I bring over Chinese food tonight?” -8:34 a.m.

" Sure. Can't wait to see you. I'm in apartment 4B." -8:39 a.m.

"It's a date :)" -8:39

I smiled at the screen for a moment before putting it down to get ready. I put on makeup and got dressed in my clothes for work. Luckily the gun shop didn’t open until 11 so I had time to get ready. The uniform wasn’t strict either. Good jeans, decent shoes that were preferably boots, and a black T-shirt with the shop logo on it. I swung by McDonald's and got some breakfast before I got to work. The shop opened and somebody walked in at 11 on the dot. It was a man who looked to be in his early 40′s. He walked up to the counter and started talking with me. 

“ Hi, I was looking for a gun made by Argent tactical.” I knew that this was the pass phrase for our secret room. I grabbed our key and walked around the counter. I tapped on the wall until I found our false panel and moved it to reveal a hidden door. I unlocked the door and opened up the room. The man followed in behind me and I turned on the lights to reveal our specialty supernatural hunting equipment. 

“ Is there anything I can help you to find?” The man looked at our wolfsbane flower collection.

“ I was looking for a rare form of wolfsbane called yellow monkhood. Do you guys carry it?” I looked through our catalog.

“ I’m sorry but we don’t. I do know of a farm near here though that might. I can give the owner a call for you if you want? He’s out of town right now but he’ll be back Monday.” 

“ That’d be great. Thanks for all your help...” He looked down at my name tag, “ (Y/N).” I nodded and closed down the secret shop. We walked back over to my normal counter and I grabbed out a notepad.

“ And can I get a name for that request?”

“ Argent. Chris Argent.”

[flauntpage]

50 More Hot Takes for the Philadelphia Sports Fan

The first “hot takes” article did well last October, so I figured I’d do another one. This will be 50 more hot takes for the Philadelphia sports fan, which brings us to 100 hot takes over the course of eight months.

Now, not all of these are “hot” or even “takes,” i.e. some are lukewarm and some are just observations or maybe even aphorisms. But since this is 2019, I feel encouraged and motivated to just say shit without really thinking it through, then we’ll get people all riled up and benefit from the fake arguments that ensue. That’s the strategy, right? Just fire off a bunch of outrageous claims and watch site traffic roll.

Right, so with that Pulitzer-worthy lede, here are 50 more hot takes for you and your mom, after the jump:

Grown men should not bring a baseball glove to the ballpark unless accompanied by a child who is also wearing a glove.

Glen Macnow and Ray Didinger is the best radio show in Philadelphia.

It’s really weird that fans and media always call NBA players by their first names. We’re not their close friends, so I don’t know why Kawhi Leonard is just “Kawhi” and Kobe Bryant is just “Kobe” and LeBron James is just “LeBron.” We don’t refer to Tom Brady as “Tom” and we don’t refer to Drew Brees as “Drew.” It’s kind of creepy.

Philadelphia sports fans are horrendous at detecting sarcasm and satire.

Shitting on Pat’s and Geno’s for being “touristy” is a tired take. The “what’s your favorite cheesesteak?” argument is beyond worn out.

If you cut off other drivers at the sports complex, you’re an asshole. This is especially true for people in the outside lanes who turn in front of Xfinity Live and just force their way into the Wells Fargo Center parking lots. Wait in line like the rest of us.

Wearing a matching Eagles hat and jersey is inappropriate. The max should be one article of specific team apparel, so either the hat OR the jersey, but not both.

Too many media members in this city treat sporting events like social events, as if it’s important to “see and be seen,” but not actually do any work or ask any interesting questions. It’s the struggle to remain relevant.

You can’t talk shit about soccer if you watch WWE.

Late 90s ECW was better than anything WWE or WCW ever put out.

Tommy Dreamer should be ranked higher on any list of the best ECW wrestlers of all time. (Coggin tells me this is not a hot take)

Every able-bodied writer should be forced to play or referee the sport they cover for at least one year. It adds to your knowledge of the game while offering more credibility at the same time.

People like to complain about “fanboy journalism,” but the fact of the matter is that people click whenever we write a story that makes fun of Dallas, Boston, or New York.

Fake news isn’t fake news because you disagree with it. The term literally means that the story is fabricated. We had this problem with the Joe Santoliquito story, when people outright dismissed it because they didn’t like the assertions being made, regardless of whether or not they were true.

Synchronization at Philly sporting arenas is pretty bad. I’m not sure if it’s an acoustics problem or what, but sometimes simple cheers like “M-V-P or “De-fense” are being shouted at different times by 2-3 different sections of the stadium. It makes it look like we don’t know what we’re doing.

I can’t take you seriously if you can’t actually pronounce player names. It’s not Nelson “Aguilar,” nor is it Alshon “Jefferies” or Chase “Daniels.” Sports radio hosts should be instructed to hang up on callers who can’t pronounce names.

Pittsburgh isn’t a rival city. They are geographically further away than New York and D.C. and the fans who live there are very similar to us.

The NHL has the best overtime rules among the “four major North American sports.”

The NFL has the worst overtime rules, by far.

162 games of regular season baseball is a total snooze fest. Trim the regular season (boring TV) and add more playoff games (excellent TV).

The Flyers’ decision to cover and then remove the Kate Smith statue was totally rushed, like they didn’t think it through and just copied the Yankees in fear of bad publicity.

Likewise, it bothers me how quickly people were calling for Odubel Herrera’s removal from the Phillies organization. This is America; we gather facts, collect evidence, and exercise due diligence. Then we make informed and educated decisions.

Baseball traditionalists are the worst. “Nothing needs to change! Baseball is perfect the way it is!” Ugh, go away.

There’s too much mucking, grinding, and bullshitting on the boards in the NHL. The international dimensions make for a more open and enjoyable game.

Stephen A Smith is a national treasure.

“Click bait” is defined by the body of the story, not the headline. We are literally trying to write headlines that grab attention and result in people clicking on the story. They’re called “teases” in television lingo.

Boston isn’t much different from Philly. Both are great cities with history and culture and passionate sports fans. The only difference is they have horrible accents and Coggin thinks they’re more racist.

The in-game interview is the worst segment of all time and eternity. There’s no reason a coach should have to speak to the media during an actual game.

Media should not be allowed in the locker room, which is a sacred and private place for athletes.

Arena music is really bad in 2019. Some of the stuff you hear at Sixers’ games is the worst mumble rap ever.

“Welcome to the Jungle” needs to be banned from sporting events forever. It’s worn out.

I can’t support calling touchdowns “tuddies.”

Tomato pie is whatever. It’s not horrible, but it’s not good either.

Twitter should lock for at least 30 minutes after an Eagles loss, and everybody should be required to go outside and smoke a cigarette before they can log back in.

People still have no idea what Colin Kaepernick is protesting.

Criticizing the Wing Bowl for objectifying women feels off-base to me. Nobody forced anyone to be a wingette or escort the eaters to the stage, those women signed up to do that.

I don’t understand Philadelphia’s love for Pearl Jam. Alice in Chains and Soundgarden are the superior Seattle grunge bands. Nirvana is also overrated.

Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band may very well be the most overrated act on the planet.

Mike Trout is boring.

Most sports writers and editors have an inflated sense of worth. We are not firefighters or doctors. We are not uncovering Russian collusion. Sports is entertainment. It’s the appreciation of athletic skill and achievement. We can inform and write interesting stories without taking ourselves too seriously.

Let’s not confuse journalism for sports writing. Peter Arnett was a journalist who reported from Vietnam and Iraq. Dan Shaughnessy is a sports writer who covers Boston teams.

We talk about how much we love Philadelphia, about how “blue collar” we are, yet I see trash and dog shit on every street corner. We need to do a better job of taking care of our neighborhoods and showing some pride in where we live.

If you shovel out your own parking spot, then put a cone there to save it, you’re a selfish asshole. It literally takes five minutes to shovel out your neighbor’s car or clear the snow from their steps. Do something for somebody else.

Stop calling Fishtown “hipster.” It hasn’t been hipster for years. All of the hipsters moved to the west side of Frankford Avenue or down to East Passyunk.

Media members who don’t show up during the regular season should be banned from attending playoff games.

Eagles talk should be banned from the end of minicamp to the start of training camp.

I wasn’t a fan of Justin Gaethje’s “American vs. a foreigner” angle at the recent UFC Fight Night at the Wells Fargo Center. Gaethje is from Arizona. His opponent, Edson Barboza, has trained in New Jersey for several years. Barboza was born in Brazil but has more of a connection to this region than Gaethje does. That felt a little hollow to me, the fact that the crowd was lopsided in Gaethje’s favor.

Media members should never talk shit about a player on social media, then go put a microphone in his or her face. Athletes pay attention to those kinds of things.

Calling millennials “soft” is dumb, because Baby Boomers were the ones handing out the participation trophies. We literally created the environment they are living in.

Parents who yell at their kids, the coach, or the referees at a youth sporting event should be immediately escorted from the premises and put on six months of probation.

That’s what I’ve got.

Agree? Disagree? Just want to troll the comments section? Get at me dog.

The post 50 More Hot Takes for the Philadelphia Sports Fan appeared first on Crossing Broad.

50 More Hot Takes for the Philadelphia Sports Fan published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[adambstingus]

The Untold Story of Robert Mueller’s Time in Combat

One day in the summer of 1969, a young Marine lieutenant named Bob Mueller arrived in Hawaii for a rendezvous with his wife, Ann. She was flying in from the East Coast with the couple’s infant daughter, Cynthia, a child Mueller had never met. Mueller had taken a plane from Vietnam.

After nine months at war, he was finally due for a few short days of R&R outside the battle zone. Mueller had seen intense combat since he last said goodbye to his wife. He’d received the Bronze Star with a distinction for valor for his actions in one battle, and he’d been airlifted out of the jungle during another firefight after being shot in the thigh. He and Ann had spoken only twice since he’d left for South Vietnam.

Despite all that, Mueller confessed to her in Hawaii that he was thinking of extending his deployment for another six months, and maybe even making a career in the Marines.

Ann was understandably ill at ease about the prospect. But as it turned out, she wouldn’t be a Marine wife for much longer. It was standard practice for Marines to be rotated out of combat, and later that year Mueller found himself assigned to a desk job at Marine headquarters in Arlington, Virginia. There he discovered something about himself: “I didn’t relish the US Marine Corps absent combat.”

So he headed to law school with the goal of serving his country as a prosecutor. He went on to hold high positions in five presidential administrations. He led the Criminal Division of the Justice Department, overseeing the US investigation of the Lockerbie bombing and the federal prosecution of the Gambino crime family boss John Gotti. He became director of the FBI one week before September 11, 2001, and stayed on to become the bureau’s longest-serving director since J. Edgar Hoover.

And yet, throughout his five-decade career, that year of combat experience with the Marines has loomed large in Mueller’s mind. “I’m most proud the Marines Corps deemed me worthy of leading other Marines,” he told me in a 2009 interview.

June 2018. Subscribe to WIRED.

Illustration by Jules Julien; Source Photo: Gerald Herbert/AP

Today, the face-off between Special Counsel Robert Mueller and President Donald Trump stands out, amid the black comedy of Trump’s Washington, as an epic tale of diverging American elites: a story of two men—born just two years apart, raised in similar wealthy backgrounds in Northeastern cities, both deeply influenced by their fathers, both star prep school athletes, both Ivy League educated—who now find themselves playing very different roles in a riveting national drama about political corruption and Russia’s interference in the 2016 election. The two men have lived their lives in pursuit of almost diametrically opposed goals—Mueller a life of patrician public service, Trump a life of private profit.

Those divergent paths began with Vietnam, the conflict that tore the country apart just as both men graduated from college in the 1960s. Despite having been educated at an elite private military academy, Donald Trump famously drew five draft deferments, including one for bone spurs in his feet. He would later joke, repeatedly, that his success at avoiding sexually transmitted diseases while dating numerous women in the 1980s was “my personal Vietnam. I feel like a great and very brave soldier.”

Mueller, for his part, not only volunteered for the Marines, he spent a year waiting for an injured knee to heal so he could serve. And he has said ­little about his time in Vietnam over the years. When he was leading the FBI through the catastrophe of 9/11 and its aftermath, he would brush off the crushing stress, saying, “I’m getting a lot more sleep now than I ever did in Vietnam.” One of the only other times his staff at the FBI ever heard him mention his Marine service was on a flight home from an official international trip. They were watching We Were Soldiers, a 2002 film starring Mel Gibson about some of the early battles in Vietnam. Mueller glanced at the screen and observed, “Pretty accurate.”

His reticence is not unusual for the generation that served on the front lines of a war that the country never really embraced. Many of the veterans I spoke with for this story said they’d avoided talking about Vietnam until recently. Joel Burgos, who served as a corporal with Mueller, told me at the end of our hour-long conversation, “I’ve never told anyone most of this.”

Yet for almost all of them—Mueller included—Vietnam marked the primary formative experience of their lives. Nearly 50 years later, many Marine veterans who served in Mueller’s unit have email addresses that reference their time in Southeast Asia: gunnysgt, 2-4marine, semperfi, ­PltCorpsman, Grunt. One Marine’s email handle even references Mutter’s Ridge, the area where Mueller first faced large-scale combat in December 1968.

The Marines and Vietnam instilled in Mueller a sense of discipline and a relentlessness that have driven him ever since. He once told me that one of the things the Marines taught him was to make his bed every day. I’d written a book about his time at the FBI and was by then familiar with his severe, straitlaced demeanor, so I laughed at the time and said, “That’s the least surprising thing I’ve ever learned about you.” But Mueller persisted: It was an important small daily gesture exemplifying follow-through and execution. “Once you think about it—do it,” he told me. “I’ve always made my bed and I’ve always shaved, even in Vietnam in the jungle. You’ve put money in the bank in terms of discipline.”

Mueller’s former Princeton classmate and FBI chief of staff W. Lee Rawls recalled how Mueller’s Marine leadership style carried through to the FBI, where he had little patience for subordinates who questioned his decisions. He expected his orders to be executed in the Hoover building just as they had been on the battlefield. In meetings with subordinates, Mueller had a habit of quoting Gene Hackman’s gruff Navy submarine captain in the 1995 Cold War thriller Crimson Tide: “We’re here to preserve democracy, not to practice it.”

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Robert Mueller Likely Knows How This All Ends

Discipline has certainly been a defining feature of Mueller’s Russia investigation. In a political era of extreme TMI—marked by rampant White House leaks, Twitter tirades, and an administration that disgorges jilted cabinet-­level officials as quickly as it can appoint new ones—the special counsel’s office has been a locked door. Mueller has remained an impassive cypher: the stoic, silent figure at the center of America’s political gyre. Not once has he spoken publicly about the Russia investigation since he took the job in May 2017, and his carefully chosen team of prosecutors and FBI agents has proved leakproof, even under the most intense of media spotlights. Mueller’s spokesperson, Peter Carr, on loan from the Justice Department, has essentially had one thing to tell a media horde ravenous for information about the Russia investigation: “No comment.”

If Mueller’s discipline is reflected in the silence of his team, his relentlessness has been abundantly evident in the pace of indictments, arrests, and legal maneuvers coming out of his office.

His investigation is proceeding on multiple fronts. He is digging into Russian information operations carried out on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and other social media platforms. In February his office indicted 13 people and three entities connected to the Internet Research Agency, the Russian organization that allegedly masterminded the information campaigns. He’s also pursuing those responsible for cyber intrusions, including the hacking of the email system at the Democratic National Committee.

At the same time, Mueller’s investigators are probing the business dealings of Trump and his associates, an effort that has yielded indictments for tax fraud and conspiracy against Trump’s former campaign chair, Paul Manafort, and a guilty plea on financial fraud and lying to investigators by Manafort’s deputy, Rick Gates. The team is also looking into the numerous contacts between Trump’s people and Kremlin-connected figures. And Mueller is questioning witnesses in an effort to establish whether Trump has obstructed justice by trying to quash the investigation itself.

Almost every week brings a surprise development in the investigation. But until the next indictment or arrest, it’s difficult to say what Mueller knows, or what he thinks.

Before he became special counsel, Mueller freely and repeatedly told me that his habits of mind and character were most shaped by his time in Vietnam, a period that is also the least explored chapter of his biography.

This first in-depth account of his year at war is based on multiple interviews with Mueller about his time in combat—conducted before he became special counsel—as well as hundreds of pages of once-classified Marine combat records, official accounts of Marine engagements, and the first-ever interviews with eight Marines who served alongside Mueller in 1968 and 1969. They provide the best new window we have into the mind of the man leading the Russia investigation.

Mueller volunteered for the Marines in 1966, right after graduating from Prince­ton. By late 1968 he was a lieutenant leading a combat platoon in Vietnam.

Dan Winters; Archival Photo Courtesy of National Archives

Robert Swan Mueller III, the first of five children and the only son, grew up in a stately stone house in a wealthy Philadelphia suburb. His father was a DuPont executive who had captained a Navy submarine-chaser in World War II; he expected his children to abide by a strict moral code. “A lie was the worst sin,” Mueller says. “The one thing you didn’t do was to give anything less than the truth to my mother and father.”

He attended St. Paul’s prep school in Concord, New Hampshire, where the all-boys classes emphasized Episcopal ideals of virtue and manliness. He was a star on the lacrosse squad and played hockey with future US senator John Kerry on the school team. For college he chose his father’s alma mater, Princeton, and entered the class of 1966.

The expanding war in Vietnam was a frequent topic of conversation among the elite students, who spoke of the war—echoing earlier generations—in terms of duty and service. “Princeton from ’62 to ’66 was a completely different world than ’67 onwards,” said Rawls, a lifelong friend of Mueller’s. “The anti-Vietnam movement was not on us yet. A year or two later, the campus was transformed.”

On the lacrosse field, Mueller met David Hackett, a classmate and athlete who would profoundly affect Mueller’s life. Hackett had already enlisted in the Marines’ version of ROTC, spending his Princeton summers training for the escalating war. “I had one of the finest role models I could have asked for in an upperclassman by the name of David Hackett,” Mueller recalled in a 2013 speech as FBI director. “David was on our 1965 lacrosse team. He was not necessarily the best on the team, but he was a determined and a natural leader.”

After he graduated in 1965, Hackett began training to be a Marine, earning top honors in his officer candidate class. After that he shipped out to Vietnam. In Mueller’s eyes, Hackett was a shining example. Mueller decided that when he graduated the following year, he too would enlist in the Marines.

On April 30, 1967, shortly after Hackett had signed up for his second tour in Vietnam, his unit was ambushed by more than 75 camouflaged North Vietnamese troops who were firing down from bunkers with weapons that included a .50-­caliber machine gun. According to a Marine history, “dozens of Marines were killed or wounded within minutes.”

Hackett located the source of the incoming fire and charged 30 yards across open ground to an American machine gun team to tell them where to shoot. Minutes later, as he was moving to help direct a neighboring platoon whose commander had been wounded, he was killed by a sniper. Posthumously awarded the Silver Star, Hackett’s commendation explained that he died “while pressing the assault and encouraging his Marines.”

By the time word of Hackett’s death filtered back to the US, Mueller was already making good on his pledge to follow him into military service. The news only strengthened his resolve to become an infantry officer. “One would have thought that the life of a Marine, and David’s death in Vietnam, would argue strongly against following in his footsteps,” Mueller said in that 2013 speech. “But many of us saw in him the person we wanted to be, even before his death. He was a leader and a role model on the fields of Princeton. He was a leader and a role model on the fields of battle as well. And a number of his friends and teammates joined the Marine Corps because of him, as did I.”

In mid-1966, Mueller underwent his military physical at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard; this was before the draft lottery began and before Vietnam became a divisive cultural watershed. He recalls sitting in the waiting room as another candidate, a strapping 6-foot, 280-pound lineman for the Philadelphia Eagles, was ruled 4-F—medically unfit for military service. After that it was Mueller’s turn to be rejected: His years of intense athletics, including hockey and lacrosse, had left him with an injured knee. The military declared that it would need to heal before he would be allowed to deploy.

In the meantime, he married Ann Cabell Standish—a graduate of Miss Porter’s School and Sarah Lawrence—over Labor Day weekend 1966, and they moved to New York, where he earned a master’s degree in international relations at New York University.

Once his knee had healed, Mueller went back to the military doctors. In 1967—just before Donald Trump received his own medical deferment for heel spurs—Mueller started Officer Candidate School at Quantico, Virginia.

For high school, Mueller attended St. Paul’s School in Concord, New Hampshire. As a senior in 1962, Mueller (#12) played on the hockey team with future US senator John Kerry (#18).

Dan Winters; Archival Photo by Rick Friedman/Getty Images

Like Hackett before him, Mueller was a star in his Officer Candidate School training class. “He was a cut above,” recalls Phil Kellogg, who had followed one of his fraternity brothers into the Marines after graduating from the College of Santa Fe in New Mexico. Kellogg, who went through training with Mueller, remembers Mueller racing another candidate on an obstacle course—and losing. It’s the only time he can remember Mueller being bested. “He was a natural athlete and natural student,” Kellogg says. “I don’t think he had a hard day at OCS, to be honest.” There was, it turned out, only one thing he was bad at—and it was a failing that would become familiar to legions of his subordinates in the decades to come: He received a D in delegation.

During the time Mueller spent in training, from November 1967 through July 1968, the context of the Vietnam War changed dramatically. The bloody Tet Offensive—a series of coordinated, widespread, surprise attacks across South Vietnam by the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese in January 1968—stunned America, and with public opinion souring on the conflict, Lyndon Johnson declared he wouldn’t run for reelection. As Mueller’s training class graduated, Walter Cronkite declared on the CBS Evening News that the war could not be won. “For it seems now more certain than ever,” Cronkite told his millions of viewers on February 27, 1968, “that the bloody experience of Vietnam is to end in a stalemate.”

The country seemed to be descending into chaos; as the spring unfolded, both Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy were assassinated. Cities erupted in riots. Antiwar protests raged. But the shifting tide of public opinion and civil unrest barely registered with the officer candidates in Mueller’s class. “I don’t remember anyone having qualms about where we were or what we were doing,” Kellogg says.

That spring, as Donald J. Trump graduated from the University of Pennsylvania and began working for his father’s real estate company, Mueller finished up Officer Candidate School and received his next assignment: He was to attend the US Army’s Ranger School.

Arriving in Vietnam, Mueller was well trained, but he was also afraid. “You were scared to death of the unknown,” he says. “More afraid in some ways of failure than death.”

Mueller knew that only the best young officers went on to Ranger training, a strenuous eight-week advanced skills and leadership program for the military’s elite at Fort Benning, Georgia. He would be spending weeks practicing patrol tactics, assassination missions, attack strategies, and ambushes staged in swamps. But the implications of the assignment were also sobering to the newly minted officer: Many Marines who passed the course were designated as “recon Marines” in Vietnam, a job that often came with a life expectancy measured in weeks.

Mueller credits the training he received at Ranger School for his survival in Vietnam. The instructors there had been through jungle combat themselves, and their stories from the front lines taught the candidates how to avoid numerous mistakes. Ranger trainees often had to function on just two hours of rest a night and a single daily meal. “Ranger School more than anything teaches you about how you react with no sleep and nothing to eat,” Mueller told me. “You learn who you want on point, and who you don’t want anywhere near point.”

After Ranger School, he also attended Airborne School, aka jump school, where he learned to be a parachutist. By the fall of 1968, he was on his way to Asia. He boarded a flight from Travis Air Force Base in California to an embarkation point in Okinawa, Japan, where there was an almost palpable current of dread among the deploying troops.

From Okinawa, Mueller headed to Dong Ha Combat Base near the so-called demilitarized zone—the dividing line between North and South Vietnam, established after the collapse of the French colonial regime in 1954. Mueller was determined and well trained, but he was also afraid. “You were scared to death of the unknown,” he says. “More afraid in some ways of failure than death, more afraid of being found wanting.” That kind of fear, he says “animates your unconscious.”

For American troops, 1968 was the deadliest year of the war, as they beat back the Tet Offensive and fought the battle of Hue. All told, 16,592 Americans were killed that year—roughly 30 percent of total US fatalities in the war. Over the course of the conflict, more than 58,000 Americans died, 300,000 were wounded, and some 2 million South and North Vietnamese died.

Just 18 months after David Hackett was felled by a sniper, Mueller was being sent to the same region as his officer-training classmate Kellogg, who had arrived in Vietnam three months earlier. Mueller was assigned to H Company—Hotel Company in Marine parlance—part of the 2nd Battalion of the 4th Marine Regiment, a storied infantry unit that traced its origins back to the 1930s.

The regiment had been fighting almost nonstop in Vietnam since May 1965, earning the nickname the Magnificent Bastards. The grueling combat took its toll. In the fall of 1967, six weeks of battle reduced the battalion’s 952 Marines to just 300 fit for duty.

During the Tet Offensive, the 2nd Battalion had seen bitter and bloody fighting that never let up. In April 1968, it fought in the battle of Dai Do, a days-long engagement that killed nearly 600 North Vietnamese soldiers. Eighty members of the 2nd Battalion died in the fight, and 256 were wounded.

David Harris, who arrived in Vietnam in May, joined the depleted unit just after Dai Do. “Hotel Company and all of 2/4 was decimated,” he says. “They were a skeleton crew. They were haggard, they were beat to death. It was just pitiful.”

By the time Mueller was set to arrive six months later, the unit had rebuilt its ranks as its wounded Marines recovered and filtered back into the field; they had been tested and emerged stronger. By coincidence, Mueller was to inherit leadership of a Hotel Company platoon from his friend Kellogg. “Those kids that I had and Bob had, half of them were veterans of Dai Do,” Kellogg says. “They were field-sharp.”

A corpsman of Company H aids a wounded Leatherneck of 2nd Battalion, 4th Marines, during Operation Saline II in the Quang Tri Province of Vietnam in 1968.

Dan Winters; Archival Photo Courtesy of National Archives

Second Lieutenant Mueller, 24 years and 3 months old, joined the battalion in November 1968, one of 10 new officers assigned to the unit that month. He knew he was arriving at the so-called pointy end of the American spear. Some 2.7 million US troops served in Vietnam, but the vast majority of casualties were suffered by those who fought in “maneuver battalions” like Mueller’s. The war along the demilitarized zone was far different than it was elsewhere in Vietnam; the primary adversary was the North Vietnamese army, not the infamous Viet Cong guerrillas. North Vietnamese troops generally operated in larger units, were better trained, and were more likely to engage in sustained combat rather than melting away after staging an ambush. “We fought regular, hard-core army,” Joel Burgos says. “There were so many of them—and they were really good.”

William Sparks, a private first class in Hotel Company, recalls that Mueller got off the helicopter in the middle of a rainstorm, wearing a raincoat—a telltale sign that he was new to the war. “You figured out pretty fast it didn’t help to wear a raincoat in Vietnam,” Sparks says. “The humidity just condensed under the raincoat—you were just as wet as you were without it.”

As Mueller walked up from the landing zone, Kellogg—who had no idea Mueller would be inheriting his platoon—recognized his OCS classmate’s gait. “When he came marching up the hill, I laughed,” Kellogg says. “We started joking.” On Mueller’s first night in the field, his brand-new tent was destroyed by the wind. “That thing vanished into thin air,” Sparks says. He didn’t even get to spend one night.”

Over the coming days, Kellogg passed along some of his wisdom from the field and explained the procedures for calling in artillery and air strikes. “Don’t be John Wayne,” he said. “It’s not a movie. Marines tell you something’s up, listen to them.”

“The lieutenants who didn’t trust their Marines went to early deaths,” Kellogg says.

And with that, Kellogg told their commander that Mueller was ready, and he hopped aboard the next helicopter out.

Today, military units usually train together in the US, deploy together for a set amount of time, and return home together. But in Vietnam, rotations began—and ended—piecemeal, driven by the vagaries of injuries, illness, and individual combat tours. That meant Mueller inherited a unit that mixed combat-­experienced veterans and relative newbies.

A platoon consisted of roughly 40 Marines, typically led by a lieutenant and divided into three squads, each led by a sergeant, which were then divided into three four-man “fire teams” led by corporals. While the lieutenants were technically in charge, the sergeants ran the show—and could make or break a new officer. “You land, and you’re at the mercy of your staff sergeant and your radioman,” Mueller says.

Marines in the field knew to be dubious of new young second lieutenants like Mueller. They were derided as Gold Brickers, after the single gold bar that denoted their rank. “They might have had a college education, but they sure as hell didn’t have common sense,” says Colin Campbell, who was on Hotel Company’s mortar squad.

Mueller knew his men feared he might be incompetent or worse. “The platoon was petrified,” he recalls. “They wondered whether the new green lieutenant was going to jeopardize their lives to advance his own career.” Mueller himself was equally terrified of assuming field command.

As he settled in, talk spread about the odd new platoon leader who had gone to both Princeton and Army Ranger School. “Word was out real fast—Ivy League guy from an affluent family. That set off alarms. The affluent guys didn’t go to Vietnam then—and they certainly didn’t end up in a rifle platoon,” says VJ Maranto, a corporal in H Company. “There was so much talk about ‘Why’s a guy like that out here with us?’ We weren’t Ivy Leaguers.”

Indeed, none of his fellow Hotel Company Marines had written their college thesis on African territorial disputes before the International Court of Justice, as Mueller had. Most were from rural America, and few had any formal education past high school. Maranto spent his youth on a small farm in Louisiana. Carl Rasmussen, a lance corporal, grew up on a farm in Oregon. Burgos was from the Mississippi Delta, where he was raised on a cotton plantation. After graduating from high school, David Harris had gone to work in a General Motors factory in his home state of Ohio, then joined the Marines when he was set to be drafted in the summer of 1967.

Many of the Marines under Mueller’s command had been wounded at least once; 19-year-old corporal John C. Liverman had arrived in Vietnam just four months after a neighbor of his from Silver Spring, Maryland, had been killed at Khe Sanh—and had seen heavy combat much of the year. He’d been hit by shrapnel in March 1968 and then again in April, but after recovering in Okinawa, he had agitated to return to combat.

Hotel Company quickly came to understand that its new platoon leader was no Gold Bricker. “He wanted to know as much as he could as fast as he could about the terrain, what we did, the ambushes, everything,” Maranto says. “He was all about the mission, the mission, the mission.”

Second Battalion’s mission, as it turned out, was straightforward: Search and destroy. “We stayed out in the bush, out in the mountains, just below DMZ, 24 hours a day,” David Harris says. “We were like bait. It was the same encounter: They’d hit us, we’d hit them, they’d disappear.”

Frequent deaths and injuries meant that turnover in the field was constant; when Maranto arrived at Hotel Company, he was issued a flak jacket that had dried blood on it. “We were always low on men,” Colin Campbell says.

Mueller’s unit was constantly on patrol; the battalion’s records described it as “nomadic.” Its job was to keep the enemy off-kilter and disrupt their supply lines. “You’d march all day, then you’d dig a foxhole and spend all night alternating going on watch,” says Bill White, a Hotel Company veteran. “We were always tired, always hungry, always thirsty. There were no showers.”

In those first weeks, Mueller’s confidence as a leader grew as he won his men’s trust and respect. “You’d sense his nervousness, but you’d never see that in his demeanor,” Maranto says. “He was such a professional.”

The members of the platoon soon got acquainted with the qualities that would be familiar to everyone who dealt with Mueller later as a prosecutor and FBI director. He demanded a great deal and had little patience for malingering, but he never asked for more than he was willing to give himself. “He was a no-bullshit kind of guy,” White recalls.

Sgt. Michael Padilla (left) with Cpl. Agustin Rosario (right), who was killed in action on December 11, 1968, during the operation at Mutter’s Ridge.

Dan Winters; Archival Photo Courtesy of Michael Padilla

Mueller’s unit began December 1968 in relative quiet, providing security for the main military base in the area, a glorified campground known as Vandegrift Combat Base, about 10 miles south of the DMZ. It was one of the only organized outposts nearby for Marines, a place for resupply, a shower, and hot food. Lance Corporal Robert W. Cromwell, who had celebrated his 20th birthday shortly before beginning his tour of duty, entertained his comrades with stories from his own period of R&R: He’d met his wife and parents in Hawaii to be introduced to his newborn daughter. “He was so happy to have a child and wanted to get home for good,” Harris says.

On December 7 the battalion boarded helicopters for a new operation: to retake control of a hill in an infamous area known as Mutter’s Ridge.

The strategically important piece of ground, which ran along four hills on the southern edge of the DMZ, had been the scene of fighting for more than two years and had been overrun by the North Vietnamese months before. Artillery, air strikes, and tank attacks had long since denuded the ridge of vegetation, but the surrounding hillsides and valleys were a jungle of trees and vines. When Hotel Company touched down and fanned out from its landing zones to establish a perimeter, Mueller was arriving to what would be his first full-scale battle.

As the American units advanced, the North Vietnamese retreated. “They were all pulling back to this big bunker complex, as it turned out,” Sparks says. The Americans could see the signs of past battles all around them. “You’d see shrapnel holes in the trees, bullet holes,” Sparks says.

After three days of patrols, isolated firefights with an elusive enemy, and multiple nights of American bombardment, another unit in 2nd Battalion, Fox Company, received the order to take some high ground on Mutter’s Ridge. Even nearly 50 years later, the date of the operation remains burned into the memories of those who fought in it: December 11, 1968.

None of Mueller’s fellow Marines had written their college thesis on African territorial disputes before the International Court of Justice, as Mueller had.

That morning, after a night of air strikes and artillery volleys meant to weaken the enemy, the men of Fox Company moved out at first light. The attack went smoothly at first; they seized the western portions of the ridge without resistance, dodging just a handful of mortar rounds. Yet as they continued east, heavy small-arms fire started. “As they fought their way forward, they came into intensive and deadly fire from bunkers and at least three machine guns,” the regiment later reported. Because the vegetation was so dense, Fox Company didn’t realize that it had stumbled into the midst of a bunker complex. “Having fought their way in, the company found it extremely difficult to maneuver its way out, due both to the fire of the enemy and the problem of carrying their wounded.”

Hotel Company was on a neighboring hill, still eating breakfast, when Fox Company was attacked. Sparks remembers that he was drinking a “Mo-Co,” C-rations coffee with cocoa powder and sugar, heated by burning a golf-ball-sized piece of C-4 plastic explosive. (“We were ahead of Starbucks on this latte crap,” he jokes.) They could hear the gunfire across the valley.

“Lieutenant Mueller called, ‘Saddle up, saddle up,’” Sparks says. “He called for first squad—I was the grenade launcher and had two bags of ammo strapped across my chest. I could barely stand up.” Before they could even reach the enemy, they had to fight their way through the thick brush of the valley. “We had to go down the hill and come up Foxtrot Ridge. It took hours.”

“It was the only place in the DMZ I remember seeing vegetation like that,” Harris says. “It was thick and entwining.”

When the platoon finally crested the top of the ridge, they confronted the horror of the battlefield. “There were wounded people everywhere,” Sparks recalls. Mueller ordered everyone to drop their packs and prepare for a fight. “We assaulted right out across the top of the ridge,” he says.

It wasn’t long before the unit came under heavy fire from small arms, machine guns, and a grenade launcher. “There were three North Vietnamese soldiers right in front of us that jumped right up and sprayed us with AK-47s,” Sparks says. They returned fire and advanced. At one point, a Navy corpsman with them threw a grenade, only to have it bounce off a tree and explode, wounding one of Hotel Company’s corporals. “It just got worse from there,” Sparks says.

In the next few minutes, numerous men went down in Mueller’s unit. Maranto remembers being impressed that his relatively green lieutenant was able to stay calm while under attack. “He’d been in-country less than a month—most of us had been in-country six, eight months,” Maranto says. “He had remarkable composure, directing fire. It was sheer terror. They had RPGs, machine gun, mortars.”

Mueller realized quickly how much trouble the platoon was in. “That day was the second heaviest fire I received in Vietnam,” Harris says. “Lieutenant Mueller was directing traffic, positioning people and calling in air strikes. He was standing upright, moving. He probably saved our hide.”

Cromwell, the lance corporal who had just become a father, was shot in the thigh by a .50-caliber bullet. When Harris saw his wounded friend being hustled out of harm’s way, he was oddly relieved at first. “I saw him and he was alive,” Harris says. “He was on the stretcher.” Cromwell would finally be able to spend some time with his wife and new baby, Harris figured. “You lucky sucker,” he thought. “You’re going home.”

But Harris had misjudged the severity of his friend’s injury. The bullet had nicked one of Cromwell’s arteries, and he bled to death before he reached the field hospital. The death devastated Harris, who had traded weapons with Cromwell the night before—Harris had taken Cromwell’s M-14 rifle and Cromwell took Harris’ M-79 grenade launcher. “The next day when we hit the crap, they called for him, and he had to go forward,” Harris says. Harris couldn’t shake the feeling that he should have been the one on the stretcher. “I’ve only told two people this story.”

The battle atop and around Mutter’s Ridge raged for hours, with the North Vietnamese fire coming from the surrounding jungle. “We got hit with an ambush, plain and simple,” Harris says. “The brush was so thick, you had trouble hacking it with a machete. If you got 15 meters away, you couldn’t see where you came from.”

As the fighting continued, the Marines atop the ridge began to run low on supplies. “Johnny Liverman threw me a bag of ammo. He’d been ferrying ammo from one side of the ridge to the other,” Sparks recalls. Liverman was already wounded, but he was still fighting; then, during one of his runs, he came under more fire. “He got hit right through the head, right when I was looking at him. I got that ammo, I crawled up there and got his M-16 and told him I’d be back.”

Sparks and another Marine sheltered behind a dead tree stump, trying to find any protection amid the firestorm. “Neither of us had any ammo left,” Sparks recalls. He crawled back to Liverman to try to evacuate his friend. “I got him up on my shoulder, and I got shot, and I went down,” he says. As he was lying on the ground, he heard a shout from atop the ridge, “Who’s that down there—are they dead?”

It was Lieutenant Mueller.

Sparks hollered back, “Sparks and Liverman.”

“Hold on,” Mueller said, “We’re coming down to get you.”

A few minutes later, Mueller appeared with another Marine, known as Slick. Mueller and Slick slithered Sparks into a bomb crater with Liverman and put a battle dress on Sparks’ wound. They waited until a helicopter gunship passed overhead, its guns clattering, to distract the North Vietnamese, and hustled back toward the top of the hill and comparative safety. An OV-10 attack plane overhead dropped smoke grenades to help shield the Marines atop the ridge. Mueller, Sparks says, then went back to retrieve the mortally wounded Liverman.

The deaths mounted. Corporal Agustin Rosario—a 22-year-old father and husband from New York City—was shot in the ankle, and then, while he tried to run back to safety, was shot again, this time fatally. Rosario, too, died waiting for a medevac helicopter.

Finally, as the hours passed, the Marines forced the North Vietnamese to withdraw. By 4:30 pm, the battlefield had quieted. As his commendation for the Bronze Star later read, “Second Lieutenant Mueller’s courage, aggressive initiative and unwavering devotion to duty at great personal risk were instrumental in the defeat of the enemy force and were in keeping with the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and of the United States Naval Service.”

As night fell, Hotel and Fox held the ground, and a third company, Golf, was brought forward as additional reinforcement. It was a brutal day for both sides; 13 Americans died and 31 were wounded. “We put a pretty good hurt on them, but not without great cost,” Sparks says. “My closest friends were all killed there on Foxtrot Ridge.”

As the Americans explored the field around the ridge, they counted seven enemy dead left behind, in addition to seven others killed in the course of the battle. Intelligence reports later revealed that the battle had killed the commander of the 1st Battalion, 27th North Vietnamese Army Regiment, “and had virtually decimated his staff.”

For Mueller, the battle had proved both to him and his men that he could lead. “The minute the shit hit the fan, he was there,” Maranto says. “He performed remarkably. After that night, there were a lot of guys who would’ve walked through walls for him.”

That first major exposure to combat—and the loss of Marines under his command—affected Mueller deeply. “You’re standing there thinking, ‘Did I do everything I could?’” he says. Afterward, back at camp, while Mueller was still in shock, a major came up and slapped the young lieutenant on the shoulder, saying, “Good job, Mueller.”

“That vote of confidence helped me get through,” Mueller told me. “That gesture pushed me over. I wouldn’t go through life guilty for screwing up.”

The heavy toll of the casualties at Mutter’s Ridge shook up the whole unit. Cromwell’s death hit especially hard; his humor and good nature had knitted the unit together. “He was happy-go-lucky. He looked after the new guys when they came in,” Bill White recalls. For Harris, who had often shared a foxhole with Cromwell, the death of his best friend was devastating.

White also took Cromwell’s death hard; overcome with grief, he stopped shaving. Mueller confronted him, telling him to refocus on the mission ahead—but ultimately provided more comfort than discipline. “He could’ve given me punishment hours,” White says, “but he never did.”

Robert Mueller receives an award from his regimental commander Col. Martin “Stormy” Sexton in Dong Ha, South Vietnam in 1969.

Dan Winters; Archival Photo Courtesy of the office of Robert Mueller

Decades later, Mueller would tell me that nothing he ever confronted in his career was as challenging as leading men in combat and watching them be cut down. “You see a lot, and every day after is a blessing,” he told me in 2008. The memory of Mutter’s Ridge put everything, even terror investigations and showdowns with the Bush White House, into perspective. “A lot is going to come your way, but it’s not going to be the same intensity.”

When Mueller finally did leave the FBI in 2013, he “retired” into a busy life as a top partner at the law firm WilmerHale. He taught some classes in cybersecurity at Stanford, he investigated the NFL’s handling of the Ray Rice domestic violence case, and he served as the so-called settlement master for the Volkswagen Diesel­gate scandal. While in the midst of that assignment—which required the kind of delicate give-and-take ill-suited to a hard-driving, no-nonsense Marine—the 72-year-old Mueller received a final call to public service. It was May 2017, just days into the swirling storm set off by the firing of FBI director James Comey, and deputy attorney general Rod Rosenstein wanted to know if Mueller would serve as the special counsel in the Russia investigation. The job—overseeing one of the most difficult and sensitive investigations ever undertaken by the Justice Department—may only rank as the third-hardest of Mueller’s career, after the post-9/11 FBI and after leading those Marines in Vietnam.

Having accepted the assignment as special counsel, he retreated into his prosecutor’s bunker, cut off from the rest of America.

In January 1969, after 10 days of rain showers and cold weather, the unit got a three-day R&R break at Cua Viet, a nearby support base. They listened to Super Bowl III on the radio as Joe Namath and the Jets defeated the Baltimore Colts. “One touch of reality was listening to that,” Mueller says.

In the field, they got little news about what was transpiring at home. In fact, later that summer, while Mueller was still deployed, Neil Armstrong took his first steps on the moon—an event that people around the world watched live on TV. Mueller wouldn’t find out until days afterward. “There was this whole segment of history you missed,” he says.

R&R breaks were also rare opportunities to drink alcohol, though there was never much of it. Campbell says he drank just 15 beers during his 18 months in-country. “I can remember drinking warm beer—Ballantines,” he says. In camp, the men traded magazines like Playboy and mail-­order automotive catalogs, imagining the cars they would soup up when they returned to the States. They passed the time playing rummy or pinochle.

For the most part, Mueller skipped such activities, though he was into the era’s music (Creedence Clearwater Revival was—and is—a particular favorite). “I remember several times walking into a bunker and finding him in a corner with a book,” Maranto says. “He read a lot, every opportunity.”

Throughout the rest of the month, they patrolled, finding little contact with the enemy, although plenty of signs of their presence: Hotel Company often radioed in reports of finding fallen bodies and hidden supply caches, and they frequently took incoming mortar rounds from unseen enemies.

Command under such conditions wasn’t easy; drug use was a problem, and racial tensions ran high. “Many of the GIs were draftees; they didn’t want to be there,” Maranto says. “When new people rotated in, they brought what was happening in the United States with them.”

Mueller recalls at times struggling to get Marines to follow orders—they already felt that the punishment of serving in the infantry in Vietnam was as bad as it could get. “Screw that,” they’d reply sharply when ordered to do something they didn’t want to do. “What are you going to do? Send me to Vietnam?”

Yet the Marines were bonded through the constant danger of combat. Everyone had close calls. Everyone knew that luck in the combat zone was finite, fate pernicious. “If the good Lord turned over a card up there, that was it,” Mueller says.

Nights particularly were filled with dread; the enemy preferred sneak attacks, often in the hours before dawn. Colin Campbell recalls a night in his foxhole when he turned around to find a North Vietnamese soldier, armed with an AK-47, right behind him. “He’d gotten inside our perimeter. He had our back,” Campbell says. “Why didn’t he kill me and the other guy in the foxhole?” Campbell shouted, and the infiltrator bolted. “Another Marine down the line shot him dead.”

Mueller was a constant presence in the field, regularly reviewing the code signs and passwords that identified friendly units to one another. “He was quiet and reserved. The planning was meticulous and detailed. He knew at night where every position was,” Maranto recalls. “It wouldn’t be unusual for him to come out and make sure the fire teams were correctly placed—and that you were awake.”

The men I talked to who served alongside Mueller, men now in their seventies, mostly had strong memories of the type of leader Mueller had been. But many didn’t know, until I told them, that the man who led their platoon was now the special counsel investigating Russian interference in the election. “I had no idea,” Burgos told me. “When you’ve been in combat that long, you don’t remember names. Faces you remember,” he says.

Maranto says he only put two and two together recently, although he’d wondered for years if that guy who was the FBI director had served with him in Vietnam. “The name would ring a bell—you know that’s a familiar name—but you’re so busy with everyday life,” Maranto says.

At the makeshift landing zone getting briefed before being airlifted to join the rest of the operation. Mueller is standing on the right with his back to the camera.

Dan Winters; Archival Photo Courtesy of VJ Maranto

April 1969 marked a grim American milestone: The Vietnam War’s combat death toll surpassed the 33,629 Americans killed while fighting in Korea. It also brought a new threat to Hotel Company’s area: a set of powerful .50-­caliber machine gun nests that the North Vietnamese had set up to harass helicopters and low-flying planes. Hotel Company—and the battalion’s other units—devoted much of the middle of the month to chasing down the deadly weapons. Until they were found, resupply helicopters were limited, and flights were abandoned when they came under direct fire. One Marine was even killed in the landing zone. Finally, on April 15 and 16, Hotel Company overran the enemy guns and forced a retreat, uncovering 10 bunkers and three gun positions.

The next day, at around 10 am, Mueller’s platoon was attacked while on patrol. Facing small-arms fire and grenades, they called for air support. An hour later four attack runs hit the North Vietnamese position.

Five days later, on April 22, one of the 3rd Platoon’s patrols came under similar attack���and the situation quickly became desperate. Sparks, who had returned to Hotel Company that winter after recovering from his wound at Mutter’s Ridge, was in the ambushed patrol. “We lost the machine gun, jammed up with shrapnel, and the radio,” he recalls. “We had to pull back.”

Nights particularly were filled with dread; the enemy preferred sneak attacks, often in the hours before dawn.

With radio contact lost, Mueller’s platoon was called forward as reinforcement. American artillery and mortars pounded the North Vietnamese as the platoon advanced. At one point, Mueller was engaged in a close firefight. The incoming fire was so intense—the stress of the moment so all-consuming, the adrenaline pumping so hard—that when he was shot, Mueller didn’t immediately notice. Amid the combat, he looked down and realized an AK-47 round had passed clean through his thigh.

Mueller kept fighting.

“Although seriously wounded during the fire­fight, he resolutely maintained his position and, ably directing the fire of his platoon, was instrumental in defeating the North Vietnamese Army force,” reads the Navy Commendation that Mueller received for his action that day. “While approaching the designated area, the platoon came under a heavy volume of enemy fire from its right flank. Skillfully requesting and directing supporting Marine artillery fire on the enemy positions, First Lieutenant Mueller ensured that fire superiority was gained over the hostile unit.”

Two other members of Hotel Company were also wounded in the battle. One of them had his leg blown off by a grenade; it was his first day in Vietnam.

Mueller’s days in combat ended with him being lifted out by helicopter in a sling. As the aircraft peeled away, Mueller recalls thinking he might at least get a good meal out of the injury on a hospital ship, but he was delivered instead to a field hospital near Dong Ha, where he spent three weeks recovering.

Maranto, who was on R&R when Mueller was wounded, remembers returning to camp and hearing word that their commander had been shot. “It could happen to any one of us,” Maranto says. “When it happened to him, there was a lot of sadness. They enjoyed his company.”

Mueller recovered and returned to active duty in May. Since most Marine officers spent only six months on a combat rotation—and Mueller had been in the combat zone since November—he was sent to serve at command headquarters, where he became an aide-de-camp to Major General William K. Jones, the head of the 3rd Marine Division.

By the end of 1969, Mueller was back in the US, his combat tour complete, working at the Marine barracks near the Pentagon. Soon thereafter, he sent off an application to the University of Virginia’s law school. “I consider myself exceptionally lucky to have made it out of Vietnam,” Mueller said years later in a speech. “There were many—many—who did not. And perhaps because I did survive Vietnam, I have always felt compelled to contribute.”

Over the years, a few of his former fellow Marines from Hotel Company recognized Mueller and have watched his career unfold on the national stage over the past two decades. Sparks recalls eating lunch on a July day in 2001 with the news on: “The TV was on behind me. ‘We’re going to introduce the new FBI director, Robert … Swan … Mueller.’ I slowly turned, and I looked, and I thought, ‘Golly, that’s Lieutenant Mueller.’” Sparks, who speaks with a thick Texas accent, says his first thought was the running joke he’d had with his former commander: “I’d always call him ‘Lieutenant Mew-ler,’ and he’d say, ‘That’s Mul-ler.’”

More recently, his former Marine comrade Maranto says that after spending six months in combat with Mueller, he has watched the coverage of the special counsel investigation unfold and laughed at the news reports. He says he knows Mueller isn’t sweating the pressure. “I watch people on the news talking about the distractions getting to him,” he says. “I don’t think so.”

Garrett M. Graff (@vermontgmg) is a con­tributing editor at WIRED and author of The Threat Matrix: Inside Robert Mueller’s FBI and the War on Global Terror. He can be reached at garrett.graff@gmail.com.

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