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Just One More Row

Here we go! My contribution to this year's @batfam-big-bang!

Huge thanks to my brilliant beta @apriljoy97 and my incredible artists @jennguyen-draws and @oluka-art for working with me on this - you're amazing, the lot of you.

Summary: From the bag, Alfred pulled a ball of yarn and two long straight knitting needles. Inwardly, Bruce groaned. He knew what Alfred was about to try and teach him and solemnly bade goodbye to his dignity. He'd had a good run, really, but even he could not escape the proliferation of 'old people hobbies'. or, After suffering a serious injury on patrol, Batman is grounded for the foreseeable future. Bruce, bored out of his mind, is in desperate need of something to do and so, in a fit of genius, Alfred teaches him to knit. And so begins Bruce’s journey of self-discovery and gift-giving… and also yarn. There is so much yarn in Wayne Manor now. Send help.

Chapter 1: *K1P1 repeat from *

It was 1am on a dismal Friday night, and Batman was not enjoying the fight.

Not that he normally enjoyed fighting, of course, it was merely a means to an end, but every movement felt a little slower on this night, a little more lethargic, more reluctant. It did not worry him too much: Batman was still far and away the better fighter than at least 90% of the idiots out on the street. Instead, he focussed on the tug of his muscles, the thump of his heart in his chest, the whooshing of the breath in his lungs, and fought with all he had. This was how Batman always fought, even when he was not enjoying it.

Half an hour ago, he had sent Robin home, the crusade against his son's sleep deprivation complete. Red Robin had stayed out in the field, but only because the next day was Saturday and everyone who was anyone knew not to expect Tim Drake to be up and about before noon on a weekend. With Nightwing in Bludhaven for the time being, and Red Hood taking a rare night away from the streets to focus on issues closer to home, the night was quiet. Oracle kept up a steady stream of ambient background noise in his earpiece, clacking keys and the occasional beep as a scan hit a match, but rarely spoke. Red Robin had his own cases to follow up on, but every so often he would strike up a conversation with Batman about something inane, like he was suddenly remembering that there were other human people around to be human people with. Unfortunately for him, Batman rarely responded.

With the night drawing to a close, Batman began to wrap up his patrol. He kept a careful eye on the narrow alleyways and dark underpasses as he loped his way back to the backstreet he had stashed the Batmobile on. It had not, unlike that night all those years before, been vandalised or scrapped for parts, for which Batman was undyingly grateful. When he turned the key in the ignition, however, it was to the helium-fueled monstrosity that was the Alvin and the Chipmunks version of 'We are Family'.

This was definitely a Dick prank. It had his dirty fingerprints all over it.

Grumbling to himself, Batman turned off the speakers, put the car in drive, and enjoyed the roar of the engine as he turned toward the bridge.

This late at night, there was no traffic. The streets, after hours of Batman and his allies clearing them, were quiet. All Batman could hear as he roared through the city was the engine, the occasional squeak of brakes, the clang of manhole covers under his wheels, grit on his tyres. It was not an unpleasant symphony to guide him home, and as he passed under the highway en route to Bristol, he began to relax.

It would prove to be a grave error of judgement.

The first time he woke, he was floating. A cloud perhaps? No. That made no sense. The sea? He hoped he wasn't floating in Gotham Harbour. He was getting too old for that amount of grime in his body. He floated, and drifted until he drifted back off to sleep.

"I got him, Bruce," a voice said the second time he woke. Did he know the voice? It sounded familiar. The way the vowels rolled off the tongue, and the cadence of the tone, they struck the precise part of his memory that (he assumed) dealt with that kind of thing. Like the reflex hammer test. "You don't have to worry about the case, or Gotham, or hunting anyone down. We've got it covered. Just focus on getting better." He could do that.

The third time he woke up, the cave was empty. He stared up at the ceiling, listened to the bats chittering and the inevitable pounding of his heart, and wiggled his toes. It hurt, but in that dull sort of way that implied he was on the heavy painkillers.

Bruce did not like the heavy painkillers. They made him stupid.

He did not try to move - despite the painkillers' best efforts he wasn't quite that stupid - but he did turn his head. At his side was a table with a jug of ice water, a pair of discarded nitrile gloves, and an empty plate. Someone had been here recently, then. He wondered who. Not Alfred, who would never leave dishes uncleaned; not Dick who was in Bludhaven, or Damian who did not eat sandwiches. Tim then? He remembered Tim's voice, he thought, when he was deeper under. But Tim would never leave him unsupervised while unconscious. Unless there was an emergency? That would explain the general silence. A sense of foreboding came over him like a the shadow of a cloud passing in front of the sun. Was that why there was no one here? What was happening? Was anyone hurt? Dead? What had happened while he was out?

Before he could struggle upright, a voice boomed from across the cave "Master Bruce, stay still!"

He stayed still. Froze, in fact, like a statue.

Batman, it was revealed, had sustained several broken bones, many bruises, some internal bleeding, and the kind of concussion that meant no screens for a week. This was... inconvenient. Batman had a relatively low caseload at that moment, but Bruce Wayne did in fact have reports and emails to write and documents to sign that could not wait but must, in the face of his injuries, be put to one side. It would not do for him to be seen working through injuries; he had a secret identity to keep, after all. Alfred, ever dutiful, called the office for him, told them an elaborate cover story that befitted the lifestyle of Bruce Wayne, and thus he was free of all responsibility until he was recovered.

He was going to go crazy.

For the first few days, Bruce was only barely aware of what was going on around him. Alfred had decided, against Bruce's protests, to keep him on painkillers that made everything just a little fuzzy around the edges, and when he wasn't it was because the dose was wearing off and the pain itself had a similar effect. He was not so stubborn that he could not admit, in the quiet of his own mind, that it hurt.

He slept a lot, in those first few days.

After that, he became aware of movement around him: Alfred popping in and out with medical supplies or food or water; Tim curled in the corner around his laptop, the screen lighting his face a pale white-blue; Dick in the hallway, shunting a protesting Damian down the hallway to bed at an hour Bruce hoped was reasonable; Damian himself, prowling in on silent leopard cub feet to perch at the end of his bed when he thought Bruce was sleeping. There were voices always in the corridor, but always they quieted before they reached his door. He began to wish they wouldn't. He wanted to hear everything, wanted to know what was going on in the world he couldn't go out into at the moment, wanted someone to report back to him. All his children were traitors who would rather follow Alfred's orders than his own (and he knew that it was Alfred who kept them from speaking to him in their vigils, who kept them quiet as they passed his door. He wasn't stupid). It began to chafe at him, the silence and the separation. He understood the need for calm and quiet convalescence - he was a realist and he had read multiple studies on this, hoping to find an alternative - but he increasingly found it did not help him. On the contrary, he was more worried, more tense, more (dare he say it) stressed, than he would have been had Dick just made a detour to his bedside every night and given him the rundown of what had happened on patrol. Instead, he had the occasional question from Tim relating to a case, always cold cases when outside the cave, never active ones, and his observations that the dark circles beneath Dick's eyes were growing darker, that Alfred's frown lines were growing deeper than his smile lines again, that Damian complained less every time he was ushered away from home.

His family were suffering, and he was stuck in bed.

It was enough to drive anyone mad. And Bruce, for all his acquaintance with aliens and demi-gods and otherworldly beings, was only human.

It was then, when he was about to drag himself down to the cave and suit himself up just to spare Dick the pain, that Alfred brought him something to do.

He had several weeks of recovery still to go, but he could read a screen now and could sit up in bed without too much pain, and Alfred had brought with him a jigsaw puzzle. Bruce did not enjoy jigsaw puzzles, and Alfred should have remembered this, but Bruce could forgive his lapse in memory after all the stress of the previous weeks. He suffered through one puzzle with Alfred and then begged him to bring something else.

Alfred next deposited Damian in his room with a request that they entertain each other for a few hours. They made stilted conversation for a short while, Damian performed a short piece on the violin, and then left him to his own devices. That stung a little.

For some reason that was beyond Bruce's comprehension, Jason stopped by with a book one afternoon while everyone else was out in the late autumn sunshine. He read in silence for a while until Bruce, tentatively, asked him a question about it. For ten minutes or more, they had a civil conversation - possibly their only civil conversation for a good few months - before Bruce messed it up by saying something that offended him, some faulty character analysis or positive remark about a terrible film adaptation, and suddenly their pleasant afternoon turned into a fight. When Jason left, he took the book with him and could not be enticed back by even Alfred's pleas.

Alfred allowed Tim to entertain him only once. Tim brought active case notes from downstairs and used Bruce as his rubber duck. They solved two cases in an afternoon and Bruce was feeling pretty good about himself. Using his brain had always helped when malaise or [fidgety-ness] kicked in and solving cases helped him feel useful. Alfred disagreed. Alfred despised their downstairs lives seeping into their upstairs lives, and besides, Bruce was meant to be resting. Tim was thus banned from Bruce's bedside until he could prove he could be responsible.

Dick stopped by every day, but not to do more than talk about nothing. It was normally in the ten minutes or so before Damian needed to be picked up, or just after dinner while everyone was busy before patrol. They talked about anything that wasn't Batman, because they could not talk like normal people about Batman. It was pleasant, but it did little to stop the itch beneath Bruce's skin or the way he could see Dick bottling all of his worry and hurt and anger and sadness deep inside. It helped, but only on the surface, and afterwards they were both a little the worst for it.

It was not until Steph had spent an afternoon doing spa treatments on his unprotesting form that Bruce put his foot down.

"No more," he told Alfred. "I understand what you are trying to do, and I appreciate it, but this isn't helping. I need something to do that is useful and productive and sending in the kids one at a time to entertain me is not either of those things." Except Tim he thought, but Tim got banned. Alfred considered his request with his usual grave look, hummed thoughtfully to himself, and then left to do whatever Alfred Pennyworths do when they are not imprisoning injured Bruce Waynes.

At half past three in the afternoon, as the sun began its slow slant towards the horizon and away from Bruce's window, Alfred returned. With him, he had a cloth canvas bag - visibly full but with no defined shape - and a binder full of papers. It was not a canvas bag Bruce recognised, although considering how infrequently he accompanied Alfred on errands this was unsurprising. From the bag, Alfred pulled a ball of yarn and two long straight knitting needles. Inwardly, Bruce groaned. He knew what Alfred was about to try and teach him and solemnly bade goodbye to his dignity. He'd had a good run, really, but even he could not escape the proliferation of 'old people hobbies'. Alfred set the yarn on his lap and stabbed the needles nearly all the way through, before diving back into the bag for another ball of yarn and another pair of needles.

"We'll start you off with something simple," Alfred told him, in a voice that implied he knew exactly what Bruce had just been thinking, "but it won't be long before you can knit any number of useful things. I hear young Master Damian was complaining about the bitter Gotham wind on his ears last night."

Picking up just the ball of yarn, Alfred gestured for Bruce to do the same. It was soft in his hands, slightly staticky in that way that acrylic fabrics often were, and Bruce held it like a baby bird, unsure of what to do next. Alfred unwound some of his ball, and clicked his tongue impatiently.

"We'll start with a slip knot, then long-tail cast on. Once you can manage that, we'll do some garter stitch until you're comfortable with your needles." Those were certainly words. Bruce turned them over in his brain, recognised their sounds but not their meaning, and furrowed his brow.

"You'll see," Alfred told him, instead of explaining what on earth he was talking about. "First you are going to take up your yarn a little way from the bottom, like this, and then make a loop like so," he demonstrated as he spoke, with sure, steady movements that spoke of years of practice. Bruce copied, feeling unsure and heavy handed.

"Exactly, Alfred praised. "Now take your working yarn and thread a loop of it through." Bruce stared at him in horror. Working yarn? Just another word he could not even guess the meaning of. He said as much to Alfred.

"That's the yarn attached to your skein Master Bruce, do keep up. Now you need to pull it all nice and tight and there you go. A slip knot." Alfred had a slip knot, to be sure. Bruce had...a mess. He tried again: made a loop, threaded some yarn through, pulled tight, made a knot that did not look like Alfred's. He sighed. Already, this skill was not for him.

After a few more failed attempts, Alfred simply took Bruce's hands in his and moved them to make the knot. Then, much to Bruce's protestations, he untied it and told Bruce to try it again. So that Bruce could do it for himself rather than relying on Alfred every time, he said. To his surprise, Bruce found it easier this time, and knew sort of where to put his hands and where each strand of yarn went. Alfred hummed approvingly and began to explain casting on.

Bruce was lost again within moments. He wondered when knitting would start making sense.

By the time Bruce was casting on correctly, the sun was dipping below the window sill and dimming light had Alfred looking at the clock.

"Goodness, is that the time?" he exclaimed in horror. "Master Bruce, I am sorry to leave you but I must prepare supper. Please continue to practice your casting on. When you think you can, cast on forty stitches and leave them on your needle. We'll begin with knit stitch tomorrow." With that, he swept out of the room, leaving Bruce with a ball of yarn, two needles, and only a vague idea of what he was doing. He shrugged, seeing nothing better to do with his time, and wrapped some yarn around his thumb to cast on another stitch.

True to his word, Alfred returned the next day with breakfast, coffee, and his yarn and needles. He did not come in politely, rather strode in and pulled back the curtains so the morning sun would stream into the room and rouse Bruce from his relaxing doze. After the coffee had been drunk and breakfast eaten, Alfred picked up his needles, deftly cast on a number of stitches, and began the arduous task of teaching Bruce knit stitch.

"Always keep your knitting in your left hand and your yarn in your right," he told Bruce as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

"But yesterday you told me to hold the yarn in my left hand and my needle in my right?" Bruce lamented. Alfred was not amused by his complaints.

"That was for casting on, now we are doing knit stitch. Now the needle in your right hand you insert through the stitch from front to back..."

Bruce tried to follow it, he really did, but it just could not penetrate the fog of the early morning, and he stared dazedly down at the neat row of cast on stitches on his needle. He picked it up, with a hand that felt clumsy and disjointed, and held the other needle and the yarn in the other. It was a little like using chop sticks for the first time, he decided: fiddly and unnatural to him, but perhaps would one day become muscle memory. He poked at the yarn with the needle. Alfred definitely said from the front to the back, right? But what side of the stitch? Or did he mean something else entirely? He glanced over at Alfred, who was merrily knitting row after row of neat, quick stitches. Should he ask him to slow down? But that would mean admitting defeat. He refused to be defeated by some yarn and a needle.

He pushed the needle through the stitch. That hadn't been so hard. What came next?

He wrapped the yarn around the needle, made sure to lock it in tight where the needles crossed. It... didn't look too incorrect at the moment. Perhaps he was doing something right after all.

He pulled the needle out...

The stitch unravelled.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, and immediately flushed scarlet when Alfred admonished him for it. It did cause Alfred to pay closer attention to Bruce's struggle, however, which he was grateful for.

"You were almost there," he said, "you just need to bring the right-hand needle to the front before slipping the stitch off the left-hand needle." It sounded so simple when he said it like that. "Try again. I'll help you."

Alfred did help him, again and again, until Bruce could manage a whole row of knit stitch on his own without dropping any of the stitches. At this point, Alfred left him in favour of housework and errands, but not without first instructing him to 'call upon me should you need anything, Master Bruce.' Bruce was determined not to need him. He turned the needle in his hand, inserted the other into the first stitch, and started another row. Then, when he got to the end of the row, he began another. And then another. Finally, after almost an hour and ten entire rows of knit stitch, he stopped. This was what Alfred had told him to do, but Alfred had left and could not tell him the next step. It grated on him, that he could make no more progress, but he swallowed it down, and instead picked up his phone. One of his boys would surely be willing to entertain him for a short while, or perhaps Cass or Stephanie. Failing that, one of them would no doubt collect a book for him from the library. Alfred would hate him straining his eyes so soon after a concussion, but needs must. There was precious little else to do trapped in his room, and at least a book was not a bright screen.

Just as he was about to press send, Alfred returned, a platter with cookies, a tea pot, and a pair of mugs in his hands. Settling himself back in place, he smilled at Bruce's progress.

"Well done, Master Bruce," he told him, then picked up his own needles. "Time for purl stitch, I think."

Purl stitch was Bruce's nemesis, he decided very quickly. Where knit stitch had come comparatively quickly, once he got used to the motions, purl stitch felt unnatural. It did not matter how many times Alfred told him, in that smooth and calm voice of his, that "it is just knit stitch but opposite," he just could not wrap his head, or his hands, around it. Time after time, he messed it up, dropped the stitch, wrapped the yarn around too many times, or didn't wrap it at all. Alfred showed him again, every time, though he must have been getting bored and frustrated, and even moved Bruce's hands for him a time or two. It did not help. It took over an hour for Bruce to correctly do a row of purl stitch, only to be told by Alfred that the next row muct be knitted instead.

"But I was just getting the hang of it," he groaned, about ready to put the whole thing away and give up.

"You see how your rows of knit stitch have made this wavy pattern?" Alfred told him, gesturing with his needle to the solid rectangle of knitting Bruce had already created. He nodded. "That is called garter stitch. Alternating rows of knit and purl are called stockinette and it looks more like your typical knitwear." That made a little more sense, he supposed. "After a row of knit stitch, you can do another row of purl and so on and so forth."

Bruce sighed, and picked up the needles for another row of knit stitch.

By the time they had repeated this three or four times, Bruce was more comfortable with purl stitch and could see what Alfred meant by his explanation of garter stitch and stockinette. It fascinated him, how simple yarn could make something like this, how wrapping and looping and pulling on a needle could make such sturdy fabric, how different variations, putting stitches in a different order, could make a completely new texture or pattern. Alfred instructed him to continue in stockinette until he had about ten inches of it, and showed him how to use the first knuckle of his finger to measure. That was another thing Bruce had never known or considered. He knew, of course, that there were certain proportions of the body that remained immutable, but he had always assumed that they were ratios, not precise measurements. If Alfred had not shown him how to measure inches using only his fingers, he would never have considered trying it. Inwardly, his mind was already churning, considering how this could be useful as Batman, but outwardly, he continued with his knitting, squinting in concentration until the movements became muscle memory.

Alfred had turned on the radio and, between ads, old songs played that Bruce remembered from his youth.  Between that and the cookies and tea, his afternoon felt golden, the kind of memory that he would squirrel away in his brain for the days when mustering up his courage and drive was a chore. After the weather forecast, the radio presenter softly introduced a rerun of an old radio drama, and Bruce was quickly sucked in, forgetting to concentrate on the movement of his hands. It did not matter overmuch: Bruce had always been adept at learning to use his body in new and unusual ways and this was no different. He blocked out the noise from outside the room, the distant sirens from the city, the clatter and chaos of his children enjoying their time in the sun, and savoured an afternoon knitting with Alfred.

He finished his ten inches just as Alfred had to leave to organise dinner, but Jason had curled up in the window seat sometime in the mid afternoon, so Bruce was not without company once everything had been packed away. They discussed Jason's latest read, a movie that Dick wanted to take Damian to see at the movie theatre downtown, a new recipe Jason intended to try, and nothing related to their masked personas. It was the only way, with Jason, to remain civil. When Alfred brought Bruce a tray with his dinner on, he requested Jason join the rest of the family at the dinner table, and Bruce tried not to ache in his absence.

After dinner, Tim materialised by his bedside, laptop tucked under his arm. He was not patrolling that night, he claimed, because he'd traded a patrol with Steph in exchange for covering her next week when she had an exam. Instead, he sat near Bruce and tapped away at an expenses report for WE. Occasionally he asked Bruce questions, although they both knew Tim knew the answers, so he'd feel included. Neither of them mentioned the knitting on the bedside table, or the bandages still wrapped around Bruce's body.

The next morning, Alfred brought him breakfast and showed him how to decrease the number of stitches on his needles.

"You knit two together," he explained, and guided Bruce's hand to do just that. It was easy, Bruce decided, and so it did not take so long for him to do some evenly spaced decreases every few rows until he only had a fraction of his original stitches on his needle. With every row, he could knit faster, and not just because he was growing better at it.

"What do I do now?" he asked when he had only 4 stitches left on his needle.

"Now," said Alfred, with a smile he did not normally let loose, "you bind off."

It was terrifying to watch and more terrifying to do, but once it was over, Bruce had something resembling a wonky, flattened, stretched out hat. Alfred, upon seeing Bruce's confusion, handed him a thick needle and gestured to the trailing yarn at the bottom. Oh, Bruce realised, and was relieved because this was something he could do without being shown.

The final product, Bruce could see, was in fact a hat, and it did not look quite so bad as Bruce had expected from his first ever piece of knitwear. It was lumpy and mishappen, loose in some places and tight in others, but it was hat-shaped and bulky and perfect for the coming winter. But it wasn't for him.

"Alfred," Bruce called, as the man in question got up to leave, "I want you to have this."

Alfred's voice was choked as he replied, though he did not acknowledge it.

"Thank you, Master Bruce. That is very kind of you." It was what Alfred used to say to him when he brought him drawings from school or cuttings from the garden to liven up his living quarters. It was what he had said when Bruce offered him a pay rise, after Batman took over so much of his life, though he had not accepted it. It was simply what he said whenever Bruce offered him something he loved dearly, but did not feel he deserved.

Bruce wanted him to feel he deserved it.

Even after Bruce had recovered from his concussion, Alfred wanted to keep him away from vigilantism and his kids, traitorous revolting children that they were, had betrayed Bruce in supporting him. He could leave the manor, could go to work at WE, could venture into the cave to work on cases or on the batcomputer, but no further. He could not don the cape and cowl just yet.

Bruce remained bored.

Except, he had something to do now didn't he? Something to occupy his hands and his thoughts, something productive to do that had nothing to do with Batman. He recalled the sensation of soft yarn beneath the pads of his fingers, the furrow of his brow as he concentrated on getting the right stitches in the right order, and resolved to knit something else. Just to tide him over until he was fully recovered. But what to knit? The easy answer would be to knit another hat - he already knew exactly how to do it after all - but that felt lazy. It felt impersonal and pointless. He mulled it over for so long he appeared distracted in his afternoon meetings. Tim noticed and told the others so they could spend the afternoon and evening mocking him for it. Fuck.

He kept considering it, but moved the thought to the back of his mind where it would be out of the way. That evening, Dick and Damian appeared in good spirits over dinner, discussing a stakeout they had planned, and the ice cream they had planned for after, but Bruce heard them return disheartened in the early hours of the morning, and through the gap he opened, he could see Damian shuddering with cold in the hallway. It had been a cold night, but not unseasonably so, except for the bitter north wind. Damian's cape had a hood, but it rarely stayed up and did little to protect his face from the elements...

Bruce was going to knit Damian the warmest, cosiest scarf he had ever seen.

Contrary to common belief, there were areas of Gotham that were relatively safe, even among the poor neighbourhoods people spent a lifetime trying to leave. There were parts of the city where the streets were wide enough not to brush against someone walking the other way, where the buildings were diligently looked after and the grafiti washed away as soon as it was put up. It was one of these streets that Bruce Wayne strolled down on a clear autumn day, face obscured by the brim of a baseball cap for a team he didn't even remember the name of. It was not the Gotham Knights, of that he was certain. The bell over the door jingled cheerfully as he slipped inside and made any attempt at subtlety useless, but Bruce didn't mind. He was here without Alfred and therefore required assistance. All around him was a kaleidoscope of colours, some bright, some pastel, some dark, some sparkly, some not colours at all. And above it all the lights were bright enough to blind. At least the noise of the city was fainter here.

"Can I help you sir?" the voice was surprisingly young, he thought. But why should a shop worker be old just because of the shop they worked in? It was a silly thought, and Bruce flicked it from his mind with the disdain he would show a speck of lint on his best suit jacket.

"I need to buy some yarn," he told the shop worker. Their name tag read 'Carly' in a clear, no-nonsense font. Carly smiled crookedly, the way Narrows kids smiled, and asked,

"What kind? We've got a selection." Bruce drew a complete blank. He knew the colours he wanted, certainly, but this implied that yarn could be more complicated than just colours. Seeing the look on his face, Carly continued, "do you know what weight you need? Colours? Do you have a specific fibre in mind?"

Colours. Bruce could tell her the colours.

"Red," he said, "and yellow, and black. Like Robin's uniform."

"Okay," she said, drawing out the last syllable. "Anything else? What project is it for?"

"A scarf," he told her shortly. "A big one." She blinked and seemed to realise that he was not being short with her on purpose, he just didn't have a clue what he was doing.

"Oh! Well for a thick winter scarf you'll probably want some chunky yarn, worsted at the lightest. I personally love alpaca for a scarf, but wool is also super warm. If you're looking for something cheaper we've got some nice acrylics though?" At the end of all this she took in a huge breath, as if saving air to answer another inane question.

"The money is no problem. The scarf is a gift. Whatever you think is best." Carly closed her eyes and Bruce could imagine her mentally wondering what she had done to deserve this. If it was torturous for him, he could only imagine what it was like for her.

"Okay. Alpaca, maybe a wool blend. Chunky. Yellow, red and black, like the Robin uniform. Shall we go look? I can show you where it is, in case you need more," Carly said. She was mostly talking to herself, so Bruce almost missed the question. He nodded and she turned towards the back of the shop.

It did not take them long to find some suitable yarn for Bruce's project. He had vastly underestimated how much he would need, suddenly juggling ten balls of yarn in three different colours. "You might need more later," Carly had said, "but this should be enough to give you a good start." Everything about this excursion was intimidating. The terminology Carly threw around was completely new to him; the walls filled with yarn were overstimulating; the choices were overwhelming. By the time they reached the counter, he was in a daze, barely aware of his surroundings.

"Do you have a pattern for this?" Carly asked on their way, and Bruce started. He had forgotten, somehow, that she was next to him.

"No?" he said, as if it were a question not a statement of fact.

"Ah. Well. You probably should. It would make your project a lot easier." And they were off again on another hunt, this time for a piece of paper that Bruce was sure he could find online.

Well over an hour after he first entered the yarn shop, Bruce stumbled back onto the street, squinting slightly at the afternoon light and clutching several plastic bags in his fists. He had acquired yarn. He had even bought some new needles and a pattern that he could barely parse. Time to go home and knit.

[alice-honeysuckle]

Book One of the Bristol Temptations Series.

|Chapter Two|

2. Tennessee Orange

They arrived at Chase's coach's shop an hour later. The drive was supposed to take two hours and thirty minutes. Chase had cut their time by more than half in the Dodge.

The gravel crunched and groaned under the weight of the car as they pulled into the lot. The huge garage held a sign the size of Chase himself that read 'Sully's Scraps N' Stuff'. The building was the size of a mini house, it could have fit several cars inside easily. Considering her brother was working with one of the richest men in the racing industry this was shocking. It kind of reminded her of home and their father's little garage.

     Chase brought the car to a stop in the middle of the garage and cut it off. They had barely gotten their doors open when she heard gravel being turned up from tiny running footsteps.

   "Roni! Chay!" Sully's seven-year-old grandson, Sammy, came bounding down the hill from the magnificent old farmhouse. His blonde hair was a mess and mud and oil splattered the front of his blue jean overalls. That didn't stop the little menace from running straight into Veronica's arms. She picked up the little boy and giggled as he landed kisses on her cheeks.

   "Sammy! You're gonna get me dirty!" Veronica laughed, ruffling his hair. He beamed a huge smile and pointed to a hole where his front tooth was missing.

    "Look, Roni, I finally lost my first tooth!" The word 'tooth' came out "toof" as he tried to open his mouth to show his gaping hole more.       

  "That's awesome, Sammy." Veronica smiled as the bundle of energy took off towards his grandpa, with Chase standing next to him and not looking too happy. Veronica watched as Sully sent the little boy inside, and Chase's face told her he was pretty ticked off about something that Sully was saying. She decided that if moving away from home was what she agreed to she would do things her way from now on.

So she started walking towards her brother and Sully. Her father had always told her 'Women do not belong in dangerous environments. Men are built for strength.' By God, she'd show her father he was wrong.

    "Chase, what's wrong?" Veronica looked to her now anxious-looking brother to Sully.

Her voice cut through Sully's aggravated whisper. His blue eyes went from Chase to her in a matter of seconds and she bit back a gasp. She'd grown up around Sully and he was never the one who instigated a fight. The man was loving and kind. Had raised his daughter's son because his parents had been killed in a car accident when he was less than a year old. So when he looked at her, the bright purple and green bruise with the swollen flesh around his eye made anger burn through her veins. Someone had messed with our family, and they were going to pay.

***

Sebastian arrived two hours later, right before dinner had been served. He'd brought his brother Owen along. They all had planned this since they were sixteen. The boys were a well-oiled machine, she was invited because she was Chase's younger sister (by five minutes). Chase would drive, Sebastian would do the maintenance, and Sully would coach. Sully made this all possible considering he co-owned Bristol Motor Speedway.

Veronica was there to be a spectator, but she was going to change that.

They all sat at the long dining table, a wall that was made entirely of a glass window looking out into the Tennessee countryside. In one corner of the property, horses roamed in an open field near a red and white barn. The table was made of a dark rich oak that was glossy from a waxing not long ago.

       "So you're telling me that Santiago did this to Sully?" Sebastian's deep voice reverberated down Veronica's spine and down into her core. He had been having this effect on her since the beginning of Junior year. He had been a senior. Chase nodded slowly, glancing towards Veronica with a little bit of anxiety. She had refused to be dismissed after Sully had taken Sammy upstairs for his bath.

"Sully said he saw him himself, right before he knocked him a good one." Owen commented, a lit cigarette dangling loosely from his lips and long slicked-back brunette hair that came to his shoulder and eyes the color of amber gold. He too was giving Veronica glances, but his was more of curiosity than malice. He was pacing her, wondering why she was here but not voicing that she shouldn't.

"Who is Santiago? And why did he 'knock Sully a good one'?" Veronica asked, quoting what Owen had said. His gaze darkened when the sentence came from her lips. They really didn't want her to know anything, did they?

"Santiago drives for Texas in the Bristol Series Cup. His family doesn't quite get along with the Davis's. When Santiago started racing, he wasn't quite pleasant to your brother." This had come from Sebastian, who had moved to sit at the far end of the table. His creamy ice blue eyes were full of quiet hate. Veronica had never seen such a look on her friend's face, he had always been gentle with them. Maybe she didn't know the boys sitting in front of her as good as she had initially thought.

"Then we should do something about it, teach them a lesson-" Veronica started.

     "Roni, why don't you head on to bed? We've got to wear Tennessee Orange with a bright face tomorrow." Chase said gently but not without authority.

She set her jaw and stood. She could feel Owen's eyes on her as she rose from her chair and headed towards the door.

***

Early the next morning the garage was abuzz. Dozens of men were working on several different cars and the sounds of air guns filled the air outside Veronica's window. She had chosen to wear a tight orange tank top with her daisy dukes. She was trying to decide between her knee high orange Converse or a pair of orange diamond incrusted sandals.

     "Definitely the Converse!" A sweet little southern voice filled the air. Veronica squealed and embraced the short blonde that had entered the room.

     "Cozette, oh my god girl it's been forever!"

Cozette giggled and looked around the room. Her green eyes matched her blonde hair so beautifully. They had met when they were ten at one of Chase's competitions in Tennessee. They'd been best friends since.

     "I was wondering when you city folk would bring their asses back down the road aways! How have you been, baby girl?"

     "I still haven't told Sebastian." Veronica confessed.

     "I knew it! Girl you have got to tell him. It's only going to keep eating at you inside. You are an amazing human being, there's absolutely no way he wouldn't want you." Cozette smiled, raising her eyebrow cheekily, making Veronica crack a giggle.

     "Fine. I'll tell him I need to talk to him after the football game on Friday. Only if you tell Chase how you feel about him."

     "No way." Cozette groaned.

     "Nope! You're totally doing it!" Veronica laughed and jokingly pushed Cozette.

     "Roni?" Sebastian tapped on the door, dipping his head inside. "Oh, hey Cozy."

     "Hey Bash." Cozy gave a little wave, and then winked at Veronica making her turn beet red.

     "Chase wanted me to tell you we'd be heading out. Don't want to be late for our first day of school."

     "Sounds like a plan." Veronica smiled. His black had grown so long the curly tendrils were hanging in his eyes. Her fingers itched to brush it from his face, just to see if it really was soft as it was in her dreams.

"Alright." He nodded and turned to leave.

"Bash, wait."

He turned back to her "Yes?"

"Converse or sandals?"

He chuckled and gave a small smirk

"Converse."

[vermillioncrown]

That seems like a clear and valid boundary to set to me? TBH I'm too busy thinking about the logistics of the backstory of gocart to be further invested in the romance than I hope fun discussions occur. Sorry if I've been distracting you hope you have a nice week!

nah lol i love talking shop about my fic, bc what else am i gonna do? write it?

psh

(ch 5 incoming, finishing the final bit and then doing some editing)

i'll do my best to have a nice week, basically deputy wrangler while my supe is out of town

=

bro I love thinking about the logistics of fictional infrastructure like holy fuck, what would be the layout, fuck the scrapped maps, what's actually a functional and logical layout given history of the place? also like, think about the bridges that would be in gotham?

over the bridge? into the bay? how far does the subway system go? i do note there's a commuter line from bludhaven but honestly, cars might still be more of a thing in the area

and like, the fact that gotham is a chunk of land that doesn't actually exist changes the highway infrastructure nearby, too. are the interstates different? depending on the history and demographic, maybe it doesn't because that'd necessitate a chunk of what would be bristol to be torn into for an interstate into what is a new economic center of the east coast and okay okay okay

[finelinevogue]

the lone wolf - I

Description - Harry is the Alpha and you're the Omega

A/N - this is my first au fic! be kind to her haha! let me know what you think about it in my inbox! i kinda love it so i hope you do too!

warnings : guns, violence

[ masterlist ]

Fear. A common word to most, but the most used word by you.

The bite was supposedly a gift. Not your typical fluffy socks on Christmas day type of gift, but more of a supernatural strength that heightened all your talents.

One that could make you lift up a car without breaking a sweat. One that could mean you could sniff off the emotions from a nearby person. One that could let you howl to the moon. One that came with responsibility and unfortunately, for you, one that came with solidarity.

You weren't fortunate enough to be the Alpha, nor the Beta. You were an Omega. The lone wolf. No pack and no family.

Your parents had abandoned you at birth. You were left to live with your grandma, whom had told you that your parents left you because they couldn't handle having a child at that time in their lives. Your "wolfie abilities", shall we say, didn't kick in until you were 15. You were left to learn how to control your powers for yourself. It was a traumatic time in your life, and one that you tried your best to hide from your grandma. Having to explain to her how you'd survived a pole being stabbed through your chest was difficult, to say the least.

At the age of 17 your grandma passed.

For the past 4 years of your life you had been a lone wolf. Scavenging off any scraps of food you could find. Running away from unwelcoming hosts. Taking precaution not to step into sacred land. You'd travelled across country, from the Scottish Highlands down to Lands End. You were tired of travelling and just wanted somewhere to call home now.

It was coming up to your 21st birthday now and you had entered new territory. You were somewhere down South, near Bristol, and you had yet to figure out what was sacred land and what was not.

This morning you'd awoken in the woods, that you'd found yourself in last night, freezing cold. You were hungry, after not being able to find food for the past few days. You were tired, after an uncomfortable nights sleep. You were alone.

You didn't have a set destination that you were heading to. You travelled wherever your feet took you. Your grandma had left you money, but you were always too scared to use it incase you ran out. As a result, you stuck to travelling solely by foot - which anyone could tell by your beaten vans - and eating food scraps out of bins or drinking water from small springs.

You tried to stay clear of any human, or wolf, contact where possible. You'd never been caught by werewolf hunters, and you'd never come across them, but you'd heard terrible stories about them. The things they do were unspeakable. Especially to Omegas. That's why you stayed clear of everyone. You didn't know who you could trust, and who might just be carrying a gun in their back pocket to shoot you.

Sudden, rushed, footprints perked up your ears. You estimated they were about 200 metres away or so, but there was barely anywhere to go within these woods. Nowhere to hide and be safe. It didn't help that you were very deep into the woods and couldn't see a clear exit.

Fear.

"Keep going! Don't look back!" You heard a voice shout from less than 100 metres away now. You could also hear the sound of car engines getting louder too.

Reminding yourself to get out of the situation and then panic was the first thing you told yourself. You looked around for any place to hide. A, thick, fallen tree was laying to your right. It was perfect. You rushed over there, using your impressive speed abilities, not forgetting to take your backpack with you, and crouched behind it. If it wasn't for the terrifying situation you'd gotten yourself into you might've stopped to take in the beauty of soft mosses, and lilac flowers, growing out of the decaying tree trunk.

"Sara, this way!" A male voice can be heard blowing through to the wind and reaching your ears.

"No Harry, they can cut us off that way! The East side is better so we can hide in the trees." Possibly 20 metres away now.

"Ugh. Okay!" You think the same male voice shouts again.

The sounds of 6 beating hearts can be made out really easily now. It was like an eruption of banging drums to your ears. After not hearing anything but your own breathe and voice for a few weeks, it sent your brain into a wave of shocks. The sounds of the car engines got louder too and then stopped.

Out of nowhere 5 individuals jumped over the tree trunk your were hiding behind, so gracefully - not one having a shitty landing - and ran over to the trees to the East. You could smell the wet-dog stench radiating off of them all now. They were a pack of wolves. A proper pack, with Betas and and an Alpha. You'd come across a few packs in your time but none were kind enough to let you in and some were too scary for you to want to join.

It quickly made you think about what, or whom, they were running away from. If it were hunters you didn't stand a chance. Maybe you should follow through with their plan and hide up in the trees?

You collected your bag, once again, tightening the straps, and made plans to move. Until a hand cupped over your mouth and another held tightly around your waist so you couldn't move. If it weren't for the fact you had an impeccable sense of smell, then you'd admit that you were about to die. However, since you did and you smelt wet-dog, you knew you were semi-okay.

"Don't move." A husky, rugged, voice whispers in your ear.

Your breathing become really heavy, since you'd not had this close of contact with another person since your grandma. Your ears picked up the sound of approaching feet, and a few sounds a clicking guns too. They were giving off your standard human smell. Hunters.

You didn't want to die like this.

You didn't like being man handled by this unfamiliar wolf. If there was one thing your grandma taught you, it was to stay clear of strange men. You wriggled out of his grasp and tried to escape his rough hold.

"Stop." He whisper shouted in your ear, sending chills down your spine. He had a beautiful voice. It was so calm and angelic, compared to the life he most likely lived.

"Stay away." You whisper shouted back, finally freeing yourself. You made a run for it, straight through the clear line of trees.

"There's one!" One of the, suspected, hunters shouted and within seconds the woods turned into a shooting range. Bullets were flying everywhere, and you'd taught yourself to run in a zig-zag formation. It was easier for a bullet to hit you if you were running in a straight line.

You didn't look back and kept running further in to the woods. You heard the sounds of engines starting up again and running feet. Your backpack was heavy, and was slowing you down to what your usual pace was.

Forwards was the only way you knew how to do things, so that's what you did. Sprinting straight-forwards with no acknowledgement of what's going on behind you. You didn't need to dwell on what you'd left behind, only on looking forwards and reaching for something new. You couldn't shake that boys voice, though. It was as if someone had permanently pinned it at the front of your mind and his voice was going to be on replay until the next time.

You were so caught up in running forwards that you didn't notice someone running to you from your side. It was only when you made a quick look to your right and saw them jump at you, at the last minute, did it click. They engulfed your body in their arms, the smell ensuring you they weren't a hunter. You landed on the floor with a thump, their whole body hovering over you. They had your arms pinned down, and your legs trapped between theirs so you couldn't move even slightly.

"Stay down this time." The voice pulled you from your struggling. It was the same voice as before. It sounded more desperate and urgent this time though.

Looking up you were caught off guard. The man in front of you was the definition of a God. He wasn't a werewolf, he was a God. If not, the God. His forest green eyes matched the scenes around you. His chizzled jawline was surely crafted by a stone-mason themselves. He was pure perfection. The golden glow his skin gave off was luring and the smell of a fresh perfume was so intoxicating. His lips were a whole different ball game. Just wow.

You noticed how your breathings were both laboured, but both in sync. You looked in to his eyes, as he looked in to yours, as if you were having a conversation through them. It was when you felt a tingle at the back of your neck that you became aware that you might actually come to have a conversation, not through your eyes, but rather your minds. You'd heard of werewolves being able to telepathically communicate, but it was rare and there had to be a strong connection between the two parties.

The tingle at the top of your spine lasted all of two seconds before you noticed how his eyes were now glowing a deep red. They were mesmerising. Not as beautiful as their natural colour, but still beautiful.

He was an Alpha. The Alpha of his pack.

His red eyes burned in to yours and forced you to change the colour of your eyes too. Yours shone a golden colour though. The Alpha smirked, before looking hard in to your eyes.

"Can you hear me?" His voice echoed loud throughout your head, without him having to open his mouth.

You nodded your head, too paralysed by his shear beauty and power to concentrate on answering back.

He smiled back before returning to his natural eye colour, as do yours.

"Stay here." He whispered, but looked at you sternly to make sure you'd obey this time. There was no point in running. The hunters would be closer this time and you now knew that the beautiful man could outrun you.

He peeled himself off of you and slowly crouched upwards, peering his head around to locate any rogue hunters. You couldn't hear any heartbeats or footsteps, but then again you were still in shock about the enchanting man in front of you to use your heightened senses.

In a split second footsteps could be heard running in your direction. The Alpha quickly came back to your side, almost crouching in a protective manner around you.

Feet suddenly appeared at your side, making you jump out of your skin. They thundered down on to the floor.

"Jesus Adam, you idiot!" Green-eyes shouted, signalling that he knew the guy. "Where the hell did you even come from?"

"The trees." Adam replied casually, chewing loudly on the gum he was carrying.

"Of course you did."

"And who do we have here, Harry?" Adam asked, but you were more focused on how fitting Harrys' name was to him. Beautiful name for a beautiful man.

"I'm not sure yet." Harry answered, standing up and dusting off his dirty jeans.

"Got a name, darling?" Adam asked.

You looked up at him and then back down to the floor. You go to stand up but Harry offers his hand out, for you, before you push yourself up.

The second his skin touched yours sent electric sparks all off through your body. Harry must've noticed it too, because as soon as he'd pulled you up he quickly let go of your hand. The absence of his hand didn't stop the tingles from disappearing though.

"Where are the others? And the hunters?" Harry asked, clearing his throat and focusing back on Adam.

"Sara ran the hunters East, off your trail. Cole went with her. As for Rachel and Freddie, I don't--"

"Right here." Two more figures enter the scene. They looked like twins - younger than you.

"You two alright?" Harry asked kindly, looking over them to check for any injuries - unlike he had done for Adam.

"Yeah. We just waited out in the trees like you told us to do." Rachel spoke up.

The four of them start to engage in a conversation that you didn't feel right was to pry in on. You adjusted the straps on your backpack accordingly and took one last glance at the group. They seemed so lovely, but you didn't want to set yourself up for disappointment when they tell you that they don't want you in their pack. It was your time to go. God knows where though.

Running away was something you'd been doing your whole life.

You found out that you didn't even need to run away, you were able to just casually walk away from them all. Whether that was because they were too in focus of their conversation, or whether they simply didn't care, you left easily.

His green eyes were all you could think about.

Even though you'd barely spoken two words to Harry, you'd felt a connection with him and it only made you want to stay and find out more. You'd miss him, that's for certain. It was worse knowing he wouldn't miss you. He was an Alpha. He could choose anyone he wanted and girls would swoon. He might not even be into girls, you thought to yourself. He so many to choose from, and you'd be foolish to think he'd pick you. The lone wolf. The Omega. A cast out and an orphan.

All you've ever wanted is just for some stability. For someone to stay. You didn't get to have things like that, though. If you were a Christmas dinner you'd be the Brussel sprouts. Harry would be the gravy - because who doesn't love gravy.

The later it became in the day the more you realised how lost you were. You were hoping to meet a main road, or even a dirt path, before nightfall but that didn't seem to be the case. Luckily, for you, your impeccable vision let you see in the dusky, dark, forest. You could make out all the shapes of low-hanging branches before they could attack you around the face.

The moon wasn't at it's fullest and for that you were thankful. Spending nights alone on a full moon were torturous. You had never been taught how to fully control it and you never could calm yourself down. It always ended up with you claws ripping through your palms and major panic attacks. Thankfully you'd never hurt anyone else - not that you'd been near anyone to hurt anyways.

Your ears immediately perked up to the sound of approaching footsteps. There were lots of them too. You might've thought it was Harry and his pack if it weren't for there being 12 pairs of feet, instead of 6, and what was worse; there was no wet-dog smell. Hunters.

Looking all around you frantically, spinning in circles, you tried to pinpoint where they were. You could hear them everywhere and it was messing with your senses. You couldn't focus and there wasn't a clear image of where they were.

Fear.

Before you could even register it, even with supernatural gifts, 12 armed hunters stepped out from the shadows. They all held their guns high and they were all aimed at you.

"Get on you fucking knees!" One of them shouted at you.

You were too in shock you were paralysed to your standing spot. You looked around you intensely, seeing how you could get out of this mess.

"Right now!" The same person shouted back at you. It was hard to tell whether it was a man or a woman because it was so dark and they were wearing masks.

You were sharply nudged by a gun on your back and someone kicked your leg from underneath you. You crashed down onto the floor with a big thump, your head hitting the hard ground.

"Take her bag." Someone ordered.

"NO!" You protested, struggling to keep them from restraining you. Everything you owned was in that bag. Your life and your home was in that bag. It was like your shell, if you were a hermit crab. It may not be much to some people, but to you it was. It carried old photos of your grandma and you. It contained maps of the country. Books to read in your spare time. Scraps of food and water. Most importantly your diary - the one your grandma had started writing in and had told you to keep on writing in it for her. It was all you had left of her, excluding the photos, and you weren't going to be separated from it easily.

"Keep her down you idiots." You struggled more and more, until they managed to rip your backpack off of your back. Tears silently fell down your face. You shut your eyes tight and tried not to think of all the ways they were about to torture you.

Tasering? Electric shocking? Stabbing? Shooting?

You struggled no more and accepted that this was only going to end badly. Until you remembered how you'd managed to communicate with Harry through your minds. If you could just concentrate and focus in on his mind, then maybe you could send out a call for help. You shut your eyes and tried to remember the feeling from last time.

"Harry? If you can hear me I really need your help, Harry, please. I think i'm going to die. Please. Help." You talked to him, hopefully, through your mind, keeping your eyes closed for a reply. There was no tingling on the back of your neck though, or voice calling back to you.

You were alone. The Omega.

"Get her on her feet. We're going back to base." Someone commanded. You'd only just come to notice that your hands had been bound together by a rope, behind your back, preventing you from moving at all. All you could do was continue to cry. You were too weak to do anything to help yourself.

Rough hands grab at your biceps and lift you up off the floor. You felt so empty that you didn't co-operate in moving your feet. You caught sight of your backpack on the floor, all its remains tipped out beside it.

"Make sure that shit gets burnt." The person in front of you instructed, motioning towards your backpack, before encouraging for the people carrying you to follow them.

"No! Please!" You cry in protest, but only get painful fingers digging into your arms, more, as a response.

You walked for around five minutes, crying to yourself the whole time, thinking of how everything that you once had was now dead or burnt. Your legs hurt from being dragged along the floor, probably dripping with your own blood from all the bushes and rocks that had scratched you, but the people holding you were moving too fast for you to stand up.

The sky was a beautiful black canvas, with thousands of glimmering white stars dancing around on it. You looked up to them and thought about how small, irrelevant and insignificant you were in comparison to everything else.

As your eyes wandered around the path you were currently following, everyone abruptly stopped - causing you to be pushed down onto the floor. The hunters re-arranged their guns around their necks and held them up, pointing in front of them.

"Well if it isn't Harry Styles." Someone up front taunts.

Harry Styles? Harry? As in green-eyed Alpha Harry?

"You've got twenty seconds to let her go Carl." It was Harry. You'd recognise that voice anywhere. It sent ripples of warmth throughout your body, making all the pain seem distant.

"And why would I do that?" Carl asked.

"15." Harry answered back. If it were you in this situation you would've bowed down to him already, because man was he intimidating.

"Your silly threats don't scare me Styles. From where i'm standing I have the upper advantage." You can practically feel the smug smirk on Carls face.

"5.”

"Stupid boy." Carl chuckled.

"0." Harry said, louder this time. It made sense why, though, when all of a sudden the rest of his pack jump out from the bushes and pounced on every hunter, until they were all disarmed. You felt arms on the back of your hands and you were quick to swat them away.

"Woah, hey. It's alright. I'm gonna cut your ropes free." The man you recognise as Adam knelt behind you, using a sharp blade to cut you free.

Once you had your hands back, you rubbed your wrists to ease some of the pain - knowing it will soon disappear. The scratches on your legs were starting to fade already, just leaving behind painful memories of being dragged along the floor. You stood up to notice Harry was staring down, presumably Carl, with his glowing red eyes. The other members of his pack had their claws out and ready to attack.

Your backpack, you thought. Whilst Harry and his pack fend off these imbeciles, you can run back to get it.

You made a quick dash for it, heading straight back in the direction you'd just come from. Jumping over rogue branches and splashing into little puddles. You looked behind you to make sure there wasn't a hunter on your trail, and thankfully there wasn't. You'd definitely have to thank Harry for everything - if you ever saw him again.

Approaching the area where your bag had been you slowed down. You looked hesitantly around the area, tugging at the roots of your hair in frustration.

"No, no, no." You whispered to yourself. Everything was gone. There was no sign of anything. They must have really burnt your shit. To the point where it was finer than ash. You rested your palm over your mouth to stifle a sob.

"I get the feeling you don't want to be around me." You swiftly turn around to be met with Harrys charming face. You'd be lying if he didn't send a wave of comfort over you, but also everything was falling apart around you. You mustered up a small smile and shook your head, before returning to look around at the floor space around you. "You don't speak much either." He stated the obvious, making you secretively roll your eyes at him.

"It's been a while, that's all." You answered, not wanting to sound rude.

"Ah. So you're an Omega?" Harry asked, but you had the feeling he already knew the answer to that. You continued to look around the area, Harry following your every move. "Looking for anything in particular?"

"It doesn't matter." You shook your head at him, finding it frustrating how he was asking son many questions. If you wanted to be interrogated you'd get yourself arrested.

"Tell me your name." Harry demanded, and you could feel him really close behind you.

"Why?" You questioned, coming to a stop to huff in anger. Those bastard hunters had really taken and burnt everything. You had nothing.

"Because i'll give you this in exchange." You turned around and eyes went wide. Harry knew how to play someone, that's for sure. This whole time he's been acting unbeknown to what you were doing, but secretly he's been pretending all along.

The Alpha has not only saved your ass but also your backpack's too. How he had it you had no idea, but you would be forever in his debt because of it.

You subconsciously rushed forward to grab the bag, but Harry held out his hand to prevent you.

"Ah, ah. Name." Harry stated seriously, wanting your response.

"How do you know you I won't lie to you?" You smirked, thinking you'd outsmarted him.

"Darling, i'm an Alpha. I can tell when someone's lying to me." His voice became deeper and he stepped closer to you, making you weak at the knees. The smell of his cologne sending serotonin in waves through your body.

You gulped lightly before nodding. "Y-Y/N. My name's Y/N."

"Well Y/N," he handed you your backpack back, which you snatched off him eagerly, "welcome to the Pack."

Before you could answer, or even register what had just happened Harry was already walking off. Did he just say what you think he just said? Did someone just offer you a place in a pack? A decent one at best?

You couldn't help but feel a warmth inside. Something you hadn't felt in a very long time.

"You coming or what?" Harry shouted, looking over his shoulder at you from where you were still stood in the same spot. Your swung your bag over your back and tightened the straps.

You placed one foot in front of the other and jogged to catch up with Harry. You were so lost in your own thoughts, over honestly everything, that you didn't catch sight of Harry staring down at you with a charming smirk.

Maybe you wouldn't have to live in fear, forever, anymore.

[ part II ]

[daemoninwhiteround2]

VAMPIRE DICK! VAMPIRE JAYDICK. PLZ.

Jason cursed a blue streak as he slammed the trunk shut, thunder rumbling in rhythm to his words. He was going to hunt down his siblings and fillet whichever one decided to use the spare tyre and not replace it. It was the worst possible timing to get a flat too: it was night, it was pissing down rain (and that thunder was getting louder), and he was smack dab in the fanciest part of Bristol. At least if he'd been in the city proper there'd probably be some all-night tyre store within walking distance that he could go and pick another one up at, but out here? There's nothing but estates for miles.

And he can't even call an emergency mechanic to come help him because of course the moment he got out of the car his phone slipped out of his hand and landed in a puddle so big it had actually sunk. He'd fished it out immediately but it was completely black and non-responsive. He's got it upright in the cup holder right now in the vain hope that the water will drain out and he won't have to scrounge up the funds for a new one, but with the way his luck is going tonight...

The one good thing is that he passed the turnoff to one of the massive manor houses not 30 seconds ago and he's fairly certain he remembers seeing lights on in the distant house. He's a pitiful, water-logged sight and maybe that'll be enough for one of the servants to let him use a phone to call one of his siblings and get them to buy a tyre and get an Uber out here.

He sighs, puts his wallet in his back pocket (maybe he can offer to pay?), locks the car and trudges off.

--

The rain gets so heavy that he's almost on top of the white marble gate posts before he actually sees them. Fuck he hopes they'll let him borrow a towel, and if their generosity can stretch to an umbrella for the walk back, he'll never have a bad thing to say about the--he squints at the name helpfully engraved in the plaque above the intercom--the Waynes again.

He takes a deep breath, pulls on his friendliest, hapless customer service voice, and presses the buzzer.

"Uh, hello? Is anyone there?"

There's silence for long enough that Jason's gut sinks into his stomach.

"Please explain your business," an elderly, British man says.

Jason gives a sheepish grin and tries to look as not-murdery as possible. These things have cameras, right? "Hi, I'm so sorry to bother you, I'm Jason Todd, I got a flat tyre a little ways down the road and was hoping I could borrow your phone to call one of my siblings to come help me? Mine isn't working."

There's another beat of silence. Jason keeps the grin on even as ice creeps down his spine. It had taken a solid 15 minutes to get from the house before this to here, and he doesn't even want to think how long a 15 minute trip by car might take when walking in this weather.

Finally the intercom buzzes back to life. "I've unlocked the gate. Come in and head straight down the road, someone will meet you at the front doors."

Relief nearly takes Jason's knees out from underneath him. "Thank you, thank you so much--I'll be right there!"

The gates swing open. If they make a noise Jason can't hear it over the storm. The house is set far back from the road, of course, and what's probably only a couple of minutes by car takes him almost fifteen and he slips over twice. He manages to just go to his knees the first time but the second time he fully falls over, pushed by the rain and the wind, and scraps the shit out of his palms. By the time he gets to the front doors he's got mud splattered all up his right side and he's trying to be grateful for the rain because it's at least washing it away, even if it stings like a bitch in his cuts. He would do hideous things for a hot shower right now.

He stumbles up the stairs--hits his shins on them, fuck this night is just a total write off--and he's never been so grateful for the weird little enclosed bit whatever this style of architecture has because he's finally out of that fucking rain.

As if in agreement, sheet lightning flashes everything in black and white and thunder booms so loud and close that Jason actually jumps.

...Maybe when he sees the road rash and the mud the nice British man will offer to drive him back?

Speaking of, Jason's fairly certain he said that he'd meet him at the doors, and he kind of assumed that meant outside, that they didn't want him inside--fair enough, Jason didn't really want to go inside. But no one is there.

He swallows, cracks his neck and knocks on the door with his non-injured hand.

His knuckles have barely left the wood after the first knock when it's thrown open. A young man--much younger than Jason was expecting--stands there, and when he sees Jason, a massive smile blooms across his face.

"You made it! We thought you'd been swept away with the wind and the water!"

There's a trace of an accent there, just enough to make him sound sweeter, but definitely not the accent Jason was expecting.

"Uh..."

"Hi! I'm Dick! Well, Richard, but everyone calls me Dick! Come in come in, look at you, you're soaked!" He grabs Jason's wrists and drags him across the threshold.

The temperature change is nearly enough to make Jason moan--it's so nice in here.

"It's soaked through--here, take off your jacket, we brought towels down."

Richard--Dick--has his hands out waiting for Jason's jacket. When Jason just blinks blankly at him he has the audacity to wriggle his fingers. "The towels were just taken out of the dryer."

"Oh well in that case," Jason says dryly, but he does peel off his soaked, clinging jacket and give it to Dick. There is indeed a beautiful stack of fluffy white towels on a little table next to the door and when Jason grabs one it is toasty warm. Jason's fairly certain he does make some sort of weird noise at that but in his defence he'd just walked through a hurricane and his reward was warm, fluffy towels; he earned the weird noise.

Dick clucks his tongue and grabs his injured hand. "Just look at what you've done to yourself."

"Ah, yeah, kind of slipped over. Sorry about the mud, as well. Don't suppose you have a band-aid to go with them towels I could allow borrow?"

Dick just looks at Jason, his eyes.

His eyes.

They're so blue.

Dick smiles and everything just goes.

Quiet.

"So, Al says that you're just here to use the phone, but I've got to say, Jay, I think you'll be staying for longer, ok?" Dick cradles Jason's injured hand like... Like it's holy. He bends over it and for an inane moment the thought that he's going to turn it over and kiss Jason's knuckles floats through Jason's cotton-filled mind.

He just licks a long line from Jason's wrist to where his fingers meet his palm, and hums in delight. "Yeah, you're gonna stay with me for a while Jay."

Jason would like that. Whatever Dick wants.

[captainlordauditor]

300x3 7:02

300 words 3 times a week etc

I wrote this Tuesday and then just..completely forgot to post it. This is I guess the thing I’m gonna be poking at when I need a break from earth 988 but I’m staying in Batman? It’s basically the same concept of messing around with the timeline by moving up a character’s birth several years but with Jason, so I’ve labeled it earth 488. Timeline’s not super worked out so the ages are subject to change. 1729 words.

Warnings for brief mentions of drugs, CSA, etc, standard Batman warnings I guess

The kid’s in college when Bruce first meets him, or rather he should be; instead he’s hotwired the Batmobile and taken it for a ride, and Batman finds him several streets away from where he left it, grinning fit to burst, classic rock blaring out the open windows. He slams the brakes when he sees the local cryptid in front of him and stops just short of hitting Batman, but he doesn’t lose that grin the whole time.

“You gonna turn me in or what, Batsy?” His eyes are a rusty blue green like the water in the bay in the summer, and Batman sees a reckless storm in them. His eyes are like justice; his eyes are like liberty.

He should be angry, should be fuming, especially tonight, but he’s not. He laughed himself stupid when he found the car missing and it’s a struggle to keep himself from laughing again when confronted with the thief. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He tilts his head, easy, like he’s having the most casual conversation in the world. “Wanted to see if she drives as pretty as she looks.”

Batman sighs, watching him. “You must be very good, to get past the security measures.”

He shrugs. He’s too thin, too small, his jacket hanging off of him like Batman’s cape. “I do alright.”

The Bat glides over to the drivers side door. “Show me.”

He tries to drop the kid off at the only group home in the neighborhood, but the kid laughs his head off when he sees the building. “That’s my grandma's place,” he says. “Taught me all I know. She’s running a museum heist tonight, you know that?”

Batman’s heart stops. He turns his head, watches the thief in the seat next to him, his head rolled back against the seat. His red-black hair is mussed from the wind, his eyes are sparkling with laughter. He looks godly; he looks obscene. Batman wants to see him like this again.

“Goes to show, right?” says the thief. “Everything good in Gotham rots.”

Batman releases the parking brake. “That’s not true.”

“Sure it is. What’s rotting you, Batsy?”

“Which museum?”

He sees the thief again the next week, walking the Bowery without a shirt under his jacket. He saunters over to the Batmobile and drapes himself against the door, displaying his skinny bare chest for Batman to admire. Batman thinks of what it would be like to wrap him in the warmest blanket in the manor. “You finally here to rot with the rest of us, Batsy?”

“I thought you were a thief,” Batman says. 

“I’m whatever you want,” he replies, and Batman doesn’t know why he was so much more attractive stealing a car than when he’s openly flirting. “I can even be your Robin for the night, if that’s what you’re after.” He tilts his head, smile fading. “Is that what’s rotting you, Batsy?”

Batman’s jaw twitches as he clenches it. He’s heard the insinuations before, and he’s never liked them. “I’m looking for Two Face.”

The man’s face turns from contemplating the edge of anger to a hard determination. Batman decides he likes it. “Yeah, I know where he is.”

Batman doesn’t know what it is that makes him unlock the door and say, “get in,” but he does.

“I’ll miss work if I do that,” he says. He leans in closer. “Or I could give you a discount. Call it two hundred for the whole night.”

In this area, Batman’s sure that’s not his usual pricing. “I’ll pay you after we catch Two Face.” Last week he ran off before Batman could talk to him; he doesn’t want to lose another chance for conversation.

He opens the door and settles in the car, sprawls on the seat, opens the window, lights a cigarette. Virginia slim. “Heard his guys talking plans two days ago. Were in the next room over from mine for the night. Said they’re hitting the Lucky Dollar Casino.”

“That’s in Bristol.” Bristol has looser gambling laws. It’s an effort to control vice, send it out of the city. Batman can’t say it works.

He shrugs, watching Batman through heavy lidded eyes. Batman thinks of what it’d be like to take that cigarette from his mouth and kiss him gently. Instead he says, “If Robin smells that on the seats, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He laughs, a quiet genuine snicker of amusement, nothing like the shrieks of thrill and irony he gave last week. Batman wants to hear that sound again. “Where is he, anyway?”

“It’s a school night.”

He gets his wish. “You’re a wonder, Batsy. Didn’t know you cared so much about that punk.”

“He’s not a punk.” Alfred used to say he spent too much time in the past; maybe so, because this is still his reflex when people use that word, even if he knows it’s not what they mean.

“He’s out here running around with you, isn’t he? Beating up robbers in a pair of booty shorts.” He takes a drag on his cigarette and Batman looks at him and wonders that he knows what he just said.

“It’s a leotard. Acrobat’s gear.” He ignores the thief’s snort.

Two Face gets away, but Batman gets the hostage he took, so he considers it a half successful night.  He comes back to the car where the other man is waiting, his feet up on the dash. He finished his first cigarette around the time they got here, but he’s already halfway through another one.

He taps his knuckles against the window, bounces his leg. “I know you said you’d pay me after you caught him, but I’m not waiting until tomorrow.”

“I’ll pay you tonight.” Batman starts the car. 

His name is Jason; he’s nineteen years old. Batman’s glad of that, because from his height and build, he thought Jason was younger. He feels less guilty about looking at him now.

He eats steadily, watching Batman like he knows the food won’t disappear but thinks Batman might. He doesn’t, not yet; he’s finding he likes Jason when he’s not acting a part, or at least when he’s toned it down. He has a good brain and a quick wit, even if his humor is a little raw. 

“Can you only steal cars?” 

He shakes his head, licks ketchup off his thumb. It’s not sensual at all, just a habit gained from starvation, eating every scrap of food, and that makes it all the better. His eyes meet Batman’s over his hand. “M’not so good with safes, but I can do windows and pockets fine. ‘M a pretty good shot. Can do explosives okay, if you give me a gun I can probably fix it. I know how to dilute coke and what to do if someone ODs on Harry.” He takes a long drag of soda through his straw, not looking at Batman. It’s the first time he’s avoided eye contact. 

After a moment, he looks back up. “I can conjugate German and translate Latin. Read the Odyssey a couple times. It’s better in Greek.”

His brain, unbidden, supplies him with the image of Jason laid out before him like a god, Bruce and poetry against his mouth. He would do for this Jason what Medea could not do for hers, he hopes, and win his loyalty.

 He banishes the thought. No, this is not Jason; this is Ganymede, and Batman will not be as Zeus. “Why work the streets then?” He asks instead.

He pauses, looking at his food and then back at Batman. He’s leaning forward over the table and there’s barely a foot between them. “I like it,” he says. It has the straightforwardness of honesty. “If I do drugs or enforcement I’d have to work for someone else. There aren’t any gangs here I like enough to sign away my soul. Not yet.” He slides his leg forward to brush up against Batman’s under the table, so lightly Batman’s not sure he’d notice it if it weren’t for his training. There’s no shock, no static, but it feels electric nonetheless.

“There are options,” he tells Jason. He doesn’t dare move his leg.

“I haven’t been to a proper school since I was ten,” Jason retorts. “What options do you mean? Drown in debt to get through college so I can get a job above the table? A corporation’s just the same as a gang, except you can’t snitch and send them to jail when they treat you like shit. Besides,” he leans back, doubling the distance between them, stretching it into an infinity, slips his leg away from Batman’s. “You arrested Maroni. You took apart the Blackgaters.”

Batman looks away. Those eyes are piercing him, bearing down on him like the god of justice come down to judge him. It’s a rude reminder, that he doesn’t always do good; a stab in the gut that his choice removed that of somebody else, somebody with greater stakes in the game. 

But Jason is right; Batman did arrest Maroni, and he did take apart the Blackgaters, for the most part. It’ll be a month or so before the void is filled where the fence was before, when the rest of Gotham is sure he’ll lose the trial. The Blackgaters will follow, only once they have a place closer than Penguin to sell the parts off the cars they steal.

And in the meantime, Jason will walk the streets. In December.

Batman never thought he’d feel guilty about arresting someone for a crime he knew they’d committed, but here he is. How many other car thieves are in the same boat? He almost wonders if he should let Two Face go, but then he remembers the shots fired and the hostage held tonight, and scolds himself for thinking such a thing.

Maybe Jason’s right, everything good in Gotham rots. Sometimes there are no good choices, no good answers.

He gives Jason his two hundred, in eight twenties, so it’s easy to break, tucks the lone fifty in his wallet over it and calls it a tip. Bruce Wayne may carry hundreds to give to the homeless like candy, but Batman doesn’t. He leaves it on the table beside the wrapper for a burger and when Jason goes to throw out his trash, he vanishes.

[magpie-69]

As a police officer, has someone ever been so terrified when you pulled them over for something minor that it broke your heart?

Not sure of the exact date, but it would have been mid to late ’80s in Bristol city centre.

Late one evening I was in a crew of 6 in a transit van when we saw a knackered looking Fiat 127 (they were never brilliant when new, let alone one that was 15 years old!). Half of the lights were out, smoke from the exhaust (and lots of noise).

Pulled the car over, and found it contained 2 adults and 3 children (all under 6 or 7 at a guess). Occupants were of obvious Asian descent (not unusual for that area of Bristol), so I started to ask the usual questions whilst a colleague looked over the car (which was found to have 3 bald tyres, no window wipers and a lot of rusty holes in the bodywork).

The driver and adult passenger were almost in tears, and trying to speak in English, which wasn’t that great. I established that they were Mauritian, and had only arrived in the UK that day. Once I spoke to them in French they looked relieved (my French isn’t brilliant, but was better than their English). He produced a Mauritian Driving Licence, and when asked for insurance and registration for the car (which they had purchased upon arrival at the airport), they produced a hand-written receipt showing that they had paid £1000.00 cash for the car! (it was worth about 20 quid scrap value, and certainly shouldn’t have been on a road). Even worse, he proudly produced another hand-written “Insurance Certificate” for which he had paid the car seller another £300.

They had come here to attend a family funeral, and had been royally ripped off by some scumbag near Heathrow as they needed to get down to Bristol as soon as possible.

Obviously, we couldn’t let them continue driving as it was unlikely to get them very far anyway, and was a liability to everyone else on the road.

I had no intention of getting my pen anywhere near to an official ‘ticket’, and explained the game to my Sergeant - who fully agreed with me.

All the time, the family were getting more and more upset as they started to realise the situation they were in and the trouble they thought they were in.

We took them back to our station (and a colleague drove their car), fed and watered them, spoke to relatives by telephone, and sorted out as much as we could at that time.

They were taken to a hotel for the night and agreed to surrender the car for destruction.

As the story spread throughout the night (between other colleagues, paramedics, fire-fighters, hospital staff and taxi drivers…. that was the way things were in the City at that time) offers of help came in.

By the time we went off duty at 0700 hours, the hotel bill had been waived, a taxi was ready to take them down to Exeter (their intended destination), and a collection had raised just under a grand in cash. Toys had been donated for the children, and small ‘gifts’ for the adults.

By the time they arrived in Exeter, the local police had found and purchased a small run-around car which wasn’t great, but had a few months of MOT and tax left on it, and was roadworthy… enough for their use whilst they were in the country.

We got a lovely letter from them once they were back in Mauritius, thanking us for the help we gave (and arranged) - but we only did what we could to help someone who needed it, and had been badly treated by opportunistic scum.

Edit:-

Thanks for the gramatical corrections - I try my best, but often fail!

I’ve never had a higher-rated answer on Quora, or received so many comments - Thank you, everybody.

It is not often that I bother to answer many questions, being a ‘reserved’ British ex-cop many situations just don’t seem worthy of reply, or have already got a few good answers.

I fully appreciate that probably 95% of the questions (and thus, answers) are posted from the USA, and whilst i find them interesting to read, are often so alien to a British way of thinking that I see no advantage in adding to them.

Anyone who reads my other (very few!) answers on Quora will see that I have some views and oppinions on some things - mainly to counter the critics and troll posters when it gets a bit ‘personal’, or to defend those who I feel need it.

I have no desire to be a “super user” on here, despair at many of the “questions” asked, but still feel that (every so often) even the British have something useful to add to this world.

All credits to Quora.

[daisychainblogs]

The One Where I Leave At The Interval: and it is entirely, 100%, no-I’m-not-kidding-ly unintentional

As light dips on the Weston stage – I feel a little anxious.    

I am at the Bristol Old Vic to see Moises Kaufman and the Tectonic Theatre Company’s The Laramie Project: performed by the graduating students of the Old Vic’s theatre school, directed by Nancy Medina. The specifics of the play are a little hazy - I know it will tell the true story of Matthew Shepard’s murder: the twenty-one-year-old victim of a gay-hate crime which took place in the small town of Laramie, Wyoming, in 1998. And I know that the script is a scrap-book-type-medley of interviews – eyewitness courtroom accounts, newspaper reports, doctors’ notes – but that’s it. Everything else sits quietly in the dark.  

 So - I’m nervous. Performances of any autobiographical leaning – especially one as unsettling as Kaufman’s – make me decidedly queasy. This will be sharp and heavy, I think. I’m a little afraid to pick it up.  

  As the lights start to dim, I take a long, deep breath. Brace, brace - here we go.  

 And it goes; and the story is told, and I have my opinions, but it’s fine, and I’m fine, and then – well, then - then suddenly it’s not going anymore, and it’s ….over?!  

 It’s a very odd ‘over’. We get a boisterously loaded line about ‘hope’ – ‘H.O.P.E’, each letter separated from the next - how Matthew’s story is filled with it, how Laramie rallied and marched for it - and then this larger than life thunderbolt sound and accompanying projection crack across stage and then that’s – that. Lights up, end of.  

 I turn to my friend – eyebrows a-scrunch.  

 ‘Weird’ I say.  

 ‘Mmmm’ she mmmm-s.  

 ‘I mean - is that it? Is that an interval? What’s up?’ 

 ‘No, no’, she assures me - ‘I think that’s it. Finito. Over and out’.  

 Curious – but I’m reaching for my discarded-earlier-here-somewhere jumper, so - not overly curious, I suppose.    

 ‘Bows?’ 

 ‘Oh – well, it’s the Old Vic students’ final show-case-of-talent type performance– I guess they don’t need them?’  

 Makes perfect sense to me. It seems sensible - admirable, even – that our ensemble doesn’t expect a clap and a whoop for the telling of such a story. It is real after all - not ‘entertainment’ in its most straightforward of senses. It’s Avant Garde – it’s drama school! It’s no bows!  

 So. We shrug on coats, grab bags - cast those final, habitual looks back at the house-lit stage – and potter out of the auditorium. 

 One bus ride and on front-door-push later, and I’m flicking on the kettle, reaching for the caffeine – preparing to burn the midnight oil. Pen poised; coffee sipped – let’s go. First up - what, when, who, why – Google’s got me. And so I’m skimming and skimming and I’m gathering the  various necessaries and I -  

 ‘Over two and a half hours, its audience is made to pay witness to - ’ 

 Skimming scuffs to a halt.  

 Two and a half hours. Two and a half hours… two and a half hours?! Surely, I wasn’t in there for two and a half hours, I think.  

 *tick,tick,tick* 

 …that slightly odd finish…no bows… 

 Oh NO. No, no, No  

 ‘It’s long, FIRST HALF feels particularly tough’    

 *it was at this moment, she knew...*  

 It wasn’t finished. 

 We left at the interval.  

 So here’s the point in the story where I hold both hands up and state, for the record - Brownie’s code, Scout’s honour – that I, Daisy Game, am a twit.  

 ‘How?- *bash* ‘HOW’ *bash* ‘did I manage’ *bash* ‘to do *bash* that?!’ (*bash*) 

 After an extended period of whacking my head against the laptop keyboard to the rhythm of my own embarrassment - I pick up the phone and call my partner in the crime.  

And yes, she is embarrassed – ‘yeees? …yes…What?!’ – but once she’s through that initial period of All-consuming English Shame (‘I feel awful! ‘) - she is a little less inclined to pull a keyboard head bang manoeuvre.   

 ‘No – but – it was over?! We would have known, surely? It just felt over – I mean you know when it’s over, right?! You can kind of just feel it and - and - I – I just – well, what else was there left to tell?!’ 

And yet – over it most objectively was not. 

 But here’s the thing. I know it seems ludicrous - but let’s pretend for a second, just for fun, that I have a leg to stand on. Because then maybe (emphasis on the ‘may’ and on the ‘be’) --- I can defend myself?  

 I might not be a fully fluent, tour guide worthy local in the land of theatre - but I’m certainly not a map-carrying tourist. It’s always been a quiet love of mine - (Brava to the village hall and its stellar pantomime, circa 2007-2010). I go to shows regularly, and I tend to know the format of the thing. So given that I have never before done something so plainly idiotic (in the context of an theatre, at least) … might there be something in the suggestion that - somewhere, somehow - this play led us to believe that it was over? 

Because as I sit at my kitchen table – pondering on the knowledge that, at that very moment the Weston stage was most likely crowded with enthusiastically bowing final year theatre students – I am not sorry that I am here, and they are there. 

 I know it was unfair, set-yourself-up-to-lose kind of expectation - but I think I expected to be more shaken by it all; to walk out and carry it with me for days – or at least hours – to come. But when it came to it, I was simply struck by the strangeness of The Laramie Project.   

 Yes, it pulls out all the theatrical bells and whistles – the fourth wall is shattered, we get multi-rolling, we get synchronised speech – but it all somehow seems to lack intent, or purpose, beyond the stage.  

 Should we really need to our actors to hop skip and jump – changing role, changing costume, talking to us – oh what larks! – to stay with this story from start to end? Should we need to be ‘entertained’ in such a hyper, frantic manner? Because it is not an entertaining story. It is a deeply, deeply disturbing story, and the way this play tells it seems a bit bolshy and overly stimulating. The ensemble element – the actors skipping and leaping across the stage – is just a little self-conscious. As each actor shrugs into their next role, a temporary chorus member leaps to said shape-shifters side – thrusting a fist-and-thumb point in their direction and announcing the name of the character we have just witnessed the entrance of in the middle of the stage. the best way to put it? It’s loud, and it’s a little attention seeking.   

 I know I’m being harsh. These techniques I bash with such abandon do ‘work’: the strange ‘everyone plays everyone’ thing is pretty fitting for this story. Doctor – shopkeeper – priest: as members of the Laramie community, one and all are oddly complicit; the multi-roll skips and jumps seem to suggest. The shop keeper is the doctor, and the doctor is the priest: and all three are Laramie. It’s all one great mess of a community. ‘It’s not the town – things like this don’t happen in Laramie’, we are told time and time again. But, as one town member quietly admits – it did happen: and so, things like this do happen in Laramie – and so Laramie cannot get off scot free by pointing the finger and isolating the blame at its most obvious perpetrators.  

 I think I get it – but like it? Appreciate it?  That’s another matter. And Did we really need to hear a car horn toot across stage at the mention of said vehicle? And that thunder… 

 So - going back to discussion of my earlier-than-intended rendezvous with pyjamas and notebook– and please know that I really don’t mean to sound overly literal, or pig headed, or ignorant (although I realise that I very likely might) but - what else was there left to tell? We’d heard about Matthew. We’d been told about his deeply disturbing encounter. His time in hospital, and his passing. We’d seen the trial, and the verdict. And we’d been left with a pretty heavy ‘closing’ line (‘H-O-P-E’ … there’s always hope’). I really don’t feel that any more was needed. And the approach to the play didn’t leave me wishing for more where that came from.  

 I think it’s important to reiterate at this stage that I do know full well that, thanks to my premature exit, I forfeit the right to comment with integrity. Maybe in that all-mysterious second half, it starts to make sense. ‘Oh, no’, the play might perhaps have gone on to chortle – ‘No - we WANTED you to feel that way. We wanted you to feel it was a little contrived, and loud. We had you fooled’, and maybe it then proceeds to prove exactly why such fooling was necessary. And I’m not saying that the performances themselves weren’t accomplished. The Old Vic theatre school consistently nudges out star after star – Erin Doherty, Josh O Connor – and the quality of acting was stellar. Strong, confident, professional. Hats off.  

The more apologetic, more cringingly embarrassed half of me wants to clarify once and for all that – true, it might not have been my all-time favourite production - but I would never, under any circumstances, have left the show early. It’s rude, it’s unfair – and I swear: it was an accident. I can only apologise to the cast and crew. 

 But the less apologetic half of me? Well – that part of me is colder. Because that part of me thinks that even if it this was the case – even if that second half explained the whole thing - isn’t the whole of act one an awfully long time to make your audience wait for the ‘ahaaaa’ moment – a long time to wait before pointing your audience toward the light switch?  

 So – I leave you with two lessons learned. Take from them what you will. 

Lesson number one: solid performances can’t save iffy technical and strange scripts.   

Lesson number two: Always, always wait for the blasted bows. 

 Signing off, a (still) very embarrassed, chaotic student.   

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

Affairs of the Heart - Chapter 2

Note:  This is the first story in a planned series set in this universe under the umbrella ‘Hardy Investigations’.  Case suggestions are welcome, but it will be a long time to fruition if submitted!  This story is fully written, so they would be utilized in future stories.

General warnings: mature content, occasional language.  This chapter contains smut.

Beta’d by the amazing and wonderful @stupidsatsuma!

Masterlist

Summary

September 1948 - Mrs. Mark Latimer hires Hardy Investigations to find out if her husband is having an affair, requiring some duplicity and ingenuity to find the truth as they go undercover.

Ellie opened the sliding door with a flourish, falling easily into the simpering ‘woe is me’ routine that never failed.  “Oh, thank you so much!”

“Of course ma’am, what seems to be the issue?”  Mark Latimer was decently handsome, early thirties with an easy grin and kind eyes.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t stepping out.

“This way.”  She led him through her ‘home’ to the overflowing toilet, fluttering her hands and acting as sympathetically pitiful as she could.  “Can you help?”

“Absolutely, let me see.”  Setting his toolbox on the corner of the tub, he crouched by the toilet and reached behind it, twisting the shutoff valve until the water stopped.  “No gentleman caller to be of assistance?”

Ellie pouted, leaning against the doorframe and watching him work.  “My boyfriend must have clogged it this morning before he left without realizing it.  He’s gone away for the weekend.”

“Without you?”

“He took his wife up to Bristol for her birthday.”

Mr. Latimer stopped moving for a moment, and she knew she had his attention.  Her goal was to find out how he felt about affairs without confronting him head-on or throwing herself at him.  “That’s a shame,” was all he said, tone carefully neutral, and she had to tread carefully.

“Not an ideal situation, but it is what it is,” she said airily.  “D’you know what’s wrong?”

Dusting off his hands Mr. Latimer stood, glancing over his shoulder on her.  “Looks like it’s blocked.  Might you have a plunger?”

“Closet.”  She didn’t move out of the doorway, forcing him to brush up against her on his way there and back.  “I’m so grateful you’re able to come out, I don’t know when he might have been back to take a look but I couldn’t wait.”

“Wives can be demanding.”  He wasn’t particularly chatty, which was making it hard to get a read on him.

Ellie nodded.  “It’s so hard for us to be together except here.  We can hardly stroll the High Street, can we? And there are few restaurants where we can be seen together.”

“How does he explain away his time?”

“Working late,” she scoffed.  “Which is true enough I suppose.”  She let out a tinkling laugh.  “I’m his secretary.  He works very hard during his late hours in the office, though not necessarily on company business.”

Mr. Latimer laughed at the implication, nodding approvingly.  “Yet I suspect he enjoys his work.”

“As do I.  I just wish we had somewhere to go like a regular couple, you see.  Somewhere we can have a meal I don’t have to cook, where we can be amongst others.  So much sneaking around makes me feel like a dirty little secret.”

He glanced over at her, watching her for a moment as he worked.  “You deserve something nice,” he said slowly, focusing back on his task.  “I may have a recommendation.”

“Oh?  Please do!  Somewhere nice, but not so nice his wife might expect to go?”

“There’s a little place about two miles out of town, it’s called ‘The Office’.  Quiet little restaurant, geared towards couples with… complications.  You won’t find it in a guidebook or anything of the kind, mostly by word of mouth.  The sort of place where if a wife knows about it, perhaps she’s keeping a ‘dirty little secret’ of her own.  I hear it’s nice.  Discreet.”

“Sounds lovely,” she gushed, eyes narrowing at his back.  “Where is it?”

“Two miles down the main road.  It’s called ‘The Office’ so when a curious wife asks where her husband’s been, he can give the name truthfully without giving anything away.”

“How clever!” Ellie tittered, as he finally pulled a wadded up hand towel from the toilet bowl.  “Oh my, how’d that get in there?”

Mr. Latimer stood, holding it away from him by the tips of his fingers.  “I fear this may be done for,” he apologized, “but I would not recommend keeping it, for cleanliness’ sake.”

“Thank you so much, you’ve no idea how helpful you’ve been.”  She gestured for it to be thrown into the tub, letting him wash his hands before leading him back towards the door.  “And I will take your dinner suggestion under advisement.  What do I owe you?”

“Complimentary call,” he turned at the door, giving her a charming smile.  “It was nothing.”

Elle gave him her brightest smile.  “Thank you again!”

She waved until he was out of sight, locking the door and drawing the curtains.  They had tentative confirmation that he had another woman, and where he took her.

Now what remained was when, and gathering the evidence needed.

Alec scowled, skulking just outside the bathroom window of his own offices to confirm Mark Latimer was suitably occupied before heading down the hill to the plumber’s truck.  Letting out a quiet ‘ha!’ of victory at finding the driver’s side door unlocked, he slid into the seat and looked around.

Unsurprisingly it was a cluttered mess, with scraps of paper and garbage littering the cab.  Deciding to start with the paper, he carefully nosed around.  Despite the chaos, he wanted to leave no clues that someone had been rifling through the van.  A peek through the glovebox produced a box of condoms, hardly a smoking gun but certainly suspicious.

Pulling out the box to note the brand, he found a business card rubber-banded to it.  It was for a restaurant called ‘The Office’, with directions printed on it.  A glance at the back found a handwritten note reading ‘Tuesdays, 5:00’.

Perfect.

Slinking into the house doubling as their offices and Ellie’s ‘home’, Alec listened carefully.  The bathroom light was off, and he took the chance of creeping towards the sitting room to find Ellie at her desk, scribbling in a notebook.

“El.”

“He’s gone,” she promised, not looking up.  “Did you find anything?”

Straightening he strolled in, settling himself in the chair next to her.  “You could say that.  I only know where and when he meets her.  And that a faithful husband has no need of condoms in his work van.”

“The Office.”

“What?”

“Is it called ‘The Office’?” Ellie repeated, smirking at him as she leaned back in her chair.  “I already know that.”

Alec scowled, crossing his arms.  “Aye. Tuesdays, 5 o’clock.  Standing date, I think.”

“And you found condoms?”

He nodded, not pleased with her smug look.  “In the van.  He’s certainly guilty, it’s just a matter of ‘with whom’, and catching them in the act.”

“Rubbers don’t guarantee he’s guilty,” Ellie complained, “though the restaurant certainly implies it.”

“You don’t need them at work,” he protested.  “Why have them in the car?”

Ellie stood, demurely smoothing down her skirt and hair before settling crosswise on his lap.  “What, you think it impossible to feel physical desire during the work day?”

“I…”

She shook her head, laughing as he flailed.  “Oh, aren’t you precious.”

They kissed, and suddenly the idea didn’t seem to absurd.

Alec came with a shuddering groan, collapsing on top of her.  Ellie relaxed her legs, letting them fall to the side as she glided her nails down his spine, waiting for their hearts to calm.

After a minute he rolled off of her, tugging her along until they were on their sides face to face.  “That was nice,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her sweetly.  “What’d I do to deserve that?”

Ellie just hummed, hooking her thigh over his hip as they kissed lazily.  She kept one eye on the clock because they had a potential client appointment in just over an hour, but for now she was content to lull him into false security.

When she deemed him ready she slipped her hand between them, palm finding him easily and beginning to move.  Once his eyes fluttered closed, she moved in for the kill.  “Alec?”

“Yes darling?”

“I want a raise.”

After a moment he sighed, stilling her hand as he opened his eyes again.  “What?”

“I do half our cases on my own,” she said firmly, “and you just present to the client.  I don’t feel my salary reflects my value.”

Alec nudged her away, shifting up the bed to lean against the headboard.  “Ellie…”

“You know I’m worth more,” she prodded, “that half our reputation – your reputation – is because of my work.”

“I do know that, of course I know that.”  He ran his hand over his face then through his hair, ruffling the strands.  “Quite frankly we’re both worth more than we make.  If we were in London maybe we would.  But we settled in Broadchurch for a reason, and the situation is what it is.  I have our salaries – both of ours – calculated out of the leftover after all other expenses.  You know this, you’ve seen the books.”

“I still believe I deserve a bigger piece of the pie,” Ellie said firmly, sitting up as well and turning to face him.  Letting the sheet fall to her waist, she deliberately crossed her arms to accentuate her breasts, not above playing dirty.

His shoulders slumped, and he settled one palm on her closest knee.  “There’s also convention.  You already make twice what the next-highest paid woman in the town does.  It’s raising eyebrows.”

“Since when do you care what people think?” she scoffed.

“When it’s you they talk about.  I don’t appreciate the way they malign you, or the things they imply about us.”

Ellie’s eyes narrowed as he dropped eye contact.  “What sort of things?”

He set his jaw, staring at the opposite wall behind her head.  “They’re basically saying you earn your wages on your knees, rather than sitting at your desk.”

“Is that all?” she rolled her eyes, shifting to put her back against the headboard next to his and taking his hand.  “Actually, I’d probably do better if I charged you for sex and played secretary for free,” she mused, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

“Stop it.”  Alec smiled reluctantly, squeezing her palm.  “My point is, I absolutely know your value.  But part of it – and mine – is our reputations.  Now, I’d be open to discussing other forms of compensation for your work, but cash is out of the question.”

He tugged her down on the mattress, shifting over her and pressing open-mouthed kisses to her skin.

“You could make dinner once a week,” she suggested, smiling when he nodded.  “And, let’s see, what else… you could clean the toilet here.”

His lips frowned against her skin, and he grumbled for a moment, before sighing.  “Aye, all right.”

“What else…” Ellie teased, wrapping her arms around his neck as his lips wandered.  “Mhmm, you know what would be really good?”

“Name it.”  He sucked a nipple into his mouth, cause her brain to short-circuit as she grunted.

“Unh.  Um… oh, I remember!”  And she pushed on his head until it was level with her hips, bending one knee to plant her foot flat on the bed, spread wide.  “We’ve got a potential client due in thirty and I’ll need to get dressed and put the kettle on before they get here, so hop to.”

Alec laughed, a carefree sound she only heard when they were alone, and kissed her thigh.  “As the lady wishes.”

Ellie hummed as she let herself into her house.  “I’m home!”

Backup was the first to greet her, and she bent down to accept his puppy kisses as she glanced into the sitting room to find her father glued to the telly set.

“Hi, Dad.”

David Thomas grunted, not looking away from the screen.  “What’s for tea?”

“Mummy, Mummy!”  Fred hurtled down the stairs, crashing into her legs and hugging them tightly.  “You’re home, you’re home!”

“Hello, Freddie,” she laughed, combing her fingers through his hair and holding him close.  “How are you?”

“Good!  Mummy, I’m hungry.”  Wide eyes stared up at her, and she barely refrained from rolling her own.

“Give me a few minutes.  Where is your brother?”

“In here.”  Tom’s voice echoed from the direction of the kitchen, making her eyebrows raise as she headed towards him.

He was pulling a roast out of the oven, the smell mouthwateringly good.

“What is this?”

Her son shrugged, not meeting her eye.  “You said you would be late today,” he mumbled, “and I thought you would be hungry.”

“I am.”  Joining him at the counter she took the carving tools, testing the meat and pleasantly surprised to find it finished.  “It looks wonderful, thank you darling.”

Tom flushed with pleasure at the praise, turning off the oven.  “Freddie already set the table, so we should just need drinks and then we’re good.”

“Wonderful.”  Kissing his cheek, she turned to her younger son.  “Fetch Granddad, will you?  Tell him tea’s done.”

He ran off in a whirlwind, leaving them alone.

“How did you know what to do?”

Shrugging, Tom carried the roasting pan to the dining room table.  “You had said what you planned on cooking, and I just… found the recipe.  I hope it’s alright.”

Ellie followed, absentmindedly fixing the place settings as she watched him.  “Thank you for taking the initiative, but what on Earth gave you the idea?”

“Alec.  Will they be here?”

“No, they’ve gone to Bristol, Daisy’s aunt is meeting them there tomorrow.  He gave you the idea?”

“He said… he said the world is changing.  That it’s important to help the ones we love, even if it’s by doing something we don’t want to.  That it’s unfair to expect you to do everything around the house when you work all day and we’re here, doing nothing.”

“Hogwash,” Ellie’s father blustered, trudging in.  “It’s the men’s job to work and bring home the pay, and the women’s job to make a home worth coming back to.  Men have no business doing meaningless housework, and women should not be taking good jobs from the menfolk.”

Ellie bit her lip hard to keep from snapping.  “Of course, Dad.”  It was pointless to argue with him, knowing nothing she said could change his mind.  Quietly, though, she muttered to Tom, “Don’t you dare listen to a word he just said.  You and the world at large would be much better served listening to a man like Alec.”

“I know,” he promised with a grin.

“Right, shall we say grace?” she asked once they were all seated, taking her sons’ hands and lifting them in prayer.

As Fred led the supplication, she stared at her own father.  She loved him, she did, but the idea of her sons growing up to be men just like him terrified her.

Closing her eyes, she thanked God for Alec.

[epicfics]

Humans Fic: 15 After Zero - 1) Know My Name

A/N: I wasn’t sure whether I should try this, as it’s so unorthodox. But my blog was feeling stale, so I did it anyways!

I’m sorry if I get the British educational system messed up, I tried to be as vague as possible but some things you can’t fake.

My name is Louisa Bell. I like football and electronica, and my favourite colour is red.

I recite these things like an actress, loud enough for a fly on the wall to hear, but not my mother. But even as I speak to the girl in the mirror, she mocks me with silence, her dark curls and hazel eyes stripping every word of it into a lie. Even the last bit – I doubt you’ll ever be so unfortunate to need to lie about your favourite colour.

But for me, the world is held together by a connected sharpness; the pitch of black, the blinding of white, and every vivid detail in between. There is no simple answer for anything.

Tension clenching my shoulders like claws, I close my eyes and allow my mind to run backwards in time. Memories flicker like brief commercials, until I settle upon one of Sophie Hawkins. Her medium-length hair is plaited back, displaying the silver chain around her neck – I’d given her the heart charm myself just before she left for university. With a wistful smile, she says, “This planet doesn’t need more people like me. It needs more like you.” Easy words for a girl who grew up like a flower under a sunbeam. I had about all the optimism of a lemon. And there isn’t enough sugar in the world for Sophie to sweeten that into lemonade.

I open my eyes to a bedroom that looks like the aftermath of a disaster film, surrounded by clothes that haven’t yet made it to the wash, and unlikely ever will. Household-cleaning Synthetics had stopped being manufactured altogether when I was seven. When the war hit its peak.

Mum reminds me it’s not safe to start attending school now. Some groups of Green-Eyed Synths are more radical than others, and I cannot speak against them or I will be in danger. I cannot speak for them, or I will be in danger.

“Lou?” Mum’s distant summons from the foyer is expected, as is what follows. “I’m not kidding around – if you want to stay home, feel free to just ignore me.”

Understandably, the situation has made her a bit terse. The news has never been easy on us, but when justice for Day Zero had at last been fully served two years ago, we’d needed to relocate to Bristol. In London, our name has spread like a virus through every district, and my last act before we moved away had been to temporarily paralyse a boy in another class that was organising a guerrilla-style revolt on a Synth army. Undoubtedly, here as Louisa Bell I would be commended for using my skill with pressure points to prevent tragedy. I would be famous as a holistic medicine practitioner rather than a crossbred creature.

“Louisa!”

I sigh, looking at the face in the mirror one more time. My father’s face.

My favorite colour is a prism. I like sharp objects and fire, and the sound of water crashing with the wind makes me feel alive. My name is Louisa Hawkins, and when I grow up I want people to know it.

 *** 

From Google Maps, Bristol looks largely like one large postcard-ready suburban utopia. Our neighbourhood seems to have sprung up out of a golf course. The school is a pile of neatly-stacked copper coloured bricks on a patch of black concrete. Mum sits in the driver’s seat of our parked compact car, shaking her head.

“What?” I ask her, ready to get out.

She mutters, “It looks like Waltringham.”

Waltringham, one of the earlier Synth free communities in England. Or as my grandmother calls it, Pleasantville 2020.

“Cool,” I say, blatantly nonchalant, opening the door with a click and a punch.

“Lulu?” I turn my head at the sound of my nickname. She uses it whenever she’s thinking about my father. But I know what she’s worried about.

I step out of the car and say, “I promise, Mum. I know what’s at stake this time.”

“Actually, I was gonna say…” she drew a breath. “It might not be worth it. You shouldn’t have to force yourself into this other person. It’s not healthy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell her, although I also want to laugh. Does anyone tell a chameleon not to change.

It’s only the third time we’ve been through this. Each year I make a mistake that pushes me further towards prison. And my father is not in prison anymore.

I can’t meet him if he doesn’t know where to find me.

I slam the car door shut and make my march toward Pleasantville 2.0.

 *** 

Contrary to my mother’s anxiety, the only fear I really had for today was being underdressed. I was expecting tidy jumpers and slacks, rather than biker jackets and jeans. Thankfully, I’m not entirely out of place here.

My classes run by quietly. Only when teacher announces discussion groups for current events does a knot in my stomach start stretching, waiting. We’re to choose a freestyle debate topic – an insane idea, really, as a band of fourteen-year olds might not grasp logic before passion in arguments better than some college kids can.

To my right, Owen is scribbling our ideas onto scrap paper. “New taxes. Continuing effects of Brexit. Copyright rules on fan-generated media.” He frowns. “No one’s gonna suggest resolution for the Green-Eye War?”

Well, I’d known that was coming. To be cool, I raise my eyebrows patronisingly and say, “I’d rather avoid starting a war in here.”

Clearly confused, Owen asks, “But who here’d want to side with the Synths?”

“You tell me, if you’re the one who wants to do a two-sided debate on it.”

“She’s got you in one, Owen,” says the girl on my right. Veronica. Striking, with dark red hair, and fair skin surrounding ruby lips and eyes as blue as a swimming pool. “Although, I don’t know why we’d rather spare this box of morons when anarchy is so much more fun.”

Her eyes catch mine, and she winks. And…I’m in love.

“Right, well because you said it,” sighs Owen, circling a topic. “Copyright issues it is. “Veronica will be on the side of the Internet, I’ll take on the concerns of the copyright - .”

She warns, “I will slaughter you.”

Showing no sign of fear, Owen then points at me, “Louisa, is it? You’ll play moderator.”

I twist my lips in frustration. I should be used to this designation as my former classmates refused to allow me more active participation, but still. New school, new rules.  “You reckon I’ll be better at listening to you both argue than having my own say?”

“What, you know right now already you’ll be good at this debate?” says Owen, pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose. He stares at me in doubt.

“Probably. I’m good at everything.”

“Bully for you.” He groans, and then says to Veronica, “I suppose that’s the real debate right here.”

Veronica laughs, the sound bearing the carefree joy of a child. “Can you blame her though? You just went about putting us all in our places without any help.”

Looking as helpless as though Veronica paralysed him with pressure points herself, Owen snaps, “Okay. It’s Anarchy, 1 at Law and Order, 0. Little Miss Good-at-Everything gets to play the side of the copyright holders.” Then he leaves us to report our decision.

I smile sweetly in his direction and say softly, “Such a nice guy.”

Veronica snorts at this. “You can take the position of the content creators. I don’t mind a challenge.”

“Neither do I,” I confess. And while her smile warms me, I also think, I have no experience with the subject. I’ve never done anything creative in my life. In truth, I would be better moderating the debate between Veronica and Owen. But I hate it when my choices are made for me.

“By the way,” Veronica interrupts my thoughts. “That classroom war over the Synths? Already happened last year.”

I take care to ensure my tone is neutral before asking, “How did it end?”

Veronica smirks. “Bloody. About half of us wanted to crack down and use government resources to research a way to shut down all of their systems externally. Of course, there’s no telling how such a hack through that electronic network would affect other co-existing electronic networks. Your smart microwave could turn on and blow up your house!”

I shudder at this, but Veronica continues, “The rest of us, being the awesome freaks that we were, suggested looking for a truce with Leo Elster. Since, you know, he’s got some sway for all of it, being the son of the man that created them ,and the mastermind of Day Zero.”

Mastermind? There was no mastermind of Day Zero. Only a girl trying to save a Synth’s life, and later on a boy trying to save hers.

Does he have that much influence over the warring Synths, though? Doubtful, or there would be nothing to fight about now. But then, he’s only been out of prison for two years, thanks to my grandmother Laura’s strenuous efforts to get his sentenced reduced. For all I know, he could be starting a change.

I’ve never met Leo Elster. He was arrested before I was born. He claimed responsibility for delivering consciousness to every Synth on the planet so my mother didn’t have to. I’m not supposed to see him yet, not until Mum has deemed us safe. With who we are haunting our shadows, we’ll never be safe. Yet still, Veronica’s endorsement on his behalf makes me want to run out and find him. And maybe grab her by the arm and take her with me?

I want to say all this aloud and more. But with Owen returning, I shrug instead. “I wouldn’t know anything about it.”

Inwardly cringing from Veronica’s crestfallen expression, I open my notebook and write, Why Copywriters Should Negotiate a Truce –

I stop, rereading what I’ve just jotted down.

Maybe Leo Elster can negotiate a truce. Or maybe I can. With him. Because with the girl sitting next to me as living proof that there are humans with goodwill towards conscious Synthetics, I realise I may be able to reach people in a way that he, closed off as he is, cannot.

Forget what Mum said. By the synthetic additive in my DNA, I’ll find my father all on my own.

to be continued

[unug]

Elements of Art:  VALUE. Sometimes scraps can hold great beauty. Don’t overlook them. Curves and diagonals over straight lines and right angles.

Value. Gouache. Negative space. Design foundational course. RISD.

INSIDE: This design course is demanding. I spent all day outdoors trying to make sense of gouache. It is flexible, but inflexible too. The color is different once dried and cracks if not enough water is used. Assignment was to match the values on the color wheel from white to black using gouache painted on bristol, then cut up pieces and make a composition. Last but not least,” Don’t forget to consider the negative spaces/scraps created, which can hold great beauty!,” my professor said. That stuck with me.

I am quite serious about making compositions fun. I put a lot of work into it. I wanted the cut out pieces and the  scraps to dance, intertwine, and move. 

The human world is dominated by straight lines and right angled streets, buildings, rooms, cubicles, computers and other devices. I cling to curves, swirls, diagonals, and such like a race car driver gripping on a swerve. 

[danielle-c]

Mind map of issues identified in societies and Initial Ideas

I gathered together these identified issues through reaching out to family and friends to gather opinions on types of challenges within society, as well as what I have observed myself. These range from issues related to nature, community, health and deprivation. Initial ideas stemming from these issues include:

Informal study & work hub

A purpose built space for people to study and/or work, to serve as somewhere for people to be productive outside of their own homes. Many people work from home, especially after Covid has changed the perspective of businesses on working from home. I personally know multiple people who won’t be returning to the office after Covid as working from home hasn’t hindered the productivity of the workers, and saves the company money. However, this can have a negative impact on those who don’t have space at home for a desk or a quiet space, as well as isolating people away from their community. This is also a big issue that faces students - both online and in person, for similar reasons. The idea could offer somewhere to visit without any commitment necessary - simply whenever wanted or needed. Somewhere to enable group working and socialisation without the formalities of being linked to any businesses or educational facilities. It could also provide a space for students and workers to learn and benefit from one another. I imagine this space to be an enhanced version of a coffee shop - cosy and informal but with a more functional design. 

Homes For All

With cities constantly expanding to suit the needs of the growing population, homes of wildlife are being lost at an unsustainable and alarming rate. Even the smallest creatures, who may not seem significant, have a significant impact on the environment when they are lost. Animals and bugs that rely on our natural environments are imperative to our own survival, so it makes sense to hold their homes in high importance. There’s an increase of bug hotels trending, articles on stacking logs in the corner of your garden. Many people hang bird houses and as we all know, we are losing bees at an alarming rate. If we normalised and fought for these measures to be adapted in as many locations as possible, we could be making a substantial impact on the protection of our environment. Not only this, but it’s also such a low maintenance solution. 

I recently moved in to a new home, and whilst shopping for furniture I found a workshop that employs struggling members of society and trains them to turn scrap wood, such as old scaffold boards, into beautiful accents for your home. I feel that this could make a wonderful thing for creating homes for wildlife out of waste wood, and helping society members in the process. Beautifying these homes can help to improve their popularity and acceptance within society too. To complement this, when looking around my own small town I noticed how many weeds were poking out of nooks and crannies all over. It made me think about the overwhelming amount of concrete that suffocates our cities and towns, and how even the smallest of efforts and green presence when repeated over entire cities can have a great impact on both the environment and our own health, not to mention beautifying where we live. Roof gardens, for example, are a great way to do this. 

Christmas tree forests 

This one is a little out there (and festive), but Christmas has made me think about how many trees we grow and cut down every year for the celebrations. When researching the most environmentally friendly approach to Christmas trees, I read how you can keep the trees living in pots outdoors, and them plant them in the new year. They’re such resilient trees that they can cope with being dressed up and kept warm, and then being returned to the wild. In keeping with this, how many businesses boast about planting a tree with every purchase? How many charities rely on donations to plant trees for our climate? Well, in America somewhere around 15,094,678 Christmas trees are cut down every year - and to make matters worse, it may skip many people’s minds that the average tree takes between 6 - 10 years to grow. Is that really sustainable? In our eco conscious society shouldn’t we be more worried about this?

Well, imagine a space surrounding cities where, every year your tree gets planted to grow entire forests. You could even label your significant years - your child’s first Christmas tree, and have the forest transform into a profitable attraction each December when the trees are lit up with lights and people hunt for their trees of Christmas’ past. This reminds me of how much of a hit Pumpkin patches are each year - people love festive attractions! Also, with the length of time these trees take to grow, you could also keep them potted for several years and use the same tree again. 

Recycling hub/service 

Where I live, we are one of the worst for the amount of things we can recycle in the country. Born from this - but of course found all over, we have a community funded and kept recycling shed that sits in the main car park. This shed accepts Tetrapacks, crisp packets, dental hygiene products, foil, etc. - all the things that otherwise, would end up in landfill or being burnt. Although this of course takes effort, it is immensely popular and has it’s own Facebook page! So many people are passionate about the environment and little ways to help but aren’t sure where to start, and they adore this. It’s actually often full to the brim with rubbish rescued from landfill. However, of course many people are too busy, unable or aren’t sure where to start when it comes to recycling hard to recycle items. So, imagine if we could make aware the items that can be rescued, and offer a non for profit service that helps to employ struggling members of society to pick up and sort this recycling from homes, for a small fee - with the support of volunteers which there are plenty of, who care about this cause. 

Local volunteering accessibility app

I feel that the accessibility and ease of volunteering isn’t as easy as it could be. Although volunteering apps do exist, there’s personally nothing of the sort that accepts my own location, and I believe that an app that’s designed to create a profile and accept all requests of volunteering would be really beneficial for communities. I think a lot of people would like to volunteer, but don’t know how or would be convinced to do so if it were made easier. It could be designed like a dating app, where you create a profile of all the things you’d be happy to do, and you could get a feed of opportunities to accept or decline. When thinking of volunteering the first thing I think of is for an organised charity, but what about the simple things that could make a direct impact on the local community? What about mowing an older person’s lawn, or attending an organised litter pick? Helping to care for community spaces, driving isolated people around, or pet sitting? I’m majorly inspired by the NHS Responder app that many have signed up to use since Covid.

Shop Local app

Everyone knows the high street is dying, and more than ever we are buying from big brands. It’s easy to place an Amazon order and get your weekly shopping from Tesco. However, supporting your local independent greengrocers, card shop, clothes store and pharmacy have a much more meaningful impact on the people who work and own them. I thought that perhaps using digital means could aid the process of shopping locally, as it seems the biggest reason people don’t is out of convenience. It could be beneficial to have a digital local marketplace on your phone through an app where you can place orders for pick up or collection or browse the products they sell from home. You could attract customers with showing them what is inside the shop they’ve always meant to go in on their phone. 

City of art

Why is art confined to walls of galleries and shows? Many towns and cities are quite frankly ugly, and art is one of the best ways to beautify and showcase the creations of its inhabitants. The community could commission art for public display from students and artists within through competitions. It could add so much character and attraction to places whilst celebrating and supporting art and creative endeavours, and it would be so interesting to see how to the personality of a town or city changes through the art they exhibit, reflecting the soul of the place. It could help to humanise the otherwise grey and depressing locations we live within. It could help with encouraging tourism, because it would stop everywhere looking the same. People already visit locations to go on a walking tour of the graffiti of a city - like Bristol for example. Not just graffiti though, perhaps pop up installations? Perhaps adorning parts of places you would never think of?

[techcrunchappcom]

New Post has been published on https://techcrunchapp.com/jimmie-johnson-becomes-first-nascar-driver-to-contract-covid-19-and-will-miss-this-weekends-race-daily-mail/

Jimmie Johnson becomes first NASCAR driver to contract COVID-19 and will miss this weekend's race - Daily Mail

Seven-time NASCAR champion Jimmie Johnson has tested positive for the coronavirus and will miss this weekend’s race at Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

The 44-year-old Johnson is the first driver in any NASCAR series to test positive and the news on Friday evening cast a shadow over the historic NASCAR-IndyCar doubleheader races coming up Saturday and Sunday. There was no indication any races would be affected.

Hendrick Motorsports said Johnson will not return until he is cleared by a physician. He was tested earlier Friday after his wife, Chani, tested positive after experiencing allergy-like symptoms.

Johnson is asymptomatic.

Seven-time Cup Series champion Jimmie Johnson has become the first NASCAR driver to test positive for COVID-19 and will miss this weekend’s Brickyard 400

‘My first priority is the health and safety of my loved ones and my teammates,’ Johnson said. ‘I’ve never missed a race in my Cup career, but I know it’s going to be very hard to watch from the sidelines when I’m supposed to be out there competing. Although this situation is extremely disappointing, I’m going to come back ready to win races and put ourselves in playoff contention.’

Johnson earlier Friday held a Zoom session with reporters to discuss Sunday’s race and an upcoming test of an Indy car on the road course at the fabled venue. He will now miss that test, as well as what was supposed to be his final Brickyard 400. Justin Allgaier will replace him in the No. 48 Chevrolet.

‘Jimmie has handled this situation like the champion he is,’ said Rick Hendrick, owner of Hendrick Motorsports. ‘We’re relieved he isn’t showing symptoms and that Chani is doing great, and we know he’ll be back and ready to go very soon. 

‘It’s going to be difficult for him to be out of the car and away from his team, but it’s the right thing to do for Jimmie and everyone involved.’

Hendrick Motorsports said it has implemented detailed procedures to protect the health of its team members. 

They include daily COVID-19 screenings at the team facilities; the separation of facility operations and traveling personnel; split work schedules; stringent face covering and social distancing requirements; and an increased level of disinfecting and sanitization of all work areas.

Johnson was tested after his wife, Chani, pictured alongside their two girls, Lydia and Genevieve, tested positive after experiencing allergy-like symptoms

Johnson is scheduled to retire from full-time NASCAR competition at the end of the season and was trying to tie Jeff Gordon and Michael Schumacher as the only five-time winners at Indianapolis.

Johnson has made 663 consecutive Cup Series starts – the longest streak among active drivers – and is currently 12th in the standings, 63 points inside the playoff picture. 

NASCAR’s rules state a driver must be symptom free and have two negative coronavirus tests in a 24-hour span to return.

NASCAR said it has granted Johnson a playoff waiver.

‘Jimmie is a true battle-tested champion, and we wish him well in his recovery,’ the series said.

Johnson could potentially also miss the Cup race at Kentucky and the All-Star race at Bristol. Next week’s test of the road course at Indy in Scott Dixon’s car has also been scrapped.

Johnson will not return to competition until being cleared by a physician He claims to have not experienced COVID-19 symptoms

NASCAR was one of the first sports to resume competition from the pandemic shutdown and has completed 11 Cup races since its May 17 return. The sanctioning body does not test for coronavirus but participants are required to do a temperature check as they enter the facility.

Drivers have been told to isolate at the track and there is very little interaction beyond radio conversation between the competitor and his crew.

Although Stewart-Haas Racing and Team Penske both said they’ve had positive tests from shop-based team members, Johnson is the first driver. Earlier Friday, Brazilian sports car driver Felipe Nasr said he had tested positive and will miss Saturday’s IMSA event at Daytona International Speedway.

Johnson earlier Friday discussed the Indy car test scheduled with Chip Ganassi Racing, which he said was the first step in determine if actual races are in his future. If he’s any good, he said, he would be open to racing all 12 street and road course events on the IndyCar schedule.

Johnson has long said safety concerns would keep him from racing on IndyCar oval tracks, but Friday he offered a surprisingly softer stance about the Indy 500. IndyCar this year unveiled its aeroscreen windshield designed to protect the drivers from debris as they sit in the open-air cockpits. Saturday will mark just the second race with the device, but it appeared problem-free last month on the oval at high-speed Texas Motor Speedway.

‘Their safety on ovals has dramatically increased this year with the windscreen. So, I’ll keep a close eye on things there and see how the safety level looks,’ Johnson said. ‘I’ve always wanted to race the Indy 500. I’d have to do a lot of selling to my wife to get that pass, but my true desire right now is to just run the road courses.’

NASCAR said Johnson must be symptom free and have two negative COVID-19 test results, at least 24 hours apart

Johnson has his eye on the street course race in Long Beach, California, a race that was canceled this year because of the coronavirus pandemic but is one of the most storied events on the IndyCar calendar at a track just a couple hours from his native El Cajon.

44-year-old Johnson, a four-times winner of the Brickyard 400, was due to start the race in Indianapolis in the second row in fourth position

‘When I was a kid growing up, the closest IndyCar racing for me was at Long Beach so one of my hopes is that I am able to race at Long Beach,’ Johnson said. ‘I hung on the fence a lot as a kid watching and dreaming. …. There’s a lot of sentimental value with that race and I hope to race there.’

He is stuck in a three-year losing streak but Hendrick Motorsports has been dramatically improved this season and Johnson has been competitive. He has also been actively prepping for a whirl in an Indy car and had been scheduled to test with the McLaren team before the pandemic.

‘It’s a test, it’s a tryout and it’s a two-way street. Two-way tryout for the team to look at me and for myself to look at a team,’ he said. ‘If I’m about four seconds off the pace, then that’s probably a quick sign that I don’t need to be in one of these cars. If I’m within a certain amount of time and I have a good feel of the car, then for me, I feel like that’s an important first step that I need to know that I can be competitive.

‘I do not want to go race in any series and not be competitive,’ he said.

[inexpensiveprogress]

John Nash in WW2

At the beginning of the Second World War Nash served in the Observer Corps, moving to the Admiralty in 1940 as an official war artist with the rank of Captain in the Royal Marines. He was promoted acting major in 1943, and relinquished his commission in November 1944.

 John Nash - An Advanced Post, Night, 1918

There is so much written about the paintings John Nash produced for the First World War but little on the Second. In a previous blog-post I noted that John Nash and Eric Ravilious both painted docks together in 1938 and also their letters to each other on both being invited to be war artists.

In a long interview given to the Imperial War Museum on a reel-to-reel tape machine, Nash explains this time:

The First World War paintings were the result of actual vivid experience, Second World War paintings were really more commissioned and hadn’t a very war like aspect at all. 

Questioner: You were sent specifically to do a particular subject in the Second World War?

Yes I was sent to Plymouth to paint objects in the Dock Yard, and of course it’s a very beautiful dockyard and was then full of very handsome figureheads both outside in the grounds and also in some of the buildings. †

 John Nash - Study of ‘Pump Room’, Plymouth Dock Yards.

But the trouble was there was a spy scare at the time, it was the period of the ‘phoney war’ and I was constantly being asked for my papers and in one case positively arrested although I was dressed up as a Royal Marine Captain, and after a time this rather got me down. In one case I actually felt afraid to do any drawing and didn’t do it when the ‘Hood’ battleship came in. I thought I must go and have a look and see if anything can be done about the ‘Hood’, I was really in a state of nerves by then that I didn’t do it - I didn’t do anything at all. 

It was largely the fault of spy scares, especially amongst the dockyard ‘maties’ as they called them (men working the dockyard) who report one to the marine police on the slightest provocation. “These’s an officer there making plans” they said, I was drawing in a sketchbook you see. So at Mountbatten - the seaplane base I was arrested and marched around the camp until released by a friendly R.A.F commandant who told the officer who arrested me he got the wrong man. 

But I got rather tired of this and I decided to go on elsewhere and leave Plymouth and I went to Cardiff, where they said they had nothing for me to do and from there to Swansea. I put up in a hotel in Swansea and the Staff Officer of operations there knew something of my work and knew something about me and he came out straight away to see me at the hotel and said “we don’t like you to be in this hotel (I won’t mention it) on account of security reasons, we’ll find you somewhere else to go to” and they installed me in a delightful hotel in Mumbles. But I had a very good time at Swansea because they had a awful lot to do at Swansea and were quite prepared to welcome official War Artists as a sort of additional pleasurable occupation. He kept thinking up things for me to draw and sending cars around to take you here and there, it was really very pleasant. †

 John Nash - HMS Oracle at Anchor

 John Nash - Study for HMS Oracle at Anchor

I was taken up to draw a very big merchant ship which have been toed up one of the rivers there and split in half by a bomb I think... I drew this thing high and dry on the mud and then went again with the Naval numbers to see her dragged off the mud by seven tugs and then went in a car with them and drew her as she was being toed Triumphantly down the river by one tug by then. †

 John Nash -  Bristol Channel, with Tug Boat in the distance.

When we came back from this trip up and down the Bristol Channel we tied up in the dockyard and everybody got ready to have a (party) changed their clothes and the port was bought out and having a nice sort of evening when there was a ‘Purple Air Alarm’ and we went out on deck to see what was happening and there was a terrific explosion and everybody fell flat on the deck and the bomb landed at the end of the dock. 

After that the number one officer said “I must go out and see what the Captain is doing, I think he’s gone out firefighting” ‘cause fires had started in the dock and I said “well I’ll come too.” And we spent the whole night- up to three o’clock in the morning - firefighting, dragging hoses about and what is really illustrated in that painting there. † ‘A Dockyard Fire.’

 John Nash - Study for A Dockyard Fire

 John Nash - A Dockyard Fire.

(I was) drawing in a detached way, but didn’t seem much to be like war, not that I am a fire-eater in any way. It seemed to be rather (like a) peace time occupation in the middle of a war. †

The pictures that come from the Second World War were observational documents much in the style of the Recording Britain project. During WW1 Nash was a young man but by the time of WW2 he was in his late forties and the army were less interested in giving him an active brief and they refused him opportunities to serve with the troops overseas. It maybe that the pictures Nash did for the Second World War became detached and stylishly posed but have little might or drama to interest the museums and thus also the public too.

I gave it up. I got tired of the whole thing and gave it up. I asked the Royal Marines Office to get me a job which was not an artist's job, and so I was sent to Rosyth. It was an absolute change of life and I didn't do any painting, really, for four years. ‡

 John Nash - Study for 'Destroyer in Dry Dock'

 John Nash - Destroyer in Dry Dock'

 John Nash - Study for 'Scrap'

 John Nash - Scrap

 John Nash - French Submarine “La Creole” in Swansea Dock, 1940

 John Nash - Convoy Scene

 John Nash - Study for 'Small Vessel in Dry Dock'

 John Nash - Study for 'From the Wheelhouse'

 John Nash - Study for 'Timber'

 John Nash - Study for Arming a Merchantman

John Nash would be able to return to his war work in 1947 when making an illustration for the Handbook of Printing by W S Cowell. He was illustrating The Harbours of England by John Ruskin. The figure head from the ship is clearly taken from Study of ‘Pump Room’, Plymouth Dock Yards.

† IWM -  Nash, John Northcote (Oral history) ‡ Ronald Blythe - John Nash at Wormingford p12 W S Cowell - Handbook of Printing, 1947

[erpsoftwarsolution]

Trade pact is not enough for López Obrador to revive economy

The US Senate’s ratification of the USMCA trade deal this month lifted four years of nerve-racking uncertainty for Mexico. A beaming President Andrés Manuel López Obrador told Mexicans to look forward tobetterpayandmoreinvestment. The leftwing leader has argued that the revamped United States-MexicoCanada Agreement will help revive an economy where investment and job creation are at their lowest in a decade, growth has plummeted to zero and consumer and business confidence are understrain. But eliminating Donald Trump’s threats to slap tariffs on Mexico or scrap the 25-year-old North American Free Trade Agreement, while necessary, are unlikely to be enough to reignite investment. The lacklustre economy is also largely due to Mr López Obrador himself,businessleadersandanalystssay. “We have seen with profound concern how the perception of uncertainty and hostility to private investment has increased,” Claudia Jañez, president of the Executive Council of Global Companies, told journalists on the eve of the Senate vote. “It is taking a great deal of work to convince our headquarters to invest in Mexico,” added the Latin AmericanchiefofDuPont,theUSchemicalsgroup. Ms Jañez’s remarks were notable because business leaders have generally bent over backwards to placate a politician many of them openly distrusted beforehislandslidewinin2018. “USMCA isn’t the only thing Mexico has to do to recover investment,” said Beatriz Leycegui, a former foreign trade under-secretary. “The government needs to send other types of messages — certainty over public policies, respect fortheruleoflawandcontracts.” Ms Leycegui added: “USMCA is without a doubt very important but what could have more impact is creating a more propitious environment for investmenttoflow.” Mr López Obrador, a nationalist, has clashed repeatedly with businesses — despite his insistence that he respects andneedsprivateinvestment. He scrapped the $13bn Norman Foster-designed Mexico City airport project, one-third built, shortly before taking office — a move analysts said was designed to send the unequivocal signal that“I’mthebossnow”. He has reversed some of his predecessor’s signature reforms, including halting energy auctions, and last year forced a renegotiation of contracts with international gas pipeline companies, the costsofwhichhedeemedexorbitant. CFE, the struggling state-run power utility, is now preparing steps that could dismantle private participation in the electricity market and curb renewable energyprojects. To the delight of the business community, Arturo Herrera, finance minister, told the Financial Times in March that a lack of cash would delay the president’s pet project, an $8bn refinery in his home state of Tabasco. But the Mexican president publicly contradicted him the nextday. Stop-and-start decisions and contradictions abound in a government in which market-friendly personalities such as Mr Herrera and Alfonso Romo, chief of staff, are often overruled by radical ideologues such as Rocío Nahle, the energy minister, or Manuel Bartlett, CFE chief executive, who styles himself asan“ultra-nationalist”. “The problem right now is, what are the rules?” said the head of one Canadian company investing in Mexico. “A few years ago, with the reforms, there wassomekindofpathforopportunities. Now we’re not sure what the opportunitiesare.” With some analysts forecasting the economy may not even grow 1 per cent this year despite growth in the US — which, thanks to Nafta, is its partner in supply chains in cars and electronics — Mr López Obrador should be changing tack.Butheappearsunlikelyto. With approval ratings of more than 70 per cent, he sees nothing broken that needsfixing. “I don’t see how we can move forward under this model,” the Canadian chief executive said. “We need a crisis . . . This government isn’t doing anything to entice investment. All they’re goodatiscancellingstuff.

President Martín Vizcarra’s anti-corruption campaignwas givena potential boost after Peru’s main opposition party suffered a heavy defeat in Sunday's congressionalelection. Mr Vizcarra shut down congress in September after lawmakers repeatedly obstructed his campaign to curb parliamentary privilege and clean up public office. Opposition lawmakers decried the move as “a coup” and branded the president a dictator. But polls suggested the vast majority of Peruvians — fed up with congress’s bickering, corruption and intransigence — welcomed the decision. For the four months since the shutdown,MrVizcarrahasruledbydecree. According to provisional results, 10 parties won seats in the 130-seat chamber with no one party getting more than 11 per cent of the vote. The big loser was the rightwing Popular Force (FP) party led by former presidential candidate Keiko Fujimori. It took less than 7 per cent of the vote and looked set to win about 12 seats, down from 73 at the last congressionalelectionin2016. Ms Fujimori’s party used its parliamentary clout to bring down the previous president in 2018 and make life difficult for Mr Vizcarra. With its power now curbed, the president may be able to press ahead with his reform programme, although — with no political party of his own — he will still need to forgealliances. Part of the president’s mooted reforms include scrapping parliamentary immunity for lawmakers so that they can be brought before judges more easilyifaccusedofcrimes. “It’s an even more fragmented congress than we expected,” said Arturo Maldonado, a political analyst at the Pontifical Catholic University in Lima. “There is a clear loser — Fujimori’s movement — but there are no clear winners. “Perhaps the biggest winner is not a party but an idea: the idea that shutting down the previous congress was good forthecountry.” Peru goes to the polls in April 2021 to choose a new parliament and president, meaning neither Mr Vizcarra nor the lawmakers elected on Sunday will have muchtimetoachievetheirgoals.

yesterday evening, at London’s Institute of Contemporary Arts, Bethany Williams picked up a £10,000 prize at theArtsFoundationFutures Awards. For a 30-year-old, who until 14 months ago was working full time in a pub to enable her projects to happen at all,thefundsmustbewelcome. The Arts Foundation honours a diverse range of artistic practice every January,thisyearincludingcomicbooks and experimental film-making. Williams’s award was for “Social Innovation: the material evolution”, a section focused on artists and designers whose work prioritises social design and the responsibledevelopmentofmaterials. It’s not as niche as it sounds. More than ever, young designers are looking at ways to combine environmental and social concerns. In Williams’s case, though, the outcome is more conspicuous than most: her high-end unisex streetwear has been shown on the catwalk since last January as part of the British Fashion Council’s official LondonMenswearschedule. Williams’s sharp and colourful garments are sold at the chicest of stores, including Browns in London and Galeries Lafayette in Paris, but they have inspired roots: made from the linings of bell tents discarded at a glamping site outside Bristol, or remaindered ribbon from a Midlands toy factory, sewn by women at Downview Prison in Brixton or at a rehab centre near Italy’s Adriatic coast. She visited the latter not long ago. “The assistant, who’s been selling my work since the first collection in 2017, said that people love it because it’s so bright,” she says. “Serena Williams had bought some. And the King of Morocco. Hebuysawovencoateveryseason.” Perhapsheknowsit’sbeenmadefrom books abandoned by the publishing house Hachette, and that 20 per cent of profits go back to the charity Bethany Williams has worked with. But for Williams, there’s nothing wrong with activism by stealth. “I quite like the idea that someone is contributing to women’s rehabilitation without knowing it,” she says. “But for me fashion has the ability to amplify ideas, because it has such a massive reach; everyone wears clothes. I love making, and I love textiles and taking something discarded and giving it time and love and making something new. But equally I am really invested in thesocialsideofmywork.” Williams begins each collection by finding an enterprise which agrees to work with her. For her autumn/winter 2019collection,itwasAdelaideHouse,a shelter in Liverpool for women leaving prison, where the 20 residents became part of the production process, and abstract versions of their faces were embroidered into reclaimed denim for thefinalgarments. The pieces she sent down the runway on January 4 this year, in a packed east London warehouse, reflect time spent with the Magpie Trust in Newham, where women with children under five aregiventemporaryaccommodation. “They are vulnerable people,” she says. “It is a way to bring knitting and sewing skills, and confidence, and I learn a lot from them too,” she says. She has cast models from TIH (There is Hope), an organisation that improves theprospectsofhomelesspeople.

Williams grew up on the Isle of Man with her mother, a pattern cutter, and her grandparents. “I was brought up to be socially and environmentally conscious,” she says. “The Isle of Man is a tiny community, we eat locally from small farms. It’s way of life that’s always made sense to me.” At Brighton Universityshestudiedfineartasacriticalpractice, “which was hard for me as I’m very dyslexic and I have to read something two or three times for it to go in,” she says.“Butitintroducedmetoartistslike the Copenhagen collective Superflex who intercept company systems and divert profits for good, to positive effect. It made me realise I wanted to create my own system where my passion lies — intextiles.” At the London College of Fashion, on the menswear MA course, she joined its Making for Change programme, which trains women in Downview Prison for jobs in the garment industry. (She has since hired a sample machinist from there.) She also researched numbers of

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