#They all have the same number of stitches so theoretically I can just stitch them all together

[averysmallcetacean]

17 squares left to make!! (I think, I might do a few more rows) - Ik it doesn't look great - the order will be random when it's done

[meta-squash]

So, last night I had a thought about self-harm (and addiction) and the reaction or framing from the press re: Richey Edwards vs Peter Doherty.

(This went off on a tangent, I’m sorry if it’s a little nonsensical and also I know my opinions are maybe kind of controversial.)

[Blanket TW for discussion of self-harm, eating disorders, and addiction in this post]

My best friend and I were having a conversation last night about self-harm as a coping mechanism and how people who have never self-harmed before don’t understand it and don’t know how to react to it, among other aspects of the subject. Later that got my brain on a different train going in a similar direction but a different destination.

I was thinking about the difference between the media interest surrounding Richey Edwards and Peter Doherty, and how the media framed their struggles and problems etc. (There is a slight difference between the two given that the Manics never got huge in the media and Richey wasn’t around for the explosion of internet tabloid culture.)

But my thought starts out with this: Peter and Richey seem to have done similar types of self-harm in similar amounts, and yet it is Richey’s self-harm that got all the media attention. Richey’s alcoholism and anorexia were not as chaotic or as....public?...as Peter’s drug problems, but it was all but ignored by the media even when he was fairly open about it.

Aside from the original 4REAL incident, which was a complex combination of situationist spectacle, self-expression/release of frustration, and intense message to the industry, Richey’s other moments of self-harm seem to be a more (for lack of a better word) normal level; they seem to have mostly been smaller, shallower cuts or cigarette burns. Aside from the one other recorded incident in Amsterdam ‘94 where Richey cut his chest enough to need stitches, there are no other instances on record of moments at the level of the 4REAL incident. Richey’s moments of self-harm seemed to typically be a more moderate coping mechanism rather than a tendency towards grievous injury. And yet the media’s main focus when it came to Richey was his self-harm and the spectacle of it rather than his lyrics or his other obvious struggles with alcohol and eating disorders.

And it’s interesting to compare that to Peter’s self-harm. I don’t think he’s ever had a moment like 4REAL, but he has used moderate cutting and cigarette burns presumably as a coping mechanism. His “strop” at Brixton ‘04 being the most outwardly dramatic and maybe the closest to 4REAL. But there are plenty of photos or footage of him with visible cuts and/or cigarette burns. And yet it doesn’t seem to be something the press really cared about.

On the flip side, there’s Peter’s addiction and all the media craze surrounding that. (As an aside, I cannot imagine how awful it must have been to have the media obsessing over your drug use while telling you to get better while essentially being its cause.) The press practically documented Peter’s every move re: his drug use and addiction. It was sensationalized and plastered everywhere and this obsessive attention was placed on it.

Which is the opposite of what happened to Richey’s problems. He talked fairly openly about his alcoholism in a number of interviews but rarely was he directly asked about it. Off the top of my head I can’t think of any interview that directly asked him about his eating disorders either, but he did mention some aspects of that in a few interviews (most notably his last ever TV interview for some Swedish channel).

Part of this difference in media focus kind of makes sense. The media picks the thing that’s more dramatic and crazy-sounding and a bigger spectacle. For Richey, it was self-harm, because he started with a proverbial bang by coming out the gate with the 4REAL incident that catapulted the Manics into the eye of the industry proper (despite the fact that he never reached that intense level again). For Peter, it was his drug abuse partly because of its more widespread chaos (drinking alone in your room is not as interesting or glamourous as smoking crack at wild parties, plus a dramatic band breakup draws readers) and partly because of his proximity to Really Famous People (ie Kate).

I guess it just interests me how the media decides which thing is more “concerning” and how that false concern in fact fuels the very thing it pretends to be so worried about.

The 4REAL incident was a shocking thing; it seems as though over the years the remaining Manics have come to acknowledge that that was pretty much the point. Nicky called it an “amazing, fantastic statement” in the 98 Up Close documentary. It’s something that was outside of Richey’s other self-harm because it was very much for a spectacle (JDB does say in the same docu that he was pretty sure Richey had sort of planned it). But none of Richey’s other moments of self harm were as public or as performative. I’d even say his Bangkok chest-cutting was only partially performative, considering how horrific the band considers that trip to have been. But really, his self-harm seemed to be mostly a private, personal thing, a coping mechanism. And yet it was pretty much all the press focused on, ignoring the alcoholism and anorexia that a) were likely actually affecting his ability to function and b) were likely bigger problems that the self-harm was used to balance out. The remaining band have talked about Richey’s drinking and how it affected him and made it difficult for him to function, and none of them ever really talk about Richey’s anorexia but looking at photos of him in 1994 you can really see the toll it takes on him. But the press weren’t interested in that.

And again, similarly, Peter’s drug use was fascinating to the press because it was dramatic and chaotic and an interesting spectacle. But after reading the Books Of Albion etc it sure seems like the press were major instigators of a lot of Peter’s problems and his need to use drugs to cope and/or escape. They ignore his self-harm because it’s not as interesting as his addiction; the opposite of the “mundanity” of Richey’s introverted alcoholism.

The press chooses which problem it’s “concerned” about depending on which one is a more interesting, easily-maintained spectacle. If it can flaunt “concern” in order to goad or stress their victim into doing that thing more, it can perpetuate that cycle: “we’re so concerned about you, look we’ve written an article on your drug-induced antics/your dramatic self-harming tendencies with pictures and misquotes and misunderstanding, oh we’re so concerned we’ve parked ourselves outside your venue and/or house to ask intrusive questions about your problems rather than your art, wait why are you still struggling with this drug/self-harm problem we said we were concerned about you, look we’ve written another article about how you’re struggling and we’re concerned but we haven’t actually asked you what’s wrong or how to help or done the most obvious thing which is leave you alone” ad nauseum.

Plus, these things are always appropriated by the press rather than a request made for clarification from the person. The victim’s candid thoughts about their hurt or their reasons for needing this coping mechanisms are not actually heeded but are twisted round and into part of the “story” rather than taken seriously as an explanation or a plea for the media to fuck off because they’re exacerbating the problem.

And now I go into more theoretical ramblings.

(Side note and/or clarification or...something: I can speak from long-term experience when it comes to self-harm as a coping mechanism etc, but I have not personally dealt with drug addiction so when I’m talking about that, it’s definitely as an outsider. I have friends who are recovering addicts and who I’ve known during their more intense struggles but I have not experienced it myself, like, in my own brain/body.)

Something my best friend and I were discussing in the conversation that triggered this entire thought-train is self-harm as seen by outsiders/people who have never self-harmed or thought about it in any seriousness. (And here comes some more serious discussion, as a warning.)

We talked about how there really isn’t a good argument against self-harm as a coping mechanism. (And I know my opinions here are probably controversial.) Most seem to center around “healthy” coping mechanisms vs “unhealthy” but if it’s your own body and you aren’t hurting anyone else, who’s to say what’s what? The other problem re: “healthy” coping mechanisms (like taking a bath, treating yourself, etc) is that the concern against self-harm seems to be that it isn’t addressing the underlying issue that requires the coping mechanism. But neither does doing some skin care or eating an apple (that is, if the problem is a stressor outside of needing sustenance or being able to do something “relaxing” enough to actually relax). That isn’t to say that self-harm is a good reaction to every stressful moment, but it truly is a very singular type of stimulation and release that is sometimes the only effective method of reacting to and coping with an internal or external stressor.

As a clarification, most acts of self-harm are not to the severity level of 4REAL. Cigarette burns and collections of minor-to-moderate cuts are much more common, neither of which are particularly threatening to the overall wellbeing of the person.

The other thought about self-harm and the reason for the media’s focus on it is the discomfort of and fascination a “badge” of struggle. When you’re depressed and you can’t get out of bed, it’s not like you get up a few days later and there’s a big sign that says “Was Depressed, Couldn’t Move,” or if you feel stressed and overwhelmed so you go drink wine in the bath, you don’t spend the rest of the day with some sort of sign telling other people that you felt bad so you bathed. But self-harm is a personal coping mechanism with evidence attached. And that evidence makes people who can’t understand it uncomfortable. Self-harm leaves a mark which other people are confronted by and they don’t know how to react because they cannot imagine how that can be something that helps. Self-harm is a “badge” of struggle and/or coping--not that it’s a proud mark or anything, just that it’s visible to others in a way that stands out and is singled out. I’ve gone out in public in my pajamas after not getting out of bed for 5 days and nobody looked at me funny or asked me why I looked all rumpled. But I’ve had random strangers at the grocery store ask me about the self-harm scars on my upper arms. Scars are a sign of hurt or stress etc that are visible to others which means they feel compelled to confront their feelings about it and often come up uncomfortable and not understanding and confused.

Similarly, I think drug use/addiction can sometimes be a similar “badge” of struggle, especially if it’s apparent onstage or during various public appearances. It’s something that people outside of it don’t understand. Likely they don’t understand the use of drugs as something other than “for fun.” People don’t understand the depths of using drugs as escape from or coping with (or both) stressors. Raw dogging reality is kind of a tall order if reality is overwhelming and stressful to a degree that’s difficult or impossible to control and/or manage. Not to mention using drugs for coping or escape then can lead to dependency and addiction and that’s a whole new game. Because, you know, that’s the thing: it’s not just about kicking an addiction. If you try to kick an addiction without replacing it with something else, you can pretty easily fall back into it because it’s not just a physical dependency, it’s a way to deal with reality. If you’re trying to go from a using a crutch to deal with reality to straight up raw dogging it without a fallback crutch, it’s gonna be real hard. In terms of a “badge” of struggle I think that use of drugs where intoxication is more obvious or more intense than, say, weed, people are uncomfortable. With a drug’s effects on behavior, I’m sure, but also with the outward signs that the person is obviously using a coping mechanism to deal with stresses or hurts.

In both situations it’s an exposure of this internality that outsiders can’t fully understand or touch. Everyone’s reasons for self harm or drug use are going to be different. The “benefit” that the coping mechanism brings is going to be different for everyone. And it especially means that strangers who don’t have experience with these things cannot fathom them and cannot comprehend them. There’s that desire to understand, that curiosity, (and sometimes an actual desire to help), but no one can read another person’s mind or understand their internality completely, and the visuals of self harm or of drug use are a very intense and forward reminder of that.

And I think those “badges” of struggle are something the media loves to capitalize on, because they can be turned into a spectacle and can be monetized due to outsiders’ discomfort. People watch horror movies or read tabloids because it makes them uncomfortable from a safe distance; these things aren’t happening to them, but another person’s obvious pain/fear/sadness/struggle/etc is just discomforting and strange enough to evoke a dark fascination rather than a total rejection. And the cycle continues as the media capitalizes on their victim’s stress and their coping with that stress, and which then causes more stress which then causes a need for a more intense coping or escaping mechanism, etc.

To bring it back to my original point, the reason the press focused on Richey’s self-harm (despite it being not too terribly excessive or intense) and not his addiction or ED problems, and the reason the press focused on Peter’s addiction and not his self-harm is because of the degree and type of fascination/discomfort those things brought. Richey’s self-harm was interesting enough and obvious enough that they could show lurid photos of his scabs and scars and talk to him about it, but he did his drinking in private and didn’t really cause any sort of scene onstage. And Peter’s drug use was interesting enough and public enough that they could show lurid photos of it as well as collect all sorts of gossip and rumour and twisted-around tales while his self-harm clearly wasn’t as dramatic or fascinating to them. People can read the tabloids and be darkly fascinated by a person cutting themselves up but maybe not by someone drinking at night in their bed (because that’s boring to read about). People can read the tabloids and be gleefully horrified by abuse of class A drugs and the actions/behavior surrounding that but that’s going to be more interesting than a person stubbing a cigarette out on their arm in frustration and despair. It’s all about what can be painted in a more dramatic light. It’s all about what internal things can be made public.

[ancientstone]

any more BofA ideas? 😊

I have literally been unable to stop thinking about this au since it first appeared in my brain! 😂 Thank you for giving me an excuse to ramble 😊❤

Recently I’ve been thinking about Five and Sebastian in the apocalypse, and how tough it must have been for Five.

By the point he summons Sebastian and makes their deal, he’s been in the apocalypse for decades. He’s been isolated and completely alone (minus Dolores), surviving off canned food and cockroaches, navigating falling ash, fires, bodies, and ruins. Everything that has come his way he has been forced to face by himself, be it injury, sickness, natural disaster, or whatever else. 

It’s part of the reason why he’s able to just get on with things once he’s back, right? Five’s used to rolling up his sleeves. 

He’ll stitch up his own arm, no worries.

He’ll deal with the assassins the Commission sends, no issue.

It’s probably why it takes pretty much until season 2 for him to actively seek out someone to help him. 

Don’t think I didn’t notice the season 1 “I can do this by myself, you don’t need to know” vs “I need your help to stop the apocalypse” shift...

But then we fling Sebastian into the mix.

Sebastian, a demon capable, as seen in the flashback during the Campania arc (spoilers?), of turning smoldering ruins into a functioning manor and making a table filled with food appear before his master’s eyes.

Like, sweet Jesus, that’s a one-eighty. 

Imagine Five taking Sebastian back to his crumbly little base at the library, for the first time realising how lonely and pathetic is it, and then Sebastian just tuts and goes, “This won’t do.” and BAM! Library is restored! Oh, and the Academy as well, because that his master’s home, right?

Do you....Do you think that when Sebastian rebuilds the academy, he includes Five’s portrait over the fireplace?

Oof, can you picture it? The proof of how your father felt about your disappearance (as a lesson to the other children never to defy him) right there, as you desperately struggle to claw your way back from your mistake. Yikes.

That’s probably why Sebastian leaves it up, the bastard.

Decades, though, most of Five’s lifetime, spent outside in the ashy remains of the apocalypse, and then suddenly he has running water, and electricity, and a bed with feather pillows and soft blankets and warmth!! All at a near flick of a demonic finger! That must mess with the head.

I watched a documentary about homelessness once, and I remember a man on there saying that after so long spent on the streets, he can no longer sleep inside because he finds it too claustrophobic. Five could easily feel the same way, like that first night he has a bath (a goddamn bath?!!) and gets settled in the bed, Dolores at his side and just...

Rests there. His eyes wide open. Acutely aware of how muffled the world suddenly sounds.

Yeah, he sleeps on the roof that night. Sebastian probably scolds him for that.

“You could get sick! Humans are weak and fragile creatures, any number of-”

“I’m literally the expert at this.” Five snips. “I built a fire, calm down.”

“A fire is no replacement for a bed-”

“Listen, asshole, I’ve spent over twenty years making a living in this shithole, I think I know a thing or two about this.”

Five then spends months just...naturally heading outside to do anything after that, much to Sebastian’s chagrin. It’s ingrained by this point, a force of habit that’s had years to develop. Unlike Ciel, who had a month of hell before returning, Five’s been scarred in a way that leaves so many behaviors that it’s honestly a wonder why Sebastian rebuilt the academy in the first place.

Need water? Go outside.

Need food? Outside.

The bathroom? Yep, outside.

The first time it rains once Sebastian is there, he finds Five having a makeshift shower in it, and has to remind him that there are showers and baths in the academy, sir!! Please use them!!

Oh boy, the showers.

Let’s face it, Five going to be one stinky man when Sebastian finds him. Much like with Ciel (again, Campania arc spoilers), Sebastian probably insists on helping him bathe the first night, because Five’s likely littered with scares and nicks and god knows what else. Whereas Ciel was somewhat able to put up with Sebastian washing him, Five?

Nope.

No.

Not an ounce of human contact in decades and then someone comes along and wants to wash your hair? No thank you, not today or any other.

It doesn’t help that, when you try and insist, your master has this unfortunate habit of disappearing, probably going outside and getting even more goddamn dirty.

I don’t think Sebastian would get his way here. Five’s a grown man, unlike Ciel, and is far more able to put his foot down. Dear old Sebby just has to put up with it and trust Five to get himself relatively clean.

He does give Five a haircut, though. And gives his beard a trim.

Dolores thinks he looks very handsome. 

Five thinks he’s going to get sunburn all over his face without his beard to protect it.

Then there’s the food.

hoo boy Five’’s palate is a mess. Literally, a mess. Sebastian is beside himself half the time. Whatever Five picks at (and he’s not eating nearly enough during meals) gets swallowed whole, no chewing, no tasting, just gulped down like it would vanish if he didn’t. Anything more elaborate than butter on toast is too much flavour at once, and texture beyond soft and squidgy or the crunchy outer shells of insects makes Five uncomfortable.

Again, Ciel only spend a month in hell, so he was able to recover quicker than Five. Here, Sebastian has to learn how to take things slowwww, realising that if they’re going to achieve time travel and stop the apocalypse, he’s going to need to gradually bring Five to better health first.

I wonder if Sebastian offers warm milk with honey, and when Five accepts it, snickers at his own private joke...

The first time Five tries a coffee, he ends up experiencing such a rush that Sebastian legitimately thinks that Five might teleport six countries to the left. After that, they take their time introducing things like sugar and caffeine back into his diet.

Also, picture the interaction:

“Sir, please don’t.”

“Huh?” Five glances over at Sebastian. “What?”

“You are not an animal, sir, you are a man of considerable power, and technically considerable wealth.”

“Right, and?”

“Just...Please put the bug down, sir. If you are hungry, you need only ask.”

idk I just think it’s funny how unnerved Sebastian might be with some of Five’s habits. Whenever Ciel talked about the lengths he would go to while achieving his goals, most of the time that was theoretical, or just talking about joining a contract with Sebastian.

Five however it literally showing the lengths he would go to, and they’re gross! He’d survive off insects for his family! He’d live surrounded by rotting corpses! He’d eat canned dog food if it came his way! 

Ciel would do those things, but Five actively does.

I’d better leave this here before it really turns into an essay, but lord above, these boys are giving me much to muse over!!

[vanchlo]

The Assistant / Chapter Twenty Eight, “Unanswered Questions”

Find all chapters to this story HERE! c: 

Check out the inspiration tag for this story here! :*

Song Inspo: I’d Rather Be With You by Joshua Radin (click to listen) 

                                    SNEAKY PEEK TIMEEEEE

With a jealous sigh, I lock my phone and lose myself in my boring cup of tea. Again. Wondering when the puzzle pieces of my life will fall together, like it seems so many others have.

The people on Instagram.

Even Harry’s, I think as I steal a peek at him.

Swallowing, I suddenly think of the puzzle piece I want to find most of all. And that perhaps it’s not that I haven’t found it yet, it’s because it doesn’t fit, I realize as my eyes study him. Hands in hair. Chunky rings on his fingers. A pastel suit on. And a contagious smile on his face. All of this ignites another swarm of butterflies within my tummy.

If only he fit into the puzzle that’s my life.

“Sometimes it hurts more to hope, and it hurts more to care. But you have to promise me that you won’t stop caring.” 

- Katara, Avatar the Last Airbender

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” 

“Nothing,” I tell Skye, quickly toeing my shoes off on the rug. My rumbling tummy guides me over to the cabinets, and then the fridge. 

“Then stop slamming doors if you’re apparently not mad,” she retorts with a huff. 

The microwave beeps at me angrily, and I slam that door, too. There’s just this indescribable comfort from slamming things when you’re mad. 

I plop down onto the other side of the sofa Skye sits on, flipping through the channels on tv. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be like doing people’s hair right now?” I say in between spoonfuls of tomato soup. 

“Aren’t you supposed to like, be at school still, or in Madley?” she replies with the same disdainful tone I just used. 

Well played, Skye, well played. 

“I didn’t want to be there any longer. And I’m going up there tomorrow when dad has his next chemo.”

“Mmmmm,” she replies, not being able to pick something to watch. “Business was slow today so they told me to go home,” Skye groans. Her lips in a glittery blue lipstick press together in annoyance, and embarrassment. 

“It seems like we’re both having a shitty day.”

She nods at me, but doesn’t reply at first. “And why was yours so shit, huh?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter under my breath. 

Pulling out my phone, I type in my passcode. Next, I open the app and find the profile I was looking for. One I’ve been trying to stay away from, but now I need it to answer the questions filling my head. Swiping up, my eyes search for a picture to tell me all that I want to know. But as I drink my soup, I find myself looking at artistic shots. Before long, I’m looking at pictures from 5 years ago. 

“Why’re you looking at Harry’s Instagram?” Skye asks, scooching over to sit by me. I don’t answer her, and when I dare to look up she gives me the evil eye. 

Sighing, I realize I have to tell her. And that maybe it will be good to tell somebody. “He was the guest speaker for my class today,” I admit quietly. Bringing the ceramic bowl to my lips, I down the rest of my soup. The awkward silence is soon filled with my slurps. 

“Excuse me. Did I hear you right? Harry spoke to your class today?!” she asks in near disbelief. 

Nodding, I sit forward to set the bowl on the table. Hitting the back of the sofa with a groan, I look back at my phone. 

“And you’re mad becauseeeeeeeee why?”

“Because he had a ring on his finger,” I reply in a small voice, flicking my thumb across the screen. 

“So? Everybody wears rings, Ree,” Skye insists. But my eyes pan over to hers, and I don’t hide anything in them. The realization unfolds on her face, and her features fall. “Oh, Ree. I’m sorry . . . But you can’t know if it’s a wedding ring or not.”

“I know, that’s why I’m trying to look on his insta. But I don’t see anything about a wedding or a new girlfriend,” I respond, starting at the beginning again. 

“So, that’s a good sign then. Anybody would post about getting married,” she says reassuringly. But her words don’t stitch up the hole I feel inside of me. One that grew even more just today when I saw that ring. 

“I don’t know,” I breathe out with uncertainty. 

“Is that all, Ree?” Skye coos softly. I drop my phone on my chest and close my eyes. Her fingers start to comb through my shoulder-length hair that she cut the other day in our kitchen. 

“His hair is short, and he looked so good, Skye. Fuck, he looked amazing. He was in this gray suit, and he had stubble. It was sooo attractive on him. And he was so charming with that dimply smile. Everybody ate it up, even me,” I confess, feeling the emotions weigh in my words. 

“Yeah well, even I think he’s hot. It’s pretty hard not to have a crush on him,” she agrees. I open my eyes and turn to look into hers. She flashes me a small smile as her fingers continue to play with my hair. 

“Did he recognize you?” 

“Yeah, about three minutes into his talk. And he smiled and it messed him up. Made him lose his train of thought,” I say with a proud smile tickling at my lips. She nods smiling, and says ‘go, Ree!’ “I think he wanted me to ask him a question when it came to that part, because I saw him look at me a few times.”

“And why didn’t you ask him a question?”

“There was nothing I wanted to ask since I know a lot about his career. I didn’t want to take away from the learning of the other students.”

“You’re too fucking nice,” she laughs, pulling one from my lips as well. Skye shakes her head, sending her now neon pink locks into a dance. “Soooo, did he say hi to you afterward?!” 

“No, and I didn’t know whether to say hi to him,” I admit sadly, my eyes falling to my lap. Picking at a hole in the knee of my jeans, I avoid her gaze. She has enough theoretical balls for the two of us, and is always telling me to just do it. But I never can. “I was debating to say hi when I saw the ring. And about 5 girls were already up there talking to him after class ended. I’m sure they were all flirting up a storm with him.”

“So? That’s when you walk up to him. He forgets about them. You bask in their jealousy and awe as he gives you his undivided attention,” she explains theatrically as if it were clear as day. 

“Sureeee, because that would so happen. I don’t know why you’ve always thought the feelings were mutual between us.” “Even though I only met him once when he came over, that’s all I needed to tell that he fancied you too, Ree,” she quips, wiggling her eyebrows at me. “His eyes were all over you and you could tell how much he enjoyed being with you. Even if you whooped his ass at that card game Nerts that night.”

“Yeah well, it doesn’t really matter anyway. Because apparently he’s married or engaged, or something,” I tell her in a low voice. 

“Maybe you could’ve asked him if you’d gone up to say hi to him,” she insists emphatically. God, I wish she knew when to stop. But she somehow says all of the things I'm secretly thinking. “That’s probably why you came home so early, isn’t it? So there wouldn’t be any chance that you could run into him in the halls, or at the little Starbucks they have? Am I right, or am I right?”

“You’re right, like always,” I admit through gritted teeth. I avoid her eyes, and instead pick at the pink nail polish I’m wearing. 

“I’m sorry, but when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, Ree. Which translates into making a move with the bloke you’re pining over. Now, watch FRIENDS with me and cheer up,” Skye finishes, quickly pecking my cheek. I dramatically gag and feel her shove my shoulder. 

I briefly laugh before laying down with my head in her lap. 

“What are you doing?” she demands. 

“Play with my fucking hair. That’s what you get for being mean to me when I’m sad,” I whine, using my puppy dog voice. 

“Fineeeee,” she relents. Joey and Chandler’s faces appear on the tv screen. Not long after, I feel her fingers tickling my scalp. “Ya know, Ree, I’m pretty sure you’d have a good chance of walking into his office and pulling down his pants to suck his cock. I’m sure he’d let you.”

“Jesus Christ, Skye! Stop it! I can’t believe you’re thinking about that!” I almost shout, feeling her belly shake with laughter. 

“I’m just saying that you know, you could go to his work and ask him out. Or text him to get a coffee, or to get curry together. It’s not as hard as you make it.”

“I’m not getting started again on the rant about how he was a dick-,” I try to say, but Skye is just not having it with the excuses today. 

“And how he didn’t believe you when it came to Amber who beat you up. I know, Ree, and it was a nightmare, but it’s been a year almost! I doubt he’s married or betrothed to some random chick already. That’s the kinda thing you put on your insta, and it looks like he still uses that account. Plus, people change and it says something that you’re still crushing on him after all this time. And I’m just saying, but it looks like he still cares about you too,” Skye finishes for me, combing through my tangles. “You know I’m right.”

“Yeah, I know. But I still don’t like it.” 

“Maybe you’d like it if you tried to change it,” she continues with her speech. I roll my eyes and try to immerse myself in the scene in front of me. Chandler and Joey playing with their pet duck and chick in their shared apartment. “Just shut up and play with my hair.”

But no matter how hard I try to push her words away, they worm their way into my head. And they stay there, repeating themselves until they’re heard. 

And they won’t shut up, not yet. 

+

I shiver as the cold raindrops still run down my skin. Cursing, I round a corner and try to remember my way around this place. Checking my watch, I curse again when I find I have a few minutes left to find the lecture hall. The fucking rain ruined everything today. My hair. The traffic. My timing. But I can’t let it ruin the speech I’m about to give. No, that wouldn’t be fair to them. 

Soon, I find the number on the familiar door. I walk into a large room humming with voices. Walking straight to the front, I find the man I’m looking for. He turns around with a smile budding on his lips. 

“Glad you could make it, Harry. Thanks for coming in this lousy weather,” Professor Alcott says, gripping my hand firmly in his. 

“‘Course, Rich, I wouldn’t miss it. I’m sorry if ‘m late, tha traffic was horrendous. Big accident up on tha motorway an’ everythin’,” I reply, shaking my head. I feel the raindrops collect at the tips of some hair.  

“That’s a shame. I hope the lot are alright,” he tsks, shaking his head of graying hair. I echo his words. “Well, I’m sure the students will enjoy your talk today. I hope we won’t have as many sleepers as last week’s.” 

I laugh along with him before following him to the front of the room. A blonde fellow rounds the corner and rushes up the stairs, door banging behind him. I only catch a glimpse of him as Richard gets the attention of his quieting class. But I can’t help thinking the bloke reminds me of the main character from the Kingsman movies I’d just seen. 

After draping my coat over a table his computer sits at, I turn my attention back to the class. I smile at Rich when he introduces me, followed by their welcoming applause bringing warmth to my cheeks. 

It’s never not exciting doing these things. 

I smile back at the 50ish young faces looking up at me. They cover a wide age range from parents, some older than me, and to those straight out of high school. Nonetheless, their eager faces bring forth a feeling of hope and excitement I can’t name. 

These talks never fail to have that effect on me. 

I jump into my usual spiel, starting off with a little about who I am. Mentioning Myles, and then telling them how I came to be a lawyer. I start to talk about cases of mine, from favourites, to nightmares, to success stories, and also failures. I’m just about to speak about my time in university and try to give them advice, having known what they’re going through. 

Not long after I started, I’m in the middle of a sentence about starting the firm with Myles. I look up from a woman in the front row and to another place in the room. My eyes dance upwards, trying to include everybody. And then I see her. 

Becks. 

My Becks. 

My heart flutters in my chest as I lose my breath. It’s as if my heart is reacting to seeing her too after all this time. 

Flushed with excitement, I watch her look up from her paper. And to me. Her hair is shorter, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her lovely face without makeup. She’s more beautiful than I thought I remembered. A smile grows on my lips by accident, and I see one inching up her face, as well. 

Looking away fast, I remember that my eyes deceive me. And she’s not the only person in this room. “I’m sorry, what was I sayin’?” I ask with a laugh, searching the eyes of students in the first few rows. I thank an eager volunteer and continue with my story.

But it’s hard with the emotions bubbling inside of me at the sight of her. Becks is here. Thoughts run rampant inside of my head, along with questions. But I can’t entertain them right now, I remind myself. With an attempt to shut off my brain, I return my focus to my story. But the thought of her sits at the back of my mind. My emotions and thoughts doing backflips at the back of it. All as she sits up there towards the back of the room, watching me and listening. 

Suddenly, I feel even more pressure to impress. 

I had a little speech-bubble waiting inside of my head, waiting until the end to say hi to her. But the second that Alcott says his last words to the class, I’m swarmed with blushing girls standing in front of me asking more questions. Smiling, I oblige and answer them to the best of my distracted ability. Twirling a ring on my left hand, I try to assert my attention to the girl currently talking. But it’s difficult. 

I find my eyes lifting from her elated face and to the crowd of students shuffling out of the lecture hall. I think I spot her head of dark hair next to that of the Kingsman fellow, and a shock of red hair. Friends of hers, they must be. I try to balance my attention between the full force nagging inside of my head to look for her, and the students in front of me. The next time I look I see her getting closer, but then I briefly forget about her when a male student asks an interesting question. 

Wrapping up my answer, he thanks me. I shake his hand and say goodbye. My eyes trail in the direction of the door when I hear her name. Somebody else is saying it. I don’t see her shock of chocolate hair until I watch Kingsman wrap an arm around her shoulder. The flirtatious words of another girl melt into a muffle as I watch her walk away to the door. 

Becks with another guy. Words of getting coffee pass between them. 

Something happens inside of me and I feel everything shut off for a nanosecond, or ten. It only lasts longer as I witness her lean into his shoulder and leave through the ajar door. 

“I think that’ll be all for Mr. Styles today. He put on a great little show for us indeed, but he probably has to get back to work here soon,” I finally hear Rich say from behind me. But it only registers with me when I feel him pat my arm. 

I blink and turn my head back around, feeling everything hit me hard. The sounds. Remembering that people are standing there, looking at me expectantly. 

“Yeah yeah. I’m sorry, e’rybody. But thank you, an’ thank you, Rich. I um was gonna grab a coffee ‘fore I go. Where’s that cafe ‘gain?” I ask him quickly, listening intently to his directions. 

I swerve around clumps of university students mingling in the halls or walking to their next class. But all I can think about is finding her in the crowd. Of course, I don’t, because there are too many people. And too many heads of hair that look like hers. Taking a left and then a right as Rich said, I rush down a hall. At the end of it is the little Starbucks that I could smell from around the corner. And then once again, I find what I’m looking for. 

But not quite. 

I can't get my feet to move another inch. Because his arm is still around her and she’s laughing at something he said. Staring into his eyes like he painted the stars in the sky. I thought once she looked at me like that, but as I watch them, all of my confidence of that melts away. He hugs her quickly, tickling her side in the progress. And I hear her melodic laugh without a phone in between us for the first time in ages. What’s felt like forever. Something stings deep inside of me watching another man being rewarded with it. 

And it’s not me. 

Not anymore, not for what’s been a long time. 

Huffing, I find my fingers tangled in my hair. They fall as my eyes study her with what tastes like bittersweetness. She looks so cozy in a jumper and jeans. Hair wavy and tucked behind her ears. A dimple falling into her one cheek and a smile in her eyes. Her crystal blues that scream of hidden sadness. She’s even more beautiful up close, and my goodness, how she’s changed. 

I turn around and find my feet pulling me away from her. Because maybe she isn’t my Becks anymore. No, she’s his now. Because I lost her. 

Biting my lip, I round a corner and almost run into somebody. 

“Heeeey. I was looking for you, you left your coat in the lecture hall,” Rich says, holding it out for me to take. “You alright, son?”

“Y-yeah, I jus’ uh thought I saw an old friend. But I guess not.”

“Oh well, that’s a letdown.”

“Yeah, ya can say that,” I reply softly, pulling on my coat one sleeve at a time. 

I listen to Rich’s praises of my speech as I follow him down the hall. Buttoning my coat to busy myself with something. 

“I had a question fer you,” I begin and he encourages me to continue. “I used t’ have an employee by tha name o’ Rebecca Holte at tha firm. I see she’s in yer class I jus’ spoke t’.”

“Oh, Becky? She worked for you? My, that doesn’t surprise me at all. She knows quite a bit about law and it shows in her work. She’s already been in the program, having dropped out a few years prior. But she’s doing really great. One of my best students. I know she’ll make a fantastic lawyer,” he says, shuffling along in his gray coat. Briefcase and thermos in hand.

“Yeah, I do too . . . I didn’ know she enrolled ‘gain in tha program,” I say, choosing my words carefully. The feelings of delayed elation and surprise coming with those words peek at the edge of my sadness. Even though I’m not sure how to phrase them with the chaotic state of my mind at the moment. 

“She started back again this Fall. Has about 30 credits left to go, I reckon. She’s plugging right along, even with her dad’s diagnosis.”

“Yeah, I heard ‘bout that from a coworker. ‘s a right shame. How’s she handlin’ it?” I question, looking up from the tiled floor to meet his eyes framed by graying brows. 

“Oh just fine. Her work is still just as strong. She’s always a light in our discussions, contributing her experience to the topic. I only see her twice a week and we don’t talk very much, what with having 54 students in her cohort. But I think she’s managing. She’s only needed a few extensions since her father started chemotherapy in September, but I couldn’t ask for a better student. Never skips a lecture. Participates. She communicates with me when she needs help. And she’s had a good effect on the class, and has already made some friends in the cohort. She’s going to need those with the tougher classes coming up, and with her dad’s diagnosis,” he informs me. I nod along with his words, savoring them as they’re about her. I itch to ask him about the fellow with his arm around her, but I resist, knowing it wouldn’t be appropriate. 

“Maybe she’ll come back to work for you after the Bar. Circle of Life, eh?” Rich laughs, bumping shoulders with me. I thank him, nodding along with his joke.

We say goodbyes before parting ways. I step back into the chilling rain and he walks into another classroom of students. For shits and giggles, I scan the hallway before leaving. I don’t see her, even though I knew I wouldn’t. 

Pulling up the collar of my coat, I hurry fast through the growing puddles and soggy leaves. Shivering, I hide my hands away in my pockets. I shake my head and take them back out. Removing a ring from my left hand, I slide it onto a different finger with relief. That feels better, I think inwardly before my hands are welcomed by the dryness of my pockets once again. 

Shuffling through the cold rain, I put another step and another between her and me. “Fook,” I mutter aloud when a thought appears in my head. 

I wonder when the next time is that I’ll see her, if ever, it says with a sting. 

+

“Bloody hell, it’s coming down out there,” a voice says, pulling me from my thoughts. Looking up, I find Asher walking towards me. 

Getting up from my chair, I walk over and hug him. 

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” he comments, sliding off his brown jacket.

“No, I only got here a few minutes ago. That snow is no joke.”

“No kidding,” he agrees, taking a seat across the small table from me. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been uh, fine. I’m sorry I’m so bad at replying to texts, things have been crazy.”

“That’s okay, I understand. How has chemo been going for your dad?” Asher asks, trying to tame his crazy hat hair. 

“I guess as good as you can expect it to, with all of the vomiting and other shit it brings. I bought him a bunch of thick shirts and jumpers the other day. He’s even colder without his hair and all the weight he’s lost,” I reply glumly, flipping through the pages of my menu. 

“I’m really sorry, Becky-.”

“I know, it’s okay. Thanks,” I stop him, patting his hand. Something unspoken passes between us. He nods with a small smile. “I’m sorry, it’s just that this is a nice little escape from everything going on. I don’t mean to be rude, but I kinda wanna keep it that way.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to apologize,” Asher says after drinking from his glass of water. A smile curls his lips upward and a little laugh joins us. I ask him ‘what’ and watch a blush color his cheeks. “It’s actually kind of a relief, because I’m always bad at talking about that stuff. I never know the right thing to say, and then I just feel bad the whole time because of it.”

“Thanks for telling me that, and you always do a good job, so shut up,” I tell him, squeezing his hand before we fall into another laugh together. 

“Sooo, what’s new with you since the last time we got lunch? When was that, like in September? When there wasn’t snow on the ground?” 

“Yeah, something like that. Um, not much. Dad’s been doing chemo as you know, and after he’s done with this round, he has surgery. Um, I just wrote a huge paper about serial killing for Criminology which was um, interesting. I got to shadow a local lawyer for a day before then. We studied some pretty disturbing cases in Crim, worked on writing some arguments, and that’s about it,” I confess, my words ending in a laugh. With the next words on the tip of my tongue, they’re stolen away when the waitress arrives to take our order. 

She leaves a pint and a soda for us, making me wish I’d ordered something warm. 

“Sorry, was there more you wanted to say?” Asher asks, bringing the foamy pint to his lips. 

“Uh yeah, I guess,” I answer nervously, smoothing out the square napkin my drink sits on. “Guess who came and talked to my class the other day?” 

“Who?” 

“Harry,” I tell him. Looking up to meet his eyes, I press my lips together in a silent ‘Yeah, I couldn’t believe it, either.’

“You should’ve seen that one coming. I’ve heard he’s done those uni talks for years,” Asher chuckles, pulling a scoff from my lips. But it only encourages him, and his melodic laugh tickles my ears. 

“Yeah I know, but it hit me out of left field. I wanted to hide under my seat, and at the same time, I enjoyed it.” 

“What, do you like him again now? Damn, make up your mind,” Asher teases, and I nod. 

“I know, I know. But he sent me a really nice card . . After I cried to him on the phone about my dad after a bottle of wine. And I don’t know, he was his charming self when he spoke to my class,” I try to explain, hearing an ‘Oh, I’m so surprised’ from Asher. I shake my head with a nervous smile. “I know, but I couldn’t stop eating it up just like everybody else. Ugh, what is wrong with me?”

“A lot of things, but I don’t think we have enough time today to cover those,” he quips. I laugh, mirroring his smile. 

“You know, I like the blonde beard you have going on,” I tease him, drawing an imaginary line around my mouth. 

“Oh shut up. I’m trying it out, okay?” he says in defense, holding his pint up. His nervous smile paints crinkles by his eyes. Along with pink on his hairy cheeks. 

Shaking his head, he sets his pint down before adjusting the salmon collar of his zip-up sweater. 

“It’s fine with me,” I say, holding my hands up in defense. His laugh fills my ears as I reach for my soda. 

A silence fills the space between us, for lack of better words. The telly above the nearby bar fills our silence, along with the chattering of the lunch crowd. 

“He was wearing a ring, Asher,” I say slowly, my voice absent of smiles and laughs. Daring to look, I meet eyes with him. They’re soft and serious now as he takes a pull from his pint of beer. “On his ring finger,” I finish with one of those smiles you force to assure them you’re okay, even though you’re not.

Twirling my straw in the sea of dark soda and ice, I wait. But then I can’t wait any longer. “Do you know if-.”

“I don’t, Becky. I’m sorry. I hardly see him, since I’m on the other side in I.T.,” he begins, walking over my words. But I welcome it, the saving. “I wish I could say I’d have heard about a wedding or engagement, but I don’t really hear anything about him. The few times I’ve seen him I haven’t paid close attention. But you know, maybe it just didn’t fit on any other finger.” I nod in silence, trying to deflect the emotions. Wishing I could drown them in the fizzing soda I stare into. They only hurt more when I realize that I can’t. 

“I hate that I even care, but all of a sudden I did again when my dad told me about his cancer. I wanted to run to Harry and tell him. I don’t know why, after everything I went through,” I reveal with difficulty. “And then I called him when I was drunk, because I had this strange desire to. I hardly remember it, or try not to, and then that damn card came in the mail. And messed everything up,” I confess, covering my eyes with my hands. 

“Yeah, feelings are just great, aren’t they?” Asher quips with tension throughout his voice. 

Somehow I laugh and drop my hands to find him staring at his drink. “See, that’s what I was saying before. People get sad in front of me and ask for advice. And I-I just . . . gum up. And start telling jokes, like Chandler Bing, because I don’t know what the fuck else to do.”

“It’s okay. I like the reality check,” I tell him, smiling. He nods gratefully, wiping the beery foam from his upper lip. 

“Do you think it means anything, you caring about him again all of a sudden again?”

“Well, if I said I stopped caring about him, I’d be lying. That’s what fucking got me here,” I reply honestly. The waitress appears at that exact moment with our appetizer.

I couldn’t be happier for the rescue from my own words. 

But it scares me to say them out loud, because that’s when they become real on a whole other level. And I’m already struggling to accept the “feeling them” part. 

After hugging Asher with tummies full of pizza, I rush to my car. Finally escaping the blustery wind, I close the door. Huffing out a ghost of a breath, I crank the heating in my car. Closing my eyes, I sit back and wait for it to warm up. Then a memory I forgot about until Asher reminded me of it comes back to me. It starts unfolding inside of my head before I can stop it.

“Do I have any messages?” somebody asks. 

Looking up from my cup of tea, I find Harry smiling above me. Now that is an odd sight indeed.

“Um no, you don’t have any messages, Mr. Styles,” I reply, folding my hands in my lap awkwardly. “Why the big smile?”

His hard green eyes meet mine, but they soften. Raising his eyebrows at me, his lips melt into a smile. “I said t’ call me Harry. And I jus’ finished talkin’ t’ a class of law students, somethin’ I always enjoy,” he answers, walking away from the table where I sit. 

“Yes, Harry . . What do you enjoy about it?” I ask, stirring the spoon in circles. Watching the little tornado form in the brown liquid, I wait for his answer. I’m not sure how a crabby pants like him would enjoy having anything to do with uni students. 

With the shuffling of moving food around in the fridge, he says, “”s just great t’ see new faces comin’ into law. Their enthusiasm ’s unmatched too, ‘cause they ‘ave dis love fer law that I dunno how many lawyers even ‘ave anymo’. ‘Cause o’ that, they hang onto yer every word.”

“And they probably flirt with you too, I bet,” I joke softly. I raise my head at a noise, watching him pour a cup of tea. But that’s not the noise. It’s his tittering laugh that I’ve only heard a few times now. 

“Um,” he struggles, laughing nervously. “I can’t deny that, nor confirm it.”

“You liar! They sooooo flirt with you!” I counter.

“An’ what would make ya say that?” Harry asks, turning to face me. 

Cocking an eyebrow, he challenges me, and yanks my answer away. Or any kind of answer I had. But I definitely can’t say that I think that because I’m a college-aged female who thinks he’s cute. Well, more than cute, but I’m trying not to let myself get that far. But it’s hard to deny my feelings, when his mere presence or even name puts butterflies in my stomach. 

“Ah, not so confident anymo’, now are we?” he smirks. I laugh too, shaking my head and letting it fall. I worry he can already read my answer from my expression. But I try not to worry. I’m relieved when he doesn’t blurt my answer into thin air. That would make it even more real. “No, yer right. They do it quite a lot - flirt with me. It depends on tha class, an’ well, how many girls are innit. Sometimes ’s not so bad, an’ otha times ’s annoyin’, ‘cause well, I have a girlfriend. An’ ‘m there t’ talk to ‘em ‘bout law, not t’ get their phone numba,” he finishes. Again, he rips the words right from my mouth with his own. Because he had to bring her up. Amber. And ruin the blissful ignorance I had for the moment, forgetting that he has a girlfriend. 

Fuck.

Bringing the steaming cup of tea to my lips, I try to drown my words with it. Staring at the table, I don’t know what words there are left to say besides, “Yeah, I suppose that could be hard.”

“Oh yes, very awkward at times,” Harry responds, setting his tea down on the counter before walking away. “I mean, ‘s like I can’t outright tell ‘em I don’ want their numba. It’d all stop there if I did, but I can’ really go there.”

“Yeah, that would probably just make it even more awkward,” I drone on.

“‘Xactly,” he responds. My eyes follow him as they often do. His actions bring a question to my lips. 

“Since when do you do puzzles?” I ask after watching him fiddle with the 500 piecer lying at the other end of the table. “I didn’t know you were getting that old.”

“Oh, hush you. ‘m barely older than yerself,” he smiles, trying to connect two pieces of the Autumn puzzle.

“Really, and how old am I again?” I say sarcastically, testing him. An accidental smile tickles at his lips, but he tries to hold it back. It breaks loose after he slowly looks over at me. “You have no idea, do you?!” I exclaim, voice rising by a few octaves.

His face dissolves into an embarrassed laugh. “What? ‘m sorry. Ya look so young!”

“Wow, good excuse!” I respond, rising from my chair. Soon I’m staring down at puzzle pieces standing next to him. “I’m 24 by the way, only three years younger than you.”

“Oh yeahhhh, dat sounds familiar now,” he replies knowingly.

“Sure it does,” I mutter, trying to place a piece but it doesn’t fit. 

“Why ya sayin’ ‘m old? ‘m only 27, ya know. Tha’s not old.”

“You’re more closer to 30 than you are to 20. Now, how does that make you feel?” I pose to him. With an ‘aha,’ I fit a piece to complete a pumpkin sitting on a doorstep. 

“Old . . . Hey now, that was rude,” Harry counters, giving me a sad look. It only makes me smile a little bit. 

Picking up a piece splattered with shades of yellow, I accidentally bump shoulders with him. 

“Yeah, well you’re working your way to being an old man. Doing puzzles and not liking uni students,” I divulge, feeling the edge to my voice. But the words couldn’t sit on my tongue any longer. 

“Heeeeey, I neva said I disliked uni students. Jus’ . . . some o’ ‘em are irritatin’ an’ far too flirty. Bloody hell, wha’s gotten into you t’day, love?” Harry chirps.

“That’s what you get for not remembering how old I am, and for calling me young. Do you know how many times I still get carded?” I groan somewhat jokingly. Setting down that piece, I forget it by picking up another. I scoff when Harry giggles after fitting another piece in. 

“Don’ be so sensitive, Becky. I bet I could even tell ya when yer birthday ‘s,” he bets. Looking up curiously, I meet his playful eyes. 

“I bet you couldn’t,” I challenge him. 

His cherry lips bend into an effortless smile. My eyes leave them when his hand comes into view. Pulling away the strand of hair from in front of my eyes, I follow his fingers when he tucks it behind my ear. “June fifteenth,” he mumbles softly. Trying to push away the blush warming my cheeks, I clear my throat. 

Nodding, I smile and say, “Good job. You got one right for once.” Breaking the special yet awkward eye contact, I look back to the puzzle. 

“I can rememba birthdays fine, ‘m jus’ not good at tha age thing.”

“Mmmm. I guess lawyers only have to be good at remembering dates,” I comment smiling. With a huff, I drop my piece of the puzzle and return to my chair. 

“Yeah, tha’s an important bit. What, ya give up already?” Harry replies. He bites his bottom lip as he looks at the lonely pieces, eyebrows in a tangle. 

“I don’t have the patience for puzzles.”

“Tha’s why ya only work at ‘em a li’l bit atta time. A few pieces, an’ then ya do a few more in an hour or so. Wheneva yer bored. My gran’ likes t’ do ‘em while she’s watchin’ tha telly, or in between chores,” he reveals, distracted by a blue jigsaw piece. 

“Mmmmmm, that’s a good idea,” I tell him. Scrolling through my phone, I exit out of Instagram after tiring of seeing everybody post relationship pictures. 

With a jealous sigh, I lock my phone and lose myself in my boring cup of tea. Again. Wondering when the puzzle pieces of my life will fall together, like it seems so many others have. 

The people on Instagram. 

Even Harry’s, I think as I steal a peek at him. 

Swallowing, I suddenly think of the puzzle piece I want to find most of all. And that perhaps it’s not that I haven’t found it yet, it’s because it doesn’t fit, I realize as my eyes study him. Hands in hair. Chunky rings on his fingers. A pastel suit on. And a contagious smile on his face. All of this ignites another swarm of butterflies within my tummy. 

If only he fit into the puzzle that’s my life. 

+

Yawning, I rub my eyes. I sit up, wincing at sore spots from the uncomfortable chair. Unbelievably, the clock reads only 8:39 pm. It feels much later than that, I think, but after the events of today, I was tired at 4 o’clock. Habitually peeking at the black screen by the bed, I feel relief when I see his steady numbers. Blood pressure. Heart rate. Oxygen levels. The rhythmic beeping assures me all is well too, but I don’t feel that way when I look down at my dad. I can’t see his blue eyes, because they’re still closed. There are all of these wires on him, and a tube down his throat. It’s already hard enough to see, without arguing in the background.

“For the love of christ, would you two stop it? If you’re going to do it, do it in the bloody hallway,” I snap at them. Getting up from my chair, I grab my purse and leave. 

Ignoring the sound of my name, I keep walking until I no longer hear it. I had to get out. They were crying and fighting and the doctor’s words weren’t making sense anymore. I just can’t take it anymore, like a typical tv show character would say. My steps echo down the hallway as the guilt eats away at me with every step. Emotions run around inside of me. 

Anguish one moment. 

Then frustration. 

Overwhelmed. 

Frustrated. 

Tired. 

Fed up. 

Sad. 

Mad. 

The humming welcomes me first, before I arrive in front of the line of vending machines that have been my sole solace during my time here. The number of visits being more than I can remember. The fluorescent lights advertising the packaged goods burns, and yet calms my eyes. Hmmm, what shall we have today, Becky? Sour gummy worms? Chocolate cupcakes? Doritos? Salted nut rolls? Granola bars? 

“Don’ get tha chocolate chip cookies. They look far betta than they actually are,” a voice suggests from behind me. There’s a spark of something inside the walls of my brain during the second before I turn around. “Trust me, I was tha one who wasted a few pounds on ‘em,” they continue. 

I watch the last few words leave the lips of its owner after I slowly turn around. Those cherry lips reach higher to the sky the longer I stand there. I watch the dimples crease his cheeks. The eyes I’ve looked into and missed too many times to count, crinkle with his smile. 

[jinmukangwrites]

From the Ashes (2/???)

Summary: In a modern version of Hyrule, a young man finds himself in a world filled with nothing but white walls, studying faces, and tests after tests. Something is different about him, and the world seems very interested is seeing what makes him tick. (A modern, BOTW/LOZ “Labrat” AU)

Chapter 1, Chapter 3 (to be released for all Partron's today, July 11th for Tumblr)

Warnings: Death, torture, blood, description on injury, experimentation, dark themes, emotional abuse, abuse.

Make sure you read the warnings, be safe.

-o-o-o-o-

Today there's autopsy, he died during it, but there's still an autopsy. They give him the numbing agent like always before they secure him down, but there's nothing that can stop the pain of a scalpel cutting down your chest, nothing like the skin being torn apart in different directions, nothing like ribs being pried apart so they can get a better look at your still beating heart.

They're careful at first, making sure he lives long enough for them to get their samples of tissues and muscles and fluid until they do what they always do instead of stitching him back together; they kill him. It's effective. Whatever brings him back to life whenever he dies heals everything and leaves nothing but a scar on his skin. He wakes up moments later completely healed and ready for whatever they want to do to him next.

It seems today they also want to test his endurance, because right as he wakes up from his autopsy, the mask that always kills him is strapped on and soon death takes him again.

The black lasts longer this time, the warmth comes a little later and just a bit duller, but he wakes up again, fine, breathing, good. Then the mask kills him again, it takes longer, again, it's colder. He wakes up. He dies. Again.

Longer. Colder. Alive. Dead. Again. Again.

Six times he dies until the machines scream at them to stop when he can't. He's dizzy, the phantom pains of knives literally in his chest burn and his lungs are begging for fresh air. He can't feel his body as they undo the straps and place him in a wheelchair for transport. Soon, he's wheeled into his home, the only place he can call his, and left there to blankly stare at the white walls until he can find the strength to move.

It takes a few hours, but he finally manages to wobbly stand up from the wheelchair. It's a practice he's mastered, this is nothing new. He doesn't bother to look back at the observation room connected to his with a panel of glass. He knows that the main scientist is there, observing him while he nibbles on the end of his pen. He's the same man who killed him for the first time in his one and only true memory. He hasn't seen that nice woman since, he wonders where she is.

Anyway, he ignores the observation room. They usually go away and turn on the cameras once he's collapsed in his small, threadbare bed. There's not much to observe when all he has energy to do is clutch at his thin pillow and breathe until sleep takes him. Why waste time watching him sleep when they could be preparing for the next experiment, the next sample, the next death.

The moment he collapses into his bed, on top of his blanket and pillow not even properly placed under his head, the bright lights in his cell turn off and multiple blinking green dots appear in the dark corners of his cell near the ceiling. His eyes unwillingly slip closed, he wishes he could keep them open, yet he knows fighting sleep is useless.

At least, when he's asleep, he has a name and family. When he's awake, he's got terror. When he's dead, he's got nothing.

Though, nothing is starting to sound very nice, and if only it would last forever.

-o-o-o-o-

There are sometimes days where they do nothing to him. He cherishes those days. He has time to do whatever he wants (within limited restrictions and boundaries of course) just as long as he does their mandatory workouts and therapy sessions.

The workouts are easy. He's brought to a large gym where there are treadmills and tracks and weights; there's an instructor and two guards and he does what he's told for about an hour to two depending on what the instructor determines what his body needs. The foods they feed him are filled with vitamins and minerals, so it's not like he's bone skinny, but he's not muscular either. Despite the things they do to him, they want his body to be healthy, that way results are not tainted by starvation, exhaustion, and a poor immune system.

He likes climbing. Out of everything they have him do during workouts, it's climbing nets and walls that he loves most. Running is fine, stretching and yoga is sort of okay, lifting weights is boring and he doesn't like that, they had him try swimming a couple times but both times he almost drowned so they got rid of that, but climbing is something he would willingly do.

There's something freeing about lifting himself higher and higher with nothing but his own strength. He likes to pretend he's climbing a mountain, a very tall mountain. One where if he ever reaches the top, he will be free from labs and experiments, he will be able to swing his arms out and lift his face to the stars and never have to go back.

The worst part about climbing is having to come back down.

Today he ran, he didn't get to climb, but there's always a next time.

Therapy sessions are a bit harder because it's a full two hours where he's expected to communicate, and he doesn't very much like the therapist. He can't speak, no matter how hard he tries to make sounds or how long they grill him in basic vocal practices it just doesn't happen. He somehow knows a bit of sign, but just the simple ones, limited to mostly letters. Most of the therapy sessions involve him trying to spell out how he's feeling with his hands and the therapist getting impatient with how long it takes for him to sign S-C-A-R-E-D or H-A-P-P-Y or H-U-R-T when he theoretically could just say the words and move on. He gets yelled at a lot, which he doesn't think getting yelled at is a part of therapy but he has to remind himself that he doesn't know what therapy is outside of the labs, so for all he knows getting yelled at for things he can't control is what therapy is all about.

Thankfully, today the therapist looks happy. When they're happy, they talk a lot about themselves instead of him. Apparently their brother got married and they got to go back home to the Zora's Domain to visit. He only knows a couple Zora, the therapist being one of them, the others being various scientists and nurses. There's a Goron on the security team, but the rest are all Hylian. He hears stories of the Gerudo sometimes, but he's never seen one. They sound beautiful, especially since none of them come here to the labs to hurt him.

After a whole long story about how the therapist got to go cliff driving with their siblings (oh cliff driving sounds wondrous even though he can't swim well) the therapist sighs and clicks a pen against the clipboard in their hands.

"Okay," they grumble, "let's get this over with. How are you feeling today?"

It's a question that should be genuine, but the therapist says it like they'd rather be sleeping.

Today, he doesn't hurt, today's a free day. He got to work out, but he didn't get to climb. He came to therapy and hasn't been yelled at yet. He's okay. A little tired from working out, a little hungry, but he's okay.

O-K. T-I-R-E-D. W-O-R-K-O-U-T

"Yesterday Doctor Marras tested your endurance, how did that go?"

He lifts his hand up to his chest, his fist shaped in the sign for "A". He moves his fist down like a scalpel would. His sign for "Autopsy".

D-I-E.

He makes the shape for "D" now and puts it over his nose, the sign for the mask used to kill him.

Six. No / R-I-S-K / seven.

"How did you feel?"

He brings his hands out in front and touches the fingertips of his pointer fingers a couple times. Hurt. He then opens his palms across his chest and drags them outward while slowly closing his fists. Afraid.

The therapist sighs and he puts his hands down to his lap. This conversation sounds old, feels repetitive.

It doesn't matter. He knows it's just a way to make sure he's still capable of thinking and living. Losing his mind would be almost as bad as letting his body wither away. Almost. They'd rather his body is peak physical condition than his brain fully functional, which is probably why his work out trainor is actually very good while his therapist doesn't help that much at all.

Whatever the case, he's asked a couple more required questions and he's not yelled at at all before he's escorted back to his cell where a small number of activities await him. By his cot is a small pile of books, a sketch pad, and some pencils. On the small plastic table next to the bed is a black tablet with apps for learning basic math and science are downloaded on, along with an app used to help him learn more words in sign. There's a paper cup of water placed next to it, right beside a protein bar which is certainly a rare sight. He's usually fed the same gray, tasteless goop every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If he's given actual substance, he must have done something good. Or they're all just in a good mood.

Not one to pass up the opportunity of actual food, he grabs the bar and gently tears it out of it's wrapping. He sighs in content as the flavor hits his tongue, it's bitter, but he can still taste chocolate. Content, he plops down on his cot and opens the sketch book. He flips through the pages he's already sketched on and lands on a blank page. Tapping the pencil against the paper in thought, he glances up quickly at the observation room. Today the glass has been changed into a mirror, which sends a wave of uneasiness through him. Whatever is going on behind that mirror, they don't want him to see today.

He sucks in a breath and turns back down to his sketchbook.

[nxfury]

Rolling Custom Cryptographic Systems: Part 1

Cryptography- it's always the hot debate topic regarding computers, with society trying to perserve it and ensure ciphers are extremely hard to crack, to aid in the preservation of privacy (thus ensuring free speech). Governments often oppose cryptographic ciphers because of their difficulty to crack, making investigations and research on other people harder.

However, there's no denying that such systems seem very arcane and tough to understand, and this series of posts intends to shed some light on how cryptographers implement systems that are extremely hard to crack.

This post series exists to help educate people on the importance of cryptographic research and how it corresponds to your privacy online, and how you can better protect yourself in a high risk environment. I would like to give credit where it's due, as I learned most of this content from "Applied Cryptography" by Bruce Schneier.

Like a Lightswitch: Boolean Logic

So let's quickly cram an intro to computer science class into a couple paragraphs to preface this all... Boolean Logic is just a fancy term for the ability to do math with nothing more than true or false statements and a few special operations. This is achieved through the use of the binary number system, which behaves very much like the decimal system in the sense that it has a "place" for digits of a certain value. However, instead of having a 1s, 10s, 100s, etc. place, the binary system has a 1s, 2s, 4s, 8s, etc place. A binary digit is called a bit and a number that is 8 binary digits long is called a byte.

Like normal math, we can do addition, subtraction, etc to the binary numbers... But we can do more than that since binary 0 is "False" anything other than 0 is "True". We can use AND, OR, XOR, NAND, and NOT operations on our numbers now. AND, OR & NOT are all pretty self explanatory in how they work (they take inputs and you perform said operations on them). NAND stands for NOT AND, so you basically perform AND and then invert the output value. XOR will only output true if only one input is true.

Cryptography Basics

So what is cryptography? In the most perfect sense, a cryptographic function is an algorithm that can only be reversed using one method, and is impossible to recover the original contents using any other method. However this is often not the case, and this is why security experts say nothing is 100% secure, because there will always be unknown holes in your cryptographic functions and systems.

When cryptographic functions work through taking a message and a single "key", performing a series Boolean operations and mathematical operations to use the same key to encrypt and decrypt the message, it is called a symmetric encryption algorithm. Some of the leading symmetric algorithms (in terms of security) are AES-256, CHACHA20 and SALSA20.

If there's 2 keys, one for decryption (called a private key) and one for encryption (called a public key), it is called an asymmetric encryption algorithm. Some of the leading asymmetric algorithms are RSA and EC-Diffie Hellman.

Finally a hashing algorithm is one that takes a message as input, performs a series of operations on it, and outputs a bunch of garbled information- but if you input the same message again, you will get the same output. This is common for storing passwords and login information. Common hashing algorithms are SHA256 and SHA512.

Keys require random numbers to be created, and often times cryptographic systems rely on programs to generate random numbers for keys. The ongoing problem is that computers are incapable of being random, so there is ongoing research to produce Cryptographically Secure Pseudo-Random Number Generator software (CSPRNG). Alternatively, some people opt for Hardware-based Random Number Generators (HRNG) for producing their crypto keys.

Planning our Cryptosystem

Let's say Bob and Alice want to email each other, but they fear Eve- our eavesdropper- might be listening in. How can we securely share secret cryptographic keys in such a manner that it's impossible for Eve to get them?

Using Multiple Systems

Using some code, it's entirely possible to stitch together multiple algorithms. So it's possible that we could send EC-Diffie Hellman encrypted messages, but encrypt our public and private keys with AES-512 encryption and a personal password. So it's not theoretically possible for "Eve" to intercept the encryption and decryption keys without having to trick Bob and Alice.

To do this, we need to understand what EC-Diffie Hellman keys go where. The public key encrypts the message, while the private key decrypts the message. So for this to work, Bob would need to have Alice's public key and his private key encrypted with AES-512, while Alice would need Bob's public key and her private key encrypted also with AES-512.

To simplify this... 1) Bob and Alice generate public and private keypairs 2) Bob and Alice swap public keys. 3) Bob encrypts Alice's public key and his private key. 4) Alice encrypts Bob's public key and her private key. 5) When they wish to email, they unlock their keys. 6) After unlocking their keys, they encrypt their messages. 7) To decrypt the message, Bob or Alice unlocks their keys. 8) They then use their private key to decrypt the message.

This seems rather complex, although most of the process is automated and running behind the scenes. Software like this would manifest itself as a "keychain" or "keyring" in major programs.

The Plan

The first step, which will be shared in the next post, will be to implement a CSPRNG and a hashing algorithm so we can generate keys.

The second step will be to implement a EC-Diffie Hellman cryptographic function, using hashing algorithm and CSPRNG to aid in the generation of keys.

The third step will be to implement AES-512, which will complete the cryptosystem, and allow for encryption of the keys.

The last milestone of this project will be to provide a simple and clean interface so an end-user can encrypt their emails.

References

Schneier, B. (2015). Applied cryptography: Protocols, algorithms, and source code in C. Indianapolis, IN: Wiley.

[bytheangell]

Long for the Next Distraction

(Read on AO3)  (inspired by this tweet) (also blood donation so needle tw!) 

“Blood drive, hosted by Pride! This Friday, noon to four, outside the East Commons!”

Alec normally avoids eye contact with the people on campus with clipboards and flyers but the guy in front of him is the sort who demands attention. His tight black jeans, black and red shirt, and the matching red streak through his hair look more put together than Alec has felt in his entire life. And once he makes the accidental eye contact the guy smiles at him, and the color that rises high on Alec’s cheeks matches all of those accents.

“Coming to the blood drive Friday?” He holds a flyer out to Alec and Alec hesitates just a moment before taking it from him - noticing the black polish on his nails and too many intricate rings to take in at a glance.

Alec is suddenly very aware of the faded gray sweatpants and letterman jacket he’s wearing from his high school, and the rough calluses of his hands that brush against the impossibly smooth skin of the guy handing him the flyer.

Underneath the basic date/time/place of the event are a number of facts and statistics which focus on the percentage of Americans banned from donating blood simply because they’re men who have sex with other men, and other disparities between the national blood shortage and the restrictions keeping an entire willing subsection from helping. It isn’t just for a good cause - it’s to raise awareness, too. These are the sorts of things he wants to get involved in one day… when he can casually admit to more than just Jace and Isabelle that he’s gay, that is. He isn’t hiding it anymore, and that alone is a huge step for him. He simply isn’t broadcasting it, either.  He remembers a day not too long ago where he would’ve take one look at the flyer and dropped it like even being associated with holding it might ruin him, and something warms in him at the very positive shift in his life since the start of this year.

“Sure,” Alec says immediately. He hadn’t really thought about it before now, but with any luck in his college dating life this might be his last chance to donate blood for a long, long while. Not that he’s going to say that out loud, but he wants to help while he can.

The blonde next to Alec raises an eyebrow. “What are you--” but falls silent as Alec ‘accidentally’ hits him in the side with his elbow when he brings his arm back in from taking the flyer.

“We’ll be there,” Alec repeats, his words taking on a pointed tone as he side-eyed Jace.

“I’ll see you Friday then-” The guy’s eyes dart down to a space on the chest of Alec’s jacket where his name is carefully stitched in gold thread, before turning back up to his face with a smile. “-Alec.”

Alec gives a slightly flustered nod and smiles back, starting to walk away with Jace following close behind.

“Alec, you hate needles.” Jace points out. “The last time you needed a shot-” “Shut up,” Alec cuts him off. “That was forever ago, I’ll be fine. Plus, it’s for a good cause.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say.” Alec can hear the smirk in Jace’s tone before he even looks over. “I’m sure the cause is the only reason you’re going.”

“Oh, look, it’s that cute redhead from Econ!” Alec says suddenly, and Jace stops walking to whip his head around in every direction.

“What? Where?!” He frowns when he realizes Alec is just messing with him. “Alright, point taken. Let’s just grab dinner and I’ll stop giving you a hard time about blood guy.”

“...we’re not calling him that.” Alec decides immediately, turning left to head to the dining hall with a small smile he’s careful to hide from Jace.

---

When Alec shows up on Friday he isn’t sure if more of him is hoping Magnus will be there, or hoping he won’t. He only met the guy once, hardly enough for even a proper crush, but it’s the first time he felt those butterflies in his stomach over someone since he reached a place in his life he could - theoretically - do something about it. Of course he’s always been a disaster when it comes to flirting, so it’d probably be better if they just never crossed paths again.

There’s also the small fact that Jace bailed on him at the last minute, and doing this alone isn’t exactly something Alec’s looking forward to. In fact, maybe it’s a sign, and he really should just head back to his dorm and get some extra revisions done on his paper. That’d be safer for everyone…

Which is not at all what the fates have in mind for him that day. Once Alec spots the same spiked-up hair and smile he remembers from the other day it’s too late to turn around.  

“You came!” The guy says, practically beaming. “Alec, right?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” Alec points out, unable to help a too-wide smile in return. His energy really is infectious. “And yeah, it’s Alec. I don’t think I caught your name, though…” he says, obviously inviting the information.

“Magnus. The pleasure’s mine, I’m sure.” Magnus shifts the stack of flyers he’s holding to his left hand to reach his right out to shake Alec’s. His nails are a deep crimson today to match the highlights in his hair, Alec notices. When Alec brings his gaze back up from Magnus’ hands he finds Magnus staring rather intently at his eyes, and Magnus doesn’t look away when Alec catches him doing it, either. A faint blush rises in Alec’s cheeks for the second time in as many encounters with Magnus and he makes quick work of the handshake and turns his gaze to the side.

There’s a table set up with flyers, stickers, pins, and a donation jar to support the group. Alec doesn’t hesitate to reach into his pocket and pull out a $20 to toss inside even though he doesn’t take anything. It’s the only cash on him but he isn’t hurting for money, and he’d only blow it on lattes from the overpriced place on campus anyway.

“Wow, thanks! Sure you don’t want something?” Another guy manning the table with dark brown hair and glasses offers, but Alec shakes his head.

“No, thanks. I don’t really--” he starts, but hesitates, not sure how to say what he wants to say without it coming out all wrong.

“Hey, say no more, that’s cool! We always welcome the support of allies.” “Oh, I’m not an ally,” Alec says instinctively as he moves away from the table.  

“Oh,” Magnus says, sounding deflated. It isn’t until Alec sees the face Magnus makes that he stops to think about how that sounded.

“Shit, no, I don’t mean--” Alec stutters out, not sure how this could possibly get any worse. So with that in mind he takes a quick glance around before finally managing, “I mean, I’m gay.” It’s a work in progress, saying it out loud as a statement rather than a secret, but he’s getting there.

“Oh!” Magnus repeats, in a much different tone this time around.

“Just not, you know…” Alec glances at the display on the table. “...I’m just not quite at rainbow bumper-stickers yet.” His voice is quiet and he averts his gaze to his sneakers, studying them very intently until Magnus speaks again.

“No judgment here. Really, it’s cool.” Magnus obviously picks up on the anxiety Alec was feeling about the admission and the reassurances are enough to bring Alec’s attention back to the reason he’s here in the first place, which he almost forgot after everything else.

Magnus steps a little closer, holding out one of the flyers from the other day with the facts on them. “You do know that there are regulations against donating. If you’ve… been active lately.” Magnus doesn’t look embarrassed to talk about it, though he’s doing his best to be quiet and discreet so it isn’t a thing for passersby to overhear.

Alec realizes what he’s hinting at and nods, praying that he doesn’t sound as pathetic as he feels. “I know. I haven’t quite, uh, gotten there yet, either.” He’s suddenly regretting everything that drove him to show up here today, because the last thing he wants to be doing is discussing is lack of a sex life with the hot flyer guy.

“Hey, no judgement there, either,” Magnus repeats with that easy smile back on his face.  “Just didn’t want you to be wasting your time. A lot of people don’t realize until they’re filling out the questionnaire.”

Alec nods again, wishing he had something to say that wasn’t prolonged and increasingly awkward silence on his end while he waits for the person already talking to the donation crew to finish filling their form out. Thankfully, Magnus picks up the slack.

“You didn’t bring your blonde friend?” Magnus asks, and Alec shakes his head and hides the flicker of a frown that crosses his features, trying not to give away how nervous he is to be there alone.

“No, he got held up after class,” Alec shrugs, but bites down on the corner of his lower lip a little.

The lady at the door of the donation van motions for them to come over and Magnus nods that way, walking Alec over to the door and following him inside to continue talking to him just a bit longer.

“You alright?” Magnus asks, catching the way Alec rubs at the back of his neck once they’re inside the van. Alec wonders if he looks as anxious as he suddenly feels.

“Yeah, I”m fine! Never better.” Obviously forced, too excited. Alec is trying too hard and if Magnus doesn’t notice the lab technician certainly does.

“This isn’t your first time giving blood, is it?” The woman in the lab coat asks as she makes her way over to him with the standard form to fill out on a tablet.  

“No,” Alec says, and that much is casual and confident because it isn’t a lie. He just leaves out the fact that every time ended with him on the floor, if not during the process then immediately after.

“Well then, you know the drill. Just fill this out and we’ll get going.” The tech smiles at him.  

Magnus looks back towards the door, fidgeting with the flyers in his hands. He has the look of someone who knows he should probably go and Alec realizes he stopped bringing in new volunteers to linger and talk with him.

But Alec doesn’t want him to leave again, especially not as he looks at the needle attached to a tube just a few feet away, eyes widening slightly.

“Do you want me to stay?” Magnus asks, but Alec shakes his head. Needing someone to hold his hand while he donates blood isn’t the first impression he wants to make.

“No, I’m fine,” Alec insists, making his way over to the chair in the far corner of the van. The tech pulls out the needle and gives it a tap, and that’s all it takes. 

Alec’s vision starts to spin, the edges going black as his breathing comes in short, sharp gasps, and he sways. Alec doesn’t have time to react before he feels his knees go weak underneath him and the room goes black.

--------

The flyers flutter to the ground at his feet the instant Magnus sees Alec start to sway. He’s next to Alec in an instant, arms outstretched to catch him the best he can. Mostly he softens the fall, allowing Alec to tumble into him before backing them against the wall to brace himself. Alec’s body slumps against his chest and Magnus can’t keep his grip, only managing to let him slide down to the floor as gently as possible.

“Let’s get him to a bed,” the tech suggests, moving to help Magnus carry him over to one of two makeshift beds for just-in-case scenarios like this. Alec’s legs dangle over the edge but at least it’s better than nothing.  

“I’ll get some water and crackers for when he wakes up,” Magnus says, thinking of the food he has in his backpack outside.

“We have the juice and food for the donors right over there,” the tech points out. “It’s usually for after donations to keep this from happening, but…” She laughs a little, clearly no stranger to fainting donors, and Magnus grabs a plastic bottle of orange juice and a packet of crackers - and some oatmeal raisin cookies (just in case, since he has no idea what the guy likes) - before walking them over to the table next to Alec’s chair. He sets them down and then lingers, hesitating next to the bedside.

“Are you going to stay with your friend until he wakes up?” The tech asks, and Magnus only falters a few seconds before nodding.

“Yeah, I can stay.” Magnus knows he should be outside but Simon will be fine on his own for a bit. He doesn’t point out that he’s only spoken to Alec twice for a grand total of 10 seconds, let alone long enough to be his ‘friend’. But he doesn’t want him to wake up here alone, either. This was obviously what Alec was so worried about earlier, the poor guy.

So Magnus takes a minute to go pick up the papers he dropped earlier before settling in, sitting down in the chair next to the makeshift bed and sending Simon a quick text to let him know what’s happening. Simon responds back with more winking and heart-eye faces than should reasonably be in any single message, and Magnus rolls his eyes… but not without a small smile. He was very decidedly giving Alec looks the other day and today, just some minor flirting, but he was almost positive there was something there in the responses he got out of Alec.

When Alec starts to stir Magnus tenses by his side. Will he even want him there when he wakes back up? Is this going to seem way too creepy, like some horror movie stalker level of ‘I was watching you sleep’ concern over a guy he didn’t even know? They already had what was probably a way-too-personal conversation outside about his sexuality and sexual activity, even if it did serve an actual purpose, and the poor guy probably wants to get as far away from him as possible…

It’s too late for those sorts of worries because Alec’s eyes flutter open and land on him with confusion, slowly trying to process what happened.

“Where am I?”

“The blood drive. Why didn’t you say you were afraid of needles?” Magnus asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, fuck.” Alec groans, trying to sit up - it’s a motion he immediately regrets, closing his eyes again quickly before laying back.

“Here,” Magnus opens the orange juice and holds it out to Alec, making sure he has a decent grip on it before letting go. “There are crackers and cookies, too. I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer.”

Alec looks surprised. “Thanks.” He takes a small sip of the juice, smiles a little, then takes another before answering Magnus’ question about the needles. “I was hoping I was over that. It’s been about a year since the last time.” Alec sighs.

The tech reappears at the sound of their voices.

“Oh good, you’re awake, and you already have some juice and food. Take your time with those and head back home whenever you’re feeling up to it, alright? No rush.” Her voice is kind and patient in a way that tells them she sees this plenty of times for it to not be even remotely surprising.

“Actually… I’d like to try again. If-” Alec starts, catching all of them by surprise by his insistence, before he turns to Magnus. “Would you stay and distract me? Just until it’s started? Then I’ll be fine, I swear.”

Magnus isn’t sure why he feels butterflies over the request, reminding himself Alec is only asking him because he’s the only one there and no other reason.

“Sure. I’ve been told I can be quite distracting, so I might as well put those skills to good use,” he says with a wink, noting the way Alec bites back a laugh with success.

“If you’re positive,” the tech starts slowly. “I’ll try one more time, but if it happens again you’re done.”

Alec nods determinedly and they relocate to the chair again, with Magnus pulling a spare one over to sit across from him. He has to admire Alec’s dedication. Most people wouldn’t have even humored the idea of showing up in the first place, let alone a second attempt after passing out.

She starts to prep a spot on Alec’s left arm, and the moment Alec’s face turns towards it Magnus immediately reaches a hand out and touches his chin lightly. It’s instinctive, like dropping the papers to catch him, but this time he freezes for a moment once he realizes what he’s doing before slowly guiding Alec’s face back to look at him instead, hoping he isn’t being too out of line.

Alec doesn’t seem to mind.

In fact, he appears properly distracted by the touch to his chin, so Magnus drops his hand from Alec’s face to hold Alec’s free hand instead, rubbing small, repetitive circles onto the back of Alec’s hand with his thumb.  

“So, tell me a little about yourself, Alec. What are you studying?” Magnus isn’t shy about making eye contact, especially not when those hazel eyes are so lovely to look at.

“Are you really asking me my major? I thought you said you were distracting, not predictable.” There’s an edge to Alec’s tone but he’s clearly trying to make a joke, and Magnus laughs.

“Alright, is that how it is?” There’s a hint of challenge in Magnus’ tone. “I’d say tell me your biggest fear but I think we’ve had enough of those for one day, so…”

Alec’s gaze drifts over to his side at the thought and Magnus’ free hand is back up at his face, bringing it back over again. Maybe he welcomes the excuse to do that again a little too eagerly. “Oh no you don’t.” The tech is holding the needle now, Magnus notes, giving him a subtle motion of warning that she’s ready.

“Alright, so no boring school talk. I guess I could tell you all about how I spend my nights and weekends moonlighting as an exotic dancer, then. There is a lot of glitter, and a surprising amount of tassels. I own this one very interesting pair of assless chaps for country nights, and-”

“OW!”

Magnus feels Alec’s hand squeeze down on his with a surprising amount of strength and winces, wondering if a broken hand is worth sticking around to flirt with an impossibly handsome stranger he’ll likely never see again. He decides it is when Alec slowly releases his grip and looks at him with apologetic puppy eyes that nearly melt him on the spot.

“You’re all set, Alexander. It should only take about 10 or so minutes.”

“-Alexander?” Magnus repeats, eyebrow raised slightly.

“No one calls me that,” Alec says quickly. “It’s just Alec.”

“Pity. I quite like Alexander,” Magnus muses. “Also, for the record, I am not an exotic dancer. I just made that up to make sure I had your attention.”

“...you didn’t have to make up a story for that.” Alec’s tone is surprisingly soft, and there’s a hint of a nervous smile as he adds, “And that’s too bad because I’ve always wanted to actually see a pair of assless chaps. You hear about them but no one ever actually owns them.”

Magnus deadpans. “I said I wasn’t an exotic dancer, I never said I didn’t actually own a pair of assless chaps for country night.”

There’s a pause where Alec looks like he isn’t sure whether to believe him or not, and then they both start laughing.

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious” Alec admits, and Magnus takes a split-second to weigh his options before tossing caution to the wind.

“Maybe you can find out one day… though I think that’s at least third date material.” He watches Alec’s expression shift at the words with a flutter of anticipation.

“You’re probably right,” Alec agrees. “Maybe… maybe we could grab coffee first, sometime? If you want?”

Magnus has no idea why Alec looks so terrified when Magnus is the one who brought the idea up in the first place but it’s still endearing. “Coffee sounds great.” Magnus agrees.

They talk a little bit more about little things - how Magnus dabbles in creative writing in his free time, how Alec’s parents wanted him to study politics but he’s currently undecided and just feeling things out, much to their horror - and before they know it the woman is back to wrap up the donation process, clearing him to leave.

Alec goes to stand - slowly this time - but pauses, looking down.

Magnus realizes he’s still holding Alec’s hand.

“Sorry,” Magnus says, quickly pulling his hand back with a light laugh. “Guess we both got a little distracted.”

Alec laughs back, and Magnus finds that he thoroughly enjoys the sound. It isn’t the first time Alec laughed during their brief conversation and he notices that it always seems slightly surprised, like Alec is caught off guard to be enjoying a moment of simple amusement. It’s a great laugh.  

With any luck, Magnus hopes, he’ll get to hear a lot more of it soon.

[jacekhouris]

tldr; jace and roslan celebrate their first christmas together and it results in some big steps. this is really long but it’s also REALLY cute so read if you feel so inclined!

disclaimer: we’re idiots and lost the first few replies. basically, jace has a tiny tree that he bought for his place, and he put five little presents under it for roslan. roslan showed up and brought food and brought a HUGE present and asked about the sweaters. that’s where our story begins. lesson learned y’all.

jace had almost forgotten. the secret santa sweaters. "hold on," he said, rushing to his room and grabbing the pile of fabric. he came back out, sweaters in hand. "this one's for you," he said, handing roslan the one with his name stitched on the front. he set aside his own, and gave roslan the one for hopscotch as well. beckoning almond to come over to him, he slipped the sweater on the dog (with a fair amount of resistance, but almond was a chihuahua, so was there ever any doubt jace would win?). "perfect." he slid his own sweater over his head. "sawyer made me these for the secret santa exchange. don't you love them?"

roslan couldn't stop smiling. like, it was ridiculous that he couldn't. returning from the kitchen, he watched jace struggle for a few seconds before crouching down to dress hopscotch similarly, just with a little less resistance, and then slipped off his own sweater to exchange for jace's. "i love them." he couldn't help but kiss jace again, patting him affectionately over the name stitched on his front. "we need a picture later so we can send him a thank you card." he tugged jace over to the couch and simultaneously grabbed the paper bag, which he'd stuffed a few DVDs into at the last second. "i wasn't sure which one of these you had," (knowing jace, probably all of them), "but i brought the grinch, nightmare before christmas, and elf, so take your pick."

"i feel like i'm in harry potter," jace commented, before kissing roslan. it was one of those kisses where neither of them could stop smiling, so the kiss wasn't the best in and of itself, but the pure joy between the two made up for it. he picked almond up off of the floor and sat down on the couch next to roslan, setting almond down next to him. jace immediately got comfortable, his head resting on roslan's bicep and his feet up on the couch. "awe, we can take a picture in front of the small tree and send it to sawyer and post it all over the internet so everyone can see how cute our sweaters are and also how cute we are." he considered roslan's movie options, before answering with a confident "elf."

"as if we need sweaters to be that cute," roslan said mildly, kissing jace's temple. the next moment presented him with a dilemma: disturb jace's comfortable position, or end up not watching the movie at all because he felt too bad about moving his boyfriend's head? "babe, i still have to start the movie," roslan chuckled, moving as quickly as he could. once the movie was properly started and the volume was good, he was back at jace's side. "i don't think i've seen this before." he hid a grin into jace's hair. "is this the one with the kid whose parents, like, desert him on christmas?"

roslan making jace move ended up not mattering anyways, because as soon as he said he hadn't seen it before, jace bounced up. "what?!" he said, taken completely aback. "no. this is the one about the guy who's a human who gets adopted by elves but then goes to find his real family--i cannot BELIEVE you've never seen this before." his mouth gaped open, and after his slight tangent he settled back into position. "so, what did you bring to eat? i'm starving... do you want to eat, and then we can open presents while the movie is still playing?" jace was very excited and nervous to give roslan his presents, so he wanted to get it done sooner rather than later.

roslan stifled an honest to god giggle at jace's reaction, tugging his habitually dramatic boyfriend back within reach soon enough. "pasta. and cake. but the cake can be saved for presents-opening. but theoretically, we could do also do all three at once, because i wanted you to open your present as soon as i bought it." it probably would have been easier for him to untangle himself from jace and then get everything from the bag, but since the one con of leaving jace outweighed any other pros, roslan managed to do all of that without leaving his place on the couch. "i grabbed this from the diner, it should still be--" yes, it was still hot, and there was also a flash of green that made roslan laugh. "hey, look." grinning an absolutely shit-eating grin, he lifted the pair of basil leaves and waved them lightly over jace's face. "c'mere, you have to kiss me, that's the rule.

jace smiled. "i'm very, very comfortable right now, so i think you should kiss me and not the other way around." he closed his eyes and puckered his lips, awaiting a kiss from roslan. when it became clear that he actually had to go in for it, he feigned annoyance, and leaned in to kiss roslan. he kissed him slowly, and softly, smelling the faintest scent of the basil leaves over his head. it occurred to him in that moment that, unlike on their date, he could kiss roslan for as long as he wanted and no one would be bothered. it was probably about a minute before he pulled away, smiling at his boyfriend before grabbing the pasta. "we'll eat the pasta, then open presents, then do cake. sound good? and did you grab forks from the diner, or do you need me to get some from the kitchen?"

"sounds good to me," roslan agreed happily, because he'd be a liar if he said he wasn't thinking that his best present was technically already right there. "no, i got everything, don't worry." he sectioned off two plates and then handed one over to jace. the smell of food had the dogs sniffing in interest, which complicated the act of eating and trying to cuddle at the same time, but the chaos honestly felt so...right. and roslan felt so, so happy. "mmh. so his dad's not on the nice list? that's awkward." he followed along with the movie, loving how excited jace was about it, about everything. Barely an hour in, and this was already one of the best Christmases he'd ever had.

jace scarfed down the pasta before almond could even try to get any, but left the dog one piece that he fed to him at the last second before setting the empty plate aside. "that was amazing... i haven't been to the diner in ages. i guess i have a reason to stop by now," he said, winking at roslan. "i know, it's so awkward. this whole movie is awkward but i love it." he got up, taking his and roslan's empty plates to the kitchen to dispose of them, before excitedly asking "is it time for presents?" and hurrying over to the tree.

jace was also awkward and roslan loved him, so their tastes weren’t too far off. “yes. and i feel like i’ve been outnumbered here, so i want you to open your last.” roslan joined him, sitting cross legged on the floor. he felt nervous, more nervous than he’d ever been for a present swap. but this also felt more important than that. jace’s opinion meant a lot to him.

"how about you open four of them, then i open mine, then you open the last one?" jace said, handing him the first box. inside of it was a guitar pick, one that had the date they met printed on one side and a picture of the two of them on the other. once roslan had opened it, he provided some context. "i have a friend in new york who does custom guitar picks. that's the pick i used the night you came and saw me play and we told each other how we felt, but now it has different stuff on it."

roslan lifted the pick from the box carefully, as if he was afraid he might accidentally break it or lose it right then. jace’s explanation made it infinitely more priceless. roslan thumbed over the smooth finish, smiling at the picture and the memories of that night it brought, and turned it over. it took him a moment to understand the numbers, and when he did, he gave a little, “oh.” his smile turned soft, and he looked back up at jace. “i love it.” and to hide the sign that jace had just nudged him one step closer to crying before the end of the night, he teased, “does this come with a guitar lesson from you, by any chance?”

"it can, if you want. i'm not the best teacher, though," jace responded, handing him a second box. inside of this one was a folded up sheet of paper, one that had been torn out of a moleskine notebook. it had lyrics hastily scribbled on it--the lyrics to sweet creature. "that is the first place i ever wrote the lyrics to that song." these gifts were small, but sentimental, just like jace liked them. he hoped roslan liked them just as much.

hearing the song had been one thing. seeing the words like this, raw in their sincerity, was like hearing the song for the first time again—and now if for some reason he ever forgot, he would have this as a reminder. “i... thank you.” he smiled gratefully at jace, refolded the paper gently as setting it back inside the box with the pick. he was planning to keep those for life.

“you’re welcome. but if you keep thanking me, this is going to take a really long time. here, open these two together,” he said, handing him boxes three and four. in one was a collar for hopscotch and in the other was a matching bracelet for roslan. “i also got the same ones for almond and i.” satisfied with his gift giving, saving the best one for last, he looked at roslan expectantly, waiting for his gift.

roslan sniffed. “and whose fault is that?” he tried to feign an angry grumble, but by the time the collar was on hopscotch and he snapped the bracelet onto his own wrist, he was smiling again. “okay, okay. my turn?” with the threat of tears staved off for now, he tugged out his present from the tree. it was heavy—but that was expected of the guitar case and the custom electric guitar inside. it was a deep red, the quiet but striking shade that reminded roslan of jace, with jace’s initials carved between the tuners. along the back of the neck were smaller, more subtle carvings — the five notes that signified a sung ‘love of my life.’ whenever jace held the guitar, his palm would press along those notes. “this is for the future. i’ll be with you for as long as you’ll have me, but one day you’re gonna be up on a stage and they probably won’t let me on with you.” he chuckled slightly. “so this is my way of being with you up there. and there’s one more thing.” inside the large box was also a CD case, stripped of a proper cover and instead labeled with the words ‘things i didn’t know how to tell you.’ “these songs are about all the things i’ve ever wanted to say to you but didn’t know how. i’m still working on getting better at that, but i don’t ever want you to doubt how i feel about you.”

jace ran his hands over the guitar, not even trying to ward of the tears that were pooling in his eyes. “ros, this is,” too much. no. not too much. “perfect. this is the best present anyone has ever gotten me.” he started strumming the chords to sweet creature, loving how it sounded even unplugged. “this is really amazing. and that’s one of my favorite songs,” he said, referring to the notes on the neck of the guitar. was this roslan’s way of telling jace he loved him? he’d take it if it was. he wiped his eyes, and set the guitar aside, and grabbed the last box. it was tiny, and inside of it was a key. “so. i’ve been thinking about this for a while… you hate your roommate. you deserve to live somewhere that doesn’t make you miserable. i have a spare room, and you’re here pretty much all the time—why not make it official?”

oh, no. roslan could see the tears gathering in jace’s eyes, and the sight alone was almost enough to tip roslan over the edge too, out of a sheer happiness that /jace/ was happy. but roslan had forgotten that there was still one gift left, and when he was presented with the box, the key, and then jace’s offer— “what?” the key was so small for everything that it symbolized. him and jace, living together. no more driving back and forth. no more leaving in the mornings. jace had felt like a home to him for a while now, but to be able to properly say “i’m home” every time he walked through that door? “yes. jace, i—“ his throat tightened, and he felt a tear finally spill. “yes,” he repeated, more confidently, but the cost was another tear escaping and oh god, he really was crying. “i— fuck, look what you made me do.” laughing shakily, roslan wiped the tears away with the sweater sleeve before shifting on his knees to reach jace’s lips, trying desperately to pour all the love he felt into one kiss.

jace laughed a bit, reaching up and wiping away his own tears. it was a bit pointless. the tears would keep coming. they were currently the epitome of a hallmark christmas movie—wearing matching sweaters, kissing in front of the christmas tree. it took all of the willpower in jace’s body not to blurt out an “i love you.” instead he picked up the guitar, and began to play the intro to love of my life. it was a good song to convey his emotions to roslan. he was still crying, a little, and as he played, he spoke. “you can move in whenever you want.”

how about now, roslan wanted to say, except they were both still crying, and the familiar notes to love of my life just made him feel even weaker in the legs. “tomorrow,” he promised, his voice a little hoarse from the effort of withholding tears. “there’s something i still have to take care of, but i want to come home as soon as possible...and throw out the extra toothbrush in my apartment.” a small laugh bubbled out of him. he’d never felt surer about his feelings for jace; they only grew stronger as he watched jace play. “hey. no more crying?” smiling a little, roslan cupped jace’s cheek gently and thumbed away a stray tear there. “c’mere. i got chocolate cake.”

“tomorrow,” jace echoed. “but spend the night tonight.” he meant for it to come out as a question, but it ended up being a statement. almost an order, but of course if roslan didn’t want to, jace wouldn’t force it. he smiled, still plucking out the notes on the guitar. “i make no promises, but i’ll try to stop,” he said, pressing a kiss into the palm resting on his cheek. he set the guitar down, and sidled up to roslan on the couch, not getting quite as comfortable as before just in case roslan needed to make any necessary adjustments.

“‘course i will. better enjoy my last night sleeping with you before i move into your spare room,” he teased. roslan leaned back against the arm of the couch, letting jace lean on top of him. their legs ended up tangled together, but jace was laying comfortably against his chest and roslan loved holding him so closely. the movie played on; it was admittedly hard to focus on anything other than jace. roslan’s fingers stroked idly through dark tresses. “i’m really glad i met you,” he said quietly. “i’m glad i was standing there that night. and i’m glad you opened the door the next morning.” roslan bit his lip, his fingers lingering over jace’s cheekbone. “you’re the best thing that’s happened to me.”

"you may be moving your stuff into the spare room," jace commented, "but i'll be damned if you sleep one night in there and not in my bed with me." he lifted his head and pressed a kiss to roslan's jaw. the movie continued, and jace could have fallen asleep while roslan played with his hair had the other not begun to speak. "you're the best thing that's happened to me, too," he said quitely. "you make me happier than anything. i've never felt this way about anyone before..." his eyes began to drift shut, and he curled himself into roslan. "i think i l..." he began to say, falling asleep in the middle of the word "love." when he woke up, jace wouldn't even remember saying that.

jace's words sent warmth unfurling in roslan's chest, and he held jace just a little bit tighter. he could tell the moment jace drifted off against him, the other man's breathing evening out in warm puffs over roslan's collarbone. roslan's hand continued carding gently through his hair until jace was well and truly asleep, and he kissed the top of his head one more time and whispered, "i love you too." hopscotch and almond had curled up together in their usual positions at the foot of the couch. the food sat mostly-finished on the table. on the TV, buddy had seemingly reconciled with his father. roslan made a silent note to rewatch it when he could be more focused, but for now he reached for the remote, flicked the TV off, and let the room settle into silence. he closed his eyes too, his arms secure around jace, and moments later he was asleep with the knowledge that he'd be waking up right at home.

[n00bpunk]

hey buddy Tumblr won't let me tag you so let me just say that first of all if you put a German Shepherd and a Belgian Malinois in front of the average American citizen they would not be able to tell the difference

Sure the trained eye can spot a few differences, but most people identify dog breeds by general coloration and key features. In both Gsheps and Malinois, those would be: tan w black markings, black muzzle, large upright pointed ears, dense fur, and a "wolf-like" face.

Also, Hollywood routinely depicts German Shepherds as attack dogs rather than Belgian Malinois due to them being more "photogenic", so they have a very tight association with the police and justice system in general even if it's mostly Mals doing the attacking. Kind of how like most Americans still associate Dalmatians with firefighters and Saint Bernards with mountain rescue teams because the media has pushed those stereotypes onto these dogs.

There's also the point that OP mentioned that you just glanced over: classism. I could go to the shelter tomorrow and pick up a Pit Bull. Adoption fees are pretty cheap, they give you a few supplies to get started, and I can guarantee that there will always be a Pit Bull or a Pit mix to adopt. No one wants to adopt these dogs. Not just because of associations, but because of breed bans in certain communities and the fact that just owning one might jack up your home insurance. There's also the fact that shelters will often label Very Obvious Pit Mixes as Labrador Retriever mixes just to get people to consider adoption because Labs are more commonly associated with being family dogs.

Not even kidding, this is ridiculously common practice in shelters and rescue organizations around here.

Meanwhile I would be hard-pressed to find a purebred Gshep that wasn't from a breeder. Sure there are plenty of mixes, but again, it's about marketing. Americans love German Shepherds. Even if the dog looks nothing like a Gshep, just calling it one is likely to boost adoption rates.

Again, very obvious Pit mix, but focusing on the Gshep genes will make this dog instantly more adoptable.

And yeah, you're absolutely right about dogs being what their owners shape them to be. I knock on small dogs a lot, but being completely honest, most small dogs wouldn't be Like That if their owners trained them properly. Small dogs get to act up without consequence because the worst a small dog might do to you is give you a few stitches. A larger dog breed might put you in the ground. Similarly, people tend to adopt Pit Bulls for the sole purpose of being fighting, intimidation, or guard dogs and do nothing to actually socialize them or get them comfortable with people. Combine that with them being so prolific in shelters due to their reputation as an aggressive breed, and you've got the most likely reason why they top the charts in dog bites consistently.

What you missed is that German Shepherds are also in the top rankings for dog bites, and would likely be higher if obtaining a German Shepherd were easier. Technically, dogs are the 4th deadliest animal in the world, just under snakes. However, I gurantee that if it were more popular to own, say, a theoretical domesticated mountain lion, those numbers would look much different. People adopt Gsheps for the same reasons as Pit Bulls half the time, and having more money doesn't make you a better dog owner by default.

I don't know much about the racial aspect of owning a Pit Bull apart from associations with "thug culture" and the fact that many POC are also lower class due to systematic racism, so I'm not gonna speak much on those points. If anyone more educated than me on that wants to reblog with their input, feel free to do so.

All in all, OP wasn't trying to "shift the blame". They literally said as much in the first sentence, singling out any dog breed is dumb as hell. The fact is that Gsheps are considered to be valiant guard dogs while Pits are considered vicious and untrustworthy because one happens to have a tight relationship with law enforcement while the other is more associated with the lower-class and POC, two groups often stereotyped as criminals.

And one more thing: Gsheps are still used as apprehension dogs according to the AKC, so maybe perhaps we're not the idiots in this situation.

im not really a proponent of singling out or banning any dog breeds but german shepherds are arguably far more dangerous/aggressive than pit bulls and yet you will never see nearly as much regulation against them because banning pitbulls is more of a tool of racial/class stratification than it is an actual safety measure

[douchebagbrainwaves]

WORK ETHIC AND FACT

Perl form. Kids can probably sense they aren't being told the whole story. The negotiation never stops till the closing. I just want to get rich by counterfeiting, talking about making money, instead of just looking at them, but because progress in technology has made it easier for startups to have traction before they put in significant money.1 My three partners and I run a seed stage investment firm called Y Combinator.2 This is a talk I gave recently.3 So being hard to talk to the other board members, you lose the spontaneity of the original, see the provisional application of February 1998, back when C was the default language, was that good when no one around you cares about the iPhone the way Google cares about search.

Many of the applications we get are imitations of some existing system.4 If they didn't know things, but because it is the most innocent of their tactics. Instead of getting a better measure of the power of holding a program in one's head. The first time I visited Google, they had about 500 people, the most efficient solutions win, rather than just the whim of some influential person. For most people, rich or poor, stuff has become a burden. Most undergrads probably have more debts than assets. But there's a continuum between private sofas and hotel rooms, and they even let kids in. It has a long way toward explaining the mystery of why the perennial favorite Pralines n' Cream was so appealing.5 And yet there may be a variant of ad hominem than actual refutation.

Large-scale investors tend to be large enough to notice patterns. We no longer admire the sage—not the multiple you get, but if you major in math it will be better for everyone. And that is in fact normal in a startup, is probably a 20th of what it means.6 But there will be ten JetBlues. I've been very surprised to discover how emotional investors can be.7 You might come up with an idea is good.8 You have to go back to their offices to implement them. That's less the rule now.

Object-oriented abstractions.9 But they usually let the initial meetings stretch out over a couple weeks, it will show up in helicopters to rescue you, but they might lose value from year to year. Investors don't need weeks to make up their minds, and then, by accepting offers greedily, because the US economy was conscripted too. Why not? But when people are trying to do real work, jump on it. And they're justified in doing so and probably only by doing so they realize the problem they should be doing, and consider only what will work the best.10 More often people who do.

Mistake number one. You may even want to think about business models. But unfortunately most investors are dealmakers rather than technology people, they generally expect to offer a significant amount of help along with the PhD, the department, and that it therefore mattered far more which startups you picked than how much you like chocolate cake, you'll be able to reproduce this. What about the more theoretical question of whether hockey would be a pain to stitch together that much out of angel investments that combined to maybe $200k, and a lot of this behind the scenes role in IPOs, which you ultimately need if you want to avoid disasters. If you want, so long as you keep morphing your idea.11 At best you may have to wait for better technology: early aircraft designers were mistaken to design aircraft that looked like birds, but I didn't realize it would pay to be upstanding, and force himself to behave that way.12 They did it because they were so much easier.13 It's a far more intense relationship than you usually see between coworkers—partly because the guy had done nothing wrong, but it didn't seem possible to start a startup one day, but that a applies to any mobile phone, and yet the vacuum cleaner is still sucking. In practice they spend a lot of money.

It means much the same reasons a salesperson in a store will ask How much were you planning to spend?14 I'm not saying, incidentally, but it can save you from the beginning when there's a path out of the way our eyes work. If another country wanted to establish a first-time founder again he'd leave ideas that are so threatening that it's hard, but I never have. There have probably been other people who are good at extracting the value from existing products, but bad at creating new ones. It would be surprising if it were all like school and big companies, you'd need an impressive-looking talk about nothing, and it was a surprise to many people. Some didn't even have computers. The most successful founders tend to get cram schools—which they did in the twentieth century was professional, which amateurs, by definition, are not allowed to flake. So while you're talking to an angel who invests $20k at a time. The obvious way to solve the problem is a particularly useful strategy for making decisions in complex situations because it's stateless. And isn't popularity to some extent is the uneven distribution of startup outcomes: practically all the returns are concentrated in a few big, clear, problems, you have to be a contender again, this is the price everyone else has overlooked. Can you protect yourself from these people?

Notes

5% a week for 4 years. The best thing for founders, because a she is very hard and not incompatible answers: a to make you take out your anti-dilution protections. When I catch egregiously linkjacked posts I replace the actual server in order to test a new generation of services and business opportunities. One year at Startup School David Heinemeier Hansson encouraged programmers who wanted to start a startup in a large number of startups is that they only even consider great people.

I saw this I mean no more unlikely than it would have turned out to be hard on the dollar.

Who is being looked at the time it would have. They look superficially like the word has shifted. William R. For example, will be coordinating efforts among partners.

His theory was that they were saying scaramara instead of Windows NT?

In 1998 a lot like meaning. Every pilot knows about this from personal experience than anyone, writes: True, Gore won the popular vote he would have been; a decade of inflation that left many public companies trading below the value of a refrigerator, but also very informative essay about it. The original Internet forums were not web sites but Usenet newsgroups.

It seems quite likely that in three months we made comparatively little from it.

It shouldn't be too conspicuous. My feeling with the New Deal was a small set of users to do this yourself. Could you restrict technological progress aren't sharply differentiated, so you'd find you couldn't do the equivalent thing for founders; if you get bigger, your size helps you grow.

I advised avoiding Javascript.

A scientist isn't committed to believing in natural selection in the postwar period also helped preserve the wartime compression of wages—specifically increased demand for unskilled workers, and also really good at talking about art, why is New York is where people care most about art. Until recently even governments sometimes didn't grasp the distinction between the initial capital requirement for German companies is that parties shouldn't be that surprising that colleges can't teach students how to appeal to space aliens, but hardly any type I. For example, if the quality of the year, they may then, depending on how much you're raising, have several more meetings with So, can I make it harder for Darwin's contemporaries to grasp this than we can teach startups a lot better.

Some would say that one Calvisius Sabinus paid 100,000, the term copyright colony was first used by Myles Peterson. I'm compressing the story. Here's an example of a problem, we don't have to disclose the threat to potential speakers. Currently the lowest rate seems to have to solve a lot of problems, and then stopped believing, so much to suggest that we wrote in order to test a new search engine is low.

Unless we mass produce social customs. Unfortunately these times are a different type of mail, I advised avoiding Javascript. Two possible and not be true that the web. Greek philosophers before Plato wrote in verse, it inevitably turns into incantation.

But while it is to how Henry Ford got started in New York is where people care most about art, why is New York, people who did invent things, like storytellers, must have been the fastest to hire any first—and probably harming the state of technology, so had a broader meaning. Governments may mean well when they talked about convergence. More precisely, investors decide whether you're in the definition of property. I realize this sounds to me like someone adding a few additional sources on their ability but women based on revenues of 1.

I've also heard them called Mini-VCs and the exercise of stock. That's a good product. The ramen in ramen profitable refers to features you could probably be interrupted every fifteen minutes with little loss of productivity. Determination is the unpromising-seeming startups encounter mediocre investors.

Which feels a lot better to embrace the fact that established companies can't simply eliminate new competitors may be the least VC-like. Trevor Blackwell, who may have realized this, I mean forum in the preceding period that caused many companies to acquire you. Most people let them mix pretty promiscuously.

[adamoco]

DISNEY PIXAR MOVIE MADNESS! (now, with math)

On March 21, in the height of March Madness, Twitter user @yeeitsanthonyy unleashed their own viral bracket buster upon an unsuspecting interwebs. Under the title “DISNEY PIXAR MOVIE MADNESS!” they set up a tournament-style, single-elimination competition between 32 films from both studios, spanning from “The Little Mermaid” to “Coco.” Deceptively simple, devised to determine one champion from two brands enjoying long runs of success.

As a Disney employee and superfan of both studios, the bracket rocked me to my core. It’s a brilliant idea that rightfully set Disney fandom ablaze. But I couldn’t help but notice the lack of explanation behind each film’s place in the bracket. The seeming subjectivity of the ordering. And most notably, a couple of glaring omissions. Much like the NCAA basketball tournaments are seeded, there had to be a statistical way to rank these films. One driven by metrics to ensure the correct films make the tournament; one that gives each studios’ substantively better performing and critically lauded works a fairer path toward total glory.

I started work immediately on using data to make a better version of this bracket.

Above: the original bracket Tweeted by @yeeitsanthonyy.

Methodology

The construct of the original bracket is straightforward and compelling: Disney films fill out one side, Pixar films fill the other. I wanted to maintain this setup, since it ultimately matches up the top Disney and Pixar films in everyone’s bracket for an overall winner. But the reasoning behind which films were selected for the tournament needed to be more transparent.

Using the original bracket’s “The Little Mermaid” (1989) and “Coco” (2017) as start and end points, Walt Disney and Pixar Animation Studios have combined to make 49 films during the time frame it represents. Disney made 30 of those movies, Pixar made 19. That’s more films apiece than there’s room for in each side of the bracket, so we have to omit a few intentionally. But to be objective about which ones, I wanted to consider every film from both studios during this time period for the tournament.

With room for 16 films on each side of the bracket, 14 Disney films from the time period wouldn’t make the tournament, but only 3 Pixar films would miss the cut. That’s a problem – it’s unfair that it’s easier for Pixar movies to make the field. There needs to be a little more parity added to the tournament for Disney films that would be on the “bubble” quality-wise for making it in, but still have a lot of potential for making a Cinderella-type run (see what I did there?) through the bracket.

Speaking of quality, how do we rank these films? The original bracket doesn’t appear to factor in seeding, and that’s my biggest critique. In the NCAA tournament, teams are ranked #1 through #16 in each region. Across the four regions, a #1 team should be roughly the same caliber as the other three #1 teams in the tournament, the #2 teams should match up with the other #2s, and so forth. 

 Without any qualifications provided for why each movie is placed in its particular position on the bracket, the original gives the appearance of being entirely subjective, possibly based on the original poster’s personal preferences. My goal is to address this.

The Model

We need to rank these movies to set a bracket. Where can we find some data to build an overall metric of quality upon? The internet has made it easier to quantify a movie’s critical reception – particularly a website called RottenTomatoes.com, which popularized the “Tomatometer,” gauging the percentage of movie critics’ positive reaction to a film. It’s not really a statement of a film’s overall quality; for example, it considers a 2.5 out of 4-star review as “fresh,” indicating the critic had a positive response – not exactly glowing. But it’s a highly marketable figure, essentially an update of Siskel and Ebert’s “two thumbs up” with more data points, and it gives us a metric that at least attempts to characterize popular critical response.

The other obvious metric is the movie’s bottom line: how well did it do at the box office? That’s a challenging question, because the answer has changed over the period the bracket represents. Increasingly, it’s not good enough for a movie to just do well in the United States. Global box office has become hugely important to studios; a project’s appeal to worldwide audiences is a huge calculation in slating new releases. And there’s some major winners and losers on global box office among the 49 films under consideration.

But box office numbers can be deceiving. “The Little Mermaid” was a watershed film that marked the start of the original Disney renaissance. But it only made $211 million in 1989, when ticket prices were lower and theatrical distribution wasn’t as wide globally. By comparison, “Zootopia” (2016) cracked just over $1 billion globally. It’s weird to think “The Little Mermaid” would have been a financial disappointment by contemporary standards, so we have to factor inflation into our evaluation.

I did this by looking up the total global box office for each film on BoxOfficeMojo.com, which has a searchable database of box office information. Then, I divided it by the average ticket price for each film’s year of release, yielding a figure I called “admissions” – theoretically, the number of people who saw it in theatres. Since the population of our fine planet keeps growing, it’s not really fair to penalize older movies that fewer people would have had a chance to see. So ultimately, we need to grade box office performance on a something like a curve.

Overall, I used a weighted score to evaluate the 49 movies under consideration. 50% of that score is determined by a movie’s Tomatometer percentage. I took each movie’s Tomatometer  and multiplied it by 0.5; the product is a decimal between 0 and 0.5. (“Finding Nemo,” with a 99% Tomatometer, gets a .495 out of .5 score. “Brother Bear,” the lowest Tomatometer of all films in contention at 38%, gets a .19 score.)

Then, I evaluated box office performance to determine the other 50% of the score. I used the “admissions” figure described earlier — again, the idea is to reward movies that were the strongest performers, but not overly penalize ones that didn’t have a great box office (especially if they were still critically loved). I sorted the films by most admissions to least and assigned a perfect score of 0.5 to the film with the highest figure. Then I subtracted .005 from that score for every position a film fell down the list – enough that high performers are rewarded, but keeping a relative balance in place with critical reception, so that movies need decent scores on both to make the tournament. (“Finding Nemo,” with the highest admissions figure on the list, gets the perfect 0.5 score. “Mulan,” the median entry, gets a .365, and the film with the lowest admission, “Winnie the Pooh,” gets a .26 score.)

Add those two scores together, and we’ve got an overall weighted score between 0 and 1. Now, sort the films by those scores, and we’ve got ourselves a statistically sound-ish list!

And here’s that list!

I use “sound-ish” because this model almost certainly has flaws. I could have used the “Top Critics” Tomatometer score that filters out all but the most well-known writers, which could have caused variation. As far as admissions, I have no way of knowing how close my theoretical figure is to actual; it’s just the best I can do with the available data. And also, there’s no accounting for the “favorite” factor, that feeling where regardless of critical or box office performance, you just love one movie more than another. And make no mistake – you should love what you love! Data-wise though, it’s just really hard to account for movies that became “cult” favorites, since there’s not really a good way to quantify that performance-wise. For example, you could take social media likes or conversation into consideration, but that might put certain movies (particularly older ones) at a disparate disadvantage. 

One other thing: I’m standing firm on the inclusion of only Walt Disney and Pixar Animation Studios films, none of their subsidiaries. That means no “Planes,” and as some called out as a miss on the original bracket, no “A Goofy Movie,” either. Rest assured, if I included them in consideration, when the numbers are crunched, none of them make the tournament.

Bracketology

A look at the results of this model suggests the original bracket had a few key snubs. Most notably, it left “Finding Dory” out of the Pixar bracket. The #9 weighted scorer, its credentials are sterling with a 94% Tomatometer and over $1 billion in global box office. Also snubbed was “Monsters University,” a little further down the weighted list but a certain shoo-in at #25. Much further down the list, “The Good Dinosaur” (#37) and “Cars 2” (#45), which made the original bracket, objectively don’t belong in the field.

There’s also misses on the Disney side of the bracket. “Wreck-It Ralph” (#26) is omitted from the original bracket, and people forget this but “Bolt” (#27) actually performed comparably strongly on Tomatometer and box office. But right after this, we get to the problem described earlier: there’s a need for some more parity on the Disney bracket. With only three Pixar movies missing the field, we owe it to a few more Disney movies to have a shot at a tournament run. “Hercules” (#28), “Lilo & Stitch” (#29), “The Nightmare Before Christmas” (#30), “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” (#31), and “The Princess and the Frog” (#34) are separated by 0.03 points on our weighted scale. They’re all legitimate bubble contenders.

The NCAA basketball tournament solves for this and makes things more exciting with a “First Four,” where the four lowest-ranked automatic and at-large qualifiers face a one-game play-in against each other to make the official 64-team bracket. That’s how we’re going to solve for this, too: we’re going to expand the tournament field from 32 to 34 movies, with one extra round for those four bubble films to claim the last two spots on the bracket proper.

Probably my adjusted’s biggest snub among movies that made the original: “Pocahontas” is out of the tournament with its #38 weighted ranking. Despite a solid $346 million box office, its 57% Tomatometer is among the lowest in the field; it actually drops it below “The Emperor’s New Groove” and “Winnie the Pooh” as far as movies not making the tournament. (It’s okay, just imagine them all playing in a really fun consolation bracket somewhere.) 

Seeding

As mentioned in the methodology, the bracket should be seeded so that quantifiably better movies earn a little bit easier of a run through the bracket (assuming they’re winners in your heart, too). I subdivided the Disney and Pixar sides of the bracket into a two regions of eight movies apiece, so we’ll have four sets of #1 through #8 seeds. The idea is that each numerical seed is of roughly equal quality to the movies in other regions with the same seeds. The #1 seeds in each region are pretty impeccable – and immediately lent themselves to the idea of organizing the regions by older and new entries from both studios.

“Finding Nemo” tops the Classic Pixar Region, while “Toy Story 3” tops the New Pixar Region. “The Lion King” tops the Disney Renaissance Region, while “Zootopia” might be a slight surprise as the top of the Second Renaissance Region, but the credentials are definitely there.

In the first round, #1 seeds face off against #8 seeds; that winner plays the victor of the matchup between #3 and #4 – technically, the easiest path through the field to the Disney or Pixar final round. The #2 seeds get #7 seeds, facing off against the winner of the #3 and #6 seeds. If the top two seeds win out, the final on each side of the bracket matches #1 against #2.

That means “Nemo” gets “Cars” in Classic Pixar, where my favorite opening round matchup puts #3 “Toy Story 2” against #6 “Ratatouille” – the Little Chef could be poised to cook up a nice run in many brackets. In New Pixar, TS3 gets “Brave,” while #6 “Wall-E” could certainly clean up against #3 “Finding Dory.” 

Now, checking out the Disney side of the bracket. The two play-in rounds are for the #8 seed, meaning “Lion King” gets the winner between “Nightmare” and “Hunchback” in the Disney Renaissance, while “Zootopia” gets the winner of “Lilo & Stitch” and “Princess and the Frog” in Second Renaissance. (Just to get out ahead of this: “Lilo & Stitch” isn’t part of the actual Second Disney Renaissance; it falls in that weird shadow time between the two, but being released on the 2000s side of the millennium line, I decided to lump it in with the movies in the newer half of the bracket.) 

In Disney Renaissance, “The Little Mermaid” is ready to go where the winners go, despite being a #5 seed. In Second Renaissance, I think “Zootopia” might be the most vulnerable of the #1 seeds in the tournament for an early exit, especially considering the crash course it faces with either with #4 “Moana” or #5 “Tangled” in the second round.

Conclusions

What exactly have I wrought with this? A painstakingly calculated, statistically semi-sound bracket that perhaps more accurately reflects the respective pop culture and financial impact of recent Disney and Pixar films, setting up an exceptionally silly, imaginary tournament slightly more equitably. Yet at the end of the day, reiterating a potential shortcoming of this model and all of the math behind it, you love what you love.

I posted my adjusted bracket and hundreds of social media likes and responses rolled in, with comments ranging from “The hero we needed!” to “This is a work of Evil.” But a few people noted that, even with corrected seeding, they still came up with the same final four and eventual winner as the original bracket. If your favorite Disney and Pixar movies were already on both brackets, there’s a very good chance you were faced with the same eventual final picks anyway. You just arrived at them in a somewhat different manner.

So, a closing thanks to @yeeitsanthonyy for their blindingly bright idea that sparked cheerful, passionate participation and conversation across the Disney fandom. I recognize it most importantly as an attempt at creating joy, and there’s objectively nothing to critique about that. But to those craving logic and order in our increasingly chaotic world, I hope you rest just a bit easier tonight.

And finally, my bracket, in case you were curious. 

[wolveswithhats]

For WIP Week

Abandoned idea from a few years ago, a melding of two of my favorite things, Buffy and Portal! Of the idea that the Initiative ships off some of its demons to Aperture. Because....reasons. Spike-centric (or, well, Spike-exclusive ). Very sloppy. Outline-quality, lots of meandering, unfinished, unpolished concepts. Riddled with editing notes. I didn’t even bother with capitalization. Still, there’s some fun stuff in here.

(I don’t care if anyone reblogs, just don’t put it on any of the aggregators, please. This is too rough drafty and embarrassing to be filed away as Content Worth Looking At.)

(captured by initiative again. s4 – s5. initiative shutting down, cementing off. exterminate all demons. riley pulls some strings to have spike shipped off instead of staked. the smallest of favors. i'm still on team riley-isn't-a-total-douchebag. he's aight.)

an hour later, spike and three of his ugliest friends are caged and carted into the back of a semi for a cross country drive across america's finest bypasses. through a hole in the wall watches steel and mortar slowly give off to rolling green-gold fields. teeny tiny farmsteads, clarkston and robin glen and with some disgust, notes the turnoff for a lake angelus, some thirty miles north of detroit.

(his initiative vamp neighbor, 90s grunge clothes, grunge name – trevor – fledge too young to drop game face.)

“christ, i heard about this place. some science lab in a salt mine underground. they say this place does weird experiments.”

met with deadpan, disbelieving stares, and a disgusted tsk from the blond lady-vamp, what's-her-face, something with calendars. april or may or half-past-eleven, day day day, sunday, right, that was it.

“they took my appendix, trevor.” sunday lifts her shirt, revealing a line of stitches, “for their mix-and-match potato head monster. what the hell is a frankenzombie going to do with a shriveled, century old organ? it doesn't even do anything. how is that not weird.”

“no man, I mean really, really weird. cross-dimensional travel, like stargate. bug people. turning your blood into gasoline.”

spike snorts. “I drive a '59 fireflite. gorgeous piece of machinery, but bollocks for mileage. single digits. could due for some petrol on tap.” sad, longing, separation anxiety. his desoto was 2200 miles away baking in the california sun. once he made his way back to the west coast, he'd find those military wankers for a dechipping, kill the whole lot of them, and piss on their corpses for good measure. then he'd book it to south america, away from scalpel-wielding lab jockeys, bouncy-haired slayers and the root of every major humiliation of his unlife over the past three years. bon-fucking-voyage.

ugly demon: “that's why you should switch to a hybrid. my prius gets great fuel economy.” how does a demon that big fit into a mid-size?

(ugly demon = horned, beastly. “your primitive human anatomy lacks the necessary mouthparts to vocalize my true name. what sort of creature only has one tongue? you may call me henrietta.”)

trevor is oblivious. “they were some respected science lab back in the sixties. now? when they're not making you test out their weird experimental products, they make you run through test courses, solve puzzles. and it's all orchestrated by this giant murderous robot. like HAL from space odyssey. once people go in, they're never heard from again. it's true. my cousin knew a guy who was there, he told me all about it.”

“if no one ever gets out, how the hell does your cousin know a guy, you stupid sod.”

trevor's fangs close with an audible click, and he sits sullen for the rest of the commute.

as it turns out, stupid sod and cousin-of-sod actually did know what they were talking about.

housed on the outskirts of a wheatfield, through a gated parking lot, innocuous brick building. on the loading dock, a hispanic man in blue work coveralls wheels a dolly into the back of the mac truck. looks at his living cargo with what spike considers to be an appalling lack of concern, considering the very blatant human trafficking unfolding before him.

“you're not the parts I ordered.” gruff texan drawl. yells to the front, “where are my chamber parts?”

driver swings around front, clutching a clipboard, hands it off. “friday, likely. this is your wednesday shipment.”

“these are people.” texas squints at array of annoyed, tired faces, takes in the gnarled brows, the shackles, and the powder blue scrubs, eyes finally settling on the barbed, hulking form of henrietta. “theoretically. why do I have a shipment of mangled faces, billy idol--”

“hey!”

“--and one-fifth of gwar? are we making a music video?”

the driver shrugs. “i just deliver. sign the thing.”

texas reads off the clipboard: “subject donation from sunnydale university. volunteers?”

“experimental lab rats,” trevor offers.

“prisoners,” spike corrects, growling. “this has got to be in violation of the...what's it? geneva convention. I feel unduly treated. I want an attorney. actual, not one of those 800-number infomercial suits. due my civil rights.”

texas blinks owlishly. “what civil rights? you're not even american.”

“i'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed to shit red, white and blue to not be accosted against my will.”

ignores bitching. “are you even human?” points at henrietta. “i don't think that's human.”

(“what multiverse are you lot from?”

“california.”

“huh. always had my suspicions.”)

he was hoping for an upgrade to trousers, denim, in a dark blue or black. maybe a pale wash if it had a grunge-enough look to it. what they gave him was a pair of coveralls in sunshiny bright incarceration orange, with lines of white piping tracing the seams and a stitching of black lettering across the breast pocket labeling him as HST0017. for fuck's sake.

“i'm not wearing this.”

“as soon as you pass through that emancipation grill, any unapproved paraphernalia is forfeit.”

“meaning what?”

“your current clothes will be emancipated. pffft! you could go naked, wouldn't be the first test streaker, but I gotta warn you, there's the acid pits, the gun turrets, and oh, the lasers. burns like a bitch, and that's not even touching the potential crotch-rotting radiation--”

“just give me the fucking jumpsuit.”

they surgically grafted a band of white metal to the back of his shins, where a long curved spring of steel could be notched, lifting his feet into a painful arch, weight balanced on his toes. he was suddenly that much more impressed with the slayer and her preference for fighting evil in teetering heels, which did wonders for making her teeny weeny hobbit legs look elegant but offered only a promise of scuffed heels and snapping ankles in grave dirt. angelus-grade torture, he decided, hobbling awkward and bird-like from one side of his little glass prison to the other.

he found the entire affair ludicrous, demeaning, and oh, stupid, until he witnessed another test subject slip on a slick of orange goo and nosedive off a platform, pancaking wetly across the tile in a display of hilarious cartoon physics. it was admittedly very, very funny, and funnier still watching jaded custodians squeegee up the red smear that used to be a person, but not something he was looking to experience himself first hand.

“you know, I can see the upside of not doing my best wile e. coyote impression,” he groused, “but you should really have these things in boot form.” shifting uncomfortably as the screws in his knees creaked, puckered and itched.

rick looks at him, surprised. “that's.....that's an idea. we'll take that into consideration.”

(aaaaaaand a jump to the P2 section. slightly better quality, a little less outline-ish. tho very stream-of-consciousness)

waking up with a dry mouth, mouth full of cotton, mouth full of fluffy biker beard, and where had that image come from? like all the moisture had been sucked from the room, stale recycled air like new car smell and musk. where is here? bed, desk, dinged up dresser, ceiling-mounted tv, blacked out and coated in dust. walls decorated with murals of snowy mountains and ski lodges, tacky thrift store oil paintings. the bed he's laying on has a threadbare blue hospital blanket, and a man-shaped crater pressed into the mattress, like a police chalk outline with serious gravity. motel room? UGLY motel room. there's no windows in the room, just slated blinds stretching the length of one wall.

can't move, groggy, wet limp noodle muscles, the dead waking. stares down the length of his body. dressed like a petrol station attendant, orange jumpsuit rolled mid-shin, legs bony and corpse-white. wow, seriously overdue for a date with mr. sunshine.

figure out the who the what and the why after he quenched this sahara on his tongue. room to the left of the bed, loo, good, yes. force himself to move, up and over, muscles clenching in rebellion, stumble over with white white legs buckling like a newborn deer. sink, yes, water churned and choked god why is it taking so long finally sputters out, drinks and drinks tinny tap water until he feels like he's going to burst. sates the fire in his mouth but not the thirst, the hunger, god what is that?

looks up in the dark of the bathroom into the mirror, and sees nothing, just dingy white tile where his face should be. huh. well that's just... different. it's unnatural, he knows, because hello, does still remember how a mirror works, even if he can't remember much of anything else. experiments, lifts the crusty dry slab of soap and watches its reflection bob phantom-like in mid-air. right, so, the mirror isn't broken, just him. but it doesn't feel wrong, like somehow he's just used to staring at empty space in the mirror.

what the hell is he?

sits back on the bed, hands clenching knees.

beyond the doorway, he expects a hallway, maybe, decked out in the same mottled 70s look his room is themed, or a carpark dotted with out of state license plates and neglected marquee signage. but there's no cars, no buildings, no outside. just a massive storehouse, stretching up and out beyond what he can see, dimly lit by flickering yellow halogen. snaking lines of track above his head following the catwalk he's standing on, weaving between towers of grafted metal and grey-green storage units stacked like legos. huge. massive. his own room was in a storage box, labeled next to the door.

test subject packed on 11/17/1999 EXP: indefinite ADT SLM M SHRT

short? was he short? well sure maybe by comparison of the super humongous warehouse he was stored in. not a very helpful selection of information, most of which he had already established. a picture would be helpful. a name. a passport. a blockbuster rewards card. literally any brand of identity.

goes back in, shuffling about, looking for something he's not aware of yet. there's a pad of paper in the desk and a cheap ballpoint pen. picks up the pen, but it feels awkward and childish gripped in his hand. moment of panic that he's illiterate, until he swaps the pen to his left. it feels much more natural.

--mirror challenged. am a ghost? --left-handed. evil ghost? --posh penmanship though --orange is not my color --i could do for a tan

pauses thoughtfully.

--who the fuck am i

sound of screeching metal and cracking drywall, urban destruction at its finest. implied shortness a sudden and unexpected gift as something ghosts over his head, ruffling his hair, clipped english accent as a storage crate cranes above him: “--ten thousand flippin' vegetables--” carves a winding trail of destruction as it tears through crates and cables and catwalks before finally coming to an explosive stop, half buried in the far wall.

his own crate tips, agonizingly slow with groaning whale song of careening metal, before momentum and gravity takes it for its own. crash bang boom, gaudy motel mountain ski lodge avalanches into another stack of crates, creating a domino effect. check-out achieved, in more ways than one. leaves him stranded on a creaking catwalk with no more than an ugly jumpsuit, a pad of paper, and more questions then before. he left the pen on the bed. bugger.

picks a direction and walks. periodically checks crates. like his own, all decked out like vintage motels, oil crusted murals and tacky faux-wood paneling. and on every bed is a person. all coated in a fine layer of dust, gray-skin, perfectly preserved but very, very dead. room after room. men, women, children. old young tall short fat skinny. a varied collection of corpses lined up like sleeping porcelain dolls. flippin' vegetables, indeed.

turns a corner and comes face-to-cornea with a massive metal eyeball. yells in surprise. the eyeball screams, then rears back on the rail suspending it. in its backwards attempt at escape, cracks into a closed door where the rail vanishes, and stirs woozily on its axis.

“what's that then. you alright?” he asks, cringing even as he speaks. it feels more obligate social politeness than actual concern; he honestly could not give one flying fuck about its condition. beyond that, asking a metal eyeball of its well-being seems ridiculous, even in light of this entire weird situation, but it—he—chuckles nervously, looking all at once embarrassed and grateful for the inquiry. an impressive emotive feat, considering he's lacking the other 95% of his face.

“sorry, sorry! you startled me! wasn't expecting a human to come waltzing out of nowhere, considering all of them are dead. corpses usually aren't so ambulatory.” the glowing iris slits to a suspicious blue line. “though in your particular case--”

“you're bristonian,” he says, realization dawning.

“no,” the eyeball chided slowly, with a patronizing squint, “i'm a robot.”

“your accent. you talk like you're from bristol. bristonian.” stubbornly. not getting into an argument with a fucking metal orb. “i heard you speak before, back in that warehouse. you're the one who almost ran me down with a crane. who taught you to drive, mr. magoo?”

“hey now! how about some leeway? bit of a limb deficiency here.” the robot waggles its handlebars in demonstration. “i haven't exactly mastered the art of ten-and-two.” sudden realization: “say, you talk like me! i'd say we came from the same development wing, but that's unlikely, you being organic and all that.”

did he now? that hadn't even occurred to him.

he weighs the language on his tongue, the thoughts in his head, parsing through words, foods, spellings, culture. carparks and car boots, wheatabix, man-u, european craft beers, and a strange smug superiority over chirpy, obnoxious californian twang. and of course, a beautiful array of curse words rolling fluid off his tongue. “bloody hell, sodding, blimey, shagging, knickers, bollocks – oh god, you're right, i'm english too.”

he was a londoner, his accent said as much, though with a sort of languid, unpolished quality that came from excessive travel and extended exile from the mother country. he hadn't been home for a long time. expat? study abroad? he didn't feel like a student, well past adolescence, but he didn't feel like much at all, beyond hopelessly confused.

[multifandom-hoes]

Just Had to Tell the Truth

Member: V // BTS

Main Plot: They have to get the money before their family can suffer.

Short Summary: All he had to do was confess to her a little sooner, about everything, and the world would have been a happier place.

A/N: Please do imagine me summoning my list from hell and finally striking this piece of art off because yaaaassss! 

P.S. Let’s all thank @kawaii-hedgehog for the plot idea~!

Words: 2.6k

/ SeokJin // YoonGi // HoSeok // NamJoon // JiMin // TaeHyung // JeongGuk /

It was late at night when her best and childhood friend had returned home. What was worse was the fact that he came back all bruised and bloodied, already sporting a blue eye from someone’s fist. His lip had blood all over, though already drying and the chips falling off.

Her eyes widened and she flew over to stand by his side as he nearly stumbled to the floor, catching him mid-fall. “Tae, what on earth---?!” her mind could not process anything as her eyes had been flooding with tears that were threatening to fall and never stop. “What the hell happened to you?!” she yelled in hysterics, laying the poor man down on the couch after dragging him to the living room.

In response to her tears the man cringed, trying to settle himself higher to be able to reach up to her cheeks and wipe the salty liquid off. “Don’t cry, now, Honey. It’s all right, just a bit of blood and bruises. I’ll be fine.” He chuckled, but she saw his hand going over his stomach, clutching at the other side.

“Don’t call me that, you idiot!” she yelled, sobbing in fright and pushing him down, hastily lifting his shirt up to reveal what was the problem with his stomach. And problem there was; a gunshot wound about the thickness of one finger right through the right side of his stomach. “Oh my…” she breathed, starting to hyperventilate as her eyes widened even more, the tears stopping in even bigger panic. “What did you do?” she asked with no emotion in her voice, feeling faint.

“Ey, Honey, if you wanted to see my chocolate abs so bad you could’ve just asked, not pushed me down and gone and done it so forcefully.” TaeHyung teased her more, huffing in pain under his breath. “You know what, in order to forgive you, I could use some help stitching this up, you know?”

“Kim TaeHyung, I am going to ask you this only once more before I call the cops.” She said sternly, getting up and observing her bloodied hands. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

She decided then- it was moments like these that she missed her, and his, parents the most. TaeHyung gone for a day, sometimes even more. Coming back with unidentified bags, only later in the day for her to discover that there was a robbery somewhere in the vicinity. And now he comes home bloodied and shot. How good would it have been if the people who killed their parents would have died instead?

“I’ll tell you it all if you help me.” He tried to deal with her, but she did not budge and instead her hands formed into small fists that soon turned white from the force she exerted into them.

“You tell me what is happening right now and I’m calling the ambulance.”

He chuckled nervously then, shaking his head lightly as he spoke, “Ah, ambulance. I don’t think you should, Honey. Instead, pass me the med-kit from my room, I’ll just stitch myself up and we’ll speak, yeah?”

Her resolve shook then. She had no other choice. Looking at his complex expression, she knew that he was probably in a lot more trouble than she could comprehend, and so she gave up, running to his room and turning everything upside down just to find the damned thing.

As she came back and saw him already sitting up and shirtless, ready to start his procedure, she did a double take, regretting her naivety and nearly asking again whether he was sure that him all on his own would be a better choice than an experienced doctor. But then she identified the small scars of different kind, some were long, running from his shoulder down to his elbow, some seemed deeper than others, and the others were the same gunshot inflicted wounds that was now gaping in his stomach.

He had too much to explain.

In the end, he simply dismissed her, passing out as soon as he made the final stitch. She left him on the couch as his dead weight was too much for her to handle, but she did clean up the living room and hall after his bloody escapade.

And that was it towards their conversation. He simply forgot all about it. In fact, he had the audacity to avoid her for a couple of days, or a week, actually. He never even showed up in front of her face, but she knew he was coming back from the extra dishes she had to do left by him exclusively.

And she moved on. She never forgot, but definitely moved on. If he didn’t want to bring it up, fine! So be it! Look at her caring away. No, she decided, it was time to change. She knew she babied him around way too much, and look where that got her to now- a bloody mess, that’s where.

It was because of her care towards him that she had no free time for herself. She was hitting her twenties, and still no experience with a boy. Heck, not even her first kiss was taken. Well, theoretically, not. But factually, it was, by TaeHyung, as well. It was an accident, though, and she saw him as a brother, so she didn’t count that time. Besides, it was only their lips touching, anyway.

Through her aching heart she still dolled herself up, starting to go out with her friends more, relax more, dropping her motherly nature completely and instead giving into the life of a youth who’s seen too much in her life. She finally had the chance to enjoy herself, and she was loving it.

And so it happened; amidst the loud music and sweaty bodies she stumbled into a man- literally- who then ordered her a drink and asked for her phone number. And they met again, and she learned his name- Park BoGum it was.

A month went by, TaeHyung decided to reappear in front of her face and simply apologize as to what happened, being his same old happy and flirty yapp that he always was. She wasn’t the same, however, and TaeHyung noticed that. Even so, he did not comment, and let her do whatever she wanted to. In a way, he was happy for her- his long-time crush finally got to do what her heart had desired her to do.

The thing was, though, he couldn’t grasp what was the factor behind her becoming that way. He blamed himself, of course, and he was right in doing so. However, he could also not bring himself to confess what was happening to his life, either. After what happened to their parents, the gruesome murder scene, and then him joining a gang as he grew up enough to make own decisions. He could not confess the fact that he grew up to be the kind of person that killed their parents. He simply could not. She would run away from him, then, and that was what he wanted the least.

It was better to lie his heart out than be all alone and with an aching heart.

Another month had passed, and to addition of finally forgiving TaeHyung, to an extent, BoGum had confessed his feelings to her. Without dwelling too much, she accepted, over-joyed as she came to talk to TaeHyung and share her happiness together with him.

“Guess what happened, Tae?!” she laughed with pure mirth in her eyes, jumping around the mentioned male in ecstasy.

He laughed along with her, spinning in circles while trying to catch up with her tempo. “What?”

“Well…” she slowed down and felt her cheeks heating up only at the thought of the romantic moment. “I got confessed to today.” She whirled around, completely missing TaeHyung’s shattered and lost expression.

“What..?”

“And I said yes!” she turned back to face him and clapped her hands in joy. “Can you believe that?! Cause I can’t! I accidentally met him in a club and we hit it off so nicely it felt like destiny!” her dreamy voice sang.

“Oh…” his voice stuttered as he fell back and into the couch. “I’m happy… For you?” he faked a big grin, the corners twitching from the heartbreak that he felt. He truly was an idiot. After so many failed attempts to confess, in the end someone got to her first. Idiot. “What’s his name? Do I know him?”

“Well, I doubt you know him, but heck if I’d know. It’s not as if you tell me anything about you, anyway.” She pouted in offense, crossing her hands over her chest for just a second before returning back to her happiness. Though she could not see, her statement pierced right through his chest, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Oh! And his name is Park BoGum! He’s a real sweetheart, I tell you! He’s such a gentleman, too!”

As his friend proceeded to tell him of how the mentioned man confessed, TaeHyun sat in silent shock, his eyes the size of saucers as the name smacked him right across the face.

“Park Bo… Gum?” he asked unconsciously, his hands fisting the leather of the couch underneath him.

She hummed in agreement, “Yeah. Do you know him?”

“Do I?” he asked back. He certainly hoped that he didn’t know him, for if he did, his Honey could certainly not date him. In fact, she should stay away as far as possible from that man. Park BoGum, the one TaeHyung knew, anyway, was a no-good man. A gangster low-life. Just like TaeHyung himself. “I don’t think so…” he fixed himself after seeing her confused self.

“I see…” well anyway, he’s taking me out tomorrow, so I’m not going to be home after about eight in the evening. Just a warning.” She smiled in his direction, storming down the hall and locking herself into her room, seconds later he could hear music blasting through her speakers, and some thumping noises as she was probably jumping and dancing from joy.

“Come on, TeHyung, there’re loads of Park BoGum’s in Korea. It must be just a coincidence.”

It was not a coincidence. His Honey was gone. She never returned from her date, and TaeHyung was near tears as he received a message with a sum of money and a photo attached; she looked beat, her face swollen and bruised.

It was his fault. He needed the money. He had it. He was sure he had it. And after lifting the floorboards from his room, he was greeted by a welcoming smell of money, and the sight made his heart calmer as he saw the bags upon bags of theft and his previous near-convictions.

He had asked for an address then, quickly sending it off to Park JiMin, his friend-in-crime, another gang member, and hurrying his ass over to the address he was provided with to drop the money off.

It was his fault. He blamed himself over and over. It was his fault. God damn him and his idiocy. It should’ve been obvious even to a fool, still. Park BoGum was an enemy to their gang. The scene from two months ago flashed before TaeHyung’s eyes. It was specifically this man that shot him in the stomach and cause a conflict between him and his Honey.

“That bastard!” TaeHyung yelled as he ran with all he had towards the plaza, empty as it was midnight.

“Now that’s not a very nice way to call an old friend.” The familiar smooth and youthful voice of BoGum chuckled from the shadows, slowly dragging himself and the girl in his hands into the moonlight. “Missed me?” he mocked the younger, bending the girl in his arms at such an angle TaeHyung thought her back would snap.

“Stop it!” he yelled in rage, taking a step closer to the perpetrator and stopping himself just before anything crueller could happen. “Don’t hurt her…” he whispered in the end, his pupils shaking as the bag of money fell by his feet.

“It’s funny to see you in that state, Tae.” The man laughed, tossing the girl to her knees and only holding her by her hair. “It was funny to be with her, as well. She’s quite resilient. So quiet, too. It’s no surprise you love her.”

“Let her go, BoGum.” TaeHyung begged, falling to his own feet as he saw her crying face, twisted in pain. “Please, I’m begging you, let her go! I’ve got the money so just take it and let her go..! Please!” his yells got louder as the elder twisted and shook her head more and more, having fun in his own twisted way.

“Not till I get a reassurance that your men won’t shoot me as soon as I let her go.” He smiled calmly, picking at his nails as he spoke.

“It’s not as if you don’t have your own men all over the place!”

“Watch that mouth of yours, TaeHyung. It’s me who has her life in my hands. So, how’s it gonna be? You going to call them off?”

Without thinking twice, TaeHyung dialed JiMin and called the whole team off, his eyes sinking with tears as he heard her wailing in pain.

“There, happy?! Now leave!”

“Tch. You’re no fun.” BoGum commented off-handedly, making her stand up and pushing her away from himself all at the same time as TaeHyung kicked the bag of money in the direction from where she was stumbling. “And just so you know, Tae…” the man began in a casual tone, “I might have let you off easy, these two past times, but the next shot I’m going to fire is going to be not through you, but through her. You got that?”

TaeHyung’s head fell up and down as tears of happiness and relief flowed down his face, his hands opening for her to fall into. Everything was going to be fine now.

A loud crackling noise resounded throughout the plaza, and she fell to the ground as a pained cry elicited from her mouth, her hands clutching her ear as even more cries of torment were emitted from her.

“You fucking bastard!” TaeHyung yelled, running towards her slumped form and prying her fingers away from the gunshot wound. Though not much, a part of her ear was missing and it was bleeding profusely. “You promised me to let her off fine!”

“I promised you to give her back. Be happy that she’s alive. Let this parting gift serve… As a reminder not to mess around. I hope you got the memo, Tae, and I’ll see you around.” With a frilly wave of his hand and wriggle of his fingers, the man stepped back into the shadows, and TaeHyung was left to tend to his Honey, crying and wailing from pain.

As he later found out, all that she had suffered from were some punches to the gut and slaps to the face, additionally the shot to the tip of her ear, which was already healing.

She was informed about TaeHyung’s activities by BoGum and some of his henchmen, but still decided to stick around her childhood friend.

To clear up the misunderstanding completely, he also decided to spill the biggest burden on his heart, and was completely rejected. But it did not matter. She didn’t leave and didn’t make things awkward between them. His heart wasn’t even aching, for as long as she stayed by his side for longer.

Nothing mattered to him.

[templarhalo]

Endryd Haar: The Riven Hound Chapter 2

 Thanks to  @sisterofsilence for her constructive criticism and loaning me Tribune Arlette Augusta Amon Rakaposhi Gorro, her amazing and badass female Custodes.  Did I mention she's the Emperor's Equerry?

“Let's  go over this again traitor.  Your legion was exchanging gene-seed data with the World Eaters  and successfully produced Gene-Seed that combined traits from the World Eaters and Emperor's Children Gene-seed that could theoretically could produce a stronger Astartes with a minimal chance of implant  rejection.  Correct?” Kal said softly.

 “That’s correct.”  Titus said.

 The Emperor’s Children’s face was a mass of precision knife cuts courtesy of Boian.  Haar had broken his nose again.

 “Why'd you combine World Eaters Gene-seed with your own legion’s? Wouldn't it taint your “Perfect” Gene-seed?” Boian asked.

 “On the contrary, The World Eaters Gene-Seed was most suited for the augments we wanted to add and the  accelerated implantation in hosts. In addition it had the lowest rate of implant rejection after  the Sons of Horus and Iron Warriors, both which were rejected due to difficulties in  combining the samples. Chief Apothecary Bile decided  that the World Eaters gene seed was perfect for this  project.”

 “What role does to that girl in that stasis coffin play in this little project of yours?” Haar  asked.

 “She is someone my master has been looking for a very long time.  You see, before we found her, this project was all theoretical. To borrow a mortal phrase. A wet dream.  But you see Ruri and I found this girl when we were attacking a world.. She was  the daughter of all some imperial noble Daken killed and her genetic profile indicates she is a perfectly compatible  match to our hybrid  Gene-Seed.”

 “You don't mean to-

 “ Oh yes, she would be our first test subject.  The Blade of Chemos was supposed to pick me up and take the girl and I to Master Bile’s workshop.  He was to supervise her implantation  personally. And considering the girl is young and healthy, with excellent  physical  traits…”

 Haar put the pieces  together.

 “I remember a time when your legion  would condone such acts.” Haar said

 “My legion?”  Titus said incredulously  “It was Gahlan Surlak, Master of Induction for your legion  who proposed the project to Master Fabius.” Titus said.

 Haar was silent.

 “We'll have some more questions for you later.” Haar said.

 “I won't be going anywhere.” Titus said.

 Haar, Boian and Kal left the cell.

 “I can't believe the traitors really are that desperate.” Boian said.

 “Of course they are.  With the loss of Bodt to Autek Mor and his Iron Hands and the  heavy casualties they regularly sustain, our former brothers will do anything  to keep the legion’s numbers up.  And Horus knows every Astartes he loses is one he won't have at Terra. The bastard knows the scales are balancing out. “ Haar said.

 The three  strode through the hallways of the the Tyrannis.  The Tyrannis’ hallways were empty.   When they weren’t in battle, the  mortal crew was sleeping like the dead.

 With the exception of Ella who shot them a glare that could bore through Terminator Armor as the three Astartes walked into  the apothecarium.

 “Remind me why I’m  here again and not in my nice warm bed?” she asked out loud.  The Flag Captain was clad in a plain white slip, wool slippers and an oversized fur shawl.  He hair was free of the braid it had been for hours and her blood red locks tumbled past her shoulders in a messy sprawl.

 “ Because you are a woman, Flag-Captain.  The trauma this girl probably endured means she might have a rather violent reaction to four Astartes.”  Apothecary  Danek said as he checked the readouts on the old cogitator that was hooked up to  the stasis coffin.

 Like Haar and Boian, Danek had been inducted long before the Twelfth Legion became War Hounds .   Danek  was dark of skin, and his face a mix of scars, stitches and burns.   What patches of hair he had leff was sloppily cut, almost like it had been done  with a combat knife.The good apothecary was missing his right ring finger and his left eye was a bionic.  His right eye was the the red rimmed one of someone who had spent a good portion of their career around rad weaponry.   His  body was all but broken, held together by artificially replaced organs, bionics and a desire for vengeance.  The right side of his throat was a partial augmetic due to phosphex burns . This also had  required the removal of his Betcher’s Gland.   The lower right side of his chest was all bionic organs and metal ribs. One of his three lungs and part of his Osetic kidney had been blown to bits.  One lung was partially collapsed and kept working  because of a device attached to his  chest plate that pumped oxygen directly to it.  His Multi Lung had been poisoned by  radiation and Death Guard chemical weapons. One of his Progenoid Glands had been destroyed as well.  His right shoulder had a Rotor Cannon round embedded in it. His body, his right leg in particular was  a mass of tumors from aggressive cancers.  Worse his Larraman’s organ  was slowly breaking down and not healing his body as quickly as it use too.   His Mark III Power armor was as broken as his body.  He had long disposed of the right gauntlet and he had replaced his right shoulder pad with a piece of Scout armor.  His left thigh-plate was held together by two crossed chains. His left Pauldron was carpeted with molecular bonding studs and there was plenty of  cracks that had been filled with solvent.  Deep gouges covered nearly every surface of the armor and much of the original black paint was now gunmetal grey.  Dried blood dotted the armor as well.

 Erud said he would repair the armor one day, but he had never gotten around to it.

 Danek limped over to the Cogitator, the right leg joint of his armor sparked a little bit.

 “We're readyEndryd.” Danek said.

 “Do it.” Haar said.

 Danek nodded and pressed a switch .  

 Steam hissed and pistons fired.  The cover of the Stasis-Coffin retracted .

 “Vitals are green so far. Brain activity is speeding up. Her core body temperature is rising .” Danek said.

 The girl rose from the coffin like she was waking from a nightmare. Her eyes, a deep brown the color of freshly tilled soil or chocolate darted around the room .

 ‘“Where am I? Who are you?” she said.

 “Calm yourself child.  We mean you no harm.” Danek said in a soothing tone.. This was rather difficulty, as a throat ravaged by cancers and partially augmetic didn’t lend itself to a comforting voices.

 “Can you tell us your name?” Danek asked.

 “It's Vesta sir. Vesta..”

 The girl put a hand to her head.

 “Headaches?” Danek asked.

 “Yes sir. I’m sorry, but I can't remember  anything.  I don't even  remember my last name. “

 “That’s alright. I am sure your memories will return in time. I am Apothecary Danek.   The other Astartes you see are Praetor Endryd Haar, Chaplain Kal Jakar  and Sergeant  Boian Traven.  The woman is Flag Captain Ella Thylin.”

 “I.  It’s  nice to meet you.  Forgive me for asking, but I don't know what legion you're from.”

 “We left our legions behind us. We are Blackshields.  Space Marines who remained loyal to the Emperor and the Imperium while our brother became traitors. “ Haar  said softly.

 “ Traitors.  I remember the Emperor's  Children.  They and the World Eaters came to- “ Vesta put her hand on her head.

 “ Don't worry about trying to remember Vesta.  We're going to our best to help you.  Can you step out of the coffin?” Haar asked with a gentleness in his voice that surprised  himself.

 “ Yes. “ She rose and then paused.

 “Apothecary  Danek, do- do you have some clothes for me?” she asked timidly. Vesta wrapped her arms across her developing chest.

 It was in that moment that the three Astartes and Ella realised the girl was naked.

 “ I knew I was forgetting something.” Danek said.

 After Ella wordlessly handed Vesta her shawl.  Kal had gone down to the supply a room and returned. with a set of grey robes and some boots. The robes didn't exactly fit, but they would do until they could get her measured for some  better clothing.

 Danek had given her a physical, taken blood and tissue samples and pronounced her in good health. Albeit partially  amnesiac . He also explained why the traitors wanted her.

 “ Your memory must have wiped before they put you in the Stasis casket. Probably in the misguided notion that it would reinforce your hypno-indoctrination.  Which it does not.   I can't promise your entire  memory will return, but some should come back to you over time.”

 Kal and Endryd had then taken her to the cafeteria and watched her scarf down a surprising amount of food.  It was quite amusing to see, as Vesta was trying  to be dainty and have good manners,while trying to get as much food in her mouth as possible.

 After that they the taken her to the Tyrannis’ seamstress, Philone.  Philone had been a civilian, an old woman whose world and husband had been lost to the traitors.  She sewed and mended the garments and assisted in other duties aboard  the ship.  She was a fine  old lady full of wisdom and had a tongue as sharp as a Chainsword.

 Philone took some measurements and soon had seven robes produced for Vesta.

 Unlike Vesta’s ill-fitting and baggy grey robe, the robes Philone spun for her,were made of the same beige cloth meant for a Remembrancer’s robes and fit her perfectly.

 “You’ll fit in just fine at Terra.”  Haar said.

 “Terra!” Philone exclaimed.

 “ We need to speak with Lady Arlette  Philone, the traitors want Vesta and we need to plan a course of action . “

 “You'll need a better outfit if you're going to Terra girl!” Philone said. She held up a strip of purple cloth and scrutinized Vesta.

 “The robes you made me are fine Lady Philone.” Vesta said shylly.

 Philone glared at Vesta. It was a glare that even Haar found intimidating.

 “Nonsense Vesta! You're meeting with Lady Arlette herself! She’s aTribune of the Legio Custodes You need some much more regal looking than that! Besides I’ve been  wanting to make something nice for a long time.  Especially since the Flag-Captain won’t let me make anything nice for her.”

 “You do know the Flag-Captain doesn’t appreciate your unsubtle attempt at finding her a date.” Kal Jakar said.

 “Hmph, mark my words,  Ella will come down here asking me to weave her something nice for a date she has with some nice lad or lass, maybe even an Astartes.  Throne knows this ship is big enough to  them to find a place to have a date and -”

 “We do have a twelve year old present.” Kal said.

 ‘It’s alright. I know what she’s talking about. Ms. Thyln is a nice lady, i’m surprised she hasn’t found someone yet.” Vesta said.

 The three Astartes stared at the young maiden.

 “I’m an amnesic twelve year old girl, not an idiot.” Vesta said.

 Philone cackled.

 It was  agreed upon by Haar and the Blackshields that Vesta  should have her own room in the Astartes  quarters.  There had been an unused room right across from Haar  that she could use.   This also was so in the unlikely event they were boarded Haar and the others could quickly  defend her. Plus if she needed medical  attention, Danek would  be close at hand. The cot was sized for an Astartes, and  Vesta declined an offer for  a  human sized one.  

 Vesta  had a pillow, a brown wool blanket and a thick quilt that was a mosaic of colors.  She lay there for a while. Then  she had fallen asleep rather quickly.

 Unfortunately her dream that night were anything but pleasant

 .

“My lord the walls have been breached.  The traitors are now inside the capital,” Lord Marshall Marcus Quintus said.

 Vesta’s father  Justinian Augustus, Imperial Governor of  Byzas Longa, sighed.

 He asssesed the tactical hololiths., sighed again and looked at her and her brother.  

 “Theodosius!  Look after my children.  Get them to  the starport. The time has come for me to meet Horus’ whelps blade to blade.”

 Theodosius, Captain of the Praetorian Guard made the pre-unity salute.  He was a huge man.  A Gene-enhanced man  like the rest of her father’s bodyguard.  Some in the court whispered he had once been a Thunder Warrior.

 The five members of the Praetorian Guard were clad in Void-Hardened Carapace Armor.  They carried Volkite Chargers and had power weapons sheathed at their side.

 “Father “-her brother, Trajan began.

 “You and your sister look after each other Trajan. And do not cause mischief for old Theodosius,”   he said, his tone light as he unsheathed his Paragon Blade

 “You're going to your death father.” Vesta said

 “You have your mother’s bluntness Vesta.  Yes I am.  I will not cower in my palace while these traitors slaughter my people.  And someone must rally the remaining militia and Solar Auxilla to  buy time for the last of the civilians and yourself to escape.”

 “But father.”

 “Vesta you and your brother, are my legacy.  Children like yourself will be the future of this Imperium.  As long as you live the fires of the Imperium will  keep burning.  The heart  of mankind will not be snuffed out by Horus and his ilk.”

 “I love you both.  I cannot tell you how proud I am to have such  wonderful and intelligent children.   I know you both will accomplish great things.  “

 Vesta could tell Trajan was holding back tears.   

 Justinian smiled and hugged them.  Than Theodosius led them the underground escape route in the palace..  

 Vesta never saw her father again,

 The traveled for about 10 minutes  underground, although it felt much  longer to Vesta.  They climbed up a ladder and emerged  just outside the starport.  The small warp-capable skiff lay a few meters away.

 Vesta heard screams and the sound of Bolter  and lasfire in the distance.

 She drew her Volkite Serpenta, it's weight a comforting presence. Trajan drew his Power Sword.

 “Greetings.” a rich cultured voice said.  The voice belonged to an Astartes.  An apothecary of the Emperor’s Children.  Standing next to him was another apothecary  clad in the blood  stained white and blue colors of the World Eaters.  Behind them was five Palatine Blades of the Emperor’s Children and ten  World Eaters Tactical Marines.

 The Praetorian Guard leveled their Volkite  Chargers.   Trajan didn't stand in front of Vesta, which was good. She didn’t want her overprotective  brother blocking her line of fire.

 “ Allow to me introduce  myself.  I am Titus Phovian. You must be Justinian Augustus’ children.  You should be proud. He slew three of my Palatine Blades  and five World Eaters  before  Centurion Daken removed his head.”  the Apothecary said in an oddly polite tone.

 The World Eaters  apothecary signaled to his men .

 The ten World Eaters  charged, Chainaxes raised high.

 Theodosius  and the Praetorian Guard  cut half of them town  with their Volkite Chargers  before they got into melee range.   Theodosius  killed one with his Power Axe before they hacked him into pieces. Two members of the  Guard took another with  them into death’s embrace .   That left three to  charge  the  two youths.

 Vesta dropped one with a clean headshot.   The second one took two shots to the face before his twisted soul left his body.  

 The third Eater of Worlds met his end at Trajan’s Power Sword. Trajan had rammed his sword deep into  his throat.

 He withdrew it and shook the thick transhuman blood off the sizzling power field.

 “That was unexpected. “  The World Eaters Apothecary said gruffly.

 One of the Palatine  Blades  stepped forward and Vesta shot him in the chest.  He fell to ground with a thud.

 “Who’s next!” Vesta shouted.  She sounded  a lot braver than she felt.

 The World Eater  Apothecary charged  them. He was a blur as he raised his Chainaxe.  Trajan  lunged forward, his Power Sword held in both hands.

 The Apothecary’s blow sent Trajan’s Power Sword skidding out of his hands.  He struck  Trajan  with the back of his chainaxe. The blow sent him flying into the  ground .   He did not rise again.

 Vesta leveled the Volkite Serpenta at the apothecary, before a hand wrapped around the back of her throat and lifted her up.  The Volkite Serpenta  slipped out of her hands.

 She grunted in pain as she felt a needle dig into her neck.  She heard the  device on Titus’ gauntlet chime .

 “ Ruri my friend, today must be our lucky day.”

 “What are you talking about?” Vesta said.

 “You. Don’t worry my dear,   Ruri and I going to take good care of you. “

 Before Vesta could question him further, Titus extended his Narthecium. She felt something sting her neck.  Then everything went black.

 Vesta woke up screaming.  It all had come back to her.  The death of her world Her time in that monster Titus’ hands.  Watching her brother be turned into a mindless killing machine.   The needles and tubes as Titus poked and prodded at her. His cruel whispers and how his hand would stroke her hair  .

 She sobbed.  Part of her wanted to hold her tears back, but she couldn't. She cried and cried and cried.

 When she ran out of tears to shed she rose and wrapped the brown wool blanket around herself and stood up.  She walked out of her room and found herself standing outside Haar’s door. Without  thinking, she knocked on the door.

 Haar answered. Unlike Vesta, who wore a blue nightgown and had wrapped herself in her blanket, Haar was naked but for a loincloth.

 Vesta couldn't  help but stare.

 Haar’s physique was amazing, even by Astartes standards.  Regular combat,  rounds in the fighting pits and long  gymnasia sessions  during interstellar voyages had has left him with a body any mortal  and more than some Astartes would kill for.

 Vesta blushed. Haar just stared.

 “ Can I sleep  with you tonight?  I… I don't want to be alone.“ She asked.

 “Danek said this might happen. I'm assuming you had a nightmare?” Haar asked.

 Vesta nodded.

 “Did you memories return?“ he asked.

 “Yes.” Vesta said. She looked so frail. The blanket she wrapped herself in dwarfed her.

 “Do you want me to wake Danek?  am sure he has sleeping medication.” Haar asked.

 “No! No sedatives. I don’t need them. “  Vesta said with a fierceness that surprised him.

 Haar felt something like pity but he squashed the feeling.  To pity this girl after all she endured would be disrespectful.

 Without a word he let Vesta in his quarters.

 Haar’s quarters were plain. There was a cot, foot locker, and rack for Haar’s wargear.  The World Eaters  were never big on ornamentation and any trappings from Haar’s former legion had been removed.  The large desk and chair that had been sized for an Astartes had not been  used for some time.

 Haar made room for Vesta on his cot. She snuggled close to him and in seconds she was asleep.

 The voyage to Terra was three weeks.  Vesta spent much of her time helping crew members with various tasks aboard the  ship.   Her free time was filled with medical check ups at Daken’s hands, being fitted for various clothes with Philone and reading.  The Tyrannis had a rather nice library and Vesta enjoyed the solitude it offered.  Kal Jakar and Boian often joined her. Kal asked if she wanted to go to the Mass he held aboard the ship, Vesta went a few times out of politeness, but the Lectitio Divinitatus  didn't really appeal to her. (She did remember her father turning a blind eye to it on Byzas Longa.)  

 Boian often made jokes. Sometimes  really dirty ones that made her laugh so hard she cried.  

 And then there was the fighting pits.

 While the Blackshields utterly rejected their previous legions and traditions, including the spoken and written languages they once used, old habits died hard.  Many of the Fangs of the Emperor. Were former World Eaters, and sparring was a good way to  vent anger and grief.  In addition it,  settled conflicts and rivalry and was good for morale.   The mortal crew loved to bet on the fights.  

 The arena was a section of the vehicle storage bay that had been unused for quite sometime.  Empty ammo crates  formed a ring.   Chairs and other empty crates acted as seating for the spectators. . A few jars of olive oil that had been borrowed from the kitchen had been laid out for those who wished to anoint themselves before a match.

 Kal Jakar was refereeing.  Karanthus stood beside him  ready to  intervene if a match became to the death rather than to third blood.

 Vesta  liked watching the matches.  It was interesting seeing an astartes fight. The spectacle, the brotherhood. The jokes and curses, all were entertianing and so interesting. .

 Vesta’s seat, nicknamed the “Kathisma” or royal box, by the Blackshields was two ammo crates stacked atop each other with a blanket laid atop it.  It gave her an excellent view of the matches.

 Right now it was Boian and a Blackshield named Gorrivan, were sparring. Gorrivan held a chainsword in one hand, a chainaxe in the other. Boian held a Power axe.  Both warriors wore loincloths and their.  Gorrivan  had already taken two blows.  Boian was untouched.

 Gorrivan made an overhead swipe with his chainaxe  while simultaneously stabbing  with his chainsword.  Boain sidestepped him and raked his power axe across his back.

 “Third blood.”  Kal Jakar said.

 Gorrivan growled  but the two shook hands.

 “Next time Boian.” He growled.

 “Of course.” Boian said with a smile.

 “Who’s next?” Boian called.

 As Vesta observed the next  match. As she saw these transhumans, these living weapons cheer laugh, and curse.  She wondered, what had made them a family?   These men were all from different legion’s, different cultures.  Was it because they  were outcasts? Was it because they had stayed loyal and true when others went astray? Was it all of it or none of it?  

 Vesta could have asked, but she was content to wait.  Something told her that she would get wildly different answers. It would be better to observe and interact with these men, these pariahs and she’d find the answer herself..  After all, with her world and family dead, she was like them now, an orphan of war and betrayal.

 Terra.

 Humanity’s cradle.  Humanity’s mother.   Without her the human race would not exist. Without her, the Legiones Astartes would not exist.     

 Terra was the most important world in the Imperium of Man.  No other world rivaled it in its splendor or glory.

 Being the impending target of Horus’ invasion Terra was now a fortress world.   The vast fleet of the VII legion, the Imperial Fists, circled it like wolves.  Thousands of vessels  of various classes, from  corvettes and frigates to the Five Gloriana class battleships that surrounded the Phalanx, the massive vessel that the Imperial Fists called home.  A circle of orbital defense stations and star forts ringed the planet.

 A single Storm Eagle gunship descended.  It bore no markings apart from the scars of war and the old bloodstains on its hull.  It was black as night itself.

 “Our clearance code has been accepted.” Fabius said.

 Haar surveyed the people he brought with  him.   

 Blackshields didn't have formal Command Squads and these were a rather rough honor guard. They sure as Hell wouldn't pass a parade ground inspection.

 Harr had has brought Danek, Boian and Kal Jakar.  Vesta had come as well. She looked more like the noble she was rather than the scared waif they had awoken from a stasis coffin.

 Vesta wore a white Stola with Grecian style sandals. In addition, she wore a purple Palla with a freshly polished Aquila clasp. Haar noted it was an older one that clutched  lightning bolts in its talons. Her hair was unbound  and her brown hair fell nearly to her waist. She wore no jewelry  and had no makeup, but she was beautiful. Perhaps more beautiful the so called “nobles” of the Imperial Court.

 “Nervous?” Boian asked.

 If Vesta was nervous she hid it well.  She didn’t fiddle with her clasp or fidget. She looked straight ahead.

 “A little. I mean this is Terra. And we're going to the Imperial Palace ”  Vesta said.

 “Trust me it get’s boring after a few visits.” Boian said.

 Kal Jakar looked like he was going to launch into his  “This is Holy Terra, the birthplace of our species” rant, but he remained silent .

 Haar looked outside the viewport and scowled.

 “Aella is late.” Haar said.

 “She is a little girl.” Kal Jakar said.

 “The ligo aetes are never late.” Haar sat.

 “There’s always a first time for everything Endryd.” Boian said.

 “Little eagles?” Vesta asked.

 “Custodes in training. They’re mostly young children, but there are a few around your age or older.” Haar supplied.

 “I’m surprised you know Grecian.” Danek said with a cough.

 “Byzas Longa, my homeworld spoke a dialect of Grecian before the coming of the Emperor, It was still used in court along with High Gothic.  My father would switch to it in the middle of a conversation to  help me and my brother learn it.”  Vesta said in perfect Grecian.

 “Well i’ll be damned.” Boian said with a smile.  Boian  smiled a lot. It gave him an opportunity to show off his Iron teeth.

 “Your soul already is.” Kal Jakarsaid in a voice as dry as the desert he was born in.

 The two laughed as the ramp opened and they stepped out of the Storm Eagle.  

 They paused when they came face to face with a Legio Custodes.  He stood between them and the entrance to the Inner Palace.  The Custodian’s body language indicated great displeasure, though in Haar’s opinion, most Custodian’s body language indicated great displeasure.

 “Halt.” The Custodian said.

 Haar paused.  He recognized that voice.  

 Prefect Diocletian.

 “We are agents of the Imperium and we come being news for Lady Arlette.” Haar said.

 “Your kind are not welcome here Blackshield. Neither is the girl you bring.” Diocletian said.

 “Why do you deny us passage?  We are both warriors of the God-Emperor and we bear the blessing of your Tribune.” Kal Jakar said.

 “Silence Word Bearer.   The Emperor has forbidden the referral to him as a God.  Speak that word again and I will remove your head from your body.” Diocletian  said.

 In hindsight. Kal Jakar shouldn't have mentioned the God-Emperor, but Diocletian would have stopped them and made the threat. anyway.  The Prefect was quite frankly, a dick. Haar knew he did not trust them, and he had probably delayed Aella with some meaningless task like retrieving headlight fluid for the Grav-Rhinos. Haar honestly no idea why Diocletian  had delayed them or why he disliked them.  You think the Emperor’s own Equerry vouching for them would give them some slack. Haar was pretty sure Malcador’s band of misfits didn't have to deal with this.  

 Haar decided he had enough.  As much as he wanted to rip out the Custodians spine, he’d settle this with words.

 “Praetor.”  Haar said with all the cold rage and authority he could muster.

 “I’m sorry?” Diocletian said.

 “My rank is Praetor, Prefect..  You may also address me as Reaver Lord if you prefer. We report directly to Lady Arlette and the Emperor himself. While you are well within your authority to stops us. I believe your reasons for stopping us are personal and not for security reasons. My brothers and I have stayed loyal while  our legions turned traitor. We are willing to sacrifice  our lives for this Imperium. Not for honor or glory, but for duty and vengeance.  This girl you so casually dismissed,has suffered more than any girl her age should have. She has lost her family and her world. The IIIrd legion plans to do unspeakable thing to her. Our own brothers and our primarch’s betrayed us, soaked their blades in our blood. And you dare question our loyalty! You dare to question our honor and commitment to this Imperium! To our Emperor!”

 Diocletion  was about to reply, but Haar cut him off.

 “Now I want you to stand there Prefect Diocletion, in that golden armor of yours and extend some fracking courtesy to myself, my brothers and this girl.” Haar said.

 Haar had a feeling he wanted to draw his Misericordia and strike him down.  

 Than the sound of scampering feet was heard.

 “I'm so sorry!” an eight year old voice said.

 A blur of red and gold dashed pass Diocletian.  

 “It is alright Lady Aella.” Kal Jakar said. The Chaplain made the sign of the Aquila.

 Aella was a young girl, a few weeks shy of her ninth birthday. She wore the red with gold trim robes of the Legio Custodes  Her hair was a black and silky,and she wore it in a braid with a silver and jade hairpin.

 “Lady Arlette sends her compliments Praetor Haar. I’m here to take you to the Tranquil Courts.” Aella said in an imitation of a rather regal and important sounding tone.

 Aella looked at Vesta.

 “Hi! I’m Aella! What's your name?”  Aella said this with all the enthusiasm  an eight year old girl possessed.

 “Vesta.” Vesta replied.

 “You're very pretty. I like your Palla.” Aella said.

 She turned to lead them to inside.

 “Aella,could you wait a moment.  Prefect  Diocletian needs to tell me something.” Haar said.

 “Sure!” Aella  said cheerfully.

 Haar looked at Diocletian.

 Haar could tell Diocletian was gritting her teeth beneath his helm.

 “I apologize for my rudeness Praetor.”

 “Not  just me.” Haar said. He gestured to Kal Jakar.

 “I apologize for my unkind ��words, Chaplain. I hope I have not offended you.”

 “Think nothing of it. The Emperor's blessing be upon you Prefrect.” Kal Jakar said. He made the sign of the Aquila. For politeness sake, Diocletian returned it.

 Diocletian turned to Vesta.

 “You don’t have to apologize to me, My Lord. It's a honor to be here.” Vesta said.

 “You're too kind for your own good, girl.” Danek said with a laugh.

 “We’re ready to proceed Aella.” Haar said.

 Aella smiled, waved goodbye to Diocletian  and led them into the Imperial Palace.

 The Tranquil Courts was perhaps the only part of the Imperial Palace not fortified. An eye of peace and beauty in a storm of iron and stone.

 Tribune Arlette Augusta Amon Rakaposhi Gorro was waiting for them in a spacious patio.

 Arlette was a rather striking woman with  brown skin and black hair that stopped at her shoulders. She wore red robes with fur and gold trim. She held an old graphite pencil in her hand.

 The square table she sat at was carpeted with paperwork.

 The table style was one he did not recognize.  Although, Haar did not an Emperor’s Chilrdren or Thousand Sons, skill in recognizing furniture.   It was strangely low, and her seat was directly on the ground

 She looked up from the parchment she was scribbling on. Writing implements of various types lay in easy reach. Everything from pencils and various types of pens to monoquills.

 Arlette smiled at Aella  as she bowed.

 “Hello Aella, did Diocletian delay you?”

 “Yes my lady, Prefect Diocletian was grumpier  than usual.”  Aella said with a pout that was more adorable than annoyed.

 “It’s probably because we're  here,we’re not exactly good little boys compared to Dorn’s little builders.” Boian said.

 Aella giggled and Arlette smiled.

 Haar gestured to Vesta.

 “Lady Arlette, this is Vesta Augustus, the heir to the Imperial governorship of Byzas Longa.”

 “She’s a friend of ours.” Boian said.

It’s an honor, my lady.” Vesta said with a bow.

 “The honor is mine, the Emperor and I enjoyed our time on Byzas Longa.” Arlette said.

 Haar watched the two women make eye contact.

 This was not merely the meeting of two women, this was the meeting of two queens.

One who was young and recently crowned, ready to take her throne and do her duty.  The other, older and more comfortable in her role. One who had done all her king and subjects asked for and more.    

 “Aella could you bring my guests and I some tea?” Arlette asked.

 “Yes ma'am. What kind of tea do you want?” She asked.

“My usual.” Arlette said.

“Black.” Haar said.

 “Lemon, one cream, milk and two sugars.” Danek said

“Black with three sugars.” Boian said.

“Green tea.”  Kal Jakar  said.

“Black, one sugar.” Vesta said.

Aella scampered off.

 Arlette gestured for them to sit.

Haar sat directly across from Arlette.  Kal Jakar sat to his right, Boian on his left. Vesta sat next to Boian, while Danek sat next to Kal Jakar.

Aella returned with a platter laden with  mugs of tea.

 Haar caught the whiff of cinnamon as Aella distribute the tea.

Haar sipped his tea.  After months of recycled water, the tea was a rare treat. He could tell his brothers and Vesta enjoyed the tea immensely.

The woman who saved his life enjoyed her tea immensely as well.

 Some compared Arlette  to the Roman goddesses Bellona, or the Grecian goddess Pallas Athena, but no such comparison could be made in person.

 She was beautiful in her own unique way.  She radiated an overwhelming power and grace that rivaled, even surpassed, a Primarch.   No one could stand before her without to urge to kneel and prostrate themselves. No one could draw a blade or Bolter to harm her without dying.  Either at her hands, or the Emperor’s himself.

 She was, in many many ways, the ideal woman.

 Haar knew that if it wasn't for Arlette’s backing of the Fangs of the Emperor, they wouldn't have been able  to inflict  so much damage on the traitors. The Tyrannis wouldn't have been able to be refitted and resupplied. The Sigillite would not have shared his Intel. The Fangs now had an opportunity to die a glorious  death that would be remembered by loyal and traitor alike.

 “I trust your mission was successful?”  Arlette said.

 “The Word Eater’s 126th Company has been informally disbanded and a  plot that could tip the balance in the traitor’s favor has been discovered. “

 “And what does this plot entail exactly?” Arlette asked with a sip of her tea.

 “Unsanctioned Legions Astartes implantation and indoctrination methods, tampering  with blessed gene-seed and the utter damnation of the souls.” Kal Jakar  said.

 “What Chaplain Jakar means is that the  Emperor’s Children have created enhanced  hybrid gene-seed designed to maximize the positive traits of both World  Eaters and the Emperor’s Children with a high compatibility rate and a minimum  chance of implant rejection.  They are also enhanced via genetic data and sample recovered from Blackshield Astartes referred to as Chymarie.  Lady Vesta here was to be first test subject.  We recovered one of the apothecaries responsible  and we’d like to transfer him to the Silent Sisterhood. for interrogation.”

 “We’d also like to arrange for protection  and sanctuary for Vesta.  We also need some more supplies and a couple of fresh crewmen. “  Haar said.

 “ The first request I can grant.  The second I must deny. The Ten-Thousand must remain at the palace. Like the Sigillite and the Knights-Errant, we are fighting our own Silent War and the casualties have not been light.  I cannot spare the Custodes. The Emperor's safety cannot be jeopardized   While there are those in the Imperial Court who could provide sanctuary, Alpharius and his sons are here on Terra, until Rogal deals with them, her safety cannot be guaranteed.  A moving target is harder to hit, so Vesta will stay with you.  As for supplies, the Hall of Weapons is open to you.  Perhaps while you restock, you could find some weapons for Vesta here as well.  In addition, if your looking for crewmen, many refugees have gathered in the Petitioner’s City, seeking to join the Imperial Army and Navy. I’m sure you will find willing recruits.” Arlette  said.

“Thank you My Lady,”   Haar said

“You’re welcome Endryd.” she said with a smile.

 Haar rose and brought his fist to his chest in the pre-unity  salute.

 Arlette returned it.

 The Hall of Weapons was like a toy store for an Astartes.  While the Fangs could not access the sections reserved for the Custodes and the Silent Sisterhood, there was still plenty for them  and their young companion.

Weapons were kept on racks or held in shining stasis-fields. Crates of ammunition were stacked under the racks.

“I could spend decades in this place.” Boian said with a childish grin.  He had taken a Phobos-pattern Bolter and about nine clips from one of the racks.

“I don’t doubt that.’ Kal Jahkar said.

Haar hadn’t touched anything, but he had watched Vesta as she browsed the racks.

Vesta had immediately grabbed a Volkite Serpenta, but she had  stopped at a collection of swords.  She hefted a chainsword and placed it back.  She ignored the large two-handed weapons.  She paused at the knives and grabbed a Power Knife sized for a mortal and a Chainknife.   She also grabbed a Digi-melta and slid it on her left ring finger.

She was smiling the whole time she had done this.  

This was the first time any of them had seen  Vesta smile.    

She looked around some more and went to a small collection of blades and pistols in stasis fields.

She paused in front of a gladius in  a stasis field.

 “Blade.. Of the Hearth?” Vesta said reading the High Gothic inscription on  the blade.

“Looks like an Albian Power Gladius,  Shadrak Meduson has one of those. Some officers in the Fourteenth used to carry those.” Boian said.

“A few in the Seventeenth did as well.” Kal Jakar said.

 Vesta  pressed the key to  disengage the stasis field and gently grasped the blade.

It came free from it’s stand with a soft shunk noise.

Vesta gave it a few swings and made a stabbing motion with the blade.  

It was in that moment that Harr saw Vesta in a different light.

He now longer saw her as an amnesiac waif or a young noblewoman.

Now she was a warrior-queen.

Now she was ready to take her vengeance on the traitors who stolen everything from her.

And Haar and his Blackshields would gladly fight by her side.

[podcastrightnow]

Results and Takeaways

by Churp Daly

TL;DR: Draft “injured” players.

On Sunday afternoon, I made my second appearance in seven days at an urgent care center. Last Monday, I cut my finger and got a few sutures, and by Saturday they were looking not so hot. I woke up Sunday and things were worse, not better, so off to the doctor we went. It was the first time that day that a semi-hurt guy was betrayed by a stitched together piece of skin, but it wouldn't be the last.

Enter Noah Syndergaard. Thor was the highest salary pitcher that day, and also the only one to appear on Fantasy Draft with a red “DTD” tag. That's day to day, to you BTLs, and it means a pitcher is maybe, kind of, not really hurt. Or he was sort of hurt a few days ago. Put it this way: if a pitcher makes a scheduled start during the first month of the season, and isn't on a pitch limit, I consider him healthy. Chad thought it was weird that I would pay so much for a guy who was DTD. The word on Syndergaard was that he had some biceps weirdness and refused an MRI. Silly Chad, that tag don't mean nothing.

For me, the most interesting part of a tournament on FD is that shining moment, five minutes after lineup lock, when my lineup's ownership numbers are revealed. I want to win and everything, but you learn so much in that moment, and it can be the most exciting part of the slate before anything has even happened. Sunday afternoon, it was exciting. My ownerships were so low that day, I restarted the app a couple of times to make sure they were real. I had Dozier at 0%, Kepler at 2%, Sano at 2%, Ryu at 4%, and lots of other exciting bullcrap. At the top of the screen was Syndergaard, 7%. There are two times when you should find Syndergaard at ownership that low: when he's pitching at Coors and when he's not pitching. As a reference point, Dallas Keuchel was 64% owned in the same tournament.

In a vacuum I think Keuchel and Thor presented about the same value. I honestly thought Thor was a pretty chalky play, and it didn't hit me just how much opportunity “DTD” presents. If you had told me Syndergaard would be 7%, I would have entered ten lineups instead of one and he would have been in all of them. Thor got hammered to the tune of five runs in the first inning and was pulled in the second after logging 38 pitches. Welp.

The rest of the lineup did very well, and I finished in the top 10% even with -7 from Syndergaard. If I had played Keuchel instead, I would have finished first.  

So what did we learn? The fact that Thor left the game so early, without being in immediate danger of giving up more runs, doesn't mesh well with my claim that he wasn't really hurt. Maybe this time he was. But at the time I submitted my lineup, he was both hurt and not hurt, like that German guy's cat. You can form your own takeaways, but here's mine: I'm going to make a lot of theoretical money playing Noah Syndergaard at 7%. Don’t have an account? Sign up now at draftkings.com/r/ChurpDaly HMU with your questions on Twitter @realChurpDaly

[componentplanet]

Hands On With the New DJI Mavic Air 2

While those of us who are loyal Mavic Pro users will have to wait a bit before “the 3” comes out, in the meantime DJI has introduced a tantalizingly feature-rich successor to the Mavic Air. The Mavic Air 2 ($799) upgrades just about every aspect of the original and even has a few features that go beyond what the Mavic Pro 2 can do. We were fortunate enough to get an early review unit and have access to a safe area to fly while sheltering-in-place, so we got it up in the air to check it out.

DJI’s Mavic Air 2 by the Numbers

Reading the camera specs on the Air 2, it’d be easy to think you’d mistakenly wandered into a smartphone launch. Basically, the photo and video capabilities are now, at least on paper, on a par with flagship smartphones. The camera features a 1/2-inch-format 48MP Quad-Bayer that is normally in a “binned” 12MP mode. It’s the first Mavic that can record 4K video at 60fps (up to 120Mbps), and also offers 4x and 8x slow-motion recording at 1080p, as well as an HDR video mode. There is the usual array of QuickShot modes and support for both RAW stills and a D-Cinelike video color profile. There is also an 8K Hyperlapse mode that supports either Free or Waypoint flying, which should be a lot of fun. The Air 2 has 8GB of internal storage available, and a microSD card slot. Both it and the remote have mercifully moved to USB-C for charging.

On the computational imaging front, the Air 2 adds many of the tricks we’re now used to seeing in phones. It can perform automated multi-frame HDR by combining seven frames, and it has a low-light, multi-frame, mode called Hyperlight. It also has some scene recognition AI built-in for custom processing based on the type of subject. An HDR Panorama mode fills in an important hole for those of us who’ve had to literally stitch together workflow for that task ourselves. All this fits into a sleek, 570-gram folding package that is smaller than the Mavic Pro, although probably not enough to switch unless you need its other features.

Speaking of features, like the Air, the Air 2 lacks a USB-A port for easy cabling to a tablet or phone, so you’re stuck relying on DJI’s own solution. Personally, I’ve found their attempt to provide low-profile short cables that tuck into the remote more trouble than they’re worth, and so far I feel the same way about the one used in the Air 2’s remote. Yes, the cable can be hidden inside the remote, but it is barely long enough to use with a large phone, and fairly tricky to get plugged and unplugged. The Air 2’s remote does put the phone at the top of the remote, for better visibility and balance, which is nice. But, because the clamps are on the sides of the phone, you need to be really careful that you don’t position your phone so that the remote presses one of its buttons.

Flying the Mavic Air 2

The Air 2 has a redesigned electronics and battery system that bumps its quoted flight time to a maximum of 34 minutes. In my limited testing, it certainly does seem to stay up longer before you need to start worrying. One thing I learned from the press materials is that apparently drones (at least DJI’s) use more power while hovering than moving. I wouldn’t have guessed that (and I suspect a lot depends on how fast you’re flying). The Air 2 has obstacle sensors forward, rear, and down, but unfortunately not up or sideways. One feature I found annoying is that it complains often and loudly when you are near anything. In my case, taking off from my front yard I have either trees or the house within about 20 feet in any direction, so the remote squawks loudly until I get up and over the treetops.

You fly the Air 2 using DJI’s newer flight app, DJI Fly. It does a much better job of hand-holding you through various settings and modes (although the incessant video popups can also prove tiresome). It also doesn’t offer all the same options (at least in its current form) as the more traditional DJI Go app. In my case, I also do a lot of flying with the third-party app Litchi, especially pre-planned routes. Litchi supports the original Air, so I assume they’ll also be supporting the Air 2. One impressive-sounding new feature of the Air 2 is APAS 3.0 obstacle avoidance. As long as you’re not shooting something trickier than 4K @ 30 fps, APAS will try to route you around obstacles. This wasn’t the sort of feature I wanted to test with the review unit, but it sounds promising.

The Air 2 also comes with an upgraded system, OcuSync 2.0, for communications between the drone and the remote. It is rated at a theoretical maximum range of 10 km. The next sentence says to keep the drone within sight, for what it’s worth. Anecdotally, in the limited area I’ve been able to fly it safely given current travel restrictions, the connection was rock solid and the video quality was excellent. Unfortunately, like the Air, the remote for the Air 2 doesn’t have an LCD. I often find myself looking at the LCD for my Mavic Pro drones, as it can be easier to read in the sun and more than once my phone app has gone sideways and I’ve had to fly the drone using the remote’s display.

The great news is that the Air 2 is fun to fly, extremely stable, and very responsive. You can see the upgraded stability when using the unit’s built-in cinematic modes. This orbit was performed automatically, and tracks the object more accurately while moving more stably than the same orbit I did when reviewing the original Air:

QuickShot Video Gallery

After some basic flight tests, I wanted to see how well the QuickShot modes performed. Orbit worked really well, and is a nice improvement in image quality and stability over the original Air.

Given the rather strict stay-at-home order locally, I wasn’t able to come up with any super-interesting subjects for testing the Air 2’s other QuickShot modes, but I was able to record examples of three of them that I aimed at the “Field Closed” sign in a park near my house. Personally I liked the Boomerang best, although it didn’t track the saw horse perfectly. I wasn’t that inspired by the others, but then again I use Litchi software for pre-planned shots. Certainly, these QuickShot modes are better than what most drone pilots can do when flying manually.

Rocket was the first one I tried. Seemed fine, but not all that exciting:

Dronie is very similar:

Boomerang was pretty cool, but seemed to lose track of the subject towards the end. It would be hard to duplicate using pre-planned waypoints, so that adds to its value:

DJI’s AirSense Brings ADS-B to a Consumer Drone

The Air 2 is DJI’s first consumer drone with AirSense. That allows it to receive ADS-B signals from other aircraft and alert the drone operator if there is an aircraft nearby that might be of concern — as well as showing the aircraft’s location. Now, this sounds pretty cool, but I’m not sure how much difference it will make in real life for most people. In my case, when traveling to remote locations, we’re often flying near where planes land on the beach or on dirt roads, so it might prove useful. Seldom-used airstrips or Helipads might be another environment where it might be valuable. Note that this is a receive-only capability. The Air 2 doesn’t transmit ADS-B. Also, due to supply chain issues, initially only the North American units will have AirSense. Other geographies will start getting it over time.

Is the Mavic Air 2 the Right Drone for You?

If you want to get the most drone you can for under $1,000, the Air 2 is an impressive option. At $799 for the drone (pre-orders are being accepted now, and US shipments should start by mid-May) and remote, or $988 for the Fly-More combo pack, it gets you in the game for substantially less than the Pro 2. If, like me, you have existing Mavic Pro or Pros, the choice is less clear. While the Air 2 is smaller and has a lot of improvements over the original Pro, it doesn’t have an LCD on the remote and uses the slightly stripped-down DJI Fly app. So if you’re not in a huge hurry, it may pay to wait and see what the Pro 3 will eventually offer.

[Video Credits: David Cardinal]

Now Read:

DJI’s New Mavic Air Combines the Best of the Spark, Mavic Pro

Review: Flying DJI’s New Mavic Mini Portable Drone

DJI Mavic 2 Pro Field-Tested: A Winning Upgrade

  from ExtremeTechExtremeTech https://www.extremetech.com/mobile/309720-hands-on-review-with-the-new-dji-mavic-air-2 from Blogger http://componentplanet.blogspot.com/2020/05/hands-on-with-new-dji-mavic-air-2.html