#With the four men’s majors done and dusted the Women’s Open is set to take centre stage

thesoobfiles · 4 years ago

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your highness – a. skywalker

Jealous! Anakin x Queen! Reader

Request: anon, could we get a jealous! anakin imagine?

Words: 4k

Summary: Reader is the queen of the alien planet, Roe’ Leor, a planet very rich in natural resources and starship fuel. It was previously a neutral system; however, the Republic has finally roped them in. In celebration and in honor of their alliance, the Queen has thrown a formal party to recognize this new friendship. Invitations extend to the royal family, the royal guard, royal officials as well as the staff, Republic Senators and the Jedi of course. After Ani’s met the Queen and after the dancing begins, Anakin gets jealous when he sees her dancing with another man…

A/N: I’ve been experiencing the BIGGEST writers block and lack of time to write and I’m SO sorry this took so long. I also had trouble trying to think of something that isn’t overplayed like jedi! reader and senator! reader... I’ve had this in my drafts for a week now and I apologize I haven’t published it until now... I hope it was worth the wait though :) A couple things I want to point out: 1) Roe’ Leor is a production of my imagination; it’s not a real planet in the Star War universe, 2) I imagine the handmaiden with a soft British accent, 3) you don’t really get to fill in a lot because you’re an alien and your skin color, eye color, etc. is already pre-determined, 4) the Roe’ Leor culture is like a mix of Indian and Haiwaiian (certain thinks like names and outfits) and 5) this Anakin is kind of like a mix between rots! Anakin and tcw! Anakin. I’m sorry I talk so much and enjoy! ~

I look out of my large bedroom window as my handmaiden, Lei, prepares me for the event tonight. I just love the blues and purples that color the sky when the suns set…

“I do as well, my lady.” Lei speaks up. I jump slightly at the sudden sound.

“I hadn’t realized I said that aloud…” I said, distractedly.

“Well, I’m glad you did, your majesty. The sound of your voice is always lovely to hear, no matter the scarcity.” She replies with a small smile on her face. I smile back at her. What a wonderful girl…

The thing about being Queen is I’m not allowed to speak, only under specific circumstances like negotiations. Hearing my voice should be ‘a privilege’. I think it’s nonsense; but until my request goes through Leadership, I must adhere to the rules…

Lei adjusts the pallu part of the sari and places the traditional red flower behind my ear. She spins me around to look in the full-length mirror and I smile. She always does such excellent work making sure I look presentable. I look at Lei in the mirror and whisper a ‘thank you’ in our native tongue.

“You are quite welcome, your highness.” She smiles and bows before leaving my presence.

I look in the mirror once more and really take in my appearance. The amber color of the sari and petticoat really compliments my green eyes and the vermillion of the choli, fine stitching and border look exquisite against my light orange skin. To top the whole look off, my hair is loose, free to fall in waves upon my shoulders. Luckily, it doesn’t take too much away from the golden jewelry that adorns my body; the delicate necklace hanging upon my neck and the simple, yet elegant bangles that slip towards my wrist. If there’s one thing I love about being Queen, it’s the fun I have while dressing up.

When I’m done admiring Lei’s handiwork, I straighten my back and head for the main room of the palace; where the event is being held.

Outside my door, as I expected, are two of my most trusted bodyguards – who double as my governesses – to escort me; however, what I didn’t expect was for a women from Leadership waiting for me as well. I bow politely and she bows back.

“Your grace, I’ve come before you to inform you that your request has been received and approved.” She says with a relaxed expression and a small smile.

“That’s wonderful. Thank you for bringing me this information.” I reply, beyond jovial as a smile breaks out on my face.

“It was my pleasure, your majesty. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” She bows and leaves me with my escorts.

Overjoyed that I can now speak as I please, I hug both of them.

“Alani, Kaila, I never thought I’d see the day.” I express my extreme happiness with the information I just received.

“We’re happy for you, your highness.” Alani replies with a smile on her face.

“We’re glad your request went through successfully.” Kaila says as she pats my back.

I give them another squeeze before I straighten up, dust off my sari and clear my throat.

“C’mon ladies, we have a party to attend.”

As I walk forwards, Alani and Kaila follow suit. We make a beeline for the balcony area of the staircase and wait just behind the doorway for my cue to enter. I can already hear the noise of my guests and the party started but a few minutes ago.

- 15 minutes earlier –

“Halt.” A guard in front of the palace stops us.

“Names.” She demands and she looks at her scroll.

“Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Knight.” I say in a nonchalant tone and flash her my invitation. She looks at me, at the invitation and at her scroll. She nods and looks at Obi-Wan.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Master.” He says politely as he too shows his invitation. The guard nods and I proceed to make my way inside only to walk into her arm. I look up at her.

“Is there a problem?” I ask, eyebrow raised in hopes of getting some answers.

“You must change your attire before entering the Queen’s palace.” She responds. Before I could open my mouth to ask my question, a women that appears to be a handmaiden approaches us with clothing in hand. Then, it dawned on me.

“This would explain why we were measured last week.” Obi-Wan voiced my thoughts as he takes his suit and I take mine.

“You may change your clothing in the rooms to the left.” She states with an authoritative tone and resumes her duties as the guard; checking the next guests invitation.

Obi-Wan and I head over to a small shack.

“Doesn’t look like much.” I comment on the rough exterior of the ‘building’.

Obi-Wan chuckles, “Wait until you see inside.” I furrow my eyebrows in confusion and push the door open. My eyes widened at the sight before me. The outside is an injustice to the interior. It was magnificently structured and much larger on the inside. The small palace was completely empty except for four decently-sized ‘rooms’ in the middle of the structure.

“Never judge a book by its cover, Anakin; Leori technology isn’t anything to bat your eyes at.” He says condescendingly as he goes to change.

“Yes, master.” I reply as I walk over to the changing ‘room’. Can it even be called a room? All of the ‘walls’ are made of curtains.

I walk inside and shed the many layers of my Jedi robes along with my boots, belt and lightsaber.

“What do you know about this party, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks from his changing ‘room’.

“The Queen of Roe’ Leor has thrown this party has an act of goodwill to celebrate the alliance between the Republic and Roe’ Leor.” I say, repeating the words of the Jedi Council from earlier that week.

I gingerly pull on the blue button-up and thin black jacket that accompanies it.

“Have you ever met her?” He asks.

“The Queen? No. I hear it’s a privilege to even hear her speak much less be in her presence.” I recall from one of the many briefings on Leori culture.

I slide on the black slacks as well as the black pointed shoes and clip my lightsaber to one of the belt loop of the pants. I walk out the same time Obi-Wan does.

I look at him and raise my eyebrow to accompany my smirk, “Don’t you clean up nicely, master.” I say in a joking manner. Obi-Wan is dressed in similar clothing, just with different colors. His button up is a light brown while his suit jacket, pants and shoes are all a darker shade of the same color; like his Jedi robes.

He rolls his eyes at my comment then makes his way out of the shack and over to the entrance. I walk behind him and we walk back over to the guard.

She looks us up and down, “Proceed.” She says after she recognizes us and deems our outfits acceptable.

We walk inside and look around. Music similar to what was playing in Hondo’s bar plays softly in the background as the people make conversation. I notice that some members of the Jedi Council, such as Mace Windu and Plo Koon have already arrived and have switched their usual attire for suits. The majority of the people in attendance are Leori; however I do spot the occasional Senator and Jedi.

“Did you know that Roe’ Leor is predominantly female and that’s why they have a Queen instead of a King?” Obi-Wan pipes up from beside me as he examines the room and takes a bite of food from his plate.

“I did not…” I trail off and instead of looking at their species, I look at their gender and notice he’s right. The majority of the Leori are women. The men only seem to be caterers and the occasional official.

A horn of some sort is blown from the balcony of the staircase. The attendees quiet down and move their attention to a small girl, no more than the age of a youngling.

“Please welcome her royal highness, Queen (L/N).” She says in a high-pitched voice as ‘Queen (L/N)’ emerges from the doorway on the left. She looks…magnificent. She’s younger than I expected her to be.

The yellow and red of her sari compliments her skin well. She strolls over to the balcony and stands between her two bodyguards elegantly. Applause erupts from the crowd. Both guards hold a hand out and the applause ceases.

“Good evening, people of Roe’ Leor and representatives of the Republic. As you all know, I’ve thrown this party to celebrate our newfound friendship with the Republic. I hope you enjoy your evening as well as make friends with our new partners.” She finishes and descends down the stairs. Thunderous applause erupts once more from the people in attendance.

“I thought the Queen wasn’t allowed to speak?” I ask Obi-Wan with confusion, never taking my eyes off of her.

“Must have been a recent change in their rules…” Obi-Wan mused, stroking his beard.

“Oh.” I respond simply as I take notice that the bodyguard’s leave Queen (L/N)’s side as she greets some politicians. She talks with them for a short amount of time before she scans the room and her eyes on land on me.

I bow as I finish my conversation with Senator Poli and Representative Jeeloy. I’ve made it my goal to introduce myself to every Republic attendee as to become familiar with one another and explain the new rule put into place by Leadership. I look around the large space and my eyes land on a rather handsome young man who already appears to be staring in my direction. I suppose I’ve found my next conversation.

I walk over to him and his eyes never leave me. A regular man would have already looked away in fear or insecurity; an interesting specimen indeed…

“Good evening gentlemen.” I say as I bow before the young man and his slightly older companion.

Now that I’m within a closer proximity, the young man is quite attractive for a Jedi. He has dirty blonde hair that falls in waves at his shoulders. His eyes are a blue so magnificent, I’ve only ever seen it in the majestic waves of our ocean. His skin is a flawless tan color and his lips look as plush as a pillow.

“My name is Anakin Skywalker, but you can call me Anakin, your highness.” The young man, Anakin, says as he bows. He grabs my hand and places a chaste kiss upon it. I can already feel my heart racing at his actions. He releases my hand, but he never takes his striking blue eyes off of me.

“Your majesty, Obi-Wan Kenobi.” The older man, Obi-Wan, also bows.

“May I say, both of your names are quite unique?” I comment on the names they’ve given me.

“Thank you, my lady. May I ask yours?” Anakin questions me.

“(Y/N) (L/N)…”

“(Y/N)…” He whispers under his breath.

“…but no one every addresses me as such as it is customary to address me as ‘Queen (L/N)’ or other terms of respect including ‘your grace’, ‘your highness’, ‘your majesty’, ‘my lady’ and so forth...” I finish, matter-of-factly.

“Of course, my lady.” Anakin says as the mischievousness of a thousand younglings cross his eyes.

“How are you enjoying the party so far, Mr. Kenobi?” I ask, shifting my attention to his friend as the look he’s giving me makes my heart beat a little too fast for my taste.

“Please, Obi-Wan, your majesty. We are partners, not strangers.” He corrects me.

I nod in return, “Of course, Obi-Wan.” He continues.

“I must say, you’ve thrown a lovely party.” He comments as he scans the crowd.

“Thank you; do you like the food?” I ask, looking at both Anakin and Obi-Wan this time, “I heard many of these foods are popular on Coruscant, the Republic capital...”

“The food is excellent, your grace. Nothing to worry about.” He says reassuringly with a small smile.

“Wonderful.” I reply, returning his smile. “Before I forget, if you’ve been briefed on our culture, you’ll know I’m not normally permitted to speak; however, a change in the rules have been made by both Leadership and myself.” I say, clearing up any confusion if there was any.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me…” I begin.

“Obi-Wan,” I say while nodding in his direction, “Anakin.” I look in his direction.

“I must acquaint myself with the other patrons.” I bow.

“Of course, your highness.” Obi-Wan replies.

“Don’t let us distract you from your royal duties.” Anakin comments with a smile. I smile back and start walking to find the next Jedi or Senator.

- 30 minutes later –

After half an hour of walking and talking, I think I need a break. I pull a chair from one of the many tables in the hall and take a seat. I take a deep breath and exhale.

I’ve already spoken with all of the members of the Jedi Council, 8 Jedi Knights and their padawans and 300 congressmen and women and that’s not even half.

The dancing will begin shortly, so I hope I get to rest my feet for just a few minutes…

Not too long into my relaxing, I hear two chairs being pulled out. I take a deep breath, straighten my posture and put on a smile. I look up to see Kaila and Alani slumped in their chairs. I break out into a real smile and relax my shoulders.

“Hello ladies, you guys look as exhausted as I am and it hasn’t even been an hour.” I joke.

Kaila laughs exhaustedly, “Do you know how many touchy Senators we’ve had to shoo away from the poor female attendees? That Orn Free Taa? Too touchy for my liking…” I laugh.

“The men of the Republic need etiquette.” Alani agrees with closed eyes.

“Perhaps not all of them…” I say quietly. At my addition, both Kaila and Alani open their eyes and straighten up excitedly, forgetting their exhaustion.

“Oh?” Kaila asks with a smirk. I now realize my addition was a mistake; not only are Alani and Kaila my caretakers, but they are also my best friends and unfortunately love gossip.

“Do tell of the well-mannered men you’ve encountered this evening.” Alani urges with her elbows on the table and her hands underneath her chin.

“Well…” I start, going through my evening so far, “Senator Organa and Senator Farr were very polite, unlike the Senators you’ve had to deal with.” I counter with triumph.

“I’ve also met multiple Jedi who were nothing but well-mannered and polite.”

“Like who?” Kaila pushed.

“Like-like Master Mace Windu.” I reply, “Master Yoda and Master Obi-Wan Kenobi…”

“…and Anakin Skywalker.” I finish off quiet, voice uneven. Just saying his name makes my voice waver. I’ve never met a man who’s had this kind of effect on me before…

“Anakin Skywalker…” Alani repeats, “If I remember correctly he came last week with Master Kenobi for his fitting…”

“A rather handsome young man…” Kaila repeats my words from earlier.

Suddenly, I hear the ringing of a single bell signifying the beginning of the first dance. I quickly stand up, “Excuse me!” I say quickly and loudly as I rush to the balcony. I’m not even out of earshot when I hear them giggling.

I take deep breaths to steady my heartrate while I climb the stairs. I reach the top and clear my throat and the audience quiets down.

“The ringing of the first bell indicates the first of two dances. For the first dance, Leori will dance with Leori and this is the same for the people of the Republic. This illustrates our situations before our alliance. For the second dance, it will be mixed. It is mandatory for a Leori to dance with someone of the Republic and vice-versa. This illustrates our situation after our alliance. You have 5 minutes to choose your partner if you wish to dance as the first dance is not mandatory.” I finish and descend the steps for the second time this evening.

I stop at the foot of the stairs and weigh my options. I could a) return to my table and get pestered about Anakin or b) women up and find a partner.

Before I decide what to do, a familiar voice cuts into my thoughts.

“It’s been a while, sis.” A male voice announces. I look to my right and see my older brother, (B/N), with his arms open.

A huge smile replaces my thoughtful look and I rush into his arms, “Brother! What are you doing here?” I ask excitedly and squeeze him.

He wheezes, “I could tell you if I could breathe.” He manages; I immediately release him, “Sometimes you don’t even recognize your own strength, (N/N).” He says using my childhood nickname as he rubs his sides.

“You forget, I married a Senator of the Republic after I refused the throne?” (B/N) reminds me; even though our planet is predominantly female, he is older and would have been next in line.

“Ah, yes. I was so busy with the preparation of the party. It slipped my mind…” I admit, “How have you been? Is the money I sent enough? Do you need more? If you do, I can-“

“(Y/N), calm down. I’m fine and the money you sent is enough; I don’t need anymore, trust me.” He reassures me, “We can catch up later; for now, may I have this dance…” He asks, extending his hand towards me. I raise my eyebrow at him.

“…your highness?” He adds. I smile, glad he hasn’t forgotten the ways of our people.

The horn sounds as the classical music played by the orchestra in the sound room begins to play over the speakers. The first dance has begun.

The music has started to play signifying the beginning of the first dance. I’ve decided to sit this one out as the only other person I really know, Padmé, already has a partner. I sit at a table and sip my flute of one of the lighter alcoholic beverages being severed; as a Jedi, I should always be on my toes.

I scan the crowd when my eyes land on the Queen, who appears to be dancing with a man at least half a foot taller then her. The man she’s dancing with is attractive, to say the least. He has elegant features and whatever he’s saying to her makes her laugh; a laugh most likely so scarce only a select group of people ever get to hear it.

What is he saying that’s so funny? I thought when I heard the shattering of my glass. I guess my jealously paired with my prosthesis isn’t necessarily a good mix. Luckily, my beverage only spilled into the plate below with few drops of it on the tablecloth. I disregard my drink and return my attention to the Queen. Her partner spins her and she seems to be having a great time. It’s hard to be jealous when she smiles like that…

My thoughts are cut off when the music stops. The two separate and they bow before the Queen ascends the stairs. She’s most likely announcing the second dance… I suppose that’s my cue; good thing I did my research...

“I hope you had a lovely time with your first partner; however, it is now time to choose your second. The second dance will begin shortly. You have 5 minutes to choose your next partner.” I announce and descend the stairs for, hopefully, the last time. I reach the foot of the stairs when a Senator approaches me.

“Would you like to dance, your majesty?” he asks.

“No thank you.” I respond politely. He nods and walks away. Another Senator walks up, one from Ryloth.

“Care to dance, your highness?” He asks with his hand extended in my direction.

“I’ll have to pass, Senator.” I reply. He looks at me and rolls his eyes as he walks away.

“Excuse me, my lady.” A voice intervenes; not a familiar voice, but one I’ve heard before. I turn around to be met with Anakin Skywalker.

“Anakin.” I say, hopefully.

He smiles at me, “May I have this dance…” He extends his hand to me, “…your highness?” I smile and rest my hand in is, “You may.”

The horn sounds again as another song plays over the speakers. Something along the lines of classical and tango; a rather interesting mix to describe the alliance between us.

“If I may, did you really know how to ask me to dance or was it luck?” I ask out of curiousity as he leads me to the dance floor. He grabs my hand with his right and places his left on my waist. He pulls me close and whispers in my ear, “I knew.” At this, my heartrate picks up once more.

He resume our dance at normal distance.

“Your grace, if I may, who were you dancing with earlier?” Anakin asks as we continue to glide across the floor.

“Oh, that was my brother, (B/N). Many think he’s given up his prince status, but he merely rejected king status and still remains crown prince of Roe’ Leor.” I inform him, thinking nothing of the question.

“I see. So, your majesty, are you aware of the dangers that come with being partnered with the Republic?”

“Yes. Since Roe’ Leor is no longer a neutral system, the Separatists will now target us given our change in position.”

“Have you increased your security?” He asks as he dips me.

“Tripled.” I respond as he lifts me back up.

“Has the Republic asked about outposts?

“Yes.”

“And your answer?”

“Anakin Skywalker, did you ask me to dance for business of for pleasure?” I ask, finally feeling more comfortable in his presence.

“Officially, business.” He responds as he spins me similar to how (B/N) spun me earlier.

“Unofficially?” I ask. He smiles at me and whispers in my ear with a sultriness that makes my heart melt, “Pleasure.” Then, as he dips me, the last note of the song is played.

He brings me back to a standing position.

“It was a pleasure dancing with you, Anakin Skywalker.” I say as I bow, still a little disoriented from his answer.

“Please,” he bows and grabs my hand similar to our first meeting, “the pleasure was mine.” and he kisses it.

“We’ll see more of each other in the future, your highness.” He gives me a jaunty salute then walks over to Obi-Wan.

Never in my life have I ever wanted a man so badly.

Little did I know, even though I made my comment internally, Anakin was still close enough to listen in on my thoughts and walked away with a smile on his face...

I leave the Queen to return to her queenly duties and walk over to Obi-Wan.

“You looked rather cozy dancing with the Queen.” He noted.

“Really? I didn’t notice…” I replied coyly.

“Let’s just hope that you haven’t ruined our friendship when it’s only just begun.” He states as he makes his way over to Master Yoda.

I smile and look back at the Queen and she’s talking to her bodyguards.

Farewell, your highness. Until our next meeting…

The Queen’s eyes widen and her attention is turned towards me. I smile at her and she smiles back.

Farewell, Anakin Skywalker. Until we meet again.

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darkesttimelinestuff · 4 years ago

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7,713 words

Mature

Men make houses. Women build homes. –Proverb.

Come come, come out tonight. Come come, come out tonight. –Sherry, The Four Seasons

***

Oh, Halloween. How it coaxes all from their shells, a come-hither seduction of ghouls and their admirers. Whether one chooses to be a witch or a princess, a criminal or a cowboy – to paint their face and knock on doors, to drink until they are but pumpkins, mouths filled with their pumpkin guts – it is all done under the otherworldly spell of the undead, the souls that ascend from their place in the basement to play marionette games with the dolls who inhabit the first floor.

Fox Mulder has, over the years, made an exceptional doll. Spock, then Captain Kirk, then Spock again. Several years of him doing nothing but sitting alone and staring out the window, ignoring the pull of a fairy costume resting in a trunk in the attic. Even then he had been a prime target; Halloween souls feed on elation, but will take misery in a pinch. His misery tasted sweet like a tootsie pop. The saints love tootsie pops, all the waiting and the work. The sinners prefer Reeses.

There were others when the memories began to fade. Han Solo. Han Solo. Paul Stanley from KISS, though his first girlfriend ended up wearing most of the makeup. Han Solo. Doctor John Watson, although years later he would grit his teeth and mutter I should have been Holmes. Serpico at a Hoover party, the last one he went to. No one got it. Then Han Solo every year he chose to celebrate after, and by then he finally had Princess Leia at his side.

The halloween of 2016, he slips into his finest costume yet.

Fox Mulder. Hopeless romantic.

On one arm, he carries a bag that is filled with good wine, cheap wine glasses, and assorted fruits, cheeses, and fancy chocolate. He has convinced his partner that the actual contents are a P.K.E. meter (a psychokinetic energy meter, for those who have not seen the documentary Ghostbusters), a thermographic camera, an audio recorder, sage, a lighter, his gun.

On the other arm, or underneath it, is his partner. Who is unsure about such open gestures of affection while they are technically on the clock, even after all the years of steaming up their steakouts, but is not stopping him, and is possibly even snuggling back as the October chill descends.

“This is not a love story, Scully,” he warns, pulling her closer as they follow the long, winding pathway up their destination. Her body heat is his favorite temperature, even when it’s ice cold. “It is a story of lies, obsession, betrayal, and murder.”

“I think I’ve heard this one.” She bumps his arm with her shoulder and smiles up at him, her lips wine deep under the bright moon.

Their shoes are silent on the stone and disappear under the layers of fog that curl and cozy around them like amorous smoke. He tugs her closer still, filling his nose with the woodsy scent of her shampoo.

“The early 1960s, Scully. Free love was just a storm a’brewin in the air, and sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll were waiting on the doorsteps of American counterculture, waiting to be invited in. Doo-wop was still a prominent feature on family radio stations. The Beatles had yet to write their own songs, and Paul McCartney wouldn’t smoke his first joint until 1964. It was a wholesome time, Scully. You would’ve loved it.”

“I loved Rubber Soul,” she argues.

He rubs her shoulder. “But it wasn’t all sock hops and sweet Jackie Kennedy. We were fighting a war with Russia, a war of discovery, and losing to the success of Sputnik. The U.S. invaded Cuba, got their asses kicked, and were the laughing stock of the world. In the veins of America, in the buses and lunch counters, the streets and in the schools, thrummed the blood of a movement. The Civil Rights movement. The early 1960s was a time of immense change.”

They were getting closer and closer to the scene where it all took place: a sprawling, overly-windowed ranch style home, its angular roof sloping into flatlands. In the quiet darkness, the cars and the rest of the world all celebrating miles behind them, the house appears white, almost bleached. But when the sun comes out it will reveal its truth: baby pink painted wood.

“And situated in all of this madness, this time between tumult and revolution, hatred and love, was a woman named Sherry Battersea.” She hmm’s. That means Mulder, I love your stories. Keep going.

He does.

They arrive at the front door – solid mahogany, undistressed. The steps leading up to the porch are made from brick, unhassled by the years of disuse. With the moon hanging overhead, vines creeping onto the roof, and the glare of (assumed) white bathed in midnight blue and the shadows of trees rustling above, it looks absolutely– “Isn’t she beautiful?” Mulder whispers, moving his hand to Scully’s waist.

Precisely.

***

It’s all a bunch of phooey, if you ask him.

Didn’t expect that, did you?

He spent weeks finding the right place. The runner ups were all either too far away, too haunted, or not haunted enough. He wanted something with history, something still alive in the hearts of believers – but nothing verifiable, and nothing with a real reputation.

He wanted a pretty lie. Most ghost stories, he will begrudgingly admit, are indeed pretty lies.

He found the Battersea house on a subreddit dedicated to paranormal encounters, and this one hadn’t even managed to get twenty upvotes. He was number twenty. The Battersea home is in Virginia, which heavily swayed his opinion in its favor, and from the pictures posted the years of abandonment had not left it dangerous, which put it above two other options off his list. Making love to Scully while the roof collapses over their heads is a fantasy he put to rest many moons ago, about the time he realized they could just do it on a bed.

They roam the house with their flashlights, Mulder’s low voice playing in her ear as he finishes his story. “Sherry’s husband returned from war, but he never returned to her. She made this home for him and he wouldn’t even grant her the decency of staying the night.”

The biggest draw of the place had been its pristine condition. No graffiti stains the wood-paneled walls; the rooms were all intact. The interior design is a certified blast from the past, from the richly carpeted floors and textured rugs to the lucite furniture, pops of neon that splash under their flashlights. It is colorfully but rather tastefully decorated. It reminds him a bit of a movie set, which is another place he has been thoroughly laid by this woman.

As they move through the house, however, he realizes with mild disappointment the utter lack of haunting thrill. Nothing shifts in the night to give them pause. No dirt or dust to brush away, no holes in the walls or rot in the furniture. It doesn’t even smell old. It all feels more like a vacation home, some sort of themed romantic getaway, and they’re wading behind the scenes with the power turned off.

It’s not what he planned, but he’ll take it.

“Miss Battersea was a fashionable lady, keeping up with the times faster than they could come to her. She had a leopard skin pill-box hat before Jackie O had a leopard skin pill-box hat, and was dead by the time Bob Dylan could think to write a song about it.” Oh, that long, mid-century sectional couch. It might be white or a gawdy turquoise color. Whatever it is, he’s going to have her there. “She was a smart woman, too. The head of all of her many bookclubs. All of the books you see in here are hers.” His runs his beam over behind the couch, where the entire back wall is lined with books, and they move along. “And there are more in the den.

“She did everything she could to make her husband love her. She danced to his favorite records. She cooked for him and did his laundry. She cut her skirt an inch shorter with each passing trend.” They stand side by side, halted in the kitchen doorway. He turns his head and lets his eyes dip into her blouse. “I’ve been very appreciative of your new work wardrobe, by the the way.”

“Mulder,” she chastises, pulling her shirt down for better access. He laughs loudly at that, places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the kitchen.

“She was driving herself crazy, trying to make him love her the way she loved him. And oh, did she love him, her sweet Maximus Battersea.” More wood paneling, and modular, pastel appliances that appear as if they haven’t aged a day since their prime. In the middle is a solid island with a geometric vase of dead flowers. This is where he’ll lay out all the food. Should’ve gotten flowers, he mopes to himself, but remembers that Scully doesn’t have a lot of patience for them. “They were high school sweethearts, and when he was 18 he was drafted off in the Korean War.

“Something was wrong when he came back. He got a job at some juicing plant working the machines, but showed a savvy for bossing people around that made itself known to the owners. He moved up quickly to supervisor and then warden. He and his little wife then bought this house, and Sherry made it her life’s work to take good care of it. Not a speck of dirt to be found.” Even to this day. They both marvel at the cleanliness. “Dishes were done as soon as they were used. Food was on the table for when he got home, still hot enough to serve. But he never got home to her at night. He would spend his nights at the bar, and then he became a favored customer at the Grand Major Hotel.”

“Oooooh. I would’ve killed the bastard,” Scully whistles, opening up a cabinet and standing on her tiptoes to peer in. He steps in behind her and lifts her up, chuckling when she screams and elbows him in the chest.

“Hmm, I know you would,” he mumbles in her ear, smacking a little kiss underneath it. All the glassware in the cabinet, chipless and clean as a whistle, clinks and jingles while she moves her hand through it. “You’re a jealous monster. So was Sherry Battersea.”

He’s making some of this shit up. He doesn’t know if she liked to read or if she was all that beautiful a woman, but the details make the story. “I’m not jealous,” Scully snorts, and he bites her neck as punishment for her blatant lie while dropping her back on her feet.

He wonders, as he pins her against the counter, if she’s caught on to his plans. He sets the flashlight down in front of her and snakes his arms around her from behind. “One night, he did come back to this big old house. But he was with someone else.”

“Oh, I would’ve killed him,” she repeats, tilting her head to get his lips on her neck. His nose brushes her cheek and he grins; she definitely knows. “I would’ve killed her.”

“And that’s what she did,” he says, kneading her hips. “They were on the couch, still mostly in their clothes. She snuck up from behind, and with all the power of her rage, she pushed one of her many bookcases right on top of them, crushing them to death.”

“I would’ve waited until they were naked. More humiliating.”

“Jealous. Monster.” Mulder says fondly, breaking away to grab her arm. “Now they say that Sherry Battersea remains in this house, long after she was convicted and put to death. She gave her life to building a home. It’s fitting that she give it her death as well.”

“And that’s what we’re here to investigate?” She says, narrowing her eyes.

“We’re here to say hi to old Sherry,” Mulder lies, urging her along. Neither of them are scared, despite of their previous history with ghosts. He’s not sure if Scully even remembers. That house had not been a pretty lie. It had only been filled with ugly truths.

On their way up the stairs, pausing at each creak even though the foundation is craftful and sturdy, a tune plays in his head. “Sherry… Sherry baby…” he sings, letting his voice go comically high. It’s too loud in the quiet house surrounded by nothing, and Scully turns around to slap a palm over his mouth.

“That’s a bad Frankie Valli impression,” she says, arching her eyebrow. “Want me to make it better?”

He kisses her palm. She takes it away and continues her charge up the stairs. When she’s far away enough, he finishes the line in his ghastly falsetto, voice cracking.

“Sherry, won’t you come out tonight?”

Come come, come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

***

In the den on the other side of the house, a lightbulb flickers. The glow it casts under the lampshade is a soft, pinky red, the color of a deep blush. The winds caress the house with the sigh of a new lover. There is a soft scritching noise, a click of a record sliding into place. Static, and then…

Sherry, Sherry baby! Sherry, Sherry baby!

***

“I was listening to particle physicist Brian Cox on the radio the other day, talking with Neil deGrasse Tyson,” Scully says, sipping coffee from her thermos. She shivers a little in her suede jacket and Mulder regrets not finding somewhere a little warmer. Temperatures are at an all time high this fall in Virginia, but it’s still uncomfortable. He plans on warming her up anyway. “He’s a Professor at the University of Manchester and works on the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. You’ve probably listened to him before on a podcast. He tackles a lot of different concepts in science fiction. Frankenstein, for instance.”

“Corpse reanimation is my favorite,” Mulder says. “I know a lot about it.” She pets his hair and hands him her mug. He drinks from it gratefully. Another thing to regret. He hadn’t brought his own mug.

“Specifically, he was saying that ghosts could not exist because of what the collider tells us. You know what it does. It essentially uses a network of very complex, high-powered magnets – the largest, most expensive machine in the world – that are continuously switched on and off to send particles flying at almost the speed of light. The purpose of it is to find out what everything is made if. The particles collide and emit smaller particles, which we can observe, along with their interactions with other particles.”

“We used it to discover the Higgs Boson particle, which tells us how particles get their mass. The God Particle. It was a discovery over half a century in the making.”

“Mostly, yes. The argument was that if ghosts were real, they would emit particles that should be detectable in the Large Hadron Collider, and those particles would be able interact with the particles that make us up.”

Mulder’s silent for a moment, thinking. “What if the LHC isn’t powerful enough to detect those particles?”

“Mulder.” She licks her lips and angles her body towards him on the couch, looking into his eyes. Incredulity is still her best look. “This machine has been able to reconstruct temperatures and states of matter that only existed a microsecond after the birth of the universe, before it changed states. It is a very powerful machine.”

“But it still hasn’t answered everything,” he points out, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, we still know nothing about dark matter. And dark matter is called dark matter because we know nothing about dark matter, only that it could explain why galaxies might contain less mass than what we’ve calculated.” He nods at her, taking another sip. “Maybe all that extra mass is a bunch of ghosts. Bet you never thought of that.”

“Mmm. Your souls in the starlight.” He scoots closer to her, slowly sliding his arm behind her on the back of the couch. When he leans forward, she says, “Mulder, maybe we should split up.”

“What?” He says, not pulling back. There’s enough light coming in from the windows that he can see her clearly, her noble profile shadowed and unshadowed as he moves towards her. He smells her perfume… and pine sol. “Now why would we do that? Last time we split up during a case like this you shot me.”

“I didn’t shoot you. You shot me.” So she does remember. She’s still talking when his lips are close enough to brush hers. “But how are we gonna catch this ghost sitting down?”

“Well, we don’t have to be sitting down.” He kisses her, a chaste, sweet little thing. He pulls back an inch and kisses her again. And again. And again. “We can.” Kiss. “Stop sitting.” Kiss. “Anytime you want.”

“Mulder.” Kiss. “Where’s the ghost?” Kiss. “Where’s Sherry?” Kiss. She’s folding under his body weight, falling back into the remarkably undusty cushions. She cups his jaw in her small hands and kisses him for real, chasing the flicker of his tongue with her own. She stretches one leg behind him, lets the other fall off the couch.

He groans and shifts so that he’s nestled between her thighs. There is – so much he loves about kissing Scully. In a lot of ways he’s learning her all over again after the time they’ve spent apart. Her face is thinner, he can trace her bones with his fingers, but not that sickly thin it had been the day she walked out. Her hair got its shine back. She tastes like a day at the office, her coffee and Cliff bars and the Burt’s Bees lipstick she wears during the cold weather.

But. Kiss. Her hands are bunched up in his shirt, very much like she’s prepared to rip it off of him. But this is is going too fast. Kiss. He forces himself to break away, taking his hand out from under her blouse.

Trying to control her breathing, pupils dilated, she lifts her chin and licks his lips. “So you want me to shoot you this time around?”

He laughs and moves off of her, giving her space her to sit back up and fix her wrinkled clothing. He winces and struggles to rearrange his wayward dick. Men’s pants are so tight now. He misses the freedom of the 90s.

“I uh. So here’s,” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Here’s the thing. There is no ghost.”

She blinks slowly. He wants to move a lock of silky red hair out of her eye, but keeps his hands to himself as she thinks things through. “You brought me to an abandoned house to… what? Make out with me?”

“Well, no. I mean yes. But I have…” All these years and this stuff still makes him tongue tied. “Libations. And… mood music.”

She raises her eyebrows, but her eyes are softer. “The Monster Mash?”

“The Prince version, yeah.” He leers at her. “It was a graveyard smash.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, letting her head fall back on the cushions.

“Think about it. The way I see it, Halloween is our holiday, right? Mr. and Mrs. Spooky.”

“No one ever called me Mrs. Spooky.”

“I did. All the time.”

She smiles. “I guess it beats the time you set me on fire for Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t want to kill the adrenaline here,” he says, partially damning himself for ruining it so early. He lost a good amount of blood to that kiss. “There could absolutely be a ghost here. I’m just saying this isn’t my most reliably sourced case.”

“Are any of them?” She sighs, but she reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Go grab us some libations and make me forget this conversation.”

He ducks down to kiss her cheek. “Yes ma’am.”

Taking his bag of goodies to the kitchen, he pulls out the wooden cutting board he brought along to serve everything and all of the bags of pre-cut cheese, crackers, fruit and meat. He hums while he works. Hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm. And it starts over, the notes twanging loudly in his mind. It is almost as if he could hear it being played through the walls – he feels it from the outside, rather than in his head. He blames it on his massive erection. He takes out the wine glasses and fills them up high enough to placate Scully and make his mother roll in her grave. Vineyard folk are serious about their wine.

He gets a good look at the kitchen as he works, transported back into a time he doesn’t know very well. The cottages on the Vineyard never kept up with any particular trend, opting instead for the timelessness of colonial whitewash and brown trim. They changed out maids and nannies like they’d change the air filters, and neither Teena nor Bill put effort into upkeep. Neither cared much for fidelity either he grimaces, and immediately feels bad for doing so.

If there is any truth to the tale, he aches for people like Sherry who gave their all and never knew when to take it back. He gets it. Sometimes you fixate on people. He had been a victim of it more than once, and now he’s the one waiting for the one he loves most to come back home.

He grabs the cutting board and the wine glasses, balancing them carefully, anchoring the stopped bottle in his armpit. The second bottle of wine and the dessert he’ll save for later are left on the counter. He hums his way back to the living room, his woman still sprawled out on the couch, waiting for him, and he forgets about Sherry.

Behind him, in the kitchen, there’s a flutter in the cabinets, sounds of gently moving ceramic. A pleasant, almost feminine noise, like tinkering laughter. Then there’s the pop of a cork.

The bottle moves, sliding to the end of the island. Then it rises into the air, bobbing up and down as if being carried by invisible hands.

Over the sink, the bottle upends. The glug-glug-glug of sweet red flows into the pipes. Just one glass’s worth.

The air is warmer, somehow.

Like a full body flush.

***

He sweeps her over the creaking floorboards, her cheek pressed to his chest. The cold has left them. His phone sits on the sleek, white coffee table, and his Elvis tunes play, his Dylan, some acoustic hits. She nuzzles in closer and hums along to Roberta Flack, Sinatra, that Cher song they both like so much.

“Why don’t you believe in the ghost, Mulder?” She murmurs, a little sad.

“I don’t know that I’m against the idea of her existing,” he says into her hair, closing his eyes. They turn. Sometimes he dips her, sometimes he spins her, but they spend most of the time just like this: as close as possible, eyes closed, careful not to bump into any of the furniture. “I just need more proof these days.”

“Well,” she says. “I’ll believe for the both of us then.”

He lifts his chin from her head, surprised. He pushes her away to search her face. “You believe in Sherry?”

“You had me with that dark matter point,” she shrugs. “If souls… did exist, they would most likely exist as a form of matter we haven’t discovered yet.”

“Dana Scully, but you are tipsy,” he chuckles, pulling her back to him. “If you believe, I believe. Sherry Battersea is alive and with us.”

“Why’d you bring us here if you didn’t think it was haunted?”

He thinks about this, rubbing his hands up and down her back. “We’ve got a long way to go, don’t we Scully?” She looks up at him, cocking her head. “You haven’t…. Moved back yet.” His thumbs caress her waist. “Into our home.”

Her face falls. “Mulder–” she tries to step away, but he holds onto her, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, Scully. Scully, I’m not mad. I’m not asking you to do anything before you’re ready.” He presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, smoothing his hand down the length of her hair. She closes her eyes. “But I thought maybe… if I could recreate… not an exact replica of the good old days, because we were always getting our asses kicked, but something tonally similar, it might help. Show you that I appreciate you and that… I miss you, and that I’m so fucking grateful that…”

She saves him by wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing him in for a slow, mind-melting kiss.

There are none of the cobwebs that decorated all those places in their youth, not like he’d been hoping. The shadows that float across the room are all accounted for. There is no fear. It is not quite like the old days, but he remembers this: holding her hips as they move above him in the dark, the rise and fall of her upturned breasts, the underside of her chin when she tosses her head back and gasps. She rides him into the couch, the sweltering sheath of her body spreading warmth from his cock to the tips of his fingers and toes. He watches her face in the shadows again, how her expressions undulate in the moonlight. She still keeps her apartment, but she’s come back to him in every way that matters.

In the kitchen, a bottle breaks. A tray of dark chocolates hits the wall at full speed.

“Did you hear that?” Scully breathes, furrowing her brow but not stopping, refusing to stop their decades-old rhythm. His hands slip around to grip her rear and he shakes his head. Wind rattles the windows, a howling, devastated screech that neither Mulder nor Scully can relate to.

***

“…Mulder,” Scully frowns, her nude form wrapped up in a fleece blanket he’d brought in from the car. She sits on the floor in front of the middle bookcase, running her fingers over the titles. “You said this place was abandoned, right?”

He’s dozing on the couch, KO’d from sex and the little bit of wine they’d had. “Mmm,” he rubs his cheek and yawns. “Yep. No one lives here.”

“I just find it odd that a place that’s been abandoned for so long shows so few signs of disrepair. In fact…” she runs her hand over the books again. “This place is cleaner than my own. You’re absolutely sure no one lives here?”

“It’s condemned,” he says. “Government says it’s no longer fit to live in.”

“That’s… weird.” She pulls out an old pulp romance novel and flips through the pages. “It seems perfectly habitable.”

“It might have something to do with the plumbing. There are all sorts of strange, outdated Virginia laws that classify a place as livable –” he’s cut off by a sharp yelp and a thud. He sits straight up and peers over the couch. “Scully?”

“I’m okay,” she groans, massaging the back of her head. “A book fell and hit me from the top shelf. But it hit me hard. Jesus, it feels like I got pelted with it.”

He climbs over the back of the couch to join her on the floor, and she laughs when he pecks and pats the top of her head.

“I have just the thing to make it better,” he says, standing back up.

“Again? So fast?” She sounds impressed. Excited. He shoots her a look.

“I was offering more wine, Scully. But ouch.” Her cackling follows him into the kitchen.

The sight that greets him freezes him cold. That extra wine bottle rests in a million shiny pieces, and what was once a glaringly yellow wall bleeds dark red with the wine streaking down to the sideboards. “Scully?” he calls out hoarsely, approaching the scene with caution.

“Shit!” she screams. His stomach drops with fear and he darts back out into the living room to find her huddled under hundreds of fallen books. “What the hell?”

“Scully!” He drops to his knees beside her, throwing book after book off to the side and clutching her face in his hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Not bad, but I’m beginning to see why this place might be condemned. The bookshelf just rattled and all the books fell off. Maybe there’s something wrong with the foundation.” He helps her out of the pile and they both move away, far back from the shelf.

“Rattled?” he asks, alarmed. “Like it was being shaken?”

“I thought it might be coming from the walls,” she posits, but that doesn’t sit right with him. Anxiety begins to gnaw his stomach into pits.

“You don’t think,” he starts and stops, biting his lip. He wants to put his clothes back on. The chill is coming back. “You don’t think that…”

“Think what, Mulder?”

“That… something was trying to push the bookshelf? On purpose?”

She looks at him, startled. “What? Like a ghost?” He nods his head, shrugging, and she angrily clutches the blanket around herself, turning her back to him to pick up her clothes. “You just told me you didn’t believe there were any ghosts here.”

“You just told me you did,” he argues, following his own garment trail.

“Mulder,” she whines, pulling on her bra. “I don’t actually – I was just…”

“You were lying?” He asks, pausing with his shirt over his head. The hurt catches him off guard.

“I wasn’t lying, I just… I’m so…” she sighs, doing up her fly and buttoning up her shirt. “I never know how you’re feeling these days, and…” she doesn’t finish. He nods slowly, a hot wave of dejection flooding his cheeks. There are traces of ancient anger he wants to pull from, that’s the easier path, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“I never needed you to lie to me, Scully, and I certainly never asked you to,” he says roughly. He turns away from her to pull on his underwear, jeans, and jacket. He ignores her attempts at apologies and walks in long strides to the kitchen. “Come look at this,” he calls to her flatly.

Just when he thinks he’s pushed past the resentment of her leaving and the guilt at having made her leave, all of the other feelings are brought to the forefront. The shame. The fragility. He’s spent the last several months trying to prove to her that he can make it on his own – that his need for her doesn’t stem from an inability to function without her, but the irrefutable fact that they work so much better together – and the whole time she’s been… what?

Seeing him as a fucking child? Wearing kid-gloves in all of her interactions with him, holding back her opinions in fear of setting him off? Oh, Jesus. Is this why she won’t move back? She thinks he’s not ready?

“Here.” Side by side, they stand in front of the stain on the wall, mindful of the smushed chocolates and shards of glass.

“Maybe they fell?” Scully guesses weakly, at least having the decency to look contrite.

“They fell? At fifty miles an hour?” Maybe there is some anger he can pull from. “Unlikely. Didn’t you tell me you felt like that book had been pelted at you?”

“Yes but Mulder that could be anything. You said yourself the house was condemned.”

“Yeah, but–” he bends down to inspect the chocolate on the floor, picking one crushed morsel up to show her. “This looks… this looks like it’s been stepped on, crushed by something. What kind of foundational issue would cause that?”

She looks at it and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Let’s split up,” Mulder says. “Take the top floor. I’ll take the bottom. It’s what we came here for anyway, right?” And he leaves her alone in the kitchen.

***

The den drastically departs from the design ideal of the rest of the house. Under his flashlight he spots leather rock chairs, worn and overstuffed, plain walnut bookshelves and orange shag carpets. He looks through the books and the desk drawers, searching for anything personal. Photos, journals, receipts kept, anything that might give him any insight into Sherry Battersea and the lonely, lonely house she kept. No luck.

There is a large stack of records sitting next to a hefty Champion record player, dressed in supple red leatherette. He flips through them. The Big Bopper. Fats Domino. The Lennon Sisters. More and more of the same ilk – an Elvis Christmas LP he’s pretty sure is the real deal, and which he shamefully considers sliding under his coat. He then inspects the player itself, lifts the arm to see the stack of singles underneath it. He lets the arm fall back into place.

It begins to play.

He yelps, stumbling backwards and collapsing onto the rock chair as the music plays loudly enough to fill the house.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sherry! Sherry baby!

Mulder clutches for the back of the chair and watches in terrified fascination as the entire den comes to life. The lamp flicks on and casts the room in its soft pink light, turning brown into different shades of red. Warmth trickles in from the air vent and all in his body he feels the electric hum of a machine coming to life. He knows instantly that means every other room in the house must be waking up in the same way. Scully he thinks, attempting to jump to his feet.

He’s knocked back on his ass. “What the–” he tries again, and the shag rug slithers out from underneath the desk, coming at him like a cautious snake.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sheeeeeeeeeeeeerry bay-ay-by! Sherry, can you come out tonight?

“Scullllllaaaay!” He shouts, but he’s no match against The Four Seasons bleating from the – not from the record machine, but from – everywhere, what –

Why - don’t - you - come out? Come out! To my twist party! Where the bright moon shines!

The rug does just that, rises up, twists back and forth like wringing water out from a cloth. Still moving slowly it comes up to his feet, and he brings his legs up and hugs his knees close to his body, expelling an embarrassing squeak that would give Frankie Valli a run for his money. The rug continues its ascent, sliding up his legs, like – like a caress - gentle – warm – not like a rug, but like –

Like a human.

Mulder kicks his legs out with as much force as he can muster and the rug drops to the floor with a muffled poof. Then he’s leaping out of the chair and throwing open the door, giggling crazily when – he swears he feels it – something invisible tugs at his shirt, at his pant legs and hands.

He runs out out of the den into the open hallway like a scene straight out A Hard Day’s Night, and it’s just as he suspected. All the lights are on, and the Battersea house is thrown into full technicolor, much more vivid than he could have imagined. The lucite chairs are the brightest reds and blues he’s ever seen on furniture in his life, the sofa and the tables and the cleanest, starkest white. The light from the bulbous chandelier sparkles and spins. That pine sol scent – and then something else – Shalimar? – the alien-looking Philco television set on its tall thin stand, some old Gunsmoke episode. Then the channels flip and flip and it’s the Twilight Zone, and he’s being shoved by the air over to the couch. “Scully!” He yells again, laughing, merrily going along with the phantom guide. How is this for proof of a spirit world? This has got to be the single strongest case for the existence of poltergeists ever experienced. “Scully! Come here!”

“Mulder!” Scully screeches, straight from the gut.

Three gunshots go off.

His laughter corks in his throat, his heart drops to his stomach. Mulder races into the kitchen, faster than the grip that vies for him. The wine has been scrubbed from the walls, the glass swept from the floor. Something delicious simmers on the stove, and as he darts past the island he notices a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice pouring into a metal mixer. No body performs the action. They float in the air and the liquid comes out in steady, even streams.

That’s his drink. He shudders and hops up the stairs, taking two at a time. Scully’s voice has died out but he can still hear it pounding in his head, along with the never ceasing with your red dress on! Mmm you look so fine! and his ragged breath. “Scully!” He yells again, throwing open every door as he comes to it. The towels in the bathroom, the shower curtain, all rip themselves from their places and slither and slide after him, licking at his ankles and tripping him up. Gold and copper tubes of lipstick chase behind him, leaving behind perfect lip imprints on the walls.

When he gets to the bedroom, he finds Scully bound and gagged to the four poster bed, screaming into the pillowcase stuffed in mouth. “Scully,” he hisses, falling to his knees in front of her, pulling out the gag and deftly untying the knots around her ankles and wrists.

“That crazy–” she coughs and struggles underneath him, making it impossible to get her unbound. “That crazy bitch –” “Stop moving–” but she won’t, she’s writhing and wrestling until he has to cover her with his weight, yelling at her all the way. “Crazy fucking bitch!” She screams. When she’s free from her ties she shoves Mulder off of her and hops to her feet, tearing through the bedroom like a hurricane. “Where the fuck did she put my gun–”

“She took your gun?” Mulder panics, ripping through the room with her. “Scully, did you–” he sees it, three bullet holes in the corner of the ceiling. “Did you shoot the house, Scully?”

“You bet I fucking shot the house!” She screams. “Aha!” She pulls out the gun from the nightstand, cocks it, and tries to run out of the room.

“Scully,” Mulder grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to him, ignoring her struggling. “Scully, I’m thinking this is an extremely malevolent, extremely powerful poltergeist. You cannot shootpoltergeists–”

She whips around, turning on him and backing him into the wall. “Malevolent? Did she drag you by your hair into the bedroom and tie you to a bed, Mulder? You look suspiciously unharassed.”

He licks his lips and stutters. “Uh, no. That has not been – that has not been my experience.” She raises both eyebrows and crosses her arm, waiting for him to continue. He rushes on. “I think Sherry’s still here, trying to take care of her husband.”

Scully steps back, eyes widening in shock. Her mouth opens and closes. Slowly, quietly, she asks, “Are you saying… the… poltergeist… is trying to seduce you?”

“And kill my mistress? Yeah,” he huffs a laugh and wraps his arms around her stunned and silent frame, letting his body relax against hers for just a minute. He’s getting too old for this kind of exertion. “Oh, god. You scared the shit out of me, Scully.”

“Sorry to cause so much stress, Mr. Battersea,” she grumbles, burying her nose in his neck. He nuzzles her hair and she lifts her head, slotting their lips together in a sweet, relief-filled kiss. If she’ll forgive him his affair with the carpet, he’ll forgive her everything. She pulls back, shaking her hair out of her face and straightening out her shoulders. “Now how do we get rid of this thing? What’s all in that bag you brought?”

He freezes. Shit.

“Mulder, no,” she says, horrified.

***

They slink down the stairs, Scully first, gun first, just in case. The breath of the house is soft, deceivingly calm. The music has been shut off. No objects float in the kitchen, the stove is turned off. Nothing tries to pull Mulder out of his clothes, or Scully into a closet.

“I think our little display back there pissed her off,” Mulder says grimly, staying close behind Scully.

“You’re my husband,” she bites out, straightening her shooter’s stance. “I kiss you whenever I want.”

They pause before entering the living room, looking at each other.

“That’s where it all happened,” Mulder whispers, nodding his head at the door. “If we go out there…”

“Should we just make a run for it then?” Scully asks, biting her lip. He bites his lip, too, and they meet each other’s eyes. He nods slowly.

They take off, pounding their feet against the hardwood and running as fast as they can, Mulder’s hands barely grazing Scully’s shoulders, but they never stood a chance. Floorboards are snatched almost from under their feet; chairs and tables go hurtling through the air. They drop down, Mulder curling his body over hers and shielding his head when bronze ornaments chuck themselves off of their stands, decorative mirrors drop to the floor, sending their shards flying.

From every molecule of the house, Frankie Valli’s falsetto warps into a deep, unsettling baritone.

Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

“Say a prayer, Scully,” Mulder groans, wincing when a piece of glass whizzes past his head and scrapes up the back of his hands. She begins to frantically mutter one under her breath, but it’s useless. The storm doesn’t stop.

“Sherry,” Mulder tries. “Sherry!” He says louder. The music ends, but the the violence doesn’t. “Sherry, I know you were hurt!”

A woosh of a sigh is expelled from all the air vents. Objectiles drop straight to the floor. Mulder takes a deep breath and rolls off of Scully, who chokes and coughs into her arm.

He keeps going, not exactly sure what he’s saying. “Your husband was a selfish man who didn’t treat you the way you deserved. You loved him. You gave him everything. You cleaned up every mess, you paid every bill, you did everything he asked of you and it still wasn’t enough.” He swallows, pressing his bleeding hand to his stomach. “He still wouldn’t come home to you.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherry. People who love you don’t do that to you. People who love you know that you aren’t perfect and come home to you anyway.”

The house is so quiet it is almost as if his soft, soothing voice has lulled it to sleep, and for a moment he thinks it has. Water drips from the air vents, from the windows, single, silent tears of condensation.

Crumpled next to him, Scully is sniffing. He glances at her, worried, but she’s smiling through her tears, sliding her hand through debri and dust to wrap around his. He smiles back, surprised to discover that he’s crying, too.

But she’s suddenly yanked away, screaming as those invisible hands drag her by her ankles and toss her onto the couch. “Scully!” Mulder yells, getting up to run toward her.

He’s tripped by an orange shag carpet.

“It’s not you, Sherry, it’s me,” he whimpers, frantically wriggling as the carpet begins to roll up with him inside of it. He groans and drags himself across the floor with his hands, carpet and all. The Philco set buzzes past him in the air and he shouts. “Watch out, Scully!”

He doesn’t see where it lands, but it the sound it make is a sickening smack, a bludgeoning soundtrack. “Scully?” No response. “Scully?”

He groans, dragging himself with agonizing slowness until he’s at the couch. Propping himself up his arms, his legs still wrapped in the rug, his mouth waters in fear and his stomach tightens at the sight of her, pale and silent, with one patch of bloody red hair staining her temple.

He checks her pulse, is relieved to find it faint, but still there. He kicks and pounds inside his trap until it’s beaten slack and stupid, and lifts himself onto the couch.

“Scully?” He lightly touches the spot where she’s hurt and she jerks her head and groans. “Oh, thank god.”

“Take me to dinner next time,” she winces, feeling the wound for herself and hissing out when she brushes the most tender part. She sits up, he pulls her hair away to give her better access. “I probably need to go to the hospital for this.”

“Well let’s try and get you there, partner.” One hand on her back, the other on her shoulder, he tries to help her up, but is interrupted with the sound of… “Scully. Scully, shit.”

“What?”

“Scully, the bookca–” SLAM.

***

She hauls him out of the dead and empty house, panting with the exertion and the throbbing pain in her head.

“I think–I think she went back to sleep,” Mulder yaps manically. “I think that put her to sleep. Reenacting the – the crime.” “We’re not dead, Mulder,” she grunts. Another foot down the driveway. “I just wish we were dead.”

“I think we better call an ambulance, Scully,” he says, resigned. “I don’t think either of us can drive.”

They call the ambulance and wait. Scully plops down beside him, wincing as the morning sun reflects off the ugly pink wood and cuts into her blurry vision. “This sucks, Mulder,” she sighs, squeezing her fists into her eyes.

“God, I know. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“How are you going to help me move with two broken ankles?” She sighs again, shaking her head. “I’ll have to hire somebody now.”

He beams at her.

***

All the spirits rejoice and return to their graves for their year long sleep.

***

Girl, you make me lose my mind!

#fanfic #xfiles fanfic #the x files #txf #wtfmulder #mulder #scully #mulder and scully #mulderxscully #halloween #haunted house #spooky #msr

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fernwehbookworm · 6 years ago

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Knight of Kandor- Chapter 2

It took nearly a fortnight to make our way to Kandor. The army had been deep in disputed border lands. Luckily some of my training included map reading and navigation when I began to show promise for command. I had never been to Krypton's capital city so I had to rely on that training to get us there. When we crested the last hill, I made us halt for the night, looking down on the flatlands that surrounded the walls.

"But there is plenty of light to make it before dark." John protests, no doubt hoping for an actual bed.

"I have never been to court, but I plan on doing it without weeks of travel and dirt on myself and my horse." John dismounts, I don't and he looks up at me questioningly.

"Start setting up camp. I am going to the stream we passed at the bottom of the hill. When I return you will go and bathe also." He nods and begins unloading the cart attached to his horse.

My horse makes the easy decent quickly. The sun was still high in the sky when I reached the stream. The stream was deep and the water still cool despite the heat of summer. I find a place where trees and undergrowth live close to the water. I unsaddle comet and allow my beautiful white horse to wade into the stream to drink. I strip myself and grab the bar of soap I made sure to keep in my saddle bags. I made it a point to seek out soap makers in major towns we passed near on campaign. I wade into the water next to Comet, where it comes up to my waist. I wash my hair and body, feeling the dirt and dust wash away in the slow-moving current. It felt so damn good. Then I wash my wrapping and tunic, laying them both on a flat rock to dry in the sun. I grab my wooden travel bowl from the saddles and use it to shovel water onto Comets back. By the end, I barely have enough soap left to hold. I make a mental note to search the capitol for some when I get the chance.

I lead Comet back to the shore so he can dry himself. I dress in spare clothing that are loose and little used but will do for tonight. Using fresh straw in the saddlebags, I rub Comet down to dry him. Saddled, I walk beside him back up the hill to see how John is doing.

John has done a lot. Both of our tents are erected, a fire burns hot between them, and his own horse is groomed and tied to a tree so it can graze on the lush hillside grass. I hand John the last of the soap and he descends the hill on foot. I tie Comet with John's horse and unsaddle him. I find my bow in my tent and descend the opposite side of the hill in search of game. We had dried meat and hard loaves but I wanted something more filling.

Within an hour I manage to kill a rabbit, a clean shot through its eye. I make my way back to the fire and have the rabbit cleaned and roasting on a spit before John returns. I leave John to tend the meat and dig out the rest of our rations for an actual meal. I compose my last letter to the Prince from the isolation of my tent. Letting him know we arrived at the city and that this would be my last report to him. I had sent letters during our travel as John and I stopped in various towns. I would have him send the last when we arrived tomorrow.

When I emerge again I see that John actually fetched water and was making a thin soup with the fresh meat, a few shrunken vegetables, and the rest of the dried meat. He had the dry loaves ready to soak up the broth. However, the boy had wits enough to keep some of the fresh meat out of the thin broth. John rolled a log to either side of the fire for seats. He hands me a leg being kept warm on a flat rock near the flames.

I give John a small approving nod and sit with him. I had learned early to hide my emotions, allowing almost nothing but battle rage to break my calm exterior. John now sought out these small gestures once he learned it was the only approval he would ever receive from me. After the leg, I have a small bowl of soup and one of the three hard rolls. I let the growing boy eat the rest. Then I send him to bed and take first watch while I polish my armor. I hadn't worn the full plate mail since leaving the army an I was starting to feel nervous. I had some training on how to conduct myself around royalty and had spent time with the Prince, but proper conduct was very loose surrounded by men on a killing field.

I wake John for his watch and sleep restlessly for a couple hours. Then, like always, I dress myself in full armor for our arrival. John was disappointed his first few weeks as my squire. when he arrived to find me dressed without his assistance, but soon he came to accept it with every one of my other quirks. I believe that he thought it was my low birth and lack of a formal education.

We move about the camp in a comfortable silence. A rhythm that only people who had spent a year traveling together could have. We reach the moat surrounding the city before noon. The city was in a large flat valley, surrounded by grasslands and rolling hills. The river cut through the land on the west side of the city. Any attackers would be completely exposed long before reaching the outer wall and moat. The moat closes at sunset each night, which is part of the reason I stopped early the day before.

Soldiers halt us before we cross the bridge. After presenting them with the parchments from both prince and Queen, riders are sent ahead and soldiers fell in alongside us. The capital city was sectioned off in four concentrate circles of walls. Each wall rose taller than the one before, the castle on the crest of the hill in the center of the city. The guard changed at each new gate. Obviously status and money increased at each new level of the city. The sun was sitting low in the sky by the time we reached the final gate. Crowds pressed in about us, barely moving out of the way for the armored men shoving through, as they finish their shopping and business for the day.

The final gate groans open in front of us. The doors were easily taller than me five times over. Each took two large plow horses on the other side to pull open. I was beginning to realize the castle was a fortress and also how hard it would be for an assassin to breach the walls. From my short education, I knew the castle had never been taken in its history. Most sieges could barely pass the outer wall of the city.

In the large cobblestone courtyard, young stable hands took our horses and our latest vanguard led us into one of the biggest building I have ever seen. I refused to look up because I knew whatever I saw would break my calm composure. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see John's head craned back, mouth gaping. I adjust the baldric over my shoulder and lift the hilt slightly to check and see if it was clear of the scabbard, a nervous tick that I could not kick. I focus on the back of the guard in front me, refusing to be impressed or allow my low birth to show. In my peripheral vision, I see us pass through a grand entrance hall, down a large corridor, and stop in front of a large oaken door. Guards on either side pull them open so we can file through. Our steps echo loudly in the large open room. Tapestries hang the length of the room bearing the royal families crest. A black diamond-like shield on a field of emerald green. Emblazoned on the shield is an ornate letter L embossed in gold.

Two thrones sat on a platform, one clearly larger and more ornate than the other. Around the thrones stood a few men and women, richly dressed and standing tall. Each one, however, was put to shame by the women sitting in the middle of them. On the more ornate throne was the Queen. A cold power emanated from her. My knees grew weak at the gaze of her dark eyes. I felt like she could see all of me, my deepest secrete. They trapped me and I could not look anywhere else because I feared if I did she would expose me.

"Presenting Sir Kal El Ward. Sworn knight of the Prince, Protector of the Queen-in-waiting. " The page announces, his voice carrying easily and surely in the large room. I kneel, now formally introduced, and bow my head. I feel every eye in front of and behind me searing against my skin.

"Rise, Sir Ward." An emotionless voice says above me. It is sharp and clear but leaves me on edge. I do as the Queen bids, drawing back to my full height, chin held proudly upward. I meet the cold azure eyes that bore into my own. I have to force my face to remain expressionless while the queen examines me in the silence of the hall.

"You were not born to be a knight," she states, I fear my voice would betray so I simply nod.

"But you have bested all the men serving my son and proven your worth time and time again." I nod.

"All with no formal education, only the necessary skills needed for command." Another nod.

"Which is why you fear to speak." The last question catches me off guard. I clear my throat and finally open my mouth to speak.

"Yes, your majesty." I choose the safest most formal address I knew. The corner of the queen's mouth twitch, betraying her amusement.

"Good, he can speak. That will make this much easier. You are expected to learn everything you need for court while protecting my daughter, your future queen." At the mention of the Queen-in-waiting, I finally look at her.

My mouth goes dry and my heart thuds in my ears. Her eyes are so green and sharp that I feel them pierce into my soul. Behind the coldness in them is an emotion I cannot quite decipher. Was it resentment, hate, or maybe even just indifference? The sharp features of her face are framed by wavy hair, as black as raven's wings. She wore a green dress that perfectly matched her eyes and the color of the Luthor coat of arms. She sits with her back rigid and no emotion in her features. I see her make a small movement that I take for a nod and return my gaze to the queen with some trouble. Breath fills my lungs again that I did not know I had lost.

"Now for your tutors. You will spend every morning before daybreak with a different one. Lady Catherine will teach you proper court behavior, manners, and whatever else she sees fit. Master Winslow will see to your reading and lettering. Sir James is our Master at Arms and will continue your training. Every fourth morning you will report to me with your tutors to review your progress."

As Queen Lillian spoke each name, the person belonging to it gave a nod. Lady Catherine was a stick of a woman, her face hard and hair pulled back in an intricate braid. She looked like a proud woman, one I should never cross. Master Winslow was a small, pale man with light brown hair. A smile barely kept from his face was enough to show me someone who loved his job. Sir James was a dark-skinned man, head shaved close to the scalp, his armor the green of the Luthor's with the crest emblazoned on the chaste plate. Suddenly I am aware of how damaged and cheap my own armor is. Sir James seemed just as happy as Master Winslow but was better able to hide it.

"Now Sir James will inform you of our safety measures and familiarize you with the castle and surrounding grounds."

Sir James descends the platform, stops next to me, and turns back to face the group he just left. He bows, I follow his lead, just a breath behind. The Queen dismisses us with a wave of her hand and I follow the master at arms out of the hall.

We walk briskly through the castle, even so, the tour takes up the rest of the day remaining. Sir James talking the whole time, bothered by the one-sided conversation. Torches are being lit when we finally reach a dead end hallway. The entrance to it is guarded by two men on either side. At the end of the hallway is another large double door, on one side is a smaller door.

"That is your room, right across from the princesses. Sorry, Queen-in-waiting. I watched that girl grow up and I am still not used to the new title. She turned twenty-five but to me, she is still five years old running around the castle barefoot." he seems to realize what he just said and clears his throat.

"Be at Lady Catherine's personal chambers tomorrow morning. After that, you will start your duties, send your squire to me if you require guidance. I will also help you in our own sessions. Dinner will be severed in an hour in the lesser hall." Without a further word he turned and left.

I open the door to my new home. My belongings are already at the foot of my bed in the small chamber. John must have been the one to bring it up because nothing is unpacked and he knows I do not like my stuff touched. I throw the bolt on the door and make a mental note to have something stronger put in place. I began loosening the straps on my armor and placing it carefully on the bed. I find a washbasin in the corner and smile at the warm water, meaning John had it heated for me. He knew how much I hated being dirty, I spent much more of my pay than I should have on those soaps I love. It was a luxury not many could afford or would try to. I had no more now but I stripped completely and used the soft cloth to wash the sweat and dirt from my body.

I dressed in my bust tunic and boots, well best of the three I owned. I descended to the hall that Sir James had shown me earlier. I sat in a corner and a serving girl placed a plate laden with food in front of me. I pick at the rich fair that is almost too much for my stomach. I grew up on plain food and lived on army rations since I was fourteen, I feared the rich food would make me ill. Instead, I pick up my tankard of ale and watch the hall while I sip it slowly. I watch interactions of the people in the room. Most the men are loud and boisterous, the women fair and flirting. I felt a stranger looking on a different world.

Suddenly my view was blocked by a grinning, bright-eyed, man. My eyes focus on Master Winslow's face and I stare unblinkingly back. Some of the eagerness leaves his face at my expressionless features but he speaks anyways.

"I cannot believe you are actually here. Rumors of your deeds of valor have reached us even this far north. I mean, I can not find any other account of a peasant boy rising so high and so quickly. I should know, I am the court scribe and bookkeeper. I have read thousands of reports and..." He trails off at the lack of reactions from me.

"You are a very serious man." I nod. Somehow he finds this funny and laughs.

"I think I am going to like teaching you." I stand and look down at him.

"Goodnight, Master Winslow."

"Winn," he says and I give him a questioning look.

"My friends call me Winn."

I nod and leave, my feet growing heavier with every step on my way back to my room. I throw the bolt and quickly strip and fall into bed. It was the softest thing I had ever felt and I fell quickly into a deep sleep.

I watched the blond man's back as he left with James. The rest of our party left shortly after the two knights. Leaving me alone with mother and my two guards.

"I do not need another guard mother. I do not even wish to have the ones already I do." I say icily.

"I do not care what you wish. An attempt was made on your life and this constant cycle of guards is dangerous, hence the personal guard. Not only that, a guard who has fought our enemy, who has learned how they think and gone above and beyond to defeat them. Sir Kal has proven his worth so you will be protected by him. Now return to your ladies. Tomorrow night will be a feast welcoming the war hero home." Queen Lillian leaves no room to protest as she purposefully strides out of the room. Leaving me in an empty hall with only the silent guards. Lillian Luthor had a way with long-winded speeches that did not let the other person respond.

I sigh and head to the sitting room where I know my ladies-in-waiting were anticipating my return. Planning the feast fell to us so the room becomes a flurry of activity. Pages are sent out to invite Dukes, Earls, and anyone else with any remote royal standing or titles. Most the ladies leave to set about the necessary tasks such as decor, entertainment, and food. I am left with the one person I trust fully and the guards standing just outside the door. She is the only friend I have too. Jessica continues to work on the embroidery in her hands, a bandage still wrapped around her palm. It slows her movements and causes her to wince occasionally. I sit and stare into the fire. The stillness of the room and the soft cracking of the flames cause my thoughts to wonder.

Jess and I were walking through the royal gardens. They were closed to all but those of the royal court. She was babbling on about some knight in the army that was rumored to have fought through twenty men to each the Prince, who was surrounded with only his squire to protect him. It all sounded so embellished and ridiculous but Jessica was ecstatic so I nodded and smiled and made all the approving sounds a friend should. Around the bend in the path, a tall figure appears. I nearly run into the man but draw up just short. Jessica stops next to me as well, her feet at the same time as her mouth.

"Jackson!" I exclaim, a grin spreading across my face. His expression matches mine. He takes my hand and bows to place a soft kiss on the back of it.

"My lady, we have talked about this. Please call me Jack." Jack's hand lingers in mine just a moment too long but the feel of his skin sends heat through my entire body. From the corner of my eye, I see Jessica step back a little as Jack transfers my hand to his arm and begin to walk the way he came. Jessica stays a few steps behind us as we stroll arm and arm through my favorite place in the castle. The gardens were always so peaceful and one of the few places I could be myself without prying eyes of gossiping servants and members of the court.

We walk down the path, I point out different plants and each time Jack whispers that it isn't as beautiful as me, my smile grows with each compliment. I had known the man since we were children. His family lived in the southernmost lands of Krypton but Jack and his father were often at court. We knew it was purposeful, our parents conspiring to have us married but we were both fine with that. He was the tall dark and handsome type that every woman swooned for. A strong jaw covered by a well-groomed dark beard. Dark eyes that never strayed from mine even when surrounded by fawning women. Jack always danced with me and no other at any feast or celebration. I knew one day soon he would ask my mother's permission to marry me.

We stopped just short of the door that led back to the castle. The gardens were nestled in the courtyard surrounded by the sprawling walls of my home. The only entrance was where we stood, guards posted on the other side of the door. Jack turns toward me and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His hand rests on my cheek. I know what comes next. It had never gone further than a kiss but I always craved more. Jack refused me only to claim the defense of my honor. I close my eyes and lean into him.

My head snaps to the side as my shoulder hits the door hard. A scream rips through the air and when my vision focuses again I see Jessica standing over me. She grips the blade of a knife that Jack pulls back from her grasp, causing it to slice deeper into her flesh. Another cry escapes her lips. Jack roughly pushes the brave, stupid, girl to the side.

"I am sorry Lena. But they have my family. If I do this they will let them live and grant us lands and titles in Cadmium."

I do not even have time to think of a response before the loud thunk of metal hitting flesh and bone. Jack crumples and Sir James appears behind him, fist still extended from his own downward strike to Jack's head.

"That's Queen-in-waiting to you." James pulls me to my feet and guards outside the door follow him in.

"My lady? My lady?" a hand on my shoulder shakes me from my dark thoughts. Jessica of course.

"My lady, it is time to dress for supper." I nod and allow her to lead me to my rooms. I nod and allow her to lead me to my rooms.

A man exits the only other room in the hall. He was dressed in a blue tunic with gold trimming. It looked well worn and a little out of place in the ornate castle. His blues eyes pass over me as he turns back to lock the door he just exited. They are made all the sharper by the cloth he wears. His hair was so yellow that it was almost golden, which was also out of place this far north, especially among the nobility. It was Sir Kal. He was leaner than his armor had lead me to believe. Sir Kal turned the key in the lock and left without sparing me a second glance.

"That's him. The man who saved the Prince." Jessica whispers as we enter my chambers.

Chapter 3

#supergirl #supercorp #kara danvers #lena luthor #KoK #medeival #knight #queentobe #au

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postedbygaslight · 7 years ago

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You’ll Be the One to Turn - Part 30: The Pilot

Checking back in with Poe and the Resistance.

It had been six hours since the ships had departed for Taris. And four and a half since there had been any contact at all. Poe was nervous. It wasn’t a good sign for the team to have been out of contact for so long. And the chatter coming through the signal jam from the First Order was chaotic and confusing. Something big was happening on Taris. And here he was in a room thousands of light years away, doing nothing but waiting.

“What is all this?” Poe said to Connix, motioning to the holo projection of Taris, which was currently lighting up with tactical alerts in a small patch of the northern hemisphere. “Can we cut through the signal jam?”

“Not really,” Connix said, confused. “That’s what jamming is about.”

“No no no,” Poe said, shaking his head, “on their end. Something’s happening down there. I want to know what it is.”

Connix looked back at the terminal screen, thinking. Poe noticed she’d let her hair down, pulled into a low ponytail. He realized he’d never seen her without the buns.

“I could look at that emergency channel again,” she said, snapping up. “They might not be refreshing the codex if there’s a crisis situation.”

“I like it,” Poe agreed, nodding. “Let’s do it. Get me in there as soon as you can.”

Just then a pinging rang out from the monitoring array on the other side of the room. A junior officer swung around in his chair and delivered the news.

“Poe, the SX transport just dropped out of light speed. It’ll be landing any minute.”

Poe acknowledged the report, nodded again, and headed out toward the tarmac.

***

The SX model transport had landed in the middle of the airstrip. The ramp was down when Poe exited the command center, and the soldiers, who looked bedraggled and exhausted, filed out. They looked like they’d had to really pack in there. Poe didn’t do a hard count, but it looked like thirty or so, and the Falcon still hadn’t made contact.

Two soldiers emerged from the transport with a shackled stormtrooper in tow. The trooper’s armor was streaked with dust and burn marks, and an orange pauldron was positioned over his left shoulder. An officer.

“Great,” Poe said, shouting over the wind and the noise of the flight deck. “Take him to the brig for questioning. Good work, men.”

The soldiers nodded, one saluted, and they picked up the pace, hauling their prisoner along toward the command center. Poe spotted a corporal among the exiting soldiers and called him over. The young man cut off his conversation with his comrades and jogged over to the general.

“Give me good news,” Poe said as soon as the corporal was in earshot. “Where are the others?”

“The whole operation was a scratch, sir. The men in the base were dead when we arrived. We got ambushed. Finn led us out the escape tunnel, and there were stormtroopers everywhere.”

“What, are you telling me Finn isn’t with you? Where is he? Where’s the Falcon?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the corporal said with a note of awe. “Finn saved us.”

Poe paused, considering the facts before him. Finn wasn’t there. Rey wasn’t there. Only one transport had returned. There was no sign of the munitions the mission had been meant to safeguard. And now this soldier was telling Poe that they’d walked into a trap, and that Finn had done something on Taris to save the men who’d been lucky enough to escape.

“Come on,” Poe said, clapping the corporal on the back and walking beside him, “let’s talk inside.”

Poe accompanied the corporal back into the command center. The alerts on Taris were still pinging and glowing. There was a lot of activity on the ground now. Potentially thousands of troops. Whatever was happening was scaring the hell out of the First Order high command.

The corporal went into the office first, and Poe closed the door behind them.

“Okay, talk to me. Tell me everything. What happened to the other transport?”

“We had to scratch the original landing zone. It was a sinkhole. Rey warned us just in time. But then, when we changed course, the Imperial was caught in some kind of magnetic salvage trap and went down like a bucket of bricks. The Falcon landed fine, close to the mission objective, though I can’t figure how. We set down closer to the original landing zone, but a bit further north.”

“Any survivors from the crash?”

“No, sir.”

The refit Imperial had carried eighteen men and women. All gone in a matter of seconds. The corporal was fidgety, his expression withdrawn. Poe realized he wasn’t sure if he’d ever met this one before. There was a time, back when he was just a pilot, that he knew all the new recruits. Now that it was his job to know them, he found himself more and more removed.

“I’m sorry, your name? I’m having a hard time remembering.”

“Vicks, sir.”

“Okay, Vicks. What about the base? The depot. Our people on Taris.”

“Dead. We found their bodies lined up outside the escape tunnel exit.”

“There was an ambush, then? At the depot?”

“Yeah. Explosion. Sealed us in. Forced us out the back.”

“And that’s where you found the bodies.”

“Executed. All of them.”

That was surprising. Poe could understand taking prisoners. He could even understand executions if they were for specific crimes or to set an example, even if he didn’t condone that. But to execute enemy soldiers and leave their bodies behind for no good reason. Either the First Order officer commanding the mission was a sadist, which, Poe had to concede, was entirely probable, or there was something else going on. And, for whatever reason, Poe had a terrible feeling it was the latter.

“Goddamn it. All right, go on.”

“We were about to go back to the ships, but we were fired upon, and had to scramble for cover. Finn ended up forward our position, cut off from the rest of us. He could see the bucketheads were establishing a perimeter, and we’d have been surrounded in no time. So, he signaled to us to wait for him to give us the word, then to run.”

Corporal Vicks seemed at a loss for words. Poe waited for him to start speaking again, but the young man just stared off out the window, toward the holo projection in the next room.

“You’re killing me here,” Poe finally said, slapping his hand on his pant leg. “What happened?”

“Finn stood up and walked out into the open. And started yelling up at the stormtroopers. They didn’t fire on him. Like they were listening to what he had to say. And we ran like hell. A minute or two later, there was a lot of blaster fire from that direction. It didn’t let up. It just got worse and worse.”

“And Finn?”

“Don’t know, sir. We hightailed it to the transport and got out of there.”

“What about the prisoner?”

“Got separated from his unit and ran right into us. Surrendered immediately.”

“Where was Rey during all this?”

“She was with us right up to the bunker. We were on our way out the main exit, but there was an explosion. Rey and Finn were in the lead. The stairwell collapsed. Only Finn came back.”

Poe let out a frustrated sigh and closed his eyes. The entire mission had been a disaster. Now it wasn’t even clear if Finn or Rey had even made it out. And then there was the other thing.

“Okay,” Poe said, opening his eyes and lowering his voice. “What about the weapons?”

Corporal Vicks looked him in the eyes. The look on the younger man’s face wasn’t disdain, but it wasn’t far from it.

“You mean the disruptor rifles,” Vicks said, his voice loud and carrying.

“Not so loud, damn it,” Poe replied, looking out to the war room to see if anyone had heard. “Yes, those.”

“Finn ordered us to set detonators and he destroyed them.”

Poe blinked. He shook his head sharply.

“Say that again.”

“We set detonators and blew them.”

“On Finn’s orders.”

“Yes sir.”

Poe knew that the disruptor rifles were a risky bet. He knew that not everyone would understand. He knew that Leia probably wouldn’t have approved if she had known about it. But he also knew that they were powerful weapons, and in the hands of trained soldiers, they could turn the tide of a battle, neutralize enemy air power from the ground.

And they could also turn a human being into a smoking lump of gore in a matter of minutes. Poe was sure Finn knew that. He’d just hoped Finn would understand what he had been trying to do. Apparently, that had been too much to hope. Maybe, Poe thought suddenly, it had been a hope he should never have had in the first place.

“All right, corporal,” Poe said, showing Vicks out of the office. “That’s all. Go get some rest.”

***

The holding cells in the Vedic III base were simple supply closets that had been rigged with mag-locks. Two guards were posted in the corridor outside. In truth, the rooms hadn’t seen much use. Other than serving as a drunk tank for soldiers and crew who took their recreations a little too far, and a few very brief instances of disciplinary action, there hadn’t been a need for a prison.

Until now.

Poe made his way to the makeshift jail from the war room after spending a few minutes reviewing the situation on Taris. The guards stood from their chairs and saluted. Poe waved them off.

“Has he said anything?” Poe asked.

“Not a peep,” one of the guards responded.

“All right, let me in.”

The guard swiped a keycard and punched a few buttons on the panel. The key light clicked from red to green, and the door swung open.

Poe stepped into the small, windowless room to find the stormtrooper still shackled. His helmet had been removed, revealing a surprisingly young man with sandy blond hair. He looked at Poe without fear, undisguised spite roiling in a pair of icy blue eyes.

“Lot of excitement back on Taris,” Poe said, pacing around the prisoner. “Hear it was something to see.”

“Eat slime, Rebel.”

“Nice,” Poe said with a mirthless chuckle. “I’m just wondering why there’s a major firefight going on down on the surface if there were only thirty Resistance fighters there. And they’ve all come back. Who’s the First Order fighting?”

“No quarter for traitors. But you wouldn’t know about that. You’re all traitors.”

“Hey, pal. Us traitors have you in a holding cell. And we haven’t done anything but ask you a few questions. You answer those questions, things’ll go a lot easier. For all of us. Who’s the First Order fighting?”

“You think you have anything to bargain with, Rebel? Taris is nothing,” the trooper seethed, a righteous anger swelling in him. “The Supreme Leader will crush this insurrection. And then he’ll come for you. And no one will escape the fire this time.”

Poe stopped pacing. He approached the prisoner, his eyes narrowing as he comprehended what the trooper meant.

“You’re talking about the installation on Naboo,” Poe said, searching the trooper’s face for a reaction.

But the prisoner wouldn’t meet Poe’s gaze. He looked away and down, his mouth curled into a disgusted sneer.

“What is it? Is it another Starkiller? What, another Death Star? What is it?”

The trooper kept his head turned, even as Poe maneuvered to follow his eyes. Poe lost his patience, grabbing the trooper by the chin and yanking his face back toward his.

“TELL ME!”

The prisoner hissed at him and spat in his face. Poe let go of the trooper and shoved him away.

“Fine,” Poe said, wiping his face and backing out of the cell. “Get comfortable.”

***

Poe walked back into the war room. He almost bypassed the room altogether on the way to his office, but something caught his eye. There was another Star Destroyer in orbit above the battle on Taris.

That meant there could be as many as ten thousand troops being deployed. It was probably fewer, but the very fact that the First Order needed to call in another capital ship spoke volumes about the severity of conditions on the ground.

“Connix, any luck with that codex?”

“Not yet, but they haven’t cycled it.”

“Keep at it. And let me know if we hear from the Falcon.”

He looked at the holo of Taris for a few more seconds, rubbing his chin, before heading back toward the office.

”Poe,” Connix shouted after him, “They’re hailing us now.”

“Patch it through in here!”

Poe raced into the office, kicking the door closed as he went. He went to the desk for the projector, but it wasn’t there. He heard the holo crackle to life, and could hear Finn saying his name, but couldn’t see the projector anywhere.

“Yeah, hold on a second,” Poe yelled, crawling on the floor, looking under the desk.

He finally found it on the floor under the table by the window, just where it had landed when he threw it earlier in the day. He picked it up, balancing it in his hand, the translucent blue image of his friend tilting back and forth.

“Finn! You’re not dead! Again!”

“Yeah,” Finn said, rubbing the back of his head, “I keep doing that, huh.”

“What the hell happened? Where have you guys been? The other transport touched down an hour ago.”

“They made it? All of them?”

“Yeah, buddy, all of them. I hear you’re to thank for that.”

“That— might have had some unintended consequences.”

“I heard that, too. Taris is lit up like a firing range. The First Order’s pulled in another division.”

“You’re kidding,” Finn said, his mouth dropping open. “Another division?”

“There’s a third Star Destroyer in orbit now.”

“Poe. This is important. The stormtroopers are in rebellion. They’re fighting each other.”

“What did you say to them?”

“I don’t know. I was— I was pretty sure I was going to die, so— don’t tell Rose, okay?”

“I mean,” Poe said, snickering, “I can promise you, but people are talking here. You’re a hero, man.”

“Great.”

Poe chuckled, but Finn’s face was grim. He remembered what his friend had seen on the surface of Taris, and his own expression slackened.

“Finn, about the rifles. I—“

“We can talk about that later,” Finn said, cutting him off. “We’re... bringing something else back.”

Poe tried a closer read of Finn’s expression, but the transmission was too blurry to see anything beyond concern and a very serious demeanor.

“I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

“To be honest, I don’t know either.”

“Come on, Finn. What are we talking about here?”

Finn let out a breath of laughter and cocked something of a smirk, giving Poe his answer before abruptly ending the transmission.

“You’ll see when we get there.”

#reylo #reylo fanfic #star wars fic #poe dameron #finn #stormtroopers #first order

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snoringsolutionusa · 6 years ago

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How to Stop Snoring ?

Just about everyone snores occasionally, and it’s usually not something to worry about. But if you regularly snore at night, it can disrupt the quality of your sleep—leading to daytime fatigue, irritability, and increased health problems. And if your snoring keeps your partner awake, it can create major relationship problems too. Thankfully, sleeping in separate bedrooms isn’t the only remedy for snoring. There are many effective solutions that can help both you and your partner sleep better at night and overcome the relationship problems caused when one person snores.

What causes snoring?

Snoring happens when you can't move air freely through your nose and throat during sleep. This makes the surrounding tissues vibrate, which produces the familiar snoring sound. People who snore often have too much throat and nasal tissue or “floppy” tissue that is more prone to vibrate. The position of your tongue can also get in the way of smooth breathing. Since people snore for different reasons, it’s important to understand the causes behind your snoring. Once you understand why you snore, you can find the right solutions to a quieter, deeper sleep—for both you and your partner.

Common causes of snoring. As you reach middle age and beyond, your throat becomes narrower, and the muscle tone in your throat decreases. While you can't do anything about growing older, lifestyle changes, new bedtime routines, and throat exercises can all help to prevent snoring.Being overweight or out of shape. Fatty tissue and poor muscle tone contribute to snoring. Even if you’re not overweight in general, carrying excess weight just around your neck or throat can cause snoring. Exercising and losing weight can sometimes be all it takes to end your snoring.The way you’re built. Men have narrower air passages than women and are more likely to snore. A narrow throat, a cleft palate, enlarged adenoids, and other physical attributes that contribute to snoring are often hereditary. Again, while you have no control over your build or gender, you can control your snoring with the right lifestyle changes, bedtime routines, and throat exercises.Nasal and sinus problems. Blocked airways or a stuffy nose make inhalation difficult and create a vacuum in the throat, leading to snoring.Alcohol, smoking, and medications. Alcohol intake, smoking, and certain medications, such as tranquilizers like lorazepam (Ativan) and diazepam (Valium), can increase muscle relaxation leading to more snoring.Sleep posture. Sleeping flat on your back causes the flesh of your throat to relax and block the airway. Changing your sleep position can help.Ruling out more serious causes snoring could indicate sleep apnea, a serious sleep disorder where your breathing is briefly interrupted many times each night. Normal snoring doesn’t interfere with the quality of your sleep as much as sleep apnea, so if you’re suffering from extreme fatigue and sleepiness during the day, it could be an indication of sleep apnea or another sleep-related breathing problem. Call your doctor if you or your sleep partner have noticed any of the following red flags:

You snore loudly and heavily and are tired during the day.

You stop breathing, gasp, or choke during sleep.

You fall asleep at inappropriate times, such as during a conversation or a meal.

Linking the cause of your snoring to the cure

Sleep Apnea:

Symptoms and Self-HelpMonitoring your snoring for patterns can often help you pinpoint the reasons why you snore, what makes it worse, and how to go about stopping. To identify important patterns, it helps to keep a

sleep diary

. If you have a sleep partner, they can help you fill it in. If you sleep alone, set up a camera to record yourself at night.HOW you snore reveals WHY you snore

Type of snoringWhat it may indicate

Closed-mouth snoring may indicate a problem with your tongue

Open-mouth snoring may be related to the tissues in your throat

Snoring when sleeping on your back probably mild snoring—improved

sleep habits

and lifestyle changes may be effective cures

Snoring in all sleep positions mean your snoring is more severe and may require a more comprehensive treatment

Self-help strategies for snoring

There are so many bizarre anti-snoring devices available on the market today, with more being added all the time, that finding the right solution for your snoring can seem like a daunting task. Unfortunately, many of these devices are not backed up by research, or they work by simply keeping you awake at night. There are, however, plenty of proven techniques that can help eliminate snoring. Not every remedy is right for every person, though, so putting a stop to your snoring may require patience, lifestyle changes, and a willingness to experiment with different solutions.Bedtime remedies to help you stop snoringChange your sleeping position. Elevating your head four inches may ease breathing and encourage your tongue and jaw to move forward. There are specifically designed pillows available to help prevent snoring by making sure your neck muscles are not crimped.Sleep on your side instead of your back. Try attaching a tennis ball to the back of a pajama top or T-shirt (you can sew a sock to the back of your top then put a tennis ball inside). If you roll over onto your back, the discomfort of the tennis ball will cause you to turn back onto your side. Alternatively, wedge a pillow stuffed with tennis balls behind your back. After a while, sleeping on your side will become a habit and you can dispense with the tennis balls.Try an anti-snoring mouth appliance. These devices, which resemble an athlete’s mouth guard, help open your airway by bringing your lower jaw and/or your tongue forward during sleep. While a dentist-made appliance can be expensive, cheaper do-it-yourself kits are also available.Clear nasal passages. If you have a stuffy nose, rinse sinuses with saline before bed. Using a neti pot, nasal decongestant, or nasal strips can also help you breathe more easily while sleeping. If you have allergies, reduce dust mites and pet dander in your bedroom or use an allergy medication.Keep bedroom air moist. Dry air can irritate membranes in the nose and throat, so if swollen nasal tissues are the problem, a humidifier may help.Lifestyle changes to help you stop snoringLose weight. Losing even a little bit of weight can reduce fatty tissue in the back of the throat and decrease, or even stop, snoring. Quit smoking. If you smoke, your chances of snoring are high. Smoking irritates the membranes in the nose and throat which can block the airways and cause snoring. While quitting is easier said than done, it can bring quick snoring relief.Avoid alcohol, sleeping pills, and sedatives because they relax the muscles in the throat and interfere with breathing. Also talk to your doctor about any prescription medications you’re taking, as some encourage a deeper level of sleep which can make snoring worse.Be careful what you eat before bed. Research shows that eating large meals or consuming certain foods such as dairy or soymilk right before bedtime can make snoring worse.Exercise in general can reduce snoring, even if it doesn’t lead to weight loss. That’s because when you tone various muscles in your body, such as your arms, legs, and abs, this leads to toning the muscles in your throat, which in turn can lead to less snoring. There are also specific exercises you can do to strengthen the muscles in your throat.Six anti-snoring throat exercisesStudies show that by pronouncing certain vowel sounds and curling the tongue in specific ways, muscles in the upper respiratory tract are strengthened and therefore reduce snoring. The following exercises can help

Repeat each vowel (a-e-i-o-u) out loud for three minutes a few times a day.

Place the tip of your tongue behind your top front teeth. Slide your tongue backwards for three minutes a day.

Close your mouth and purse your lips. Hold for 30 seconds.

With your mouth open, move your jaw to the right and hold for 30 seconds. Repeat on the left side.

With your mouth open, contract the muscle at the back of your throat repeatedly for 30 seconds. Tip: Look in the mirror to see the uvula ("the hanging ball") move up and down.

For a more fun exercise, simply spend time singing. Singing can increase muscle control in the throat and soft palate, reducing snoring caused by lax muscles.

Medical treatment for snoring

If you’ve tried self-help solutions for snoring without success, don’t give up hope. There are medical options that could make all the difference. New advances in the treatment of snoring are being made all the time and devices are becoming more effective and comfortable.Talk to your primary physician or to an otolaryngologist (ear, nose, and throat doctor or ENT). Even if they recommend something that in the past was uncomfortable or didn’t work, that doesn’t mean the same will be true now.Medical cures for snoringYour physician or otolaryngologist may recommend a medical device or surgical procedure such as:Continuous Positive Airway Pressure (CPAP). To keep your airway open during sleep, a machine at your bedside blows pressurized air into a mask that you wear over your nose or face.Laser-assisted uvulopalatoplasty (LAUP) uses a laser to shorten the uvula (the hanging soft tissue at the back of the throat) and to make small cuts in the soft palate either side. As the cuts heal, the surrounding tissues stiffen to prevent the vibrations that trigger snoring.Palatal implants or the Pillar procedure involves inserting small plastic implants into the soft palate which help prevent collapse of the soft palate that can cause snoring.Somnoplasty uses low levels of radiofrequency heat to remove tissues of the uvula and soft palate that vibrate during snoring. The procedure is performed under local anesthesia and takes about 30 minutes.Custom-fitted dental devices and lower jaw-positioners help open your airway by bringing your lower jaw or your tongue forward during sleep. For best results, you will need to see a dentist who specializes in these devices.Surgical procedures such as Uvulopalatopharyngoplasty (UPPP), Thermal Ablation Palatoplasty (TAP), tonsillectomy, and adenoidectomy, increase the size of your airway by surgically removing tissues or correcting abnormalities.

Snoring and your relationship

No matter how much you love each other, snoring can put a strain on your relationship. If you’re the one lying awake at night as your partner snores away, it’s easy to start feeling resentful. And if you’re the snorer, you may feel helpless, guilty, or even irritated with your partner for harping on about something you can’t control.When snoring is a problem, relationship tension can grow in the following ways:Sleeping in separate rooms. While this may be a solution for some couples, it can also take a toll on emotional and physical intimacy. And if you’re the one snoring, you might feel lonely, isolated, and unfairly punished.Irritability due to sleep loss. Disrupted sleep isn’t just a problem for the non-snorer. Snoring is caused by disordered breathing, which means the snorer’s sleep quality also suffers. Poor sleep takes a toll on mood, thinking skills, judgment, and your ability to manage stress and conflict. This can explain why communication often breaks down when you and your partner try talking about the problem.Partner resentment. When a non-snorer feels he or she has done everything possible to sleep through the night (ear plugs, sound machines, etc.) but the snorer does nothing to combat the snoring, it can lead to resentment. Working as a team to find a snoring cure can prevent future fights.If you value your relationship, make it your priority to find a snoring cure so you can both sleep soundly. Working together to stop snoring can even be an opportunity to improve the quality of your bond and become more deeply connected.

Communicating with a partner who snores

So, you love everything about your partner… except their snoring. It’s normal. Even the most patient amongst us will draw the line at sleep deprivation. But no matter how much sleep you lose due to someone snoring, it’s important to handle the problem sensitively. It’s common to be irritable when sleep loss is an issue, but try reining in your frustration. You want to attack the snoring problem—not your sleep partner. Remember that your partner likely feels vulnerable, defensive, and even a little embarrassed about their snoring.Time your talk carefully. Avoid middle of the night or early morning discussions when you’re both feeling exhausted.Keep in mind it’s not intentional. Although it’s easy to feel like a victim when you lose sleep, remember that your partner isn’t keeping you awake on purpose.Avoid lashing out. Sure, sleep deprivation is aggravating and can be damaging to your health, but try your best to approach the problem in a non-confrontational way.

Effective Communication: Improving Communication SkillsBeware of bitterness. Make sure that latching onto snoring is not an outlet for other hidden resentments you’re harboring. Use humor and playfulness to bring up the subject of snoring without hurting your partner’s feelings. Laughing about it can ease tension. Just make sure it doesn’t turn into too much teasing.

Dealing with complaints about your snoring

It’s common to be caught off guard—not to mention to feel a little hurt—when a partner complains about your snoring. After all, you probably didn’t even realize it was happening. And although it might seem silly that snoring can cause such relationship turmoil, it’s a common and a very real problem.If you dismiss your partner’s concerns and refuse to try to solve your snoring problem, you’re sending a clear message to your partner that you don’t care about their needs. This could mean your relationship is in trouble, and that’s a bigger problem than the snoring.Keep the following in mind as you and your partner work together to find a solution to your snoring:Snoring is a physical issue. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Like a pulled muscle or a common cold, improving the condition is in your hands.Avoid taking it personally. Try not to take your partner’s frustration as a personal critique or attack. Your partner loves you, just not the snoring.Take your partner seriously. Avoid minimizing complaints. Lack of sleep is a health hazard and can make your partner feel miserable all day.Make it clear that you prioritize the relationship. If you and your partner have this understanding, you’ll both do what it takes to find a cure for the snoring.Address inappropriate behavior. Although sleep deprivation can lead to moodiness and irritability, let your partner know that it’s not okay for them to throw an elbow jab or snap at you when you’re snoring.

If you want to Stop Snoring join and Buy One from Blueheron health

Authors: Jeanne Segal, Ph.D., Melinda Smith, M.A., Lawrence Robinson, and Robert Segal, M.A. Last updated: June 2018.

#snoring #stop snoring #snore #sleep apnea #eliminate snoring #sleep apnea treatment #sleep dentistry

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spider-moon-princess · 7 years ago

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Time Travel CH 18

Omg, 18! I’m having too much fun writing this!

Part Seventeen

Masterlist

----++----

Shinpachi, Heisuke and Sanosuke had gone back to the gym to work out some more.

“Yosh! Let’s work on some crunches now!”

Sanosuke set his weights down, grabbing a towel from the bench. “Shinpachi! Haven’t we done enough today?” Heisuke flopped on the floor. “I’m with Sano-san! I can’t do this anymore!”

“Pshh, you two have such little stamina. Let’s take five and run on the treadmills then!” He sat down next to Heisuke, grabbing his green water bottle to take a swig of water.

The little click-click of heels had Sanosuke snapping to attention. There was a reason that Shinpachi was so eager on dragging out his gym time, and this only made it clearer. He pretended not to see her as she approached the trio. He wiped his brow with his towel.

Finally, the click-click of heels stopped right behind Shinpachi. He stiffened a bit, hesitant to turn around.

“Shin!” Hands on her hips, a pout on her pink glossed lips, and her were eyebrows furrowed in displeasure.

Shinpachi immediately stood up to face her. “A-ah, Etsu!” His heart skipped a beat, looking at her. She was wearing a flared red dress that hugged her curves that reached above her knees. “Wh-what brings you here?”

“You know exactly what, Nagakura Shinpachi!” She crossed her arms. “You went to the club again, didn’t you?”

“Just for a bit…just for a drink with Sano!” He knew he was better off telling the truth. Yeah, he liked going to the clubs, but it was mostly for the bar and ambiance. He had no interest in other women, only her. “Na, Sano?”

Sanosuke gave her a sheepish smile. “I was watching this idiot the whole time, once he was drunk off his ass, he was listing things that he loved about you. I had to listen to him during the car ride home.” He chuckled.

Etsu’s expression softened. She knew Sano-san never lied to her. Though she trusted Shinpachi, she couldn’t help but be doubtful once in a while. He was an attractive man, women and men looked his way when they walked out in public holding hands. She trusted he wouldn’t cheat on her, but she certainly didn’t trust the majority of girls at a club or bar. “Really, Shin?”

“Maa, I don’t remember much, but I guess I can repeat it for you…” His cheeks were dusted with pink.

“Ooooh, Shi~in!” She lunged forward, tackling him in a hug. “Tell me over dinner!”

Shinpachi chuckled, giving her cheek a peck. “Okay, okay, let me get changed and I’ll meet you in my office.”

Giggling, she nodded happily and tip-toed to kiss his cheek. Even with her three-inch heels, she still couldn’t reach his cheeks.

“Geez…” Heisuke watched her leave for his office. “You two fight and make up over nothing.”

“We do not fight, we have small disagreements from time to time. Besides, Etsu’s such a catch.” Shinpachi grinned like a fool in love, which was what he was. “She knows how to cook, she’s kind, beautiful, she’s got curves, she’s a D, and thick thighs for me to rest my head on-”

“Oi, oi, Shinpachi, save it for dinner.” Sanosuke shook his head, clapping him on the back as they went to hit the showers.

Chizuru and Hijikata-sensei had agreed that he would bring Okita-san as soon as the discharge papers went through. She decided to go home after changing to set things up for him.

Souji was alone in the room. He closed his eyes and tried to take a nap, but little flashes of what he wanted to call memories came to him.

Chizuru cooking, their first kiss, studying with Chizuru, Hajime-kun, and Heisuke-kun, little bits of things here and there he didn't understand.

Just what the hell was going on? These thoughts, memories, weren't his, but they were in his head.

"Oi, Souji." Hijikata-san opened the door.

Souji chuckled, "The Hijikata-san I know also never knocks." He stood up and stretched until his back popped a bit.

"Let's get going, the papers went through." He grabbed the file folder and opened a bit to check its contents. A birth certificate, an ID, even a high school diploma...He really did not want to know how Sannan-san got a hold of these documents.

Souji followed him out to the parking lot, grimacing slightly when he heard a loud roar. "Hijikata-san, what are all these machines?" He looked around them. The machines were similar shapes, but different colors. They all were in neat rows, though some here and there were placed crookedly.

“Cars. They’re like our modern horses.” Toshizō opened the passenger door of his black sports car. “Come on, Souji, I don’t have all day.” He glanced at his iPhone 4, smiling lightly as he got a reminder from Satomi to come home for dinner. He didn’t forget, but she knew to send him little reminders in case he did lose track of time. He shut the door after Souji and quickly responded that he’d be home after dropping Souji off at Chizuru’s.

“Modern horses?” Souji mused, looking around the car. He had the urge to press buttons that lit up when Hijikata-san brought the modern horse to life. What had he called it, a car?

“Souji! Don’t touch anything! It can be dangerous if you press the wrong thing while I’m driving.” He had spotted that devious glint in his eyes. Sighing, he started driving out of the parking lot, the car picking up speed once he was out on the road.

Souji grasped the seat for support as Hijikata-san started to go faster. He didn’t like this car thing, though it was more convenient than a horse or walking. He had to admit that when Hijikata-san made the turns rather harshly, it made him a biiiiit scared for his life. He chuckled nervously. “Are these cars meant to go this fast?”

Toshizō smirked, pressing down on the accelerator, passing other cars by. He wasn’t a reckless driver, but he certainly was a speed demon. “Oh sure, this one is built to go rather fast. She’s meant to drive fast.” He could see Souji was scared shitless by his driving, and he was relishing every moment of it. He smoothly parked the car near Chizuru’s apartment. “Well, here we are. Didn’t take long at all.” He probably broke over twenty traffic laws, but it was so worth it, especially when Souji crawled out of the car on all fours.

Oh, sweet solid ground. Souji took a few moments before he stood up. He’d gotten a little nauseous with the car moving at such high velocity.

He never, ever wanted to get in the same car as Hijikata-san again.

Toshizō led him to Chizuru’s apartment. “I can’t stay, but you’re going to tell him, right?”

Chizuru nodded, looking over at Souji; he was busy staring at pictures she had up on the wall. “Yes, Hijikata-sensei.”

“Good. Here’s his medicine, the file from Sannan-san, and the journals. Good luck, Yukimura.”

Chizuru bowed and set the box inside, next to the coffee table.

His jade green eyes stared at a few pictures on the wall. There was one of him, Heisuke-kun and Hajime-kun. They were wearing some type of uniform, Heisuke had his arms around the both of them, grinning, and even Hajime was sporting a slight smile. His future self was smiling so happily, it made him a little jealous.

There was another picture that caught his eye of his future self, Hijikata-san, and Shinpachi-san. The three of them wore lab coats, making funny poses in front of a crowd of children.

Chizuru came behind him, staring at the same picture, a smile spread instantly. “That’s one of my favorite. Kondō-san was out sick, but he was supposed to read to the children in the hospital, so he asked Hijikata-sensei, Nagakura-san, and Souji-kun to read it in his place instead.” She laughed at the memory. They had ended up doing a rather unorthodox version of Momotaro, thanks to Souji.* Hijikata-sensei and Nagakura-san chased him around the halls for deviating from the story by bringing in a gorilla instead of a monkey that Nagakura-san had to provide the voice for and the rest of the characters, and making Hijikata-sensei the demon. She’d been in the back, laughing with the rest of the children. They’d loved it so much.

“Hmm, sounds interesting.” Souji stepped cautiously towards the living room as he looked around. This is where he would be living now. With Chizuru.

“Ah, Okita-san…” Chizuru went to sit on the couch, taking out a packet from the box that Hijikata-sensei had given her. “…You probably have questions about the Shinsengumi, don’t you?”

Souji took the seat next to her, crossing his arms. “Many.”

“...This packet of information should clear a few things up.”

Souji took it from her, quickly scanning the first page. He skipped ahead to find out about Kondō-san.

He nearly tore the damn paper in half. His jade green eyes furiously looked over at Chizuru. “Ne, Chizuru-chan, this is a lie, isn’t it?” His voice shook slightly. “Kondō-san would never surrender!”

Chizuru remained silent as Souji reread the end of the paragraph that described Kondō-san’s death.

“The fucking bastards didn’t even let him commit seppuku?! They beheaded him like some animal?! Where the hell was Hijikata-san?!” Souji threw the packet down, bowing his head. “Tell me that’s a lie, Chizuru-chan…tell me that he at least got to commit seppuku like the warrior he is…”

They sat there for a few moments, Souji waiting for Chizuru to tell him the truth.

“...He deserved that honor…He was…He…” His voice broke, unable to say anymore. He hated showing this side to anyone. He was Okita Souji, Captain of the First Division of the Shinsengumi. He didn’t shed tears.

Chizuru gently pulled him into her arms, burying her face into his hair, feeling his tears on her arm. There was nothing she could say to him that could ease the pain of losing a loved one in such a horrible manner. If her Souji had the same relationship with Kondō-san that Okita-san had with the Kondō-san in his time, he thought the world of him. She couldn’t do anything to ease the pain in his heart, so she just held him, hoping that her presence could be of even of even the slightest bit of comfort to him.

Part Nineteen

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*This is actually from one of the Hakuouki SSL drama CDs, I seriously recommend listening to it LMAO, although idk if it has any translations out.

On another note, I’ll slowllyyyy be adding in the OCs and interactions! I started with mine, since I know her the best LOL, but they’ll get their time to shine, I promise!

AND FEELS, I KEPT SEEING SOUJI BREAK DOWN IN CHIZURU’S ARMS AND I JUST- ToT ToT

#time travel souji au #hakuouki #hakuoki #okita souji #fanfic

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dpinoycosmonaut · 4 years ago

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NADAL SHOWS DEPTH OF HIS GAME, NOW GOES FOR UNREACHED HEIGHTS

by Bert A. Ramirez / October 19, 2020

This photo collage shows Rafael Nadal’s 20 Grand Slam titles from the first one he won at the French Open in 2005 to the latest he captured in the same event. (Photos by Getty Images)

The recent French Open, which was won in dominant fashion by Rafael Nadal for a record-extending 13th time, giving him a 20th Grand Slam victory that ties Roger Federer for the all-time mark, is a testimony to the depth of the Spanish superstar’s game, his flexibility and his ability to find ways to get the edge over his rival, even if it was his No. 1 adversary Novak Djokovic.

Once the dust of his 6-0, 6-2, 7-5 finals victory over Djokovic had settled down, it was clear that he was able to beat the Serbian world No. 1 in such a fashion only because of the changes in strategy and tactics that he employed precisely to negate his rival’s great returning game and all-court brilliance.

First, Nadal utilized the “first strike strategy,” so-called because it is designed to shorten rallies by striking early to try to end them, in contrast to his usual grinding game that would have allowed Djokovic a better chance to strike back in longer exchanges. The numbers bear this out, with Rafa clobbering Djokovic in rallies that were no more than four shots long 53-25. These rallies ended most often on the third shot, when a point was scored 32 times, and it was during these rallies where Rafa had the greatest edge over Novak, scoring 25 points coming from eight winners, 16 unforced errors and one forced error to Djokovic’s seven.

“This is the biggest change in Rafa’s strategy in these finals,” fellow Rafa faithful Yuri Munsayac said. “Di na siya yung grind-out, pahabaan at patagalan, he was being aggressive na to end rallies early.”

Former world No. 1 and eight-time Grand Slam winner Ivan Lendl also said Nadal was unusually aggressive with his down-the-line forehand and crosscourt backhand, which prevented Djokovic from using his normal patterns. He also mentioned the “moonballs” that Nadal resorted to at times as a way of throwing Djokovic off his normal rhythm.

"Few things stuck out right away from the beginning of the match," Lendl said. "No. 1 – Rafa was using his forehand down the line a bit more than he usually does. No. 2 – his backhand crosscourt was extremely aggressive. Rafa was looking to be aggressive and not let Novak sit in the backhand corner.

"And the third, which was interesting. Anytime Rafa was in big trouble, he would throw up a lob, make up and get back into the point because Novak wasn't putting the overhead away. It was part of the strategy. Novak's overhead is not his best shot. He prefers to place it rather than hit it. If you are as quick and defend as well as Rafa, you get back into the point, and Rafa was very successful at that," the Czech-American, now 60, added.

Indeed, Nadal just showed how flexible he could be in these finals, especially because the conditions this time at Roland Garros were different from those in previous editions he dominated – cold, heavy weather instead of the hot summer after the event was moved from its usual May-June schedule because of the coronavirus pandemic, closed roof because of the rainy weather, and new balls that did not bounce as high as Rafa wanted because they absorbed more moisture and clay. In addition to these, Nadal himself lacked the preparation that he usually had, having played just three matches since the tour resumed after losing to Diego Schwartzman in the quarterfinals of the Italian Open, and he thus had to use the earlier part of the tournament just to establish his rhythm.

And he was up against a rival, the top-ranked Djokovic, who holds the only winning record against him in head-to-head matchups (29-27 after this event) and who was unbeaten in 37 previous matches this year, excluding that fourth-round default at the US Open when he accidentally hit a lineswoman with the ball.

But from the start, Nadal showed who was the master on the terre battue in Paris. Djokovic led a total of only five times throughout the finals, four of them in the third set where he made a fight of it, but when the Serbian came on the verge of taking that set at 5-4, Rafa quickly regained control with a hold. He then broke Nole for the last time on the 11th game, the seventh time he broke his rival in this contest, to regain the lead at 6-5 before serving out the match at love, culminating one of the best performances of his glorious career with a whizzing, almost poetic 166-kilometer-per-hour ace.

In the end, the numbers said it all, with Nadal beating Djokovic in almost every statistic, including games won (19-7, which, in effect, was a good payback for the 6-3, 6-2, 6-3 whipping Djokovic gave him in last year’s Australian Open finals), points won (106-77), break points (7/18-1/5), receiving points won (50-28), service points won (56-49), winners (31-38), unforced errors (14-52), aces (4-1), and double faults (1-4).

The victory at Roland Garros, which made Nadal only the second man after Federer and the fifth player along with Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova and Serena Williams to have reached 100 victories in a single Grand Slam with 100 (against just two losses), has not only given Rafa an advantage in the ongoing debate of who is the greatest player of all time, but has also put him in a position to extend what he has accomplished to unreachable levels.

He has now extended his lead over Djokovic and Federer in head-to-head matchups in Grand Slam events, leading Novak 10-6 in such meetings and Roger 10-4. He has also improved his record in Grand Slam finals to 20-8, ahead of Roger’s 20-11 and Novak’s 17-10. Nadal is of course 13-0 in French Open finals and has some work to do particularly in Melbourne, where he has lost four times in the finals while winning just once.

But the 34-year-old Rafa has become the player with the most number of Grand Slam titles after turning 30 with six, surpassing Djokovic who has five. Federer, Rod Laver and Ken Rosewall have four each. And Rafa is now the only men’s player in history to have won a major title four times without dropping a single set, also doing it in Paris in 2008, 2010 and 2017. Only Bjorn Borg with three and Federer with two have done it multiple times.

Whatever is next for Rafa could only add to those lofty accomplishments, if what he showed at Roland Garros is to be the gauge. Could he do it and further raise the standards for his closest adversaries to match? Don’t bet he won’t.

Rafa Nadal goes to his family’s box and meets the three most important women in his life: his wife Maria Francisca, mother Ana Maria, and sister Maria Isabel. (Photo from rafaelnadalfans.com)

#RafaNadal RolandGarros 20GS 13RG

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lordraveondagooseofdolallytap · 5 years ago

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I Have Been to Beyneu

( I ASSERT MY OWNERSHIP OF THIS WORK

DAVID KITCHEN)

The blue-green building to the left is the flop house featured in the story. The train station is the building with the red roof

We recognised each other, though we had never met. I saw him first in the station at Urgench whilst waiting for the 09.00 Tashkent to Moscow train. He was German. I’d heard him speak a few words. I know he recognised me that’s why he went to the far end of the waiting room. I would have done the same.

I could tell you the songs and books he likely loved. The authors: Steinbeck, Hemingway and the films he had seen and what he felt about them. I could guess his favourite Dylan lines. How he had been affected by ‘On the Road’. How his first discovery of Woody Guthrie had maybe changed him. Most of all I knew why he was here and doing this trip across Central Asia. We were peas from the same pod. There were so many stories we could tell but that is why we sat so far apart. Other people’s stories get tiresome.

He and I are a part of a dispersed tribe. Our elder brothers and sisters started us on this habit in the early 1970s. I hitchhiked to London when I was thirteen and slept out in Hyde Park. My brother and his like had been the first children of working men to take to the road for the adventure of it in the early ’60s. My worried textile mill working dad called them “The Weekend Bed Roll Brigade” They called themselves Beatniks.

The German and I followed our siblings a decade or so later and are still wandering the earth solo almost fifty years later. You see us in every odd place. In Patagonia, Rajasthan, at the Hebron Hostel in Jerusalem, coming around the corner at you on the Via Egnatia in Albania. In the music bars of Westport, County Mayo and on the Camino to Santiago de Compestela. I’m sixty-two and this German is likely a year or two older. Yes, if we had talked it would just have been Reminiscence Snap that we played.

I hoped they put this man somewhere else on the train. I don’t want to talk with him

My trip this time had started out at Samarkand in Uzbekistan. I’m travelling a 3000km midsection of one of the ancient Silk Roads that run between central China and Istanbul, using buses, trains, and minibuses. Urgench was where I had chosen to get back on the train to cross the Kyzyl-Kum desert to Beyneu in Kazakhstan. That’s where I would change train. This present one would carry on into southern Russia and onto Moscow, but I’m going left to Aktau on the Caspian Sea. I’ll get a cargo ferry there to Baku in Azerbaijan then cross the Caucuses to the Black Sea coast, and follow that around to Istanbul. Che Guevara first said, “my only plan is improvisation”. That’s sort of right.

I waived my ticket at the guard, he pointed me on to an older man with a belly overhang further down the platform. That man drew a circle around a number on my ticket, then pointed at his carriage.

You don’t step onto a train in Central Asia, you climb in by way of a drop-down ladder that unfolds from the carriage door. You grab the railing and pull yourself up the steps. My knees are now rubbish so everything would rely on the strength of my hands and arms. It’s all becoming a little Geriatric and maybe a little farcical.

There is a way of doing things on transcontinental sleeper trains. Firstly claiming your space. You get on the train, unfold your seat so that it magically becomes a bed, get your rucksack under that, take your boots off, swing your feet over and relax. I did not know how to do any of this but a motherly lady from Moscow who was across the aisle showed me.

I had my moment of panic about being on the wrong train. I showed my ticket to the lady from Moscow and I got a thumbs up. So this was it. I had a window seat. It was late morning and we had a seventeen-hour trip ahead of us to Beyeneu. Passengers on the left of the carriage were pulling down their window blinds against the expected glare. I kept mine tied up. I wanted to see this show.

I’m Ryan: bulky, arthritic and old but I still live for what I am doing now and must keep going until I fall.

There was an American at a café in Santiago de Compostela, Spain. We were talking about my brother who had died aged sixty-eight on the 800km trek from France to that city. I felt lifted and said “if you knew and fully understood that there was only one life for each of us, why would you ever waste time in Walmart or Tesco or any of those places. You had to be travelling. Taking one’s body across the face of the earth. Seeing and feeling it all”. My mouth is getting gabby. I used to be quiet but now it’s like I have a lot to say.

I settled on my bunk and waited for the show but instead dozed off. Next thing I woke up and there was the desert. Or a little rectangle of it. Somebody had pulled the sunblind down whilst I had been sleeping.

Kyzyl-Kum is a rock desert so not featureless. I see conical rock features, gulley’s and ridges, plateaus and shallow valleys. A road track runs parallel to the train line. I note a blackness showing in the yellowness of the sand. Buildings are rare but now and again there are brick-built structures with a car parking space and no seeming reason to exist. I see a few trucks speeding along in clouds of sand dust. I see drill emplacements, and a couple of times oil and maybe gas places but nothing living. Then after a long time, there is a proper settlement by an unexpected river and I see a woman on a chair and that’s it.

The woman from Moscow forces fruit and cakes on me. Her husband laughs at his wife’s solicitude and we get talking. He translates for us all. They are business people and have been on a buying trip to Uzbekistan. The goods will be trucked in but they also have bundles and colourful plastic weaved bags packed full and shoved under the seats and in racks. I get my phone out to show them my home and grandchildren. That’s a winner. The woman reciprocates and I see lots of young faces in places like Istanbul and Tel-Aviv.

I doze some more but am stirred at intervals by hawkers passing through the carriage selling fruit, western confectionary and great bunches of pungent smoked fish hanging like bananas and tried up with soft wire. A couple of times I go to make coffee in a space between the carriages. There is an ancient-looking grey-metal hot water geyser there. I make fresh filter coffee in my special traveller’s flask and filter. I’m craving music but feeling fine.

Around ten the carriage attendant turns off all but a few safety lights and people around me settle to sleep. There is about sixty of us in the long carriage, in moments it looks like a long, untidy dormitory. My bunk is narrow and short, and I’m 6’6” and broad of beam so I feel like I need to hang on. I lay there rocking double time with the motion of the train. Against all my expectations I fall into a deep, sweet sleep.

I am torn into aching wakefulness after midnight by the shouts of a man in paramilitary uniform. Bleary-eyed people are pulling out their passports. He collected them up without attention until he saw mine. He looked at me like I am an odd specimen, then took my passport and stamped it. He had no idea what he was looking at but I nevertheless I had my stamp for Kazakhstan.

I dozed a little more, then there was four uniformed men and women in the carriage searching bags with no evident process. Contents were spilt out and rummaged through. The border guards showed no courtesy and the passengers did not look for any. I guessed that anything different would have been a surprise.

At around two in the morning, the attendant shook me awake and pointed forward. We were coming into Beyneu. All the carriage blinds are down so it is only when I get to the door that I get a view of this major junction and district town. There is one light in the distance, and two about a hundred metres away. The attendant points me in the direction of the latter.

I am a fat old man from Bradford, England. Men like me are nodding in their armchairs with four empty tins of premium lager at their side. Another film they never got to see the end of is scrolling up through the credits on the large flat-screen TV mounted in the wall. Wives are shaking their arms and telling them to get to bed and thinking there goes another Saturday night. Right now I would swap places. Beyneu is worrying me.

The train slows and then stops by increments, the attendant opens the door and beside the three specks of light ahead of me, all I can see is the great blackness of the sky and the clusters of stars I never know at home. The ladder is dropped down but falls well short of the ground. There is no platform and little to hold onto. I feel in the dark with my booted feet for each step. I’m prompted by the attendant to jump the last metre. I do and my knees jar painfully under the combined weight of the rucksack and me. The man laughs in a good-natured way and gives me a mock salute.

I am the only person that wants to see Beyneu or make the connection to Aktau and the Caspian seaport. Maybe the German still sleeps or maybe just hiding. I discern maybe three sets of tracks to cross. I am on my own surrounded by silence. I don’t even know if this place has a hotel.

There is nothing for it but to walk in the direction of the single light, my movements still sluggish and clumsy, a recently sleeping head craving a space to lay down. I trip and stumble but manage to stay on my feet but the shocks jolt my painful joints. I am wretched and do not care about anything but finding a bed.

The station is a short, white single-storey building no bigger than a suburban bungalow back in England. A door in from the tracks and another out into the town. Policemen in military-like fatigues scan my rucksack in an airport-style machine which I doubt is working properly. Over to the right, a wooden ticket counter is open, a fleshy young woman is asleep there resting her head on folded forearms. She hates me when I wake her up. I point at Akteu on a map but she shakes her head, then makes a makes an overarm movement like she is doing the front crawl. I’m guessing that means “come back in the morning”. I have no option but to go out the town door without a plan but then a policeman touches my arm and points at a wall clock over my head. He is indicating 10 am. I thank him in an exaggerated way and then walk onto a cross street. I can see very little. The two lights visible from the train are gone. So I go back to my policeman and put my hands under my tilted head to indicate sleep. He comes back outside with me and we walk about a hundred metres, turn a corner and he gestures to a long, low white shed-like building with a dim light in a small window. I thank him again.

It’s the middle of the night, I am far from home rattling my knuckles on the glass, feeling nauseous and craving sleep like an addict desires heroin. One should not call women toothless hags, especially when you’re a relatively privileged man wandering through the world and the two women in front of you are living in a desert hell-hole in a former Soviet Republic in central Asia… but that’s what they were. Toothless hags in shawls, heavy skirts and woollen leggings. They shuffle to the window and look out at me. One rubbed her thumb against the next two fingers. It’s easy to guess what she is communicating. Do I have money? I gave a thumbs-up sign and the door is lifted on its hinges and pulled inwards. The first woman showed three fingers, to indicate the cost of a bed for (half) a night. Three hundred Tenge. There has been nowhere to change currency so all I have is Uzbek money which I figured would be acceptable. I took out some large denomination notes but the more aggressive of the two women angrily push them away, shouting “Tenge, Tenge! It was my turn to do the forward overarm movement but this time with the word “bank”. “I will get money in the morning”. Was there a bank, did it do foreign exchange, could I draw money here from England? I had no idea, but this was the only line open to me. The woman turned and called out what might have been a name. A much younger man came trotting out of the dark corridor behind her. Maybe her son. Not much above five feet, healthily skinny, wearing a faded Man United shirt, he moved like a trotting horse but there was more. I couldn’t figure it. The man pulled on my arm and pointed toward the corridor. We passed an open door on the right, a stink of urine and faeces wafted across us. Presumably the bathrooms. That joy could wait for the morning.

We walked past two more open doors which had the feel and smell of men sleeping before we came to the last door on the corridor. The man pulls down on a switch with exposed wires behind it. The light came on and showed a bare room with four faded floral patterned mattresses. The one on the right me nearest was occupied by a youngish man in western clothes. His rucksack was still on his back, and his head resting on his boots covered by a quick-dry towel.

The son pushed me forward and made a grand sweeping gesture. The best I achieved the whole night was in-between worlds sleep’ where I was not entirely awake or wholly asleep. I had some worry about snoring. That or a rat were things that could make this situation worse for the man in the other bed.

Two and a half hours went by before I heard the other man stirring. I gave up the pretence of trying to sleep, sat up and said: “Good morning, I don’t suppose they have showers here?”

“Take a guess”. We laughed and then compared notes. He was not a faker like me. Firstly Mark (his name) was doing the whole route so had started from Xian in central China and had been on the road for months. Buses, trains, minibuses and hitchhiking. Mostly wild camped or stayed in hostels much like this, and was going all the way to Istanbul. “I don’t want to arrive, because that means back to sodding England and working on Brexit”. He was a senior civil servant taking unpaid leave. His office would be saving all the shittiest Brexit jobs for him.

The world and chance play tricks, the more he talked the more it seemed to me this man spoke and looked like an old friend of mine who had been to an elite English school for the children of NATO military officers in Brussels. My friend and this man could be twins.

He told me the train to Akteu was at 10.40 but to get my ticket early. The train would be packed full of Russians. My new friend was so cool. Late twenties and looking like a Camel cigarette advert. I wanted to question him but I needed to get to the toilet and standing up was a problem. He shouted “be careful in there” …referring to the toilet.

The squat toilet was every bit as bad and dysfunctional as Mark had hinted, this was compounded by the absence of any privacy. Strangers looked in and wandered by. The whole place had but a single tap and a hand washbasin. I shaved and did a full body wash, quartering my body and attending to each segment in turn with soap and a flannel. I kept the rucksack by me.

The men in the place were Russians, Uzbeks, and Kazakhs plus maybe a few Turkmen. I guessed they were working locally and used the flophouse as a stopover ahead of morning train journeys to Russia, Uzbekistan or the seaport at Aktau. The Chevron oil plant was just a few miles to the north and the 2000 km Central Asian gas pipeline passed through the place. These workers were out the door by the time I had washed. Probably looking for breakfast in the town. The little man was waiting though. The instant he saw me the chant began. Tenge, Tenge. He was presumably under orders from the hags to stick to me like a bed bug until the night payment had been extracted.

The hostel was at one end of the town’s shoddily paved main street, lined by squat jerry-built shops. Soviet towns anywhere all have the same look about them. I know them on sight. It is the grey-white concrete and cement, fractured and crumbling, ill-fitting doors and windows and an overall look of being without love. Utilitarian and crap at that.

I remembered a scene from the Butch Cassidy film, the outlaw and friends Sundance and Etta step off a train in remotest Bolivia. They are intent on hiding away from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. The two men argue; one says something like “You said let's go to Bolivia, we will be fine in Bolivia”, and the other man (I think it was Butch because he’s the one with the big ideas) said, “For all you know this might be the big garden spot of Bolivia, a place people spend days travelling to”. Beyneu was like that. God awful, but a big day out for those living out in the desert. Forty thousand people were supposed to live here but that number was deceptive. Most were out in smaller places where they worked for long stretches.

My man trotted ahead of me stopping whenever he thought I was not keeping up. We looked in at a couple of money changing places but these were closed (I sensed a disappointment in my man). He spoke with somebody and we crossed a market place selling little of any desirability and went into a building that looked like a large suburban house except it was a bank. I’m anxious, the women at the flophouse would shout for the cops if I could not pay, and there would be no pretence at legal process or impartiality in a place like this. They would have me in a cell and be demanding special payments for everything. It seemed impossible that anywhere as remote, and none bank like could have any contact with the great NatWest Bank in England.

But it was simple. I gave over my debit card and passport and the woman handed me the money that I had asked for. I had not had the chance yet to get my head around the value of the Kazakh currency. My companion knowing this was eager to get his hands (literally) on the money. I had to push him back with an open hand and tell him to back off. He showed me five fingers to indicate that he wanted five hundred Tenge. I crossed my arms into an X shape and thrust them forward and he, in turn, waved his arms about and shouted. Heads turn and others looked up. I turned and walked out the door. He ran alongside me shouting and making a scene. People were looking at us, but not like they would have done on a High Street in England, shocked and a little afraid. No, this was entertainment. People were openly laughing.

I knew what was funny. It was the great bulk of me being chased by a short, wiry Kazakh in a washed-out Man Utd shirt who barely reached my chest …apparently robbed and swindled No one believed him, of course, I can see that now but then I was a little scared. I had seen such things turn nasty in other remote places.

My man saw a hawker flogging bottles of a pale brown liquid, the colour of muddy clay soils. “Boaka” he explained and showed me another finger.

I waved my hand across my body and gave the man the three hundred Tenge, as I had always intended but he went back to showing the three fingers plus another two leftover from the five and now another one for the brown liquid (possibly home-distilled Vodka). He looked very unhappy indeed. I was amazed at how he could keep up this pretence and keep a straight face. It must be deep in the culture.

I could see this man’s plan: harass, nag and embarrass until I snapped and threw money at him. Big mistake. I was a sturdier kind of foreigner than he was used to, a working-class lad from Bradford who had none of that weak westerner guilt.

I strode out into the road and did a diagonal into the crowded market area. Food and drink were needed for the twelve-hour ride into Akteu on the Caspian coast. There was plenty of fruit about but that had skins and had been handled by unwashed toilet hands. Chocolate bars, packets of crisps and a bottle of Coke would be a safer bet. I turned again in the direction of the general store on the edge of the market. My Man Utd man saw his opportunity.

The shop had space for three isles but the owner had squeezed in six and placed sacks of rice at the end of each. The items I needed were furthest from the door. The rucksack was wider than me. My man placed himself two feet ahead and directly facing me. I could not reverse, I could not turn and he was blocking my way, so I shuffled into him taking care not to rake the shelves with my backpack. I was moving forward like a grandad imitating a chuffing steam train to his grandkids. The shop owner’s wife positions herself for a better view. Kids on the way to school laughed. I get my stuff at the end of the centre-right aisle and did a cog-like 180-degree rotation to return back up the last aisle to the counter.

There I get my wallet out. My man stepped out of the shop and was waiting directly outside. Rules were emerging. One did not trouble foreigners when they were paying for items in a shop.

It was only nine, and still almost two hours to my departure time. I needed a safe space and of course, I had been advised by the English Civil servant to get my ticket early. I needed to head for the station ticket office and waiting room.

My man sensed this before I thought it, and went on a renewed offensive. This time grabbing the sleeve of my combat jacket. This was too much. I stopped like I was Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry. Got all my gravitas together, gave the man a grave look, and pulled my arm from his grasp. He looked shocked for a second but then carried on the “3 Tenge” chant.

I was letting him control the situation, and I needed to swing the momentum my way. I shouted “stand back”, then strode right at him. And it worked. There were 22 stones of my bulk walking at him, and the man knew that he had to move. It was two hundred metres to the station. I set out like a Roman soldier in lock step…but on my own. Imperious.

He recognised my plan but hesitated between options: to continue harassing me or to run ahead and get the train police on his side. (He should have gone for the latter but I’m guessing police are not generally the poor man’s friend in places like Kazakhstan). Only metres to go. Access to the station waiting room is by ticket only or production of an ID to show you are the kind of person who has the where with all to buy a ticket. This would be my safe haven.

An authentic Soviet steam roller was pressing a thin layer of tarmac onto a pothole, men were sweeping cinders onto the tarmac each time the ancient thing rolled back. My direct route was blocked, I would have to go around the road works to get to the station door. Slowing a little I wheeled ninety degrees to the right but did not give enough attention to what was underfoot. My foot twisted on a half brick in the road and I did that painful hop, skip and collapse dance one does when an ankle is twisted. The fifteen kilograms on my back unsteadied my balance. Normally I might have kept on my feet but the rucksack sent me crashing onto a cone-like pile of road masonry about a metre high. I fell heavily with my ribs foremost. I have bruised and broken my ribs many times (long story) so in that second before I hit the masonry I knew and anticipated the pain that was coming and which would get incrementally worse over the next three days. That was in the nature of bruised or broken ribs, as was the stabbing and sickening pain.

I lay sprawled across the pile of stones and broken tarmac. The wind punched out of me by the heavy fall. The first stab of pain in my left ribs: worse even than I remembered. I was face down on the rubble and fearful to move in case the pain got worse. Lacking the capacity even to lift myself. I felt the breeze on my upper buttocks. My trousers had slipped somehow and half my arse was on display to the street.

There was a uniform. One of the station policemen was walking over. Without asking he got his arms around my torso then lifted and turned me simultaneously so that I end up in a sitting position with my back against the rubble. The pain of the lift had been bad but then it eased somewhat in this new position.

“Are you okay my friend? You are an old man and should be at home with your grandchildren. Look at how fat you are. This is wrong”. He actually said all of that but somehow made it feel kindly.

There was a shock in hearing English spoken in full sentences “I will be okay in a few moments. Just need to sit for a while t to get my breath back. I’m here for the train”. He knew that of course. It was obvious.

The policeman had been in Bradford, England. Been there three years, knew the same places as me. He had worked on a building site and then in the winter months at a futon factory. There had been lots of going out for Friday night beers. That explained the language proficiency.

My man had hesitated. He had not known how this person in authority would respond, but he took his chance, this would probably be his last. He spoke quickly. The policeman grinned. “This man says you owe his mother four thousand Tenge for staying in the hotel but you only gave him three hundred. That’s less than a pound”. He laughed again. “Show me your money and we can sort it out”.

I took my wallet from my secret zip pocket and opened it out. Oh, bugger he was right. I had assumed hundreds when I should have been thinking thousands. The actual cost of the ‘hotel’ had been three thousand Tenge.

The notes at the back of my wallet were thousands. A great half-inch wad of them. I had given my man small change, the equivalent of around sixty British pence, not enough to buy a chocolate bar. I selected the notes and the policeman confirmed my choices and handed them over to my Man Utd man. “What is the word for sorry, I asked the officer?

“Keşiriñiz”, and then he said it again phonetically. Keş-ir-iñ-iz” Oh bugger and sod.

The pair lifted me to my feet and led me into the waiting room and there sat me on a wide bench to the left. The officer went to the counter with some of my money and bought me the ticket to Akteu, then spoke with another guy who looked like he could have done anything in this world he chose. Big man, very strong looking. He gave him the responsibility of getting me on the train and then finding me a taxi at the other end. He also grinned.

There is nothing like pain to make you feel like a fool. I told my policeman “I have to keep doing this you know. If I stop I don’t know what I would be”.

He had a view. “My friend, you need to talk to your children”.

I remember a Springsteen song that spoke of two brothers riding until they fell and wonder was this what he meant.

The poem is Ulysses by Tennyson. Rings bells for an old man

#Beyneu #Short story #Solo Travel #kazhakhstan #silk road stories

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tsuners · 8 years ago

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Pranks are for Friends - Shizumo Week

Shima didn't see it coming (the prank that is, he's known for a long time that he's been in love with a certain bad-attitude tamer).

Rated PG-13

...

Shima had done it now.

To be honest, he didn't know exactly what he did, but he knew he did something, the clues were really quite clear.

Kamiki Izumo was not subtle.

For the past few weeks Kamiki had been staying at Myoo Dharani for a long-term mission and it had been all but a blessing. Ever since they had graduated, Shima had believed that it was only a matter of time before they took their relationship to the next level. Unfortunately for him, Kamiki had other ideas over their 'relationship' (whenever she heard Shima call it as such she rolled her eyes and asked 'What relationship? With who?' all but breaking Shima's poor heart). It was a hard thing to convince the short bundle of hot fire that Shima was, in fact, serious about their relationship (no airquotes were needed on Shima's behalf).

And things had been going pretty smoothly, too. When Kamiki was in Tokyo, it was hard to properly convey his feelings to her but since she was just down the hall, he had a new flame for his everlasting love. There were sly smiles, hands brushing against each other, a few flirty comments here and there, and Shima was beyond happy, often bugging Bon and Koneko with his overabundance of butterflies and smiles.

But then things changed so quickly Shima was sure to get whiplash: no more giggles, no more flirting, no more late nights spent talking out in the garden. Kamiki Izumo had stopped all contact and Shima had no idea why.

"It was going so well," Shima whined to Juuzou, his nephew cradled in his lap, sleepily playing with the edge of Shima's robes, "I thought for sure I was on my way to snagging the girl."

"Girls like that are complicated." Juuzou smiled fondly as he continued to brush out his daughters hair. "Mamushi was the same way. The day after we got engaged she tried to call off the marriage."

Shima sighed, not understanding why men in his family had a nasty knack of falling for women that seemed to have major attitude problems. "I mean, we were like flirting so much and then a few days ago she acted like I don't even exist. We almost kissed the other day! I was like two centimeters away from those sexy lips when this one -" he gave his nephew's cheek a pinch "-interrupted us!"

"Did you say something stupid?" Juuzou asked, knowing full well that women like his wife were great at taking even the smallest of comments and making mountains out of them.

"Not anything more stupid than what I usually say..." Shima sighed again, feeling like he was going to explode. It's been years since he realized just how bad he had it for that shorty and he had been so close, so close to fulfilling his wildest dreams and now all she gave up to him was a cold shoulder.

"I'd say to just let it pass for a few days -"

"Don't listen to him, Renzou," Mamushi stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips and a grimace on her lips, "He's the biggest idiot when it comes to women."

"Wha -"

"Anyways," Mamushi interrupted before her man could say anything in his defense, "the bath is open, Renzou, you should go in."

"'Kay." Shima set his nephew off to the side and laughed as he passed by his brother and sister-in-law as they bickered over how idiotic the former was. His conversations with any of the men in his family usually did no use to his love life, but it was nice to know that they were in just as hopeless of situations as he was in. It gave him some sort of solace to know that they all ended up with stubborn, angry women - gave him hope for the future.

As he undressed for the bath, he wished Bon and Koneko were at the temple so he could get their advice (although Bon usually just tells him to give up on Kamiki) but they were both out on missions, leaving him to himself as he took a bath in the temple's open bath. Stepping instead and starting to wash himself, he went over the timeline once again, trying to remember exactly what set off his dearly beloved.

Four days ago, they had been sitting outside in the garden, their thighs pressed against each other as they looked up at the night sky. Kamiki knew a lot about the stars and was telling Shima all about the star signs, telling him that no matter what way you cut it, his star sign was an idiot. They were laughing quietly about it when he leaned forward, unable to resist. Knowing full well that every time he's tried to kiss Kamiki in the past, it had gone horribly wrong, but this time felt different. Shima rested one hand against the line of her jaw and twirled his fingers into the hair at the back of her head, and leaned forward.

"Uncle! Uncle! Auntie!"

Shima loved his nephew, he really did, but at that moment he just wanted to yell out at him. But regardless of the interuption, Shima had counted that night as a major victory. The next morning, Kamiki had been rather blush-y around him and that had made Shima want to do so much more than kiss her. Unfortunate for him, they were busy all day and it wasn't until late that they saw each other again.

She was coming back from an outlining temple and he was coming back from running an errand for his mother, when they met together a few blocks away from the Myoo. They were walking in a comfortable silence when a girl called out to Shima.

"How's it going, Renzou?" He sheepishly laughed, feeling Kamiki glare at him at the use of his first name by another woman.

"Fine, Tamuri-san." Shima said politely. "What are you up to?"

"Visiting my parents for the week," She gestured to the tofu shop behind them and Shima silently thanked her for clearing up how Shima knew with her, trusting that Kamiki was clever enough to figure out that Tamuri's family did business with the temple. "You're girlfriend visiting too?"

"Girlfriend?" Both Shima and Kamiki said - Shima in more of a surprised, satisfied fashion and Kamiki more in a snappish kind of way.

Tamuri just nodded, her smile bright and Shima took back that silent 'thank you.' He knew that labeling whatever him and Kamiki had would be a big no-no and probably scare her away. Plus, he was fully aware of how she used the term 'relationship' to describe what they had (yes, airquotes included). He didn't want to force anything so instead of his usual 'oh yea, my girlfriend~' he let out a cool: "She's just my friend."

Proud of himself for keeping his cool, he lead Kamiki away and continued their walk back to the temple.

As he stepped into the warm bath, Shima groaned. Ever since then she's been avoiding him completely. And why? He had absolutely no idea! It had gone from them almost making love (okay, just kissing...) to him being completely sauve and considerate and cool to her pretending like she didn't even know who he was.

"What the hell?!" Shima grumbled, lowering himself so he was completely submerged in the bath. ...

"What the hell!" Shima yelled, pushing over the baskets that usually held the clothing of the bath occupants. He had already turned over the rest of the bathroom, trying to find where the hell his clothes had run off to. He distinctly remembered putting them on the second basket on the top shelf. He got down on his hands and knees and tried to see if they fell through to the ground but the only thing he saw was a few dust bunnies and an old squirt gun that must of belonged to his nephew and niece.

He stood up and placed his hands on his hips - bare hips.

All the towels were missing too.

"What the hell..." Shima repeated, feeling like everything in the entire universe was against him. And no that wasn't being too dramatic - it was cold and his heart was broken.

Poking his head outside of the bathroom, he looked both ways down the hall. It was late enough that everyone was probably already in their rooms or, if they weren't, were in one of the community spaces and those were rooms away from the bathroom entrance. His room was down the hall and to the left, past his brother and sister-in-law's room and his nephew and neice's room. Knowing them, they would probably be asleep already with their doors closed.

Quietly making his way down the hall, Shima tip-toed, holding his arms to cover his exposed lower region, trying not to die of hypothermia. Small pools of water were left in his wake but it really didn't matter because he was almost back to his room, all that was left was to turn the corner and make it past his families' rooms.

Just as he was turning the corner, he noticed something very, very, very wrong - the door to Juuzou and Mamushi's room was open. He could heard quiet voices laughing and speaking like hushed school girls (yes girls, ie. more than one) and watched as shadows moved about as the light from the room spilled into the dark hall.

"Shit." he whispered and immediately regretted it. The hushed voices all quieted as soon as the word left his mouth and Shima prayed as hard as he could to Buddha to come and take him straight to nirvana.

Having literally no other option, Shima closed his eyes and crept forward, feeling the light hit his skin.

"Hey Renzou."

Kamiki Izumo was definitely not subtle and the universe was sure as hell not on his side.

"Looking for these?"

The room erupting in a fit of laughter, and Shima peeked an eye open, only to wish he hadn't. Kamiki sat there, his clothes held up in her hand, a smirk plastered on her face whilst Mamushi and her sisters were hysterically laughing. Kinzou was also there, laughing just as hard as the Hojo sisters. Juuzou was trying to look sympathetic but was failing as his wife fell onto his side, trying not to die of laughter.

Shima stood in shock, his hands still covering himself, as Kamiki rose to her feet, making her way over all too slowly.

"Izumo, why?" He whispered as she stood before him, his embarrassment making him want to melt into the floorboards.

"I thought that's what friends do - play pranks on each other?" She handed over his clothes, which Shima took with one hand and immediately placed them back over his lower half.

"Friends."

"Yea, friends."

Kamiki punched him in the arm and slid the door closed with a little more force than necessary.

"Shit." Shima cursed, dropping to his knees. If someone had told Shima that he would ever be so much in love with a woman that he would completely not understand yet still accept said woman's behavior as valid after she pranked him for calling them friends when she herself had threatened to kill him after saying they had some sort of 'relationship' - he would have laughed in their face and said he would never want a woman like that.

But Kamiki Izumo made him do crazy things, made him understand why his dad and brothers where into women that had serious attitude problems, made him want to be honest, made him want to be somewhat of a better man. It still freaked him the fuck out though.

"I was trying to be considerate of you, Izumo!" Shima shouted, his heart clenching in on itself as he felt himself fall even harder for that shorty, angry, complicated, stubborn, total babe. "I swear!"

"Are you crazy, shut up! My kids are sleeping!" Mamushi slammed the door open and hit Shima on the top of the head and just as she went to slam the door shut again, Shima looked up in time to see Kamiki Izumo, that crazy woman, smile into the back of her palm.

Oh yea, he really didn't see any of this coming.

....

hope y’all enjoyed. lol I’ve already written for a few other days but feel free to send in suggestions ‘cause i don’t know what the fuck to do for shopping lolol

#shizumo week #Ao no Exorcist #shima renzou #kamiki izumo #shizumo #ane #fanfiction #my fanfic

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torentialtribute · 5 years ago

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With the four men’s majors done and dusted the Women’s Open is set to take centre stage

With the four men's majors done and dusted, the Women & Open is at the heart of the golf world

The Open in Royal Portrush was the last men's major of the year

The battle now begins for the FedEx Cup with millions of grabs

Women & # 39; s British Open renamed Women & # 39 by R&A ; s Open year

Georgia Hall defends its title and will be challenged by Hull, Law and MacLaren

Against Derek Lawrenson for the Daily Mail

Published: 22:32 BST, July 29, 2019 | Updated: 22:32 BST, July 29, 2019

The men have decided that July is the time to take down the curtain about the majors and august is now the month to play with monopoly money or FedEx dollars to use the modern language.

I'm sure I'm speaking for most of us thinking that when it comes to the dollar-laden FedEx Cup, we can probably control our excitement.

What an opportunity, so it offers for the women. In the past, the AIG Women & # 39; s British Open which starts Thursday in Woburn, hardly had the chance to breathe for the proximity of the American PGA. Now there is a welcome opportunity for it to develop its own lock in the spotlight.

Britain & Georgia, 23, won the 2018 Women & # 39; s British Open at the Royal Lytham

On Wednesday, the R&A is launching a new era for the tournament, starting with a rebranding and name change for the Women & # 39; s Open. Next year they will take full responsibility and have already announced that they will increase the prize money by 40 percent.

Suddenly the age of the R&A dinosaur is behind us. R&A chief executive Martin Slumbers has been doing the job for four years and it is clear in his words and actions that the woman's game has a lawyer they can trust.

Slumber does not promise the moon or parity with the men's game soon or never, but we can be sure that he will not live up to his last name either.

Some groups took six hours to play at Evian Championship last week, won by Jin Young Ko

Can the women benefit? Can they grab the nation? They can certainly do that if they put their best foot forward. Think back to 12 months ago, and a victory for Georgia Hall, which was undoubtedly one of the highlights of the wave of the year.

In Hall, Charley Hull, Bronte Law and Meg MacLaren there is an exciting quartet, all under the age of 25, who could do wonders for the ladies' game.

But the women must help themselves. During the Evian championship last week, the rounds took almost six hours to complete – and this is not uncommon. At the Senior Open three took four hours and 20 minutes.

The R&A waste their breath and money if the women do not accelerate. No golfer is interested if they need six hours for 18 holes. Let's hope they grab the day, so don't take it.

OFFER OF THE WEEK

It is always nice to tackle Rory because he is such a tough competitor. To go up against him in the final round and beat him, makes this victory even more special. & # 39;

Brooks Koepka was a bit of a blow to McIlroy by beating him so extensively on the WGC-FedEx Invitational on Sunday. Last year this year the world No. 1 was shown around as a package. The Rory demolition showed that there is now a look about Koepka. It can take years before someone else gets a chance in the first place.

Fresh from the wild success of the Irish Open in Lahinch earlier this month, the search is on a new date for next year. Why the hell would you want to relocate it, wonder?

Because the WGC-FedEx Invitational, which closed in Memphis on Sunday, needs a new date because it will be occupied by the Olympic Games.

Despite the strong protests of the European Tour, the PGA Tour ignored this and planned the week of the Irish Open.

Because the WGC events are open to the main players, the European Tour decided that it would be unfair to ask them to choose.

So, goodbye to the beautiful series of the Irish Open and the Scottish Open, leading to the Open.

The enormous madness of the global golf schedule and the struggle that is going on when they have to pool their resources to undertake competitive sports never ceases to amaze.

Irish Open, won in 2019 by Jon Rahm, could have clashed with 2020 & # 39; s WGC-FedEx Invitational

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#With the four men’s majors done and dusted the Women’s Open is set to take centre stage"

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youreghanamissme · 7 years ago

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Honey, I Am So Glad We're Through

It's the end of an era: I recently took down my mosquito net... but only because it was the only accessible netting I could find on such short notice. I had to delay the honey harvesting workshop by a week because the materials were just too damn expensive, so we're doing it local style, bizznatches! It's actually better, in my opinion. This way my community members won't have it ingrained in their minds that they need fancy bee veils and 250 Ghana Cedi all-white jumpsuits to be a beekeeper. 250 Gh₵ is a lot, y'all. A subsistence farmer sometimes has to stretch 300-500 Ghana Cedis to support his whole brood from a dry season to the start of the rainy season (depending on how the harvest fared). It's literally a matter of life and death. And that's for one suit. We need four: two for the men's group and two for the women's group; we needed two sets of everything. The bee veils weren't cheap to make either. I had to pay the foreigner price on Bolga hats (the only hats with a wide enough brim to not induce claustrophobic revelations), and we're snipped up and sewed my mosquito net along the rim. Everything was three digits (₵₵₵), but I'm sure our locally-made bee veils are cheaper than whatever the facilitator is charging.

I know I'm griping a lot about prices when I don't need to be. Hell, I wrote a grant for this! But the facilitator inflated the prices again recently, and I want to encourage a more local and sustainable approach. I had to buckle and buy a bee smoker off of him though. I asked around and an Ag PCV gave me a contact where I could get it significantly cheaper, but because of the distance (she's originally from the Brong Ahafo region, so her contact is from there as well. Thaaaks, Adrianne! You're the bees' knees!), it just wasn't going to work. I wanted to wrap up this project pronto. It's been plagued with problems from the get-go. We had to start over after a parasite infestation contaminated our colonies. The honey harvest was slated for March 7th, but our facilitator never showed up because of the rain that was pouring in from Tamale. He never called us, so my poor women (the only folks dedicated enough to actually show up and remained at our meeting point on market day!!) were left waiting and waiting and waiting. It would've broken my heart if it didn't catapult me into a rage first. The facilitator and I have butted heads since six months back when I confronted him about the gouged prices the first time around, so when he flaked on us on the 7th... hooo-boy. I gave him an earful. In response he called me some nasty things, but there's nothing to do but take it in stride when you need to get shit done.

We rescheduled for the following Monday, and I tell ya what—we didn't gather people until after he came. But he wasn't picking up his phone or anything, so no one was holding their breath if he decided to flake again. Thankfully, he arrived just before sundown. We were suited up and ready to “hunt” (as the locals call it) for honey.

For the life of me, I dunno why Ghanaians are so afraid of bees. Yes, it hurts to be stung (hell, it happened to me at the borehole), but they're, like, traumatized. Our locally made suits had collars which is apparently a big no-no, even if we tucked our veils inside our collars (I didn’t have the foresight or a demo to surmise that beekeeping suits should have zippers all the way to the chin, a la steam-punk vibes). Harvesters had to tuck their veils inside their collars, wear a scarf (!), and tie string around each gloved forearm to close off all points of entry. It was pretty precious; they looked like they were going on a trip, not collect honey.

We had four hives, but only two were ready to withstand a honey collection. But if you told me that all the honey we got was only from two hives, I might not have bee-lieved you (hehe). There was so much. We filled buckets upon buckets upon buckets. The beekeepers are thrilled, and there's hope to use the bees wax for batik dyeing as well. The majority of my women beekeepers are actually members of a batik group that I helped start from way back when. I'm pleased as punch that they're dedicated to all the income generating projects I've done, going so far as unifying two in a mutually beneficial handshake of sustainable supplemental income.

Back to taking down my mosquito net. Um... I have never washed it. It was covered under two year's worth of dust. It was pretty disgusting because the dust spread everywhere. Since it was tucked underneath my mattress, I had to lift everything, and that's when I saw it: my very own cockroach graveyard. Grossssssssssss.

So, so many exoskeletons. And dust bunnies. Now that my mattress was no longer confined to the corner of my room where the mosquito net was nailed to, it was time for a room makeover. Read: I moved my mattress closer to the center beneath my ceiling fan. The open floor plan has been splendid as I can stretch out and fall off my mattress without running into my dusty net.

My room has been in a state of organized chaos lately. I'm in the midst of giving things away, creating a burn pile, and forming ideas of who I want to bestow my perfectly-fine-but-I-don't-have-space-for-this-in-my-luggage discards to. I'm thinking about bringing a bunch of stuff to the JHS and telling the girls they can pick an item or two. The bike will probably go to my GLOW/BRO gal, and my CP called dibs on the mattress (he wanted the bike too, but I prefer to give it to a young woman). My landlord's families are eager to claim the remains of my room: toiletries, clothes, furniture, propane tank, kitchenware, you name it. I'll need to burn the undergarments though. Not culturally appropo. I just wish there was some huge linen recycler who would take it and make insulation and couch stuffing out of it instead; seems like such a golly waste for it to go up in smoke as carbon dioxide and toxic fumes.

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#cos #peacecorps #ghana #pcghana #howiseepc #beekeeping #honey #beesknees #mosquitonet

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junker-town · 7 years ago

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Escaping Kakuma

Two teams fought to a nil-nil draw in regulation, dust puffing around their feet like flint smoke as they ran. The shootout begins after Kakuma's 6 p.m. curfew. Four thousand or so fans push in from the sidelines to form a human outline of the penalty box. Every minute past curfew means greater likelihood that there will be repercussions from police.

[SECTION 1a]

Night falls fast in Kenya. Men with sticks swat at children to get back. After the score is tied in the fifth set of penalty kicks — both goals — a fan yells, "They can't see!" As I stand at the edge of the box, the full weight of the crowd leans in behind me.

The best scorer in the league smashes a penalty into the left of the net on the first attempt of sudden death. It should have won the match.

His opponent takes the next kick and sails the ball wide and high into a dark, waning blue. I track its flight but never see it land when suddenly several dozen Congolese refugees run me over. Their team, Atletico, has seemingly beaten the mostly South Sudanese, mostly Dinka squad, known as Legends, to earn the final spot in the 16-team Kakuma Premier League, the elite soccer organization of the world’s third largest refugee camp located in the far reaches of northwest Kenya.

[SECTION 1b]

There is an eruption of noise and people going every which direction except home. I get spun around and spat out of the back of the throng. Atletico has hefted their goalkeeper onto their shoulders, parading him around the field.

Too slowly, I realize that the sounds of cheering have become protests. A cluster of stakeholders in the match — refs, coaches, players, and a few fans who poke their noses in — forms at the penalty spot, their urgency implying that an injustice is about to take place. Legends successfully argues that the match should be decided the old way: with two penalty shots after the initial round of five, as had been done in Kakuma for years, rather than the sudden death method that the KPL adopted last year (and is FIFA standard).

[MODULE "Watch video from inside Kakuma and meet Olivier, Kakuma's best scorer"]

Full-throated arguments and fist fights break out among the crowd. On the next set of kicks, Legends ties the match, enraging an Atletico squad that had celebrated moments ago. The match is called and a crowd that had intently looked on breaks into skirmishes across the pitch. My fixer, Maya, grabs my shoulder and tells me that we have to go. We had allowed ourselves to start having fun and that had been a bad idea.

[SECTION 1c]

[SECTION 2]

You can drive to Kakuma, but you shouldn’t except under the guidance of a trained professional, and not even then.

Kakuma hosts roughly 180,000 people on 12 square miles of terse terrain. It is tucked up high in the upper left nook of Kenya, near the borders of Uganda, South Sudan, and Ethiopia. The closest significant city is Lodwar (population: 49,000), 76 miles away, and the roads between it and the camp have been eaten away leaving teeth-crushing potholes. Turkana children stand on the side of the road with bags of sand. They’ll fill in the gaps when they see you coming, hoping you’ll give them money. The sand is useless, however, and the truth is your driver is long past falling for the ruse. She drives the passenger van as fast as it can go without breaking an axle.

It’s very impressive, but when your neck still hurts a week later, you will have wished she had taken her time. It’s better to fly, if you have that luxury. Almost everyone who lives in Kakuma, at some point, took the road.

[SECTION 2b]

You’ll notice three things when you get there. First, the hills in the distance are big and blue and pretty, and could be between 10 and 100 miles away — the long, flat dirt expanse plays tricks on your depth perception. Second is the heat, which seems to have tangible weight, like a lead vest you can’t take off, keeping your feet to the ground. Third is the flies, which are as stupid as they are oppressive. Within a few days you’ll come to accept them, swatting at them with half the effort and one-tenth of the consciousness you paid the pests when you first arrived.

Kakuma opened in 1991 to accommodate torrents of homeless, unaccompanied minors fleeing war in Sudan. Today, the population is roughly 60 percent South Sudanese, and the rest is made up of people from Somalia, Ethiopia, Uganda, Burundi, and the Democratic Republic of Congo. It was built to be temporary. Twenty-five years later, Kakuma is a teeming settlement that would be nearly impossible to dismantle.

[SECTION 2c]

Kakuma has people who were born in the camp and never left. It has multiple markets with fine clothing stores, cafes, hair salons, book stores, DVD stores, supermarkets, photo studios, and sporting good stores. You can buy Adidas, Nike, and Puma. You can buy a cell phone and a data card, and connect to the world. You can go grab a Coke, or a beer, or eat at a restaurant. An honest-to-god millionaire lives in the camp. The people here love him.

[SECTION 2d]

And there’s soccer. Like many other places in the world, Kakuma’s community often centers on sports. The camp has 592 registered sports teams — 73 of which are women’s — ranging across soccer, basketball, volleyball, running, boxing, judo, netball, and more. Soccer is by far the most popular, however, as evidenced by the resources poured into the Kakuma Premier League.

The KPL has been a revelation, a league that pits the best players in organized competition for real stakes. The winning club gets 50,000 Kenyan shillings (KES) — roughly $500 — to use however it sees fit, as well as shoes, balls, training cones, goal nets, and two full sets of kits and track suits. Second and third place get 30,000 and 20,000 KES, respectively.

[MODULE "Watch video from inside Kakuma and meet Olivier, Kakuma's best scorer"]

The KPL had been a dream for years. The organizing NGO — the Lutheran World Federation (LWF), which oversees refugee services and recreation in Kakuma — struggled to secure the necessary funding, but its biggest hurdle was the lack of a bus. Roughly five miles separate the two furthest points of Kakuma, which is shaped like a hatchet — a long, skinny stretch of settlements from the main entrance leading into the big, wide blade. Only once the LWF secured a big school bus, so that players never had to walk an hour through withering heat to play away games, did the KPL take off.

[SECTION 2e]

The LWF didn’t have to look for teams. Clubs had already been playing each other in loose competition for years, and some — like Okapi FC, which is primarily Congolese, and Naath FC, which is primarily Nuer people from South Sudan — are nearly as old as Kakuma itself.

The league debuted with 12 teams that played each other twice. Matches became major social events in the camp, with crowds of more than 5,000 people showing up for the best teams. Tom Mboya, an LWF youth officer, worked the hardest to make the KPL a reality, hoping to nurture talented youths so that they don’t have to rely on the lottery of resettlement to places like the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom.

"That's a dream that may not materialize for them," Mboya says. "So we want to use sports and talent as a source of durable solutions for them. Let somebody go to America on the basis of what he can offer to America, or to England. Not on the basis of sympathy."

Kakuma’s refugees face a lot of immediate problems — disease, crime, police oppression, rape, and female genital mutilation. These can lead to severe mental health issues when coupled with the trauma they suffered from the places they left. Some turn to drugs. Then there are two factors which crystallize the unique experience of oppressed, tethered people: idleness and monotony.

[SECTION 2f]

Camps like Kakuma do some things very well. They are safe havens from the immediate dangers of war, they feed hungry people, and they provide access to education and vocational training. But in a bitterly cruel way, this benevolence of the NGOs, western nations, and Kenya also imposes on camp refugees a sense of uselessness. Refugees can obtain the equivalent of a high school diploma in the Kenyan school system, but after that they have nothing to do. Few nations will take them, and employers in Kenya won’t hire them.

[SECTION 2g]

So they are shackled to the dirt, hoping NGOs will pay them to do menial jobs at a fraction of the rate they might pay a Kenyan. Men sit in the markets and maybe watch television, talk to neighbors, or sit and think about the life they wish they were living. Women are confined to their compounds, expected to handle the traditional household duties of cooking, cleaning, and child-raising, plus waiting in line for water, firewood, and food rations. The camp has no gates, and yet it’s nearly impossible to leave.

[SECTION 2i]

"We engage ourselves through sports. Just kind of wasting time," Willy Kwezera, a pastor in Kakuma, tells me. "Because we think a lot. And by thinking a lot, this stress comes in. We have so many problems. So I act like a motivator. Some other people they resort to hanging themselves. Thinking too much, they say, 'No, my life is ended.’"

Anyone you talk to in Kakuma can tell you about missed chances — how close they would be to playing professional soccer with proper training; how soon they were set to resettle in the United States if not for Donald Trump’s travel ban; how they tried to go back to their home countries and found something worse; how they might have been able to see their families again, if only.

What is the effect of all that missed opportunity? Of idleness added up, of failed relocations and deferred repatriations? You can believe and hope for something, and know something else to be true. Like the flies in Kakuma: First you come to accept the nuisance, then you begin swatting at it, even after the flies have gone to sleep.

[SECTION 3]

When I get back to my room following the Atletico-Legends match, I get a message from Samuel Deng Makheer, a coach of another Premier League team.

Deng: "In fact Atletico are supposed to be winners but referee decide poorly."

Me: "The referees said that Legends won?! Why?"

Deng: "No Legend didn’t won, but they to rematch game again which isn’t fair."

The referee, probably wisely, did not declare a winner in the nighttime frenzy of the elimination match. Deng had been rooting for Legends — he is Dinka, too — but his belief in fairness, instilled over 14 years as a soccer coach and primary school teacher, overrides his loyalties.

[SECTION 3a]

I suggest that the referee might have been swayed by the crowd, and Deng agrees.

"Yeah, that’s what I have seen, too," he wrote. "Maybe the office will make their decisions and Atletico can qualify for Kakuma Premier League."

Deng coaches the All-Stars, which was the seventh-place team in the KPL last season and is not, in fact, an all-star team. That the All-Stars were better than anyone, much less five other teams in the league, is a small victory according to Deng.

Whatever money teams have come from the coaches and players themselves. Deng makes 6,000 KES, roughly $60 per month, from teaching, and gives most of it away — 2,500 for his mother and siblings; 2,000 for his aunt, who is paralyzed and has a daughter who is deaf and also paralyzed; 500 for his sister; and 500 for himself. That leaves 500 for the All-Stars, almost all of which goes to drinking water for the sidelines.

"Some teams, they have their brothers from abroad, they help them, and they buy players," he says. "But me, I don't buy players, I just sweet talk them."

Deng came to Kakuma from South Sudan in 1992 when he was one year old, making him as old as the camp itself. He has known many of the players since they were children. Deng started coaching under-10 players when he was 12 years old. The All-Stars’ best player and captain, Beny Thon, now 23, was one of Deng’s favorite players in the camp from a young age. Beny, out of respect for Deng, decided to play with the All-Stars despite material incentives to play elsewhere.

"He liked my coaching style," Deng says. "And when I was given a team, I called him, and I handed him over the captain before he said any word. And that one, he was so happy."

Deng teaches at Malakal Primary School, the same primary school he attended. His classroom has roughly 115 fourth graders sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in front of him and his chalkboard. Other classrooms have students spilling into desks situated outside their doorways.

[SECTION 3b]

[SECTION 3c]

The subject is family pronouns for "he, she, and the little ones." He creates three columns and fills them left to right with the words "Dog," "Bitch," and "Puppy." Below that, he fills in "King" and "Queen," then asks for a volunteer to fill in the blank.

He calls on a student named Antil.

"Prince and princess," Antil says.

"Very good," Deng says. "Let’s clap for Antil." All 100-plus students clap their hands, one time, in unison, and the lesson continues.

Deng is a soft and reticent speaker, but he’s engrossing once he has momentum with him. During his first ever week of teaching, students referred to him as "The teacher who is afraid." After his first lesson he realized that he hadn’t told his students his name.

Deng has actually been back to South Sudan since coming to Kakuma. His father called him home to Jonglei in 2007 to become a cattle herder. Deng hated it — he hated having to interrupt his own education, he hated having to leave soccer behind, and he hated leaving what had been his lifelong home. Less than a year later, his mother gave him a bull to sell and told him to take the money and go back to Kakuma.

"When I reached Kakuma I immediately called him, saying, ‘Father I'm sorry, forgive me, but I need education more than you need me,’" Deng says. "He used to call me and advise me, 'you did this and that, and if you continue doing this I will disown you.'"

Deng’s father, who went blind when an axe fell on his head, eventually forgave Deng for his decision. Deng is the oldest of his mother’s six children, and the third oldest among the eight children from his father’s three wives. When his father realized how much Deng wanted to provide for his family, he gave Deng his blessing.

"I have never given up in life, because I have my mother and I have my father," Deng says, "because if I give up, my siblings, my mother, my father, they can be nowhere, and I have to work harder for them."

He pounds the desk as he says this, and repeats: "I work harder for them."

[SECTION 3d]

Soccer is the one thing Deng does for himself. He likes studying it more than playing. Cristiano Ronaldo became his favorite player when, as a kid, he used to peek his head into the windows of television halls showing soccer matches and watch the then-Manchester United star. The Red Devils became his favorite team then, too. His friends teased Deng when Man U struggled this year: "Manchester United has moved to seventh, and your team, All-Stars, is now seventh, what do you think of that?"

As a coach, he says he’s rough like Jose Mourinho. Formationally, he likes Antonio Conte’s 3-4-3. Deng likes defenders who are flexible, midfielders who can shoot outside the 18’, and the comfort of at least one solid striker on the pitch. He hasn’t had any formal training as a coach.

Even in a place filled with soccer obsessives, Deng stands out. The vast majority of people living in Kakuma don’t have electricity, much less personal televisions, so men often gather in television halls to watch English Premier League games. Most games cost 10 KES for admittance, but big games cost 20.

Sometimes, if there are multiple matches at the same time, supporters will pool their money and bid for the match they want to watch. Once, Deng paid 1,000 KES that were meant for his mother to watch Man U play Arsenal, then told his friends to relax and enjoy the match.

"I lied to her," Deng says. He told her that he spent it to fix up his home, "because if I told her that I paid the game, then it's a big fight."

Simply watching an EPL match in Kakuma can be dangerous. Matches are played well past curfew, sometimes ending at 1 a.m., and the Kenyan police who patrol the camp roads at night are vigilant and aggressive. To return home, Deng will creep alongside the roads, staying hidden behind bushes and fences, and out of clear line of sight. Once, he was caught, beaten, and thrown in a cell until morning without being asked what he was doing out.

"It was not even at night, it was evening at 7 p.m., they were doing their patrolling, and I was injured, I was so tired when I came from the training in my team," Deng says. "So I give them the [6,000 KES] incentive I have, and my siblings stayed for that month without having anything."

[SECTION 3e]

Deng wants to leave Kakuma. He wants to take coaching as far as he can, and earn more money that he can send back to his family. He has done everything he can to put himself in position to succeed should he get his opportunity. Now he waits, as he has for 26 years.

"I doubt, I doubt, I doubt a lot, because I don't know how that chance came," Deng says. "If God, if he is there, my dreams can come true."

Success ought to be a two-part equation: the exact sum of a person's hard work and talent. In practice, this is rarely true, and a third variable comes into play. In Kakuma, good fortune — the generosity of donors, or the hope that a resettlement office in a Western nation considers your application — exerts its fickle will over everyone, more than anything. A clump of 180,000 people, all waiting, like Deng.

"Someone can be born with talent, but the talent can go, just like that, because you cannot take it anywhere," Deng says. "Like me, I have to be a coach in the future, but I don't have anywhere to learn being a coach in my life. I cannot learn. And where will I go with it?

"I have to die with it, in Africa, until the time goes."

[SECTION 4]

The morning after the elimination match between Atletico and Legends, a Wednesday, Shabani Mulinde Olivier, the Atletico scorer who should have been the match’s hero, is, truth be told, not all that upset.

"At least to me, the match ended well," Olivier says. "If the referee had declared a winner, then it would have been a war.

"So I am happy no one got hurt."

Olivier is one of the most popular players in Kakuma. Within the camp, you could call him a celebrity.

Parts of Kakuma are named after faraway places. Okapi and Atletico are based in the southern part of Kakuma 1 — Zone 1, Block 13 — otherwise known as New Canada. There’s another part called California, and another called Dubai. Olivier walks through Kakuma’s largest market, known as Hong Kong, almost every day, and as he does, men on the road call his attention by shouting his nickname: "Cristiano, hey."

[SECTION 4a]

Getting nicknamed after one of the game’s great players is perhaps the ultimate sign of respect for a soccer player in Kakuma. Olivier tells me to ask anyone, that even if they don’t know anything about football, they know who the Cristiano Ronaldo of Kakuma is. People say, "Come here Ronaldo," and he talks with them about the goals he scores, and he says he becomes a happy man, "just like that."

Olivier is seemingly indefatigable. When we speak in his compound, he leans forward and bounces and keeps finding excuses to get up and rush out of the room. He puts on the red-and-white striped jersey that Awer Mabil — a former Kakuma refugee who was relocated to Australia at age 11 and became a professional soccer player — gave him on a visit. He grabs an Okapi flag, with the head of a deer/zebra/giraffe-like animal depicted on it, then gets the trophy he won for being the league’s top scorer last season. Olivier calls himself a singer, street dancer, and funny man when he’s not playing soccer. He is learning how to become a mechanic and wants to open a garage. He almost never stops grinning.

[SECTION 4b]

Yet Olivier had to steady himself before the penalty kick that should have beat Legends in the fast-falling night. "When everyone is relying on you to win, everyone is just praying and watching you, all eyes are on you," Olivier says, through a translator. "I was really tense — looking at the keeper, looking at the ball. And that's the final prayer to God to just allow the ball in. Then after that you can forget so much pressure."

He made sure to address the ball the same way he always does, looming over it before hopping out wide, same as Cristiano Ronaldo.

Scoring goals is Olivier’s favorite thing on Earth. He scored 17 times in 22 games last season while playing for Okapi. Against Virunga FC Last season, a team he calls one of the most feared in the KPL, he netted the game winner late in a 3-3 game. He celebrated the whole week. The community threw two parties for him. Some painted his name around the camp, or gave him money that he used to renovate his compound. He says it was the best moment of his whole life.

"Through football, I came to learn that it gives a smile to anyone and happiness, then it makes people around you love you," Olivier says. "I never thought that I could get so much love from people. That's when I realized happiness exists. Happiness exists in football."

[SECTION 4c]

In 1998, Olivier and his older sister watched his parents get slaughtered in the Democratic Republic of Congo. They were caught up in the escalating days of the deadliest conflict since World War II, he and his siblings betrayed by their faces.

The Hutus — with the backing of Laurent Kabila, the by-force president of the DRC — began killing Banyamulenge people living on the eastern edge of the country, labeling them as Rwandan invaders. Olivier’s mother and father were from separate, non-targeted tribes near the border, but Olivier’s maternal grandmother was among the Banyamulenge, and so the tribe was in their blood.

On August 8, 1998, a charge went out on DRC state radio:

Wherever you see a Rwandan Tutsi, regard him as your enemy. … Open your eyes wide. Those of you who live along the road, jump on the people with long noses, who are tall and slim and want to dominate us ...

Olivier and his family could not hide. When Kabila’s army came to their city of Uvira, he and his siblings had been playing in the house. His mother hid them — he and his older sister outside in the bushes, his younger sister in a small box, and a baby brother who he lost track of in the moment. His parents were still inside when the soldiers entered. Olivier and his older sister were the first people to see them dead.

"They were sleeping in a pool of blood," Olivier says. He is calm. He spares no details as he tells his story. "We were left as orphans."

His sister raised them, but when she became engaged, she ran away with her fiancé, leaving Olivier to take care of his two younger siblings. When the conflict with Rwanda escalated again in 2012, he left town — they had run to Goma by then — with his younger sister. Olivier felt that his younger brother was still too small to come and left him behind. He has not seen or heard from him since.

[SECTION 4d]

Olivier was separated from his younger sister when M23 soldiers — rebels against the DRC government — captured him on their way north, towards Uganda. He doesn’t know what became of her, either. He was the rebels’ captive for four weeks, marching next to scores of other young men who didn’t want to become soldiers in the conflict. They were tied together and forced to work without food or water. A shootout saved them. While he and the others were taking one of their few rests, the rebels were ambushed, and the young men escaped.

They made it to Uganda on swollen legs by eating wild fruits and following the few who knew the terrain. In 2013, he was finally settled in Kakuma by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), where he knew his sister and her now-husband were waiting for him. He played in a proto-form of the Kakuma Premier League in 2013, and led all scorers then, too.

"To me, football is like the first family to me, because that's the only thing that gives me a sense of happiness," Olivier says. "Whenever I get into the field and play, the joy of other people seeing whatever goal you are doing, it's just overwhelming. People see me doing great things, but they don't know how wounded I am inside."

Mental health counseling provided by the Jesuit Refugee Service helped Olivier to fight his dark memories. It quashed the revenge he thought he wanted. He came to realize that there was no external action that could heal the pain of losing his family and that was good in many ways. But then there was the matter of the pain itself, something he has had to face alone, haunted even in his most exalted moments.

"I am not a proud man," Olivier says. "When I play football, yes I bring so much victory and happiness to other people, but at the same time, those people go have their parents whenever they are scoring, or if their team wins.

"The worst thing in my life is seeing other people hugging their parents. They're so happy, and that's always taking me back to when my parents were killed."

Olivier completed his secondary education in the DRC, but stalled in Kakuma when, after speaking mostly French, he had to try to get his Kenyan diploma while being taught in English and Swahili. Sometimes he performs soccer tricks in Hong Kong for money, but he says that, as a man, he’s tired of asking for help.

"He's having a hard life," Buchiza Bya-Mungu Jerome, Okapi’s head coach, says. Jerome understood when Olivier left Okapi to play for Atletico because their coach offered Olivier a compound. Jerome recalls how, last season, players would show up late for practice, and he would tell them to go home. Olivier never would.

[SECTION 4e]

"He used to say, 'OK coach, if I will not enter the field, help me with a ball," Jerome says. "He will even say, 'I want to play with the small children.' He used to take a ball and go play with the small children. That's why I'm saying he is different from others."

Olivier only speaks about his happiness in terms of others — the happiness he observes in teammates, mothers, and young ones in the camp. He hasn’t yet found a way to be happy on his own terms. When he doesn’t feel good, he grabs a ball, goes to the field, and plays. When he’s outside, there is a good chance that someone will recognize him. He can’t sit still, and he can’t be alone.

"I will play, until I get back to the house and I feel very light and OK," Olivier says. "That's why [I’m] socializing with other people. I waste a lot of time before I get home. It's already late. And then I sleep, and another day starts like that."

Olivier can’t keep a grin off his face for long. Next to his head is a poster pinned to a thin wooden wall of barnyard animals and the sounds they make. It’s torn at the bottom. He says he’s had to accept the fact that he’s getting used to life here.

[SECTION 5]

Following the Tuesday meeting between Atletico and Legends, the LWF promptly schedules the rematch for Thursday. As a precaution against the loss of daylight and potential violence, the game is set to start at an earlier time, 4 p.m, and at a neutral location, across from the walled-off UNHCR compound.

Until 1 p.m. that day, the teams didn’t know where the match would take place. They initially believed it would take place Saturday, the same day as the big season opener between the defending champions, Naath FC, and the runners-up, Okapi.

Because of Kakuma’s expanse of sky, the rain clouds seem to lord over the camp even as they gather far away. Before kickoff, there is already commotion. The same ref who worked the first game and gave Legends penalty kicks they didn’t deserve shows up to the rematch promptly, dressed in a red Adelaide FC soccer kit.

There is a short, excited LWF official overseeing the match who stuffs the game ball under his LWF polo such that he looks pregnant. He is trying to calm down Atletico, who are understandably furious from the last match. The brand of Swahili spoken in Kakuma borrows several English words, and the word "corruption" filters out above the arguing.

A light drizzle begins. The referee is standing far away from the fray, but occasionally an Atletico player will break free to point a finger in his stoic face. The LWF official is doing everything he can to keep the attention on himself. Olivier is smiling and addressing his teammates.

"Sawa sawa," he says, a common Swahili phrase that essentially means, "I’m good, you’re good, we’re good." He says: "It’s OK, they’ll change the referee."

Quickly, the sky becomes mottled, the blue gone, and the rain turns steady now. Many of the fans who showed up — maybe a quarter of the original crowd — run and huddle under a wide, flat-topped tree to watch.

Though Kakuma is arid, rain isn’t always welcome here. "The water doesn’t help," Istarline, one of our fixers, tells us. "It doesn’t even last." Sometimes it rains so hard that the Tarach River bed, which runs through the camp like a spine, overflows and washes out dozens of mud huts, melting them, Istarline says, "like chocolate." Sometimes the rain falls far away in the hills, unseen, and the water comes rushing into the camp unexpectedly, wreaking havoc.

[SECTION 5a]

The rain is welcome at the start of the match, tamping down the dust and adding some semblance of control to the ball. After a minute of play an outright downpour begins. After another minute, the conditions are unplayable and the match is whistled. Players on both teams run off the field, straight for cover, and to their bags for extra clothes. I catch Olivier.

"What’s happening?"

"We will play tomorrow now," he says, then he lifts up his foot to show me the bottom of his cleats. They are caked in mud and useless.

"Are you getting frustrated by the delays?"

"Me? No, never," he says. We walk away, and someone calls after him, "Cristiano."

The match is postponed, again, to the following Wednesday. The Thursday after, I receive a text from Olivier saying Atletico lost, 1-0.

[SECTION 6a]

Olivier is Kakuma’s best scorer, but people agree the best soccer player is Okapi’s Okanda Philician. He is densely built and broad, which makes him stand out among Kakuma’s otherwise wiry soccer population. I arrange to talk to him through Jerome on the morning they are set to play Naath FC in the opening match of the 2017 Kakuma Premier League.

We sit in little plastic chairs in front of Jerome’s compound. Jerome is there to translate. Okanda is staring at the dirt. Before we start, Jerome gives him a pep talk.

"I was telling him, 'Be free for every question you will be asked. Give him the answer that you have, and don't fear, because he is a journalist,’" Jerome tells me. "‘These questions will help him maybe to write some books. Either he can go to the radio and publish the answers that you will give him.'"

Okanda makes his imposing figure small. His voice is high and quiet and straining, like he is trying to lift something too heavy. He tells me that, at 21 years old, time is running out for him.

[SECTION 6]

Soccer players age quickly in Kakuma. At 24, Okanda will no longer be eligible for a U23 development program. His only hope, then, would be that his talent is good enough to join a professional team. Jerome says: "If [Okanda] can be selected this year or next year, at least at 22 years, if he can reach a big club — like Manchester, like Real Madrid, like Barcelona, like Dortmund, like PSG from France — he can be very happy."

Beginning the season with a match between Okapi and Naath is like a Week 1 meeting between the Patriots and the Falcons. Last season, the league’s two best teams played a thriller, and it ended in controversy. With six minutes left and Okapi winning 1-0, Naath were on the attack when the referee whistled a foul outside of Okapi’s penalty area. When the whistle blew, however, a Naath player shot the ball at the net, and Okapi’s players, assuming play was dead, let it go in.

The linesman raised his flag signalling a goal. The referee ran to him to conference. Together they decided to count it, shocking everyone, including Naath fans. Okapi refused to continue playing the game, forcing the referee to end it early in a tie. The LWF later reversed the decision and gave the game to Okapi.

Naath, Okapi players like to say, doesn’t actually play soccer. They win by intimidation — by playing rough, injuring players, and by bringing the full force of their large fanbase to every game. Naath is a primarily South Sudanese club, made up of Nuer players.

"Everybody used to say they fear them," Shadrack, Okapi’s left winger, says. "They never accept to be defeated." To beat them, you need to be fast with your touches. "At least one touch, you give the ball to your teammate," Alex, Okapi’s left fullback, says. "You touch and you give, you touch and you give."

[SECTION 6b]

Okanda was discovered by a member of the Okapi community who saw him playing at a reception center as his family was waiting to be settled by the UNHCR. He told Jerome that Okanda could be an asset to the team, so Jerome and two other members of Okapi went to the reception center to scout Okanda in person. Jerome saw a powerful player, one who could facilitate others, and who had a stolid demeanor on the pitch.

Jerome needed to convince Okanda’s mother to let her son live in Kakuma, however. Her and her seven children were selected to be resettled in Kalobeyei, a new UNHCR settlement 18 miles from Kakuma that hadn’t established sports programs yet. Jerome borrowed Okanda for a trial game against Naath, and Okanda commanded the midfield as Okapi won, 1-0. Jerome then canvassed the Okapi community to pool their money, 50 KES at a time, to show Okanda’s mother the support that her son would have.

"The community accepted that, they would assist whatever he can ask for, even if we will not support 100 percent," Jerome says. "We agreed. So, the mother said, 'He is now in your hands. Take him like your son, like your brother, and help him to extend his talent.'"

Corruption pesters Jerome. Though Okapi went 2-0 against Naath last season (after LWF rectified the referee’s mistake), he insists that his team should have won the inaugural season of the KPL and its prize of 50,000 Kenyan shillings. He says that referees were often against his team because the Congolese are a minority in the camp. South Sudanese teams like Naath, he claims, repeatedly receive preferential treatment.

The LWF office doesn’t refute those claims.

"You can't pin it, you can't know someone's heart. But you feel it," Mboya says. "And especially that one, between Okapi and Naath, at the back of my mind I thought nationality came into play in making that decision, because the referee was Sudanese, a South Sudanese."

It is Okanda’s every intention to leave this all behind — these officials, the violence on the dirt pitches, Okapi, Kakuma, his family in Kalobeyei. "He is not happy to be here, he is not happy to be in Kakuma," Jerome says. "He wants to benefit more. He wants to benefit more than what he is benefiting here, and go outside."

[SECTION 6c]

Mboya calls the match between Atletico and Legends "not quite medium" sized compared to the full-bore crowd he expects for the season opener. To head off clashes, the LWF will employ maximum security for Okapi-Naath FC. There will be 20-30 members of Kakuma’s civilian protection group, as well as LWF officials and armed Kenyan police.

The LWF has planned a festival around the match — food, dancers, participants from the Kakuma’s Got Talent competition for entertainment. It is worried less about the players than the latent animosity that may be infecting the crowd. The LWF has selected "Peaceful Coexistence" as the theme of the match.

Okanda looks antsy. His expression doesn’t change but his knee is jiggling, up and down, in a chair that is too small. I’m not sure if I ever got to know what he is thinking. Kickoff is approaching.

"For me, football is my star," Okanda says, via Jerome. "It is a must for me to take it with two hands."

[SECTION 7]

For the 4:30 game, Okapi meets at 1 p.m. to eat together in New Canada. They make ugali, a dish of maize and sorghum mixed together to form a doughy, starchy substance that sits in your stomach for hours.

The players chat idly, building useful nervous energy. For as much as they like to proclaim it, no matter how often they say that it’d be the only outcome that is fair and just, victory over the Nuer boys is not guaranteed. For two hours they stand up and sit down, again and again.

At 3:30 they gather in the midst of Hong Kong market, waiting for a critical mass of fans and well-wishers to join. Fans orbit the team with Okapi flags and vuvuzelas, acting as hype men.

As Okapi FC walks towards the pitch, they sing. More fans. There are at least three vuvuzelas now, contradicting each other. The team takes a left fork and passes a butcher shop with skinned goat hanging in the window on which the flies stop and watch.

[SECTION 7a]

The procession leaves the camp and goes out past Kakuma’s de facto welcome sign, a cartoon depiction of a toddler pooping on the ground, and words warning, "This is a no open defecation area." At the pitch, three big, white tents line the far sideline to shade the VIPs. There are banners around the pitch like the ads you’d see around an EPL game, except these show messages about HIV awareness and stemming gender-based violence.

[MODULE "Watch video from inside Kakuma and meet Olivier, Kakuma's best scorer"]

Okapi line up on their goal line and skip together in rhythm to the edge of the penalty box, clapping their hands on their knees. As they do a stretch circle, Naath FC streams onto the pitch, their contingent even bigger and louder. Okapi players and fans collapse around their captain, take a knee, and listen to his exhortation.

[SECTION 7b]

The crowd swells quickly to an imposing size just before kickoff, 20 or 30 people deep around the entire pitch — the LWF estimated the crowd at 15,000 people. It’s unclear how they will be kept at bay during the match, and in truth, they can’t — Okapi loses possession in its own territory and Naath scores first, sending fans rushing onto the field. Several people do cartwheels, and hug players. One man rips off his shirt and sits cross-legged in the dirt, apparently finding peace as thousands of people rush past.

The sky is bright blue, the clouds deep and geographic. The crowd is in constant conversation. The announcers, Ali and Allan, give And1-style running commentary throughout the match. The mothers of Okapi players sit and stand next to me in colorful pagnes, smiling. In front of them, Jerome is running back and forth between the same two ends of a 20-foot stretch of sideline, upset at how the match is unfolding.

[SECTION 7c]

Okapi is playing like he’d feared: They’re slow with the ball, allowing Naath players to get their bodies into them. The referee never sees, or never calls, the hard elbows that fly as players wait for 50/50 balls to land. A Naath player tries to sell contact with Okapi’s striker, No. 6, who wags his finger in his opponent’s face when the referee doesn’t blow his whistle.

[SECTION 7e]

Okapi is fortunate that Naath can’t generate a surge, either. The goalkeepers remain relatively untested, until Naath makes a mistake similar to Okapi’s, turning over possession on its end and letting the ball leak into the net. Okapi’s celebration rivals Naath’s. One of the mothers runs onto the field swinging a green plastic chair like Petey Pablo swings a shirt.

At halftime, Jerome tells me Okapi will win. The late goal was a strong motivator, and he will change Okapi’s formation from a 4-3-3 to a 4-2-4 to put Naath on their heels. Fans join in both teams’ pep talks. The start of the second half is delayed while the referees, civilian security, and LWF try to calm the crowd, which began pelting Okapi’s goalkeeper with rocks.

[SECTION 7f]

Okapi’s shift pays off quickly. They pin the ball in Naath’s half of the field for most of the half. Okanda now plays an even more pivotal role with more space around him in midfield. Okapi is finally playing the fast, precise soccer it promised. Naath’s goalkeeper begins to shake. Okapi scores with 20 minutes remaining, and nearly scores again soon after when the keeper dribbles the ball dangerously in front of his own net. Satellite celebrations begin among Okapi fans around the pitch when he is pulled.

Naath press, projecting their desperation. They need help.

Okanda gets hammered to the ground just outside Naath’s penalty area, and the referee doesn’t blow the whistle (Naath fans would say he fell and writhed in the dirt entirely of his own accord). He has to go off the field for a medical check. He comes back at the next opportunity with dirt smeared on the back of his jersey, but Jerome is not happy. He yells at referees for letting the game get too physical, and at security for letting Naath fans encroach the sidelines.

[SECTION 7d]

Okapi fans begin pleading with the ref: "Time, time, time!" The team becomes defensive allowing Naath, again, to dictate the match, seemingly praying with their fans for the end at last. A slide tackle deep in Okapi’s territory sends the ball stumbling free in front of the net, but no one can touch it in. Jerome looks back at me, relieved, as if he had escaped.

[SECTION 7g]

In the 93rd minute, Naath dribbles the ball into a mob near the right post of the Okapi net, and the ball slips out and over the goal line. Naath fans grab fistfuls of dirt and throw them in the air, obscuring the field and the now thousands of people on it. The mountains, faraway, disappear. Okapi and Atletico tie, 2-2.

[SECTION 7h]

Jerome and Naath’s head coach shout at each other. Jerome immediately alleges corruption. Both sides — players, coaches, and fans — empty a complete spectrum of emotions at once, bursting as if too big for their clothes. I get caught in the middle of a fist fight.

"I’m not happy. I'm not angry for the result," Jerome tells me. He is breathing heavily, visibly upset, unsure of what to say or feel or do next. "There is win, there is draw, and sometimes you can lose. So any of them you have to accept, and you have to know that it can happen."

[SECTION 8]

Gabriel Beny Thon is one of the few players, like Okanda and Olivier, who is good enough to be a target in the Kakuma Premier League’s informal free agency. He has never played for a crowd like the one that turned out for Okapi-Naath, however. He has been offered small stipends and better housing to play for other teams, but he chooses to stay with Deng’s cash-strapped All-Stars. He’s the team’s captain, Deng’s proud co-pilot, and he’s one of the select who has a nickname.

Beny also goes by "Dinho." As in Ronaldinho. As in one of the most technically impressive footballers ever. That’s important to him.

"Those fans they are watching the kids, saying, 'You know, when you play football, there's player which is your role model, you follow,’" Beny says. "You look when people play Champions League. You say I'm Cristiano Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, there's a role model you follow. And fans love every single player."

Beny, roughly 23, has made a tidy life in Kakuma. He lives in a compound he likes. It has stone walls and a metal roof. He has just one roommate, two mattresses between them — one on a frame, the other on the dirt — and a desk that they split. Two bibles and four engineering books rest on top of it. Beny’s compound is one in a short row of four compounds occupied by young South Sudanese men like him.

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Few in Kakuma love soccer enough to tailor their skills the way Beny has. The sand is hot and hard, with no grass or moisture to give the game the normal physics of other places. In play, the ball changes ends of the pitch quickly, careening back and forth, and skies high when it bounces. In this environment, if one were to willingly stylize his game around any soccer god, Ronaldinho — with his superior control and endless tricks — might be the worst choice. Soccer as it is played in Kakuma allows almost no room for nuance.

Beny’s loyalty to what is, for now, a middle-of-the-pack KPL team is surprising given his potential. Deng wooed him by appealing to Beny’s ever-consciousness of legacy. Beny speaks in low, staccato epigrams. "You don’t play for the fans, you play for the flesh," he says, reminding me that playing soccer is a personal endeavor, "because what you are doing, people are watching you play around the world, and you might not know."

Beny went to South Sudan in 2011 in hopes of sparking his soccer career. He thought he might compete for a spot on the national team. He bounced around to several clubs but says he never felt a connection anywhere he went. He felt like an outsider, "no friendships," and went back to Kakuma, deciding that it would be a better place to struggle.

That was the first and last time Beny has been to South Sudan.

Beny learned soccer in Kakuma. "That's the only talent I have," he says, and he has accepted the truth that his potential will never be fully realized.

"When I used to play football, I knew I was going somewhere. But at last I came to realize I'm not going anywhere," Beny says, matter of factly. "I come to accept and say, 'OK, there is nothing I can do. No matter. Maybe God never meant for me to play football. Maybe I was meant to do other things.’

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"Football is a game about losing and winning," he says. "It's a game about rectifying your own mistakes."

Beny’s prowess has cultivated a following. That’s perhaps the biggest privilege he has as a soccer star in Kakuma: the ability to meet so many people, and to know he has made them happy. His favorite moment from his first season with the All-Stars was when they beat Okapi, 4-2. The result was vacated because the All-Stars played their suspended goalkeeper — Beny calls that game the beginning of the All-Stars’ downturn — "but it was a nice day, you know?"

Children talk to him. "They all start saying, ‘you see that guy there, that’s the guy they call Dinho.’" Beny listens. He wants them to play soccer too, to keep the teams full and increase the quality of play in Kakuma until a point when the rest of the world has to notice. Some of those kids have started nicknaming themselves "Beny Thon."

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That, Beny says, makes him happy in the face of everything he wishes would have gone right in his life. While Deng and others may hope that the KPL serves as a flare to the outside world, Beny accepts his role as a bright star that can only be seen in this darkened part of the world.

"I believe when you struggle that's when you get something. And when you are struggling, you have to struggle with a clean heart," Beny says. "You know life here is not easy, but I'm struggling and you see me here. I'm happy, but I live inside a lie.

"I have to accept the fact I'm happy."

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