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westcoastwonderlandrp · 8 years ago

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Catching Up with the Rebellion.

March 9th, 2017.

Sunlight bled pale indifference over the slanted windowsill. Aeron watched Max slither into his hoodie and turned the page of his comic book absently. Debating.

Comic books weren’t always his thing. They’d become a habit, almost, something he picked up from Max, who hoarded them in little sleeves of plastic and hid them places he thought nobody would find them in their crooked Victorian conversion. Aeron took quiet pride in the fact that Max allowed him the opportunity to read the books he held so dear—campy, colorful things that they were, with the same man in magenta and fuchsia declaring “equality for all mutants” on every other page, seemingly.

Looking from Magneto to Max, Aeron thought he saw some similarities. More in the defiant set of Max’s jaw than even in the wink of a gold Star of David disappearing under thin black fabric.

Max caught Aeron’s gaze in the mirror and smiled back at him, turning slightly.

“Don’t look so worried.”

“Who’s worried?” Aeron quipped back, closing the comic he’d been perusing back up and slipping it into its glossy plastic sleeve. “Not me. I know you can handle yourself. Whatever it is you’re up to.”

“Up to!” Max’s smile was lopsided. It bore resemblance to something much homier and knowing; more man’s best friend than wild predator. “That just makes me sound like I have a plan. A diabolical one.” Shaggy blond hair scattered in a canine shake as Max pulled his hood up over his head, chuckling faintly.

“You said it, not me,” Aeron pointed out, sliding off the edge of the futon-sofa with a quiet sigh. Max’s brown eyes sobered, though the rest of his face reflected in the hall mirror stayed warm and soft. It was so often these days that Aeron saw the ‘wolf peering out at him, not the man. It was in this instance he glimpsed it again—snooping behind a human mask of faintly-freckly skin and old, fading scars. Hesitantly, Aeron reached out to take one of Max’s hands. As if tamed by this, the creature—the half of Max he held in dark places like basements and crying sessions—backed off. Max returned to Aeron in the blink of dark brown eyes, in the soft curve of a knowing mouth. A squeeze solidified the steadiness and Max clasped his free hand over their joined ones, lifting Aeron’s digits to his lips.

“It’s only been a few months,” Aeron said finally. Max glanced up, lowering their hands. His thumb curved across Aeron’s knuckles, fingers tracing his palm. Aeron felt the ghost of a laugh breeze by his ear. It tickled. He lifted a shoulder to nudge the sensation away, eyes steadily fixed on the werewolf in secondhand Abercrombie.

“I know. But everything’s settling.” Aeron’s face hardened a little. “It is,” Max murmured, dark eyes earnest. “They’re rebuilding, yeah, but the guys at the top—it’s all smoke and mirrors. They’re trying to be bigger than they are. H, N--” He referred to the Handlers not by name outright, but by initial. Even in his own house, Max was meticulous. Methodical. Did Aeron not trust him even half as much as he did now, it might’ve been unsettling. As it stood, he simply accepted and absorbed it as another fact of Max. “They’re just figureheads.” Aeron was silent. “The real power is in the IDEA of them, not what they can actually do…”

“Please, just--” Aeron lifted his free hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. Max relented, the fire in his eyes fading to sparks of interest. The unmentioned weight of Aeron’s mother pressed upon them both. “…Just…promise me,” Aeron finished faintly, looking back up.

“I’ll be careful,” Max reassured the witch softly. Aeron cocked a brow and set his jaw. Max, noting the look and the sharp descent into hot water to follow should he break his promise, sighed a little. “I swear,” he added. Aeron squinted, then leaned in to press a kiss to Max’s forehead that imparted blessing as much as it did exasperation.

“You better be,” Aeron murmured. He felt the ‘wolf retreat reluctantly.

Their hands held together for as long as possible before Max turned away, leaving Aeron to the empty shell of a house, his music, and the comic books with their careful plastic coverings.

“Well, look at that.” His smile was shit-eating; a surfacing explosion detonated by fuses of bemusement. Rocks and hills moved before it. The world stopped turning momentarily. “Max and Marx, together at last.” Max crinkled his nose faintly. The bar stank of petrol and piss; of wayward sweaty figures and something not unlike asphalt in the Summer rain. An Englishman from the North sat adjacent to him on the bar, half-laid out on the scratched-up surface. Everything inside glowed red; the calm, pulsating red of something predatory. Something angry, but willing to wait. Max took a breath to steady himself and folded his hands on the bar, sliding into a seat.

“Doesn’t really work—seeing as Max is--”

“Your ‘first name’. I know, right?” The Northerner’s grin widened slowly, and he swung around from the bar, lifting his beer to his lips. “Not exactly the smartest move; mate.” Amusement faded sharply into icy judgment. Max felt a chill spike his spine. “Flipping the two…Derek.” Heat; retroactive and reactive, rushed through Max at the name-drop. “Derek Maxwell,” Russell continued, and lowered his beer to the counter. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Max felt the sharp pang of old and familiar anger—fingers curling and popping with a longing to grasp Russell K. Marx by either side of his head and drive his smug face into a well-positioned knee.

The satisfying crack of bone on bone was something Max could deal with. Easily.

Not the rest of this.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, so you’re a psychic now?” Max fired back before he could stop himself. Russell’s face never changed—cornered animals confronted with threats didn’t faze him much, apparently.

“Nah, mate, but you’re an easy read.” Russell swung back in his seat a little, arms slung over the bar. One hand motioned vaguely. “Look at you—wound up like a spring. A little more application of pressure…” Russell’s finger ghosted closer in the air. Max tensed; readying himself. “Bchew,” Russell feigned an explosion in motion and sound, hand flying open and fingers fanning. Golden light danced in his palm; briefly—so brief that it could’ve easily been a reflection of the lights around them, though Max knew that it was not.

“No more Mr. Nice Wolf.”

“This isn’t why I came to meet you,” Max mumbled, rubbing his nose. Russell watched him with bright hazel eyes; reddish in the all-crimson encompassing room. The hum of electricity in the air ran currents under their feet; wrapped serpentine around the stools. Patiently waiting. Outside; the traffic had picked up as rush hour began. Max caught a whiff of hard drugs on the lean figure to his left, something mean and unforgiving that had its teeth in Russ’s veins. Maybe Russell saw it on his face; maybe he was prepared to run, but whatever the case, he shifted positions and sat up with a lazy lift of his scuffed-up chin.

“I know. You came looking for an ally and you get…” Russell motioned grandly to himself. “This.” His face shifted slightly, hands folding around his beer.

“I have a stake in this, too, you know,” he said finally, much more serious than before. Max quieted, watching him with care. “I didn’t schlep myself all the way to the Golden Coast in the hopes of making a quick buck, no, I came because I’ve friends who’ve moved here.” He scanned the room and Max did too; though without turning. He listened. Scented. Let Russell do the looking.

“They’re planning something big,” Russell noted. Max glanced sidelong at him. “Something that’s drawing people here. Not just your Handling problem--” Max shot a look around swiftly and hunched up a little, tugging on his ear. Just a guy having a chat with another guy. Not a big deal. “But something else, too. Other players are entering the game, Max.” The werewolf felt another uneasy shiver shake his spine. Shadows seemed to briefly overtake the bar—the color of blood faded under the color of bruise. Russell glanced up, watching the lights overhead shake and rattle. The earthquake passed, and Russell sipped his beer again, glancing down once more.

“Here.” He reached under his coat and set a thin gray file on the bar between them. Max glanced at it, moments before it slipped beneath his sweatshirt for safekeeping. “That’s got the information on the…I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this—‘old gods’ y’asked for.” Russell tipped his beer in Max’s direction as Max rose away from the bar. “There’s been a shift in weather patterns; more bizarre incidents reported—even a resurgence of New Wave, New Age, whatever it is—paganism. It’s wild. Werewolves, witches, vampires…” Russell shook his head slightly, expelling a breath through his teeth. “Superpowers? Sure. Supernatural? Keep it on the CW, mate.”

“You’ll be in town a while?” Max asked, ready to duck out as quick as he came. He had places to be—Aeron to return to; graffiti messages to leave, and connections to make in the Mousehole. His chores for the afternoon into evening were far from over. And he’d already spent too much time being shady somewhere semi-public with someone already shady. Russell looked up from turning his bottle in his hand and smiled faintly, lifting an arm in a flippant shrug.

“Till the wind changes.” Max just stared. “Mary Poppins? No? Tough crowd,” the reporter mumbled, lowering his bottle with a ‘clunk’ against the bar. Max pulled his hoodie up and headed for the door, caught only by Russell’s final words—

“Max?” The ‘wolf on the lam glanced back at Russell, hugging the folder a little closer to himself. “It was nice to finally meetcha,” said Russell. Max blinked, then ducked out the door.

The time for pleasantries had ended.

The time for action had once more begun.

#plot post #also HAP BIRTH HEATHER

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theapprof · 3 years ago

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Skin's Microbiome & Other Stories | TAPP 114

Skin's microbiome is essential for health. In this episode, host Kevin Patton explores that concept and introduces a new recommendation in The A&P Professor Book Club—Clean: The New Science of the Skin. Also, science updates about B vitamins and skeletal adaptations in human birth—and a listener revisits academic integrity involved in deadline leniency.

00:00 | Introduction

00:45 | Revisiting Deadline Leniency

09:21 | Sponsored by AAA

10:08 | Shoulders and Birth

13:01 | Missing B Vitamins

17:32 | Sponsored by HAPI

18:43 | Skin's Microbiome

34:44 | Sponsored by HAPS

35:56 | Clean: The New Science of Skin

40:59 | Staying Connected

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Self and other is less of a dichotomy than a continuum. (James Hamblin)

Revisiting Deadline Leniency

8.5 minutes

A&P faculty Heather Armbruster writes in with some stories that related to Episode 112's discussion of deadline leniency. She relates some incidents involving academic dishonesty. Did you know that students can buy medical excuses online?!

★ Should We Extend Deadlines? | Models & Color Codes | TAPP 112

★ Promoting Academic Integrity in Our Course | Episode 25

★ Modeling Professional Integrity | Episode 26

★ The Cheater! Academic Integrity in Remote Learning | TAPP 81