#also I didn’t forget Mal’s horns

[nami-moittli]

Random twst 3rd years x p3 doodle

(Warning: mentions of shooting yourself)

[painting-wings]

The Dancer & The Cowboy 5 (Vmin)

Masterlist 

Chapters : One | Two | Three | Four | 

*DISCLAMER*: Anything said or portrayed in this story are completely fictional and have no link to the original people or personalities

A/N: Hello back again after a  hiatus (some insane writers block) not sure when the next update will be I am trying to alternate between my other fics as well Also! I created a trailer for this fic! 

Trailer 

                                                             ***

How long had they both been like this, Jimin was in a trance looking into Taehyung’s deep eyes, his eyelashes surprisingly long Jimin didn’t even notice until up this close, he didn’t notice a lot of things until now. The blush crept onto both their cheeks speaking an unspeakable need, Jimin eyes flickered between Taehyung's eyes then lips. 

Both of them waited, hesitant even to make the first move. Jimin snaked his hand up Taehyung's neck into his hair pulling him down towards him and like a bolt of electricity as their lips touched. Sparks flew as they continued the kiss, lips fitted together like a puzzle as their bodies molded to one another they was in their own euphoria, Taehyung gripped Jimin’s waist tighter trying to pull him impossibly closer as he skillfully pushed his tongue into Jimin’s mouth making him moan in surprise. 

They broke the kiss both gasping for air, “wow…you got some skill cowboy” 

Taehyung couldn’t form words just stuned that he non-verbally confessed his feelings to Jimin, looking back at his lips then his face for once Taehyung was stunned, confused and conflicted, he looked around the room seeing everyone the anxiety set in as Taehyung began to panic. Looking back at Jimin “I’m sorry” before leaving Jimin in the middle of the dance floor. Jimin tried to reach out for him but he was to slow, tears slowly pricked at his eyes this was a horrible idea and he knew it from the beginning, fuck the summer, fuck his parents Jimin just wanted to go home and forget this whole trip, grabbing his stuff he walked out of the community hall; he wasn’t sure on how to get home but he just followed the road where he came from. 

This was a stupid idea. 

Jimin’s feet hurt in the stupid cowboy boots, he looked and felt like an idiot and all the contry roads look the same. He was ready to be kidnapped or even killed by the backwards outsiders that lived in the swamps. It was cold and typical Jimin didn’t have a jacket, walking down he heard a horn honking at him, Jimin was ready to tell the person to fuck off. 

The truck pulled up and was rolling slowly beside him, and who was it hanging out of the driver's window. Kim fucking Taehyung. Jimin was furious, upset he wanted nothing more than to rip into him.

“Hey city boy, it’s not safe out here for someone like you” 

Jimin scoffed, “you’re the one to talk” 

“Look I- its personal” 

“No! You listen to me what you did back there was… what the fuck even happened back there?! Look I know I kissed you first but you didn’t have to kiss back but you did. That was YOUR choice! Then to have some gay crisis-”

“I’m not gay-”

“With the way you stuck your tongue down my throat says other things babe.” Jimin huffed,  “No one even said anything, no one was even watching-”

“You don’t know that, I-I’m not like you, I don’t come from a place where it is normal to be something different”

“You have no idea, my father is disgusted by me, he wanted me to become a doctor, lawyer, something that makes him proud. But the endless dance trophies, ribbons, state record title I own still wasn’t enough for him. So you’re right I don’t know” Jimin huffed as he clenched his fists, holding back the tears of years of emotion hidden from his own family. 

Taehyung's eyes softened a little at the dancer as he felt sorry for him, looking away before replying to him “Will you get in the truck?” 

Jimin scoffed as he crossed his arms over his chest, the fringe on his sleeves swaying giving Jimin’s stance a more sassy attitude, “No” he sneered, looking in any direction but Taehyngs. Taehyung sighed as he rolled his eyes at the shorter male, “Can you please get in the truck?” he asked politely in hopes it will get Jimin to budge but nothing. Jimin pursed his lips still looking away like a stubborn child, between them was silence as the crickets could he heard, Taehyung leaned back into the seat of his truck, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel before he could ask again the sound of thunder came rolling in making both of them look towards the sky. “ Do you want to get in now?” Taehyung smirked as Jimin glared at him. 

“Do you want to get in the truck now?” Jimin mimicked as he stuck his tongue out after, it seemed like fate was on Tae’s side as the skies opened up revealing a downpour making Jimin soaked in an instant, the dancer stood there in awe while Tae chucked to himself.

“You think you’re funny?” Jimin barked as Tae gave him a shrug. 

“I don’t control the weather…babe” Taehyung made a smart-ass remark which made Jimin’s blood boil evenmore, where you would see steam coming out of his ears. 

“Well means you’re okay with getting soaked I will see you back at the house” Taehyung was ready to drive off as Jimin clenched his jaw, “No! I wanna get in the truck” Jimin meekly said as Taehyung put a hand to his ear. 

“Sorry what was that?” 

Rolling his eyes, “I wanna get in the truck” Jimin repeated a little louder as Taehyung leaned more forward to hear him. “Oh fuck you, open the truck” 

Taehyung opened the door for him as Jimin slid in, closing the door. “You Know I was expecting to catch you dancing in the rain and singing about your feelings” Tae smirked again as Jimin’s soaked appearance slowly turned to him, if looks could kill Taehyung would already be six feet under. 

                                                             ***

This was the morning after Jimin wasn’t used too.

Normally would consist of him putting back on clothes and trying to find his shoes in a stranger's house before slipping out the door unannounced, then calling Hoseok to come and get him. But not this time, Jimin sat on the porch watching the sunrise over the fields as the misty atmosphere made it look like a fantasy dream. Sure he had been with closeted people before and he respected that, he had also been caught numerous times but why did kissing Taehyung feel different? 

“You seem deep in thought” 

Jimin jumped at the new person to join him, looking up seeing Namjoon smiling down on him, Dimples in full glory. 

“Oh Namjoon, good morning” 

“Can I join you?” Namjoon asked as Jimin nodded, moving over to let him sit beside him. The silence was nice, just enjoying eachothers company, that is until Jimin had a burning question.

“Namjoon, can I ask you something?” Jimin turned to him, playing with the cuffs of his sweater, Namjoon nodded waiting for him to continue. “Has Taehyung ever questioned his sexuality?” 

Namjoon chuckled “well he’s always been curious, he’s someone who goes with the flow and when something disrupts that Tae kinda freezes. And I think you have been the cause of that” 

“It was the kiss wasn’t it?” Jimin sighed, making Namjoon double take. 

“What?” 

Jimin felt his cheeks grow hot as he sheepishly gave Namjoon a smile, “we -  well, kinda…” 

“This is amusing, who knew Cityboy will fall for the Cowboy” Namjoon swooned playfully falling on to Jimin’s shoulder making both of them laugh… “No not falling for him, I’m only here for the summer then I go back also thinking he sees me more as a friend that he can annoy” Jimin sighed.

“Well you got the whole summer, why are you wasting it on feelings and being sad? Don’t you really want to know what living on a farm is like?” Namjoon questioned 

“Not really” Jimin deadpanned, making Joon sigh.

“Missing my point Jimin, just take today to soak in your surroundings and really clear your head” 

                                                           ***

Jimin took Namjoon’s advice and spent the day wandering round the farm, trying to befriend the chickens or sitting in the barn watching the horses graze the fields, sitting there Jimin flicked through his phone letting the music go on shuffle, when a song started playing from his dance playlist. One particular song started to play as he gently did some stretches, thinking of a routine in his head. It wasn’t a hard one; it was more of a modern dance with body rolls and swinging round his hips, complex footwork along with arm movements that complimented the rest of the choreo. 

When the song ended Jimin huffed as he pushed back his hair that was now damp with the sweat. Flopping down onto a straw bale, he closed his eyes for a moment letting the soft noises of the chickens clucking to sooth him. 

“Well that was a show, maybe I should throw money at you next time” 

Jimin opened one eye looking at the cocky cowboy standing over him with a stupid grin on his face. 

“I’m not a cheap whore” grumbled Jimin as he sat up boring his eyes into Taehyung, 

“Never said you were cityboy” humored Taehyung as he took one step closer to Jimin, his eyes glanced at Jimin's exposed collarbones then making their way down to the loosely fitted vest, Taehyung swore he could see a rib tattoo.

“Is that a tattoo?” 

“What? Does it matter?” Jimin defended as Tae gave a humorous chuckle.

“Not just curious, is there anywhere else you have them?” 

Jimin smirked “well you’d have to take my clothes off to see cowboy” Jimin’s eyes sparkled as Taehyung's cheeks dusted a shade of pink as his mouth was slightly gape, his big brown eyes staring down at Jimin unsure of how to reply. 

“Don’t hurt yourself Cowboy” Jimin purred as he patted Taehyung on the shoulder, walking away. 

[thetorchwoodarchive]

[Image Description: a banner for the Across the Bay Crossover Fics You Didn’t See Coming fest, featuring beach signs on a tropical island, reading “Cardiff by the Sea”, the name of the fest, “authors”, “torchwood” (partially obscured), and “one shots” (partially obscured), and a warning sign where Myfanwy chases a swimmer]

ACROSS THE BAY: CROSSOVER FICS YOU DIDN’T SEE COMING MASTERPOST

Thank you everyone for submitting your crossover and fusion fic  recommendations. Below are all submissions and some of our favorites! 

Is it Insensitive for Me to Say by aliciajazmin (EstherJohnTosh | complete | 2441 | T)

Toshiko Sato and Esther Drummond absolutely will make fun of their boyfriend for deciding to attend an audition, while also attending said audition with him. 

Crossover With: The Outer Worlds 

Golden Apples and Norse Gods (Or How Ianto Got His Groove Back) by blackkat (JackIanto | complete | 1592 | G)

Ianto finds himself back from the dead and, apparently, in the position to double-cross a power-crazed Norse god intent on conquering the Earth by taking out a team of superheroes. Must be a Tuesday.

Crossover With: Avengers/MCU

The Magic of Torchwood by Bella the Strange (JackIanto, IantoJohn, JackOther, Non-Torchwood Ships | wip |  546,512 | T)

The Torchwood team have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Set between Adam and Reset. Rated T because of Jack Harkness, swearing, mature themes, slash etc… it’s Torchwood!

Crossover With: Harry Potter

Welcome to Torchwood by Jackdaw818 (Gen | complete | 1601 | T)

A strange creature behind the Ralphs, a break-in at the Museum of Forbidden Technologies, and visitors in Night Vale. Overall, a slightly unordinary day for Cecil Gershwin Palmer

Crossover With: Welcome to Night Vale

Torchwait for iiiiit by lady-demacabre (Gen | complete | 3k | K+)

When Shawn and Gus are called in on a case for an eccentric collector of alien objects, they get more than what they bargained for. One shot, Psych oriented.

Crossover With: Psych

Theme and Variations by nemo_baker (JackIanto, GwenRhys, OwenKatie | 5817 | T)

Time Agent Jack Harkness is sent back in time to solve the mystery of a mysterious train bombing. The problem is, he only has eight minutes to do it.

Written for Reel Torchwood screening 8 on Livejournal. Movie Prompt: Source Code (2011)

Crossover With: Source Code 

Day Tripper by Croquemboucheballpit (Gement) (JackBessie the Third Doctor’s Car, Bessie the Third Doctor’s CarLightening McQueen (past) | complete | 2360 | M)

Bessie’s like any other companion: far from home, more than she appears, and always up for an adventure.

And Jack Harkness really will seduce anything that moves.

Crossover With: Pixar’s Cars 

An American Volunteer by That_one_kid (SteveBucky, BuckyJackSteve | Complete | 4395 | T)

What if Captain Jack Harkness met Steve & Bucky during the war? What if he ran into them again, present day?

AKA

Captain Jack Harkness and his mission to seduce the two gorgeous, capable soldiers who keep running into him.

Crossover With: Captain America/MCU

Statement #0041708 - Future Sight by Jackdaw816 (Gen | complete | 1690 | T)

Statement of Lisa Hallett regarding a peculiar mirror found at a car boot sale

Crossover With: The Magnus Archives

(Un)Welcome Aboard by Jaune_Chat (Jack | Complete | 4,154 | T)

To make ends meet, Mal listens to a suggestion from Inara than he rent out the other shuttle. She has the perfect candidate, a charming Companion named Jack…

Crossover With: Firefly 

Death and the Definitely-Not-A Maiden by Odsbodkins (JackIanto | Complete | 3,6K | PG-13)

When Jack dies, Death is there to meet him. Every time. Written in 2008 for the Doctor Who Crossover Ficathon. Takes in Torchwood to end S2, Doctor Who to end S3, Discworld to Soul Music.

Crossover With: Discworld 

Remarkable by snowwhiteliar ( JackIanto, IantoLisa | Complete | 20.971 | PG-13)

Summary: Once upon a time, in a small village in a distant province of a peaceful kingdom, there lived a boy called Ianto

Crossover With: Fairy Tales 

Got That Friday Feeling Again by NancyBrown (OwenOther, JackIanto, GwenRhys, GwenOwen | Complete | 18.3K | R)

HELP HELP HELP HELP

I AM TRAPPED IN A TIME BUBBLE

The magic marker all over the nice chintz wallpaper bled and smeared as Owen wrote in increasingly desperate lettering across the walls. Ls and Ps dragged down, wiggly at the end or drawn out in slashed strokes.

He ignored the pounding on the door frame. He’d shoved the wardrobe in front, which always kept Jack out for twenty three and a half minutes. He ignored the sweat and tears and snot dripping down his face, down his mouth. He ignored the high-pitched singing from his own throat, “If you want my future, forget my past,” chanted over and over.

HELP

Crossover With: Groundhog Day

Back, and Back, and Back a Little More (Future Optional) (JackIanto, JennyVastra | Complete |  32591 | M)

Accidentally shot into the past by a time-travelling car, Ianto has to fix his own mistakes or he won't have a future to go back to.

Crossover With: Back to the Future 

Truth, Justice by NancyBrown (SupermanOwen | complete | 414 | M)

The green shit does not work. Warnings: dubcon (AMTDI)

Crossover With: Justice League Unlimited/DCAU/Superman 

Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodies, or, A Humourous Interlude Between Epics by  copperbadge (Gen | complete | 749 | T)

Ianto neglected to introduce himself as he informed the senior staff that Atlantis was now under the jurisdiction of Torchwood, whatever Torchwood is.

Crossover With: Stargate Atlantis 

Never Have I Ever by  st_aurafina (JackIanto, JackDoctor (past/implied), PepperTony (implied) | complete | 1714 | T)

Written for the prompt Ianto, Donna and Pepper end up at a secretaries'/assistants' conference and have a conversation about their bosses.

Crossover With: Ironman/MCU

Beware the Sparkles by elisi (JackIanto, JackEdwardBella | complete | 4793 | T)

It's terribly simple. The good guys are always stalwart and true, the bad guys are easily distinguished by their pointy horns or black hats, and we always defeat them and save the day. No one ever dies, and everybody lives happily ever after. Oh and Jack has sex with sparkly vampires.

Crossover With: Twilight 

The Death Note Discovery by KaibaGirl007 (JackIanto | complete | 18,992 | T)

“You’ve clearly just got a notebook belonging to some geek, a rather sick geek I’ll give you that, who likes to keep note of people’s deaths.” - Will the team resist the urge to use the Death Note or will one of them give into temptation? 

Crossover With: Death Note 

A Confluence of Personalities by  galaxysoup (JackIanto | complete | 4839 | T)

Conner Kent’s body might be dead, but his soul has apparently decided to take the scenic route.

Crossover With: DC Comics/Young Justice Comics 

Imposters Among Us by  gwendolyncooper (JackIanto, GwenRhys | complete | 9117 | M)

The Torchwood team (+Rhys) are out for a night of fun when they end up on a spaceship with no power, no info, and no crew. Known only as THE SKELD, the team tries to fix the ship and figure out what happened to its previous occupants.

But something out there is killing them.

Something that may be someone they know.

Crossover With: Among Us 

Traitors (Among Us) by princessoftheworlds (JackIanto | complete | 440 | G)

In a happy future, the team plays Among Us, and Ianto suffers.

Crossover With: Among US 

Tagline: I saw the VIDEO. Got the CALL? What Next??? by  BricklingGhost (TeamGwenee) (JackIanto, JackSamara | complete | 2424 | Not Rated)

'Tagline: I saw the VIDEO. Got the CALL? What Next???

Bollocks. That’s just a myth. Some git showing off and claiming to be the one person alive who Samara doesn’t bump off. He’ll be boasting that he’s been chosen to kill Voldemort next.'

When another unsuspecting victim falls foul of the cursed tape, he is pointed towards Captain Jack Harkness as his only hope for salvation.

Crossover With: The Ring

(My God, He Just) Came and Went by  Brokenpitchpipe (SteveBucky | complete | 1591 | M)

It starts on a cold, snowy September night in 1916, on the day Winifred Barnes walks to Doris Lindow’s house to see her new telephone and catches the eye of a handsome young man on the other side of the street. He tips his hat as she sees him, and she flushes scarlet and nods in return.

And nine months later, a little baby boy screams his way into the world.

But that’s not when it starts. Not really.

Crossover With: Captain America/MCU

Beast Inside by Flamingbluepanda (JackIanto, OwenTosh, GwenRhys | complete | 26934 | M)

"Argue with anything else, but don’t argue with your own nature.” - Phillip Pullman

Inside us all, there is an animal that expresses our soul. How would the world change were those animals outside?

Crossover With: His Dark Materials

Rifts and Robots by Paycheckgurl (JackIanto | complete | 3021 | G)

Jack and Ianto’s date at the movies is interrupted by two robots with no theater etiquette.

Crossover With: Mystery Science Theater 3000

The Jack and Ianto Show by Paycheckgurl (JackIanto | WIP | 7392 | T)

Jack and Ianto are a regular couple, living a quiet life, and trying to fit into the quaint Village of West Castle. Sure they're keeping the secret that Jack is an immortal time traveler from the future, with a fantastical machine called a vortex manipulator that can manipulate time and space around them, but they have much more pressing concerns. Such as strict bosses and nosy neighbors. Everything is perfect, a dream come true.

And Jack is going to keep it that way.

Please Stand By...

Crossover With: WandaVision 

Mutually Assured Uncooperation by  princessoftheworlds (JackIanto, OwenTosh, MarthaMickey, FitzSimmons, LincolnDaisy (past) | complete | 31547 | T)

Aliens, time-travelling, resurrections. These are all experiences familiar to not just one but two top-secret organizations that have a hard time keeping a low-profile. Figures that they would encounter each other eventually.

Or: the five times that SHIELD and Torchwood had an encounter that neither were pleased with, and the one time they had to work together when two of their own were taken.

Or: There's Kree running amok in Cardiff, including a murdered one, and Torchwood is on the case, but so is SHIELD. Also, don't forget the memory-manipulating aliens there too!

Crossover With: Agents of Shield/MCU

all i know is (infatuations) by  princessoftheworlds (JackIanto, JackJohn,  OwenTosh, LisaIanto | complete | 439 | T)

Seventh-year Slytherin Ianto Jones handles a break up, getting a boyfriend, terrible emotional misunderstandings with his best friend Jack Harkness, being miserable, and reconciliation. (Not precisely in that order.)

Crossover With: Harry Potter

[black-dragon1998]

New trainer (Kelley O’Hara x reader)

Summary: After being away for two years, the reader finally comes home to Kelley.

Warnings: sorry for any miss use of military terms. sorry for any mistakes written.

Thanks for reading and comments are always welcome.

“you are the reason I wake up every morning, the reason I want to come home every night. See you soon love <3” Kelley read the message for what had to be the mullioned time. (Y/N) had been overseas for the last two years and Kelley missed her every day.

They face-timed every chance they got even so, (Y/N) being in the army in another country and Kelley being on national camp. Meant those chances were few and far between.

It had been so long since they had seen each other that the other players on the team didn’t even know Kelley was dating. The only one who knew was Alex even nevertheless she knew not to mention it or Kelley’s mood would go south swift with how much she missed her girlfriend.

 “heard anything new?” Kelley was pulled out of her thoughts by Alex who was sitting next to her on the bus. Alex knew how much her best friend missed the love of her life and wanted to lighten the pain in any way possible.

“no. last I heard her squat had to stay behind because the region was unstable and she didn’t know when she would be sent home. Or even when we would be talking the next time.” Kelley had to swallow hard to keep her emotions in check, not wanting the other women to see her cry and worry about her.

Luckily the bus was rowdy enough that their conversation wasn’t overheard by the other players. Sonnett was busy blasting music and pestering the others for no real reason.

 The national team had a day off before the world cup camp started and they decided to go paintballing as a team bonding. Teams had been made at the hotel, if Kelley was being honest she didn’t pay attention. She was to occupied by the message she had received from you. This meant she didn’t know who was on her team.

After the bus stopped everybody got off the bus and into tactical gear very easily and were getting a safety talk before they were let onto the field to play the game. Vlatko also wanted to talk to the team before they became their competitive self.

“I know teams have been made at the hotel already but I have been informed by the staff that a special game is being prepared for you.” Hearing this caught the attention of the team.

“what special game are we talking about?” Julie asked with a critical eye. Ever the level head of the group. Vlatko was happy everybody seemed eager to at something extra to the game.

“While you guys are playing against each other one person is out hunting all of you. Even if they don’t belong to any team they can take out everybody. The person taking out this mystery person gets a special price.” The mention of a special price got everybody excited.

“How will we know that we have been shot by this mystery person and not somebody from the other team?” Ali asked, trying to keep Ash calm before the game.

“Unlike the coloured paintballs, they shoot with black paintballs.” Vlatko told them. After everybody was given guns they split up

 Both teams were so immersed in defeating or upscaling the other world that they completely forgot about the mystery person playing with them. The mystery person moved around undetected as they observed the teams looking who they could take out first.

After looking around a bit they decided to go after Emily and Lindsey first. Emily was her thunderous even id she tried not to be thus easily found. As the mystery person looked at the smaller blond they could see why they worked with Kelley so well.

Emily was shot in the chest and Lindsey in the right shoulder.

Next came Ashlyn and Ali. The couple was well coordinated as they moved around, but again no match for the mystery person. Ash was hit in the stomach and while Ali was doting over her down wife she was hit in the back.

Than came Christen and Tobin, Alyssa and Becky, Mal and Teirna, Rose and Sam, Juli and Crystal, Carli and Megan.

The last two left where Kelley and Alex. Juli and Crystal informed them about this when they passed them. Kelley and Alex who were already on their guard had their senses even more heightened.

Kelley even had the feeling of being watched and could swear she heard branches break around her. Alex told her she was being paranoid. Just as the statement left her mouth she was hit in the stomach by a black paintball.

Kelly immediately dived for cover when a paintball hit a nearby tree. Gun razed the defender peered around the tree to see if she saw anything.

Not noticing the shadow creeping up behind her, hitting her once on each ass cheek. Kelley quickly turns around to catch a glimpse of the shooter but saw nobody.

After a loud horn goes off signalling the end of the game and all the girls sulk back into the changing rooms. Complaining about being taken out in the ways they were.

 Everybody was groaning and being grumpy about the game when Vlatko walked in. being the only person knowing it would end like this. Knowing the identity of the mystery person. He knew they would be unhappy, he wasn’t expecting them to be pouting.

“well girls how did the game go?” it was a rhetorical question, on their faces, he could read how good it went.

“great if you look past that we all got our asses handed to us by a single person. Want that seems to be invisible.” Sonnet remarked. Vlatko could barely contain his chuckle.

“I can assure you I am anything but invisible.” A voice responded from behind Vlatko

Kelley froze at hearing the voice. It couldn’t be her. Kelley thought she was imagining things. You couldn’t be here. Vlatko talking on was what pulled her out of her trance.

“Ladies I like you to meet your new endurance trainer, sergeant (Y/N) (L/N).” Kelley flings herself at the woman when she heard her name. tears spring in Kelley’s eyes when she looks at you.

You are taller than her, with broad muscles shoulders. You are clad in camouflage gear, probably helping you stay hidden in the bushes.

“you’re here. You are here.” Kelley breaths into your shoulder as she keeps hugging you. You hug her back and kiss the side of her head. For the first time in ages, you feel home and safe.

“I’m here love and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.” You tell her. It takes a moment before your words sink in but when they do. Kelley looks up at you with a massive grin on her face.

“so you don’t have to go back?”

“I’m not going back. I was honourably discharged two days ago.” The massive grin on Kelley’s face almost split her face. She kisses you passionately, a kiss you reciprocate immediately.

The happy bubble the two of you had created around you two was broken when the team swarmed the two of you. Seeing you with Kelley made them forget about the slaughter that was the paintball game.

Emily Sonnet was the first to speak being too hyped about the new person in the family.

“you know this behemoth of a woman?” the blond asked looking up at you, earning a slap on the head from Lindsey. This made you chuckle, she reminded you a lot of Kelley. Whispering so much to Kelley earning a slap on the chest from her.

“care to introduce us, Kelley?” Christen asks, trying with the rest of the veterans to rail in the youngsters of the group. Turning around with Kelley still in your arms you were met with twenty curious faces looking at you. You felled a little uneasy with all eyes on you.

Kelley felled your tattooed arms flex around her and gave them a little squeeze to reassure you.

“Guy’s I like you to meet (Y/N) my girlfriend.” The moment girlfriend left Kelley’s mouth the room seemed to explode.

“GIRLFRIEND!” the same word was yelled by over a dozen women at once. Together with.

“Why didn’t you tell us you had a girlfriend?”  you were a little taken back at this, you didn’t know Kelley hadn’t told her team about your relationship. Was she ashamed of you maybe?

“Quiet!” Alex yelled, you gave her a thankful smile. Nobody seemed to want to go against that woman.

Kelley looked down at the ground when she spoke. The reason why was a deep-rooted fear of losing you.

“I didn’t tell anybody because she was overseas for two years and in those two years I didn’t even know if she was coming home or not.” Emotions suddenly overtook you. I didn’t know she had it this hard with me overseas. In all ore conversations, she never let I shiny out that it was this hard on her.

“oh, Kelley. I am so sorry I put you through that.” You turn Kelley around so she is facing you and take her chin between your fingers to gently make her look up at you. Big brown eyes look up at you, littered with unshed tears.

“you have to believe me when I tell you that every day in those two years you are the only reason I got through every shitty thing happening. You were the reason I wanted to come home.” This time you couldn’t help the little crack in your voice. The woman in your arms had a knack of turning you into a big softy.

Instead of answering Kelley pulled you into a passionate kiss that the two of you got lost in completely.

After the heavy moment passed the lighter mood returned and the girls started asking questions. Julie even threatened you, that if you ever hurt Kelley in any way she would find you and hurt you.

It must have been funny to see a soccer player not even reaching your shoulders make you take a step back.

After seeing you weren’t a complete hardass Emily saw it fit to teas.

“so (Y/N), because you are Kelley’s girlfriend those that mean you are going to go easy on us?” you couldn’t help but laugh at the bubbly blond. Not even into first training and she was already asking to slack off. Kelley was smirking knowing you crazy work out habits.

“Well…”

PART 2

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[migeviellardi]

Out Of Comfort

Rottmnt Donnie Centric Fanfic

Genre : Adventure, Action, Humour, Hurt/Comfort

Summary :  Silver has gone to the part where he made Donnie involve in some slightly criminal-related work. Will Donnie regret his decision to ever trust him? Or will his life ends miserably knowing that he should’ve just headed home and not taking any part of Silver’s plan?

Chapter 4 Help Wanted

Run-on-the-mill Pizza place can be a good place to vent for some reason, he always felt better having to just sit down, ordering food, and let go of his thoughts away. The weight lifted off from his chest immensely or is it just that his wisp is his Gram-Gram, sitting on his shoulder to keep him company?

Donnie can’t help smile to see her there, she smiled every he looked at her. It gives him warmth, knowing that he wasn’t entirely alone. At least now he felt a lot better that he took joy to eat his pizza to satisfy his hunger. 

“Grrrr!!” Donnie jumped hearing a growl from the person sitting in front of him. The stranger who called himself Silver, glaring at his phone. His finger tapping hard on the screen. Donnie chewed away as he watched the men frustrated himself with his phone.

Silver gritted his teeth, “Stupid, son of a-” he screamed and threw away his phone. Donnie was surprised to see his phone flew away out of sight. Sia flew after the phone. Silver sighed while shaking his head, he chomps on the pizza he ordered.

“Is-is everything, okay?” Donnie asked.

“It’s not your concern, kid.” Sia flew back with the phone and put it in his hand. Silver saw the phone and frowned at Sia, who scolded him. Donnie saw the wisp flailing angrily at him. Silver shook in disbelief, putting the phone on the table.

Donnie stared at the object. It seems like it just got bought, looks all sleek and new with its black with blue stripes background.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Just some troubles, like many.” he chowed down the pizza, mozzarella cheese melted to his mouth. Donnie can slightly see that the guy somehow had fangs. Until then he realized that he also had a pair of small brown horns. They’re obscured by his unruly hair, which makes him wonder what kind of guy he is.

“Can I take a look on your phone?” he asked. Silver stared at him. He paused for a bit, thinking if he should listen to the kid. 

He sighed and give the kid his phone. Donnie carefully took it and began his inspections. He turns on the phone and found the thing had a hard time finishing the intro. Once Donnie had access to the content, he took his time checking every system, apps, and settings. 

Silver rests his head on his hand, watching the kid gone all quiet, eyes fixated on the screen. He can see the kid in full concentration on what he’s doing, so he didn’t bother to ask anything. 

“Is it okay if I upgrade them a bit?” Donnie offered. Silver raised his eyebrow. The word ‘upgrade’ intrigues and astonished him. Can the kid really upgrade his phone? The kid seems serious about what he said. Although, is it a good idea to let a kid messes with his phone?

But Silver is more curious than worry. Silver gives him a nod. Donnie looked around for Hueso. The skeleton saw the turtle waved at him. He approached him, “If you looking for your coffee, it still in a brewing state.”

“Oh, okay. But also, do you still have my toolbox here?”

“The one that you keep forgetting to bring back with you and instead of you taking it insisting to let me store it for you?” Hueso said in a nonchalant look. Donnie grinned nervously. He sighed, “I’ll go and get it for you.” he walks towards his office.

Donnie went back to the phone in his hand. Silver just watched in quiet, finishing his meal. A waiter with six arms came and put a mug of coffee at Donnie’s side. He quickly took a sip and continue his inspecting. 

Hueso came back with a purple toolbox, he put it next to the mug and went off to do his business. The table shook as the toolbox was set down, how many tools the kid have in that thing?

Donnie put his mug to his other side. He pushed a button on the box and attracted all the tools held by small robot arms. Silver was shocked by the sheer amount of tools that came out of it. 

Donnie opened the phone’s casing. Pulled down his goggles, he types something in his tech bracelet and the robot arms helping him out to do some tinkering. Silver blinked, he observes the kid doing something to his phone. 

He watched the three-fingered hands deftly moves between each tool, once seeing his hand reaching something inside the box and implanting it onto the phone. He waited for the kid to finish as it seems the kid doesn’t want to be bothered while doing his work.

Finally, Donnie plopped back the casing. The toolbox retracted back all the tools, back to its former form. Donnie turned on the phone and give it back to Silver. He took his phone and take a look at it.

“I upgrade the memory storage, which now can hold 200 GB. It’s the biggest one I can get other than stealing it. I upgraded the ram storage, the system processor, the cache settings. Updated further the anti-virus with my own coding, also put a tiny Donnie-blocker to keep off all kinds of mal-ware, aaand installing a new set of cameras for further perfection on either photo or video making ability. Oh, and I give you some unlimited access to the internet. Your Welcome and Thank you!” he smiled with pride and joy. 

Silver nodded in amazement. He explored his phone further and he can already felt the significant difference from before. No lagging, quick accessing, one-second loading. Whatever the kid has done, it did wonders for his phone. “Well, I gotta say, Kid. I’m impressed.” he praised.

Donnie flinched by the appraisal from him. He smiled broadly with tears of joy. How long has he been dreaming for an adult’s appraisals and approvals? Too long perhaps that he can’t contain his smile. Which made Silver cringe at him. Hueso walked past them and saw Donnie glittering in happiness.

“Did you praised him?” he asked.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No. Just brace yourself, that’s all.” he added, leaving them alone. Silver pinched his nose-bridge.

###

Silver walks along the Hidden City’s streets with his new modified phone in his hand. The first thing he finds is that the kid had put thousands of songs on the music list. He’s really intrigued with the titles of each of them, noted to himself that he should give them a try.

“So, where are you going?”

He sighed, he nearly forgot that the said kid still on his tail. 

Silver : Why don’t you just go home, kid?

Donnie : First of all, I am not a kid. I’m 16.

Silver : And, I’m 28. So you’re a kid to me.

Donnie : Scoff! I am a teenager, thank you very much! *arm-crossed*

Silver : Why are you saying ‘scoff’ out loud?

Donnie : And, second, I’m not ready to go home, yet. 

Silver : Why not?

Donnie : Well, even though I’ve been here for an hour and fifty-one minutes, but I just got here.

Silver : And, now, you can go home.

Donnie stopped in his track. Silver noticed the lack of sound of the kid’s footsteps, he turned around at Donnie who clearly unhappy, avoiding eye contact.

“I just won’t, alright? You won’t understand.” he shoved his hands in his pockets. Silver raised an eyebrow, the kid still refused to look at him. 

He sure didn’t understand what the kid’s deal is that he doesn’t want to go home. But it’s not like Silver would want to be part of it, especially if it’s a personal matter. He rolled his eyes and continued his walk, eyes fixated on the screen until he heard the kid’s footsteps following him again.

He peered his head back to the kid. Donnie saw him staring and froze. Silver stares nonchalantly. Donnie frowned, looking away dejected. He can still sense being stared.

“Okay, FINE. I’ll go! Stop staring at me like that!” Donnie quickly turned around, grumbling in his hood. Silver watched the kid's leaves, the kid’s wisp flew close to his head, caressing him.

He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel bad, he knows the kid can take care of himself, as long as he stops spacing out. Sia stares at him, unimpressed, which triggered Silver in the way.

“What?” he flatly asked. Sia scolded her living friend, squeaking away like no tomorrow. “The last thing I want other than being stranded here is becoming a babysitter. Okay?”

Sia pouts, she crossed her arms and look away. Silver rolled his eyes, he doesn’t need this right now. “Uuuugh!!! HEY, KID!”

Donnie quickly turns his head. Silver sighed, there’s no turning back now. “Come on, there’s a place that I wanna go. You can help out there if you want.” he walks away.

He didn’t need to wait or looking back to know that kid accepted his offer when he heard a running coming from behind. Donnie joined him on his side, keeping it quiet, in case if the man changes his mind.

He has a lot of questions, but putting them off the table. Keeping it cool as he observed the guy scrolling through his phone. Donnie shoves his hands, trying to obscure his fingers fidgeting restlessly. He’s giddy for some reason, he doesn’t know why. 

What he should do is be cautious, especially when you’re meeting a stranger. But so far, the stranger had been kind to him, despite all the snarkiness. 

He saved his life from a falling boulder which he still doesn’t understand why it’s there. He responsibly trying to make him feel better in case he was shaken from the near-death experience--which he got to be honest, that he was, only a little. And, he let him tinker his phone and upgraded it, and not to mention, appraisal--legitness--for his work.

He can’t help but smile with that thought, this Silver guy sure is an interesting one. He learned that souls can leave a part of their own, remnants of their memories, and formed into these little ghosts called Wisps.

The concept of this little entity really intrigues him, and now that he knows that he has a Wisp of his own, which is none other than his Gram-Gram. And, that hits him,

Donnie : About the Wisps...

Silver : Hm? 

Donnie : Gram-Gram is a part of a family, my family. And, I’m sure that she also loves my brothers. Right?

Silver : Put it this way, you have how many people in one family, and there’s one who passes away and that person loves every single one of them. If a wisp wanted to go back to their loved ones, and there are many, so they’ll follow them all.

Donnie : How?

Silver : The explanatory still confuses me, but a wisp can actually exist more than once in the living. For example, if your wisp is following you now, they also follow the others. Like,...ugh, putting it simply, they can be in two or more places at the same time.

Donnie : That’s......mildly confusing.

Silver : You tell me.

Donnie : Wait, so...if my Wisp actually exists somewhere else and following my family,  that means, she’s also there.

Silver : So?

Donnie : So, that means, if I can speak her language, she can help pinpoint their locations, etcetera.

Silver : .....

Donnie : .....

Silver : Huh, I haven’t thought of that.

Donnie : Really?

Silver : But to be fair, not all wisps had the same case. For example, Sia right here.

Donnie : That also hits me, who is she to you?

Silver stopped, Donnie flinched at him. Silver stares blankly at the phone, although he is sure that he wasn’t staring at it. He was getting worried about how the guy didn’t say anything. He figured it actually hurts him, being asked that question.

Donnie guiltily looked away, rubbing his arm. “Sorry.” He apologized. Sia the wisp turned sad, followed by Karai.

Then, he flinched when he felt his head being patted. He meets Silver’s eyes, he didn’t smile but he’s certainly caressing. Silver let go of his hand and continue his walking. Donnie blinked, trying to process what he just did. He rubbed his head, still confused and took off to catch up.

Silver took a right and went up a stair. Donnie paused to see that he was heading towards what looks like a Museum, Yokai’s Museum. Silver went inside, not waiting around for him. Donnie ran in, until, “OOF!!!” he bumps real hard into a large hand and fell back. 

“Oww!” he rubs his head. A troll-like yokai with massively oversize hands stood guard at the entrance.

“Buy ticket first! Only ten dollars!” he said with a deep croaky voice. Silver showed up from the Museum.

“Go get yourself a ticket, kid! I’m only paying for your food.” he disappeared into the building. Donnie stood up peevishly, raising his shoulders. He sighed, reached out a ten-dollar from his wallet.

The Museum looks somewhat bigger than the outside. On the way in, Donnie picked up a pamphlet from its racks. The Museum contains artworks like statues, paintings, carvings, etc. Even some historical objects and artifacts. 

Donnie curiously looked in every direction. Never in his life went to a Museum legally and full of people and bright lights. Last time he has been in a Museum, he had to fight a psychotic hypo and the Foot-clans, breaking every content within.

Donnie scurries along through to find Silver, he isn’t in the Gallery, which now leads him to the Artifact Room. Donnie peeked into the hallway, he didn’t see him yet. He went further as he took his time sightseeing until he stumbled upon a large circular room.

The room was littered with weird, wacky, and interesting artifacts floats on pedestals. And without Donnie’s goggles, he can still see that some of them had mystic powers lingers within. He assuming they all real artifacts that are no longer in use, despite that some still have little powers to spare.

He found Silver stands and observe a floating crescent-like object. Donnie stood beside him, looking at the name on the info board. Rubbing his chin as he translates the language, “Obliath of Secrecy.”

“It’s an artifact that once used to conceal a massive gate that prevents Oble Troll from entering a farm patch for the early season of Fire Cabbage Festival, thirty years ago. Created by an old fairy farmer who lives with the farm patches.” Silver explains. Donnie looked at him astonished.

“You know about artifacts?”

“No, it says so in this info board.” he points at the board he just read. 

“O-oh...”

“Anyway, we’re not here for sightseeing.” he said, “Come.”

Donnie raised his eyebrow, he looked at Karai, she shook her head, not knowing what it means. Donnie shrugged and followed the men.

As Donnie follows, he saw Silver talk to a tiger yokai from afar. Donnie paused for a moment, he observes as Silver received some kind of a key from the yokai and quickly put them in his inner pocket. As the yokai leaves, Silver turned to Donnie and gesturing him to follow.

Donnie became suspicious, still, he does what he’s told. He approached Silver who’s standing near a big sarcophagus. He looked around, to make sure nobody’s looking and opened the coffin. “Get in.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” And, Donnie did. Silver followed and closed the coffin, hiding the two inside.

###

Silver slowly opens the sarcophagus slightly, peeking out to the now dark Artifact Room. Sia emerged from the coffin, looking around as she flew away. She went back and nodded, Silver opens the coffin entirely, letting Donnie and himself out. 

Donnie gingerly looks around, unsure of what will they be doing.

“What are we doing?” he asked, only to be shushed by Silver. Silver promptly stealth walking into the empty room. Donnie follows without difficulty as he was trained to be stealthy. Silver leads them both to a turn left to the sarcophagus that leads to a storage room. Silver stopped, assessing the situation.

“What are we doing here?!” Donnie whispered. Silver ignores him and lets Sia come forth first. She flew ahead towards the door until she passed an invisible barrier that reanimated as she came through. Donnie was amazed by the presence of the invisible wall. 

Silver waited to make sure it didn’t trigger any kind of alarm, which it didn’t. He comes close to the barrier, putting his palm onto it. It was solid, as it should be. Donnie looked around to make sure they were alone, getting more worried about this whole situation.

Silver took a breath in and out, he casts an energy flow onto his hand, the bluish energy glows stunningly in the dark. Donnie watched in awe from a couple of feet away. It then formed itself into a long energy stream, condensed into a sword-like structure.

Donnie was surprised by the guy’s capability, it looks different than any mystic weapons he saw. Silver slashed the barrier right down the middle, then proceed to slice the bottom frame. The sword disappeared, Silver opened the barrier like it was a curtain. He gesturing Donnie to get in first.

“Can you please tell me what’s going on?!” he protested in a whisper.

“I’ll tell you when we get inside. Move!” Donnie opened his mouth to speak, “Kid, you’ve gone far to follow me here. And I don’t mind at all that you bail right this second. Your choice.”

Despite him whispering, Silver’s voice was sharp and stern, giving massive goosebumps towards Donnie’s shell. A strike of fear suddenly picking up, Donnie momentarily having a staring contest with the guy.

He could bail, but he needs to know what this guy’s doing. If he’s doing something bad, it’s his job as a Hamato to stop him. He can’t let it slide, he needs to know what’s going on. He stepped into the barrier, no turning back now.

He stopped at the door, Silver came up and use the key on the door. The storage filled with unshowcased artifacts organized in some ways. Silver carefully closed the door behind him and locked it, Donnie took a moment to look around. 

He has seen some of these artifacts in Draxum’s research notes. Few of them extremely foreign. 

“THOOOONG!!!!”

Donnie jumped at the sound from behind him. Silver cast some kind of barrier in bluish and white streams of energy. Suddenly, he toppled over, lying on his side. Donnie jerked up and ran at him. His breathing is normal and his pulse is steady but the guy had fallen unconscious.

“Silver?” he patted his cheeks, hoping to wake him up. Silver let out a groan. Donnie helped him to sit, leaning him to a wall. “What happened? You okay?” 

“I might...have put....too many in....one go.” he said, sounding really exhausted. Donnie looked at the barrier. It looks very sturdy, not sure how many he actually put in one spot. Donnie turned back to him.

“But, you’re okay, right?

“Yeah, just....a little tired.” he hoists himself up, pushing up against the wall to get back to his feet. Donnie ducked under his arm, helping him walk around the storage room. Silver leads them further inside, Sia flew right ahead. She pinpoints the directions around the many crates filled with artifacts, to where they should go and they follow.

Until they reached a large pedestal with an object that floats right in the middle. Silver let his arm go from Donnie. “There it is.”

The artifact shape is a trapezoid, with carvings all over its dark plum coloring. The object felt different than the others, felt threatening in some ways. Donnie frowned by the sight of it as Silver approached the thing. He held his hand out to it.

“Wait, what are you doing?” 

“What does it look like?” he said, “I’m stealing it.”

A paused for a moment.

“Wait, WHAT?!”

[its-r-i-d-i-c-u-l-o-u-s]

Call Me A Freak- Chapter 1: Welcome To My Wicked World

Words: 1,946

Warnings: vandalism, gang activity, mentions of death, manipulation

A/N: Hey everyone! This is my rewrite of Descendants! I wanted to see a darker take on the Disney story (one that follows the lines of some of the grim tales they’re based off of). You can find my summary on the wip intro, if you’re interested, but basically be warned that this is a look at the story from the perspective of abused and lonely children who feel powerless against their villain parents.

Intro | Ch 2

~ ~ ~

My boots held me steady on the patchy stone walkways.

There was a thick layer of smoke that lay heavy on the streets that morning. Perhaps a nearby gang had gotten angry and burned down another house. Or one of the experimental types had caused an accident. Or maybe I was imagining things and the smoke was as it had always been… lingering.

Shouts rang out down alleyways. Stupid people who had left the house with something valuable on them and lost it a minute later. Or maybe one of the core villain kids had lost their temper and taken it out on a passerby or a shopkeeper.

It didn’t matter to me. I smirked, taking in my hometown.

I was a bit out of my neighborhood, but no one would touch me here anyway. These streets were full of lowlife villains who never made that much of an impact. I could have someone murdered on the spot just for looking at me.

And even if it weren’t for my status, I was very resourceful. Everyone knew it. My mother would have never let me leave the house if I wasn’t. She wouldn’t have let me live if I wasn’t…

I glanced to my right and found exactly what I was looking for.

I pulled off the street, veering towards the empty, carved out area between buildings. There was just enough room there, and it was smooth.

I dropped my bag to my side and pulled out my spray cans. It was time to go to work.

~ ~ ~

I didn’t keep track of time as I worked. I never did. I was well aware that I was supposed to meet up with Evie, Jay, and Carlos, but it was of no consequence to me if I was late, so I didn’t worry about it.

Lucky enough, Jay found me fairly soon after I had finished.

“Nice work!” he shouted at me as he approached. Jay knew to warn me that he was approaching while I worked on my art. I often got lost in my head and my defense instincts went onto autopilot. So, if I sensed someone around that I wasn’t expecting I would happily spray them in the face with my paints.

I didn’t turn to look at him, just began to pack up my belongings. The bottles were covered in different colored splotches from my dyed fingers.

As I stood up and threw my bag over my shoulder, I noticed Jay standing next to me, admiring my work. It was a simple design. I had made a silhouette of my mom in black, then surrounded it with green fire. Inside the silhouette were the words “Long Live Evil”. I had put up many similar signs around, ones I knew Jay had seen before, but he still liked to appreciate each design for its differences.

“Earth to Jay,” I muttered. “I assume you know where Evie and Carlos are?”

He nodded, bringing his focus back to me. “You up for an adventure?”

I crossed my arms. “I guess.”

I followed him out of the alley silently and back onto the main road.

“Carlos is pissed,” he explained.

I went to answer, but got distracted as he grabbed a piece of sheet metal along one of the walls and pushed it aside, revealing another alleyway.

“Alright,” I responded. “Is Evie also upset?”

“Nah.” Jay stopped suddenly and looked at me. “Evie was flirting with some salesman when I left.”

I rolled my eyes, then mumbled a quick, “Why are we stopped?”

Jay smirked, then patted the ladder attached to the wall beside us. “Because we’re going up.”

I groaned inwardly, watching him climb, before pulling myself up to the rooftops with him.

~ ~ ~

“We’re back!” Jay shouted, then slid down the side of someone’s roof and landed in front of Evie and Carlos.

Jay was a smooth sort of guy. Socially and physically. I had to wonder where he got it from, considering his dad was a slinky snake of a person who sat around in his early life trying to steal power from a senile sultan.

I rolled my eyes, stomping down far less gracefully

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the latest of them all?” Evie jabbed.

I didn’t respond as Jay helped me get down from the edge of the building.

“What do you want me to say? I’m rotten to the core.”

Neither Evie nor Carlos was amused by this response.

I simply pushed past them and into the large warehouse. We had gotten word that some of Wonderland’s best were hanging in there. Jay had convinced us that it was worth raiding because of some of the strange and antique goods they collected. Jay lived for stealing things and the rest of us didn’t mind. The more mischief we caused, the happier our parents were with us.

People didn’t take notice of us as we strolled through, splitting off in different directions.

As I walked through, I started to callously knock things off tables and destroy stands.

“Freak!” someone shouted.

I turned around and winked. No point in getting angry. I had heard some pretty foul words. This meant nothing to me.

I reached into my bag, pulling out a random can and shaking it. As I passed through I started spraying certain vendors and curtains purple.

A couple people ran after me, but froze when they saw the green dragons on my back. I reached the back of the warhouse and noticed Carlos riding by on a wagon filled with hay.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet!” he snarled, before jumping down next to me.

Jay and Evie were quick to follow, leaving commotion in their wake. Jay was carrying a dirty teapot as he shuffled past and opened up the back door for them to escape.

“Welcome to my wicked world,” he chuckled to himself as we all ran out and made our way down the road.

As we went, we created a formation of sorts with me front and center. The three of them flocked me, looking around as we went.

People watched our gang walk by. We had all the confidence in the world. After a moment, we stopped, deciding to talk about what our next plans were.

The people around us lessened by the minute. I wondered if we frightened them off. Four of the most powerful teens in all of the Isle of the Lost, with connections to the most dangerous villains the world had ever seen.

But the hope of such distinction was lost as the rest of the stragglers disappeared and left our gang facing a group of men in the same, ratty, brown outfit they’d worn since I was born.

I clear my throat, trying to signal to her goons that I recognized them, before mumbling, “Hi mom.”

I would never drop my demeanor in front of my friends or my mother. I need their respect, their fear, for my own survival. But this isn’t good. My mother doesn’t step out of her “castle” just to visit her daughter. She had a reason for being there. An important one.

She pushes through the two men who were previously guiding her through the streets and faces me.

Those who had met my mother would never forget her face. She was all angles, as if made of slabs of metal. Her expression was never changing. It seemed as though anything you could say or do would ricochet off of her like it was nothing. I was perhaps the only person in the world who had truly seen her react to something and survived it. And that was only because she wanted me to see her like that. She wanted me to know what true fear felt like, coming from her eyes.

My friends didn’t move as her guards, who previously surrounded her, moved to surround the five of us. 

“Hm. What have the four of you been up to?” Her voice is deep and steady like a long drag from a cigarette. “I hope more than simply walking the streets and stealing from children.”

I didn’t respond. Why give her an answer she doesn’t want to hear?

She doesn’t question my silence and continues. “You know, Mal, when I was your age I was cursing entire kingdoms.”

I do my best not to roll my eyes. As if I hadn’t heard that one a million times.

My mother liked to remind me of her power at all times. The barrier that surrounded the Isle of the Lost prevented any use of magic while inside it. But that only stopped some of her cruelty.

“Oh! There’s news!” she finally said. “You four have been chosen to go to a different school,” she points between all of us, a smirk lit up her face, “in Auradon.”

The three behind me tense up. Carlos looked seconds away from running for his life.

“What?” I exclaimed. “I can’t go to some boarding, full to the brim with prissy, pink princesses.”

My mother looked almost excited, though. Her eyes were lit up and I realized that this is something she wanted. All that arguing would get me was pain at this point.

My friends refused to say anything. A look from my mother would silence them, even if they tried.

“You’re thinking small, pumpkin,” she informed me. “It’s all about world domination.”

She always carried her head as if there was a crown on it. I suppose those thick horns had some weight to them, but whether or not it was necessary, it gave her a sort of regality. It forced her to look down upon those around her and made the snarl of her teeth that much more frightening.

She swung around and left, her goons quick to follow behind and surround her once more. That was their main job. Protect her in the city. Because people like these would happily murder her to take her place. Not that they could if they tried.

I didn’t move from my spot. I was happy to watch her walk away and get some distance from her.

Jay slid up behind me, leaning over my shoulder, before saying, “She’s joking, right?”

I laughed at him, but there wasn’t any humor in my face. “You obviously don’t spend enough time with my mother. She would never joke. And by the look on her face… she’s got ulterior motives.”

“Why would we be invited to Auradon?” Carlos asked, walking around to face us.

I shook my head. “Who knows.”

Evie was basically straining every muscle in her body to contain her excitement. “Think about how many castles there are in Auradon! And princes!”

I scoffed, and almost immediately her face dropped to match my disgust.

“Listen,” Jay added. “I don’t do uniforms. Unless it’s leather, you feel me?” He joked, holding up a hand to Carlos, but he was far too distracted to reciprocate the high five.

“I read somewhere that they allow dogs in Auradon. Mom said they’re rabid pack animals that eat boys who don’t behave…”

I rolled my eyes at Carlos’s naive comment. It was fairly well known that Cruella de Vil, Carlos’s mother lied constantly to Carlos as a way of manipulating him. He was so sheltered that he hung off her every word about what the rest of the world was like.

“We’re not going,” I insisted. “I just… need to find out why she wants us to go so bad and convince her she’s wrong.”

It was Jay’s turn to laugh. “You? Convince your mother, the ‘Mistress of all Evil’? I doubt it.”

I glared at him. “Let’s see.”

[edelgay]

honestly only saw maleficent 2 just for angelina, and even then she actually didn't appear much in the movie titled after her character??? i love the first one and the disney tradition of fucking up the sequel is alive and well. i'm so mad at everything in this sequel tbh.

SPOILERS

i didn’t like the writing it was so wishy washy, like yeah i was your guardian all my life but suddenly we at war and you didn’t choose me so fuck you and aurora who asks mal to hide her horns (aurora asking mal to hide who she is just to please human royalty ?? what ??” or really believed she cursed the king i was like “bitch ????” the movie also clearly didn’t know what to do with diaval which is a shame because he’s a good character and mediator for the girls, the new prince phillip is dry as a cardboard, i hate the movie was centered around their marriage, like aurora’s priorities were always the Moors and Mal and she says herself she doesn’t know how to live with humans but we got the disney ending where they both leave the moors unprotected with Aurora becoming queen in a human kingdom and the deus ex machina of maleficent origins and leaving with her people ?? In the end, Ingrid was right, Aurora became a nice little queen who will pop out babies and forget the moors and Mal will appear from time to time, when she’s not guiding her people, completely destroying the relationship dynamics between the main three characters, who were all separated the whole movie.

what happened to i will always be with you, we could care for each others ?

don’t get me wrong, it was still beautiful, and michelle pfeiffer was terrific but she also sipphoned a bit too much of screentime, it starts too slow and ends too abruptly because of lack of time. It was nice to see Mal almost as a child amongst her people, no longer the scary witch people used to call her but i didn’t like the “mother” thing, aurora and mal’s relationship have always been complex, we don’t know how dark faes age or develop as she is still pretty childish herself and it felt more like to deter the loud malora shippers from the first film than suddenly making mal loses it at the word “mother”. They didn’t have to separate and Aurora to marry to show they’ve grown, it’s such basic nuclear family bullshit, and that’s definitely what the first movie was actively fighting.

The movie was indeed called maleficient but it was just explained why by queen ingrid in a sentence, she made up the tale of the evil fae to destroy her reputation and because we learned mal is basically dark fae royalty that’s it.

also killing the gentle black dark fae leader who wanted peace to push the faes and Mal to war ? Icky.

[childofhalloween]

a fanfic Huma "We should wait" with some anguish and fluff

You asked for anguish & I feel I delivered on this one. I admit I’m such a sucker for writing angst & this was the worst thing I could think of. Also note I obviously made up the last names. 

“Uma….” Harry’s voice thick with emotion.

“It’s going to be fine.” Uma lied biting back tears.

This was a moment none of them had seen coming. They had tried for years with everything they had to get themselves and their crew off the Isle. And now here they were standing outside as everyone else explored the unexpected luxury of the long black stretch limo parked out front.

It started weeks ago like any normal night at the Shoppe they were all rough housing, boozing, generally having a good time when the saloon style doors swung open. 3 overly dressed men stepped in all draped out in the finest blue and golden velvet anyone of the pirates had ever seen.

They said they came from Auradon with a message from King Ben. An invitation to join Auradon Prep starting next semester. They all thought it was one big joke till they started listing off names:

Gonzo Hardin

Jonas Porter

It seemed that with every name the cheering had gotten louder.

Bonnie Romero

Desiree Chen

It was almost impossible to hear.

Gil Lagume

And Harry Hook

Harry was the first to notice it over everyone else’s excitement.

“Wait! Wait! What about Uma?” He asked.

The man looked over to Uma a look of digest crossed his persnickety features.

“I don’t make the list I just read them.” He said slamming the invitations down on the table before turning on his heel and walking out.

Everyone turned to look at her as she shrugged almost carelessly at the lack of invitation.

“I’m sure it’s nothing just Mal fucking with me. I’ll write to the King don’t worry.” She lied pulling out the bottles for them to celebrate.

She continued to lie for weeks every time she was asked if she was coming. “Oh yeah we are writing letter. It’s all getting worked out. Don’t worry.”

Whether it was their own excitement blinding them or their unwavering trust in their Captain everyone believed her lies without question.

Everyone but one and that was what was making this so hard.

“I don’t wanna go without ya.” Harry said grabbing her hand.

“I’m working on it.” She lied he squeezed her hand.

“Don’t lie to me like ya did to them. I know there ain’t been any letters.” He said she gave a small half smile.

“Nothing gets past you, never did.” She said looking at him.

He grabbed her pulling her close. She closed her eyes as she buried her head in his chest trying to ignore the tears that we’re threatening to escape.

He leaned down kissing the top of her head gently. She looked up again at him she could see tears in his eyes as well.

“I love ya Uma.” He said leaning down to kiss her.

She knew somewhere deep down that some day she was going to lose her crew when they left this God forsaken place. And it stung, it stung bad knowing she was losing every friend she had.

But it never crossed her mind how’d she feel losing Harry too. He was her other half. It felt like a part of her was being ripped apart. Losing him hurt worse than anything she’d ever felt. All she wanted to do at that moment was to tell him she felt the same. To kiss him. To beg him to stay with her. To accept when he begged to stay by her side.

But she couldn’t do that. Their whole life dream was to leave and sail the ocean. Be free. And she couldn’t take that away from him. She loved him too much for that.

“We should wait.” She pushed back away from him. She knew if she gave into her emotions even a little he wouldn’t leave her.

“Wait for what?” He asked hurt still holding onto her hands.

“Go to Auradon finish school. Do everything we always wanted to do.” She said looking out across the water at the green hills. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

Another lie they both knew it. This was it their goodbye.  

“I can’t do it without ya.”

“You need to. Your their Captain now and they need you. And I need you to take care of them. For me.” She said looking over at the limo full of pirates the only true family she ever had. “Promise me?”

He took a moment as if truly pondering his choices.

“I promise.” He said pulling her hand to his mouth kissing her palm. “Who’s gonna take care of you?”

“I’ve always been able to take care of myself down worry about me.” she said placing a hand on his cheek.

“I’m not gonna forget about ya.”

“I didn’t think you would.” She said with a sad smile wiping away a tear from his cheek.

There small goodbye was suddenly broken up by the sound of someone laying on the horn and a lot of yells to hurry up.

“I suppose you better go.” Uma said taking a few steps away from him.

“Uma.”

“Please Harry don’t make this any harder.” She said quietly before switching to her Captain’s voice. “Go and take care of our crew. Show those Auradon wusses whose in charge.”  

“Aye, aye Captain.” Harry said walking to the limo knowing he couldn’t refuse one last order from his Captain.

He stopped at the door and turned around.

“I meant what I said.” He yelled.

“I know.” She yelled back this made him smile before many hands reached out pulling him into the limo.

Uma sat and watched everyone important in her life go start the adventure she promised them years ago. She always delivered on her promises.  

Leaning against a wall she finally let go of the tears she had been holding in. She hurt. She hurt in ways she didn’t even know were possible. She hurt both mentally and physically.

But she would never ever take it back.

Harry had been wrong there was a letter. A letter sitting in her pocket a physical reminder of what she was doing and why. It was a reply from King Ben from months ago. An agreement to let her crew go free for a life sentence on the Isle.

She wiped her face with the heel of her hand before straighten herself up. Turning around she picked her head up as she marched down to the Shoppe for dish duty. She after all had a reputation to uphold hold. She was Uma former Captain of the Lost Revenge.

And a Captain would go down with the ship if it meant saving her crew.

[ghostiehatesithere]

Carry On Chapter 4

 Mal missed his kids. 

End of story,

You guys can keep scrolling now,

...

Fine, there’s a little more to the story. 

Not long after Lotor’s exile had been announced, Zarkon had scheduled a fight for Malevotor in the hopes that his gradually declining health would finally spell his end. Malevotor managed to win the match and made a scene as though he’d finally lost his mind. He rampaged and roared and terrified the masses to the point where an entire team of drones and Galra soldiers had to restrain him and physically drag him back to his room. 

This worked perfectly in his favor as they shoved him into his room and shut the door. He made sure to make a lot of noise and seemingly tear apart the cell so that no one would care or notice when he ripped off one of the ceiling vents and crawled in. He was already half-way to the loading docks when they sounded the alarm. He could hear the drones running around and above him as he slithered through the vents. For once, he was thankful for his declining health and weight loss otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to fit in the vents. 

He’d lulled the security detail into a false sense of security with his “good behavior” and the stopped thinking of him as a threat. That is until he actually managed to escape. He made them believe that he was tunnel focused on murdering Zarkon and now they were most likely sending a majority of their forces to defend Zarkon, leaving the bay completely unguarded. 

Well...almost unguarded. 

When he dropped down into the loading bay without a sound, he hid behind the nearest drone ship. He peaked his head out and jerked it back, muttering a curse to himself when he realized that Sendak was guarding the fighter ships. “I know you’re here Malevotor. Surrender now and I won’t have to hurt you.” Mal felt his hearts clench at the sight of the commander. He honestly didn’t remember much of his first match besides the fact that he was pitted against Sendak and that there was screaming. 

One of his pretty golden eyes was missing, replaced with a bright red lens and one of his arms had been replaced with mechanical prosthetic. Mal felt ready to vomit at the physical evidence of what he’d done to Sendak. He hadn’t deserved this. He was angry with Zarkon, not Sendak and yet he’d almost crippled him. He remembered starry nights on Daibazaal with those very hands tracing his every feature and now they held a gun that would shoot at him without hesitation. 

Mal shook is head and pushed his longing away and began to climb the walls until he was back on the ceiling directly above Sendak, his gaze intensely focused on the soldier before he dropped. Sendak had looked up just in time for Mal to land on him, the Kelekonian’s tail lashing the gun out of his hands. Sendak could see the patches of dry scales that hadn’t been completely shed. 

Sendak remembered how those dark scales would seemingly absorb all color reflected shone onto them and how smooth they would be after their baths. He remembered how honored he was when Malevotor would allow him to assist his shedding process. 

Mal merely sat there, straddled over Sendak’s chest, pinning his arms above his head and staring into his eyes. Sendak’s jaw was clenched as if welcoming his end with open arms. Mal’s shoulders slumped in exhaustion and he seemed to age before Sendak’s very eyes. The escapee pressed his forehead to Sendak’s and took in a deep breath, inhaling his scent for what felt like the last time. “You always forget to look up,” he whispered.

Sendak’s expression softened as he leaned into the contact and let out a soft sigh. ”It’s difficult to remember when you tend to be beneath,” he retorted with a fond snort.

Mal chuckled before he lowered his lips to the side of Sendak’s neck where he knew a certain nerve lay hidden under the fur and sank his teeth into it. His gaze never leaving Sendak’s face as immediately he fell limp. Mal quickly removed himself from Sendak’s chest as not to crush his ribs and moved him to lean against the wall, away from the thrusters of the fighter jets. It was a bittersweet feeling when he left the Galra base ship and leapt into hyper drive. “Here’s to hoping that things are better when we meet again.”

It didn’t take too long for Mal to come into his planet’s orbit. He ignored the hailings from the Galra ships and instead sent out a mass message all over the planet.“People of Kelekoni, this is Malevotor Erga to let you know that I have escaped Galra custody. There are no more chains to hold you down. No oppressor to make you slaves. It is time to rise up and fight! Their quintessence weapons cannot harm us! Show them why no one crosses the Kelekoni!” 

It was as he entered the atmosphere that he set the jet to autopilot and opened the doors. It was flying over a field full of of his people bound in chains, forced to work in an orchard that grew crops not native to Kelekoni. He leapt out of the jet and felt his skin crawling and shifting as grew larger, his neck elongated, wings grew from his back, and horns grew from the sides of his head. He had become what humans would recognize as a dragon, a staple of the Kelekoni people. He was a white dragon, a bad omen, a sign of death and yet in this moment he was his people’s symbol of hope in the darkness of their despair, inspiring them to shed their bipedal forms in favor of their draconic ones. Red, blue, gold, silver, one by one their chains broke as they rose against the Galra soldiers and drove them off of their homeworld. Leading them, was Malevotor, weaving through the masses and spewing white flames of pure destruction at any drone that dared to come near him or his subjects.His was the loudest roar among many when the Galra retreated. He was welcomed by his people with open arms but they mourned the loss of his brother. 

There was a three day mourning period for the fallen half of the King Brothers, Ulelna. The first day was to mourn the loss of his life and though Mal never asked for it, he received many gifts from his subjects to help him in his time of mourning. He wasn’t really ready to see people during this time because it was when he’d entered his brother’s cleaned and pristine room that it truly hit that Ulelna was gone.

Ulelna’s room was rarely, if ever truly clean. The floor would be covered in papers that he was to go over for the military. HIs bed was never made, leaving his sheets perpetually wrinkled. The window seat would have his knitting supplies resting in it for his rare moments of reprieve. Now, standing in the room, there was a sense of...wrongness. The bed was made, the floor was easily navigated, his knitting supplies were placed in the drawer under the window seat. There were no stacks of papers anywhere to be seen and all of the weapons he’d accumulated from the planets they had allied themselves with were placed in display cases that had never been there before. It was like his brother never even lived there and instead he had walked into a museum. 

An attendant had been sent to deliver Mal’s dinner only to find their remaining king on his knees in his deceased twin’s room sobbing brokenly. The attendant chose to place the food on a nearby table and left Malevotor to grieve in peace. He would have to be strong for his people for a while and he could at least afford this one moment of weakness. 

The second day of the mourning period was the Lantern Launch. Everyone would make or buy lanterns that they write their wishes and words of farewell and send them to the stars where Ulelna would hopefully hear or see them among their ancestors. The planet was completely silent through this event  as Mal sent his lantern floating into the air as the sun was setting on the horizon with the Kelekoni citizens following after. The final day was the Burning Festival. It was just what it sounded like. A festival was held in the capital city to celebrate the life that Ulelna led up to that point and there would be bonfires as per tradition. 

Mal was bitterly grateful that Zarkon had sent Ulelna’s body back to send a message. His ashes now rested in the catacombs among the ashes of their family. The servants had been kind enough to go through with his cremation despite the great risk it would have posed to them. He was eternally grateful for this act of loyalty that they had shown to him and his brother. 

After the Festival, Mal spent a good portion of his time rebuilding what the Galra had destroyed in an attempt to destroy his people’s spirit. He wanted to get revenge on Zarkon more than anything, but he also had his responsibilities as a king to uphold and without Ulelna to split the responsibilities with, he’d be held up for a long time before he could actually do anything against Zarkon. As much as he wanted to make his former friend suffer, he needed to look out for his subjects first and foremost. They need him right here and now. It wasn’t until he had to run the entire planet by himself that Malevotor truly realized why there were always two rulers. 

In Ulelna’s absence, he had to take full control of both the military and law enforcement which was already hard on Ulelna but now that he had both that and his regular duties such solving high level disputes and checking in on the schools to make sure that they were using the proper funds to better the education of the students. There were many a sleepless night as Mal work hard to make sure that everyone was happy and heathy. Eventually, he managed to find a rhythm in his schedule that would best allow him to take care of the needs of the people while maintaining his mental and physical health. If he ever felt as though he was being run ragged, he would hide away in the palace library and do what he needed to recuperate. In these rare moments of peace, he would think of Lotor and his generals. He had tasked two of his most trusted soldiers with the task of keeping tabs on Lotor. The parameters of the mission weren’t very serious. All they had to do was gather information on where Lotor was and how he was before reporting back to Mal. 

The last that Mal had heard of Lotor was that he’d been racing near Nowhere. That was until he had gotten word that Voltron was making its way through the stars in order to add more planets to the Voltron Coalition. He had given orders to his spies to keep tabs on the coalition and report back on their findings. If their goal was to topple the Galra Empire then that would not do. The Galra had innocents, as hard as that was to believe.

There had even been members of the Galra who would have rather been prisoners on Kelekoni than to return to Zarkon as perceived failures. Some had made connections among his people or started families and Mal couldn’t bring himself to make them leave, however, that didn’t mean he fully trusted them. He knew the fierce loyalty that Zarkon inspired either through sheer fear or through inspiration.

Mal didn’t even truly believe that Voltron had returned. He thought it was a rebel group that had taken Voltron’s name to inspire hope in the rebellion. It wasn’t until his spies returned with word that Olkarion had been liberated from Galran rule by the actual Voltron. Mal wanted to see who the lions had chosen to be the new Paladins of Voltron, so he’d told some of his spies to make contact with the Paladins and invite them to Kelekoni. If the lions chose them then there must have been a reason. However, the lions were not perfect. They cannot foresee the corruption of their Paladins or the gradual change in them as time goes on. 

He left his spies to do their work until word reached Kelekoni of Zarkon’s demise and the Galra scrambling to get into contact with Prince Lotor. Mal couldn’t help but to scoff at this but he also began to worry. It was no secret that the Empire didn’t think much of Lotor because of his half-breed status and Zarkon’s public disdain towards him. So, why were they suddenly turning to him for leadership? Why were they not initiating the Kral Zera?

He told his spies to keep a look out for any new information. He wished that he could be back out in the field with them but he needed to make sure that these schools were built. He couldn’t let education stagnate otherwise his kingdom could not flourish. The next generation needed to be better off than this one and he would personally see to that. All he could do is wait was wait until the time was right and hope that he was doing the right thing.

Tag List: @starfaring-princelotor @marvelheaux @fandomsoffeelings @motheroflittlelions @legendofcarl @done-with-your-shit-shirogane @kirahhhh @lotor-for-emperor @yanderemommabean @lotorrential @planet-jumping-warrior

[sleepfacingwest]

Burglar's Inc. Score

Burglars Inc. is an exciting new plot driven puzzle game centered around a collective of thieves who crack safes with benevolent intentions. As a huge fan of 1960's era heist movies, Archer, Venture Bros, and Cowboy Bebop, I may or may not have squealed a little at the prospect of scoring this game. Here's a little bit about the process of writing one of the main character themes.

Chase is new to Burglars Inc. She's playful and fun but her youthful veneer belies her natural talent for burgling. The levels she's featured in are fast paced so the challenge was create a sense of urgency while keeping the music light enough to fit her personality.

My initial demo took stylistic cues from shows like "The People's Court", "The Powerpuff Girls", and "The Venture Bros". I wanted the actual substance of the music to be all business, while the instrument choices wrapped it up in a cutesy package. I'd describe myself similarly, but personal experience has taught me it tends to work better as a musical approach than a dating strategy. The rhythm ticks away regularly to mimic the feel of seconds counting down on a mechanical clock. All of this is against heavy piano stabs which add a little more emotional weight and allude to a sense of danger. Since the piece needed to be able to loop infinitely, I opted to keep the melody simple in an effort to avoid annoying the listener upon the 150th repeat. This first demo is provided below:

While I received some positive feedback, the general concensus was that the track came across a bit too modern and dark, and not jazzy enough for the style of the game. In short, it felt too "Brock Samson Smash (Venture Bros)" and not enough "Rusty and Danny Ocean (Ocean's Eleven)". I created another version with some horn parts sketched in, but it felt a bit forced so I went back to the drawing board.

In the next round I shifted my focus to music that had more of a straight jazz feel. I took more influences from the likes of Lalo Schifrin, Mal Waldron, and of course, Yoko Kanno. As it turns out, having an awesome name is like 80% of writing really great music. Forget studying theory/orchestration/sound design/etc. From now on I will be known as Bif LeStrange.

I decided to go with a more identifiable melody - something that even amateur burglars could hum to themselves while cracking safes at home. I kept the plucked strings and glockenspiel from the first demo, but pushed them into the background and used the falling line in the glock to paraphrase the melody played in the saxophones. I slowed the tempo down quite a bit so that I could add a bit more rhythmic density. Protip: Hand drums always make jazz cooler, and when in doubt, add more shakers! Taking cues from the epically named composers above, I let a funky bass line drive the piece. The overall effect was the following demo:

This track was received much more favorably and I got the thumbs up to move forward. After that, it was simply a matter of fleshing harmonies out, developing the material, and hacking away at finessing the production.

I wanted the melody to grow like a Chia Pet in an advertisement, so I started each phrase as a thin line, and gradually fattened it as it went along. This was also a dating tactic of mine, and it worked as well as the last one I mentioned. I'm beginning to suspect I'm not very good at courtship. I added a countermelody in the trombones to give the repeated sections a little more spice. At this point the plucked strings were demanding too much attention, so I dropped them down an octave and pushed them further back in the mix. I also decided the solo needed to be played on the flute because obviously...the solo needed to be played on the flute. It captures Chase's playful qualities, and creates more diversity in sound. Also jazz flute is funny.

I'm incredibly happy with the way the music came out! I'm rarely able to work on this type of music so I had a blast with his project. Overall I contributed three tracks, and my only regret is that I couldn't contribute more. On the plus side, there's a fair amount of demo material that didn't work out for this project. Perhaps I'll finish some of them up and put out a Burglars Inc B-sides and Rarities collection someday. Until then, check out this game. I'm sure you'll have at least as much fun playing it as I had composing for it! Burglars Inc, coming out on February 2nd!

[emotionalsupportwerewolf]

Always Check Caller ID || Self-Para

Date & Time: June 7th, 2020 @ 3:08AM CST

Location: Riverview Apartments, Downtown Edgewood

Summary: When an old friend calls, the summer Ronan was looking forward to pans out much differently than he imagined.

Notes: The first of a few pieces, probably. Ronan was the star of my project for NaNoWriMo 2020 where he went on an adventure with two people who mean a lot to him. This is also Basically what he was up to while he was away from Edgewood.

It was early when Ronan received the call, and earlier yet when the caller had loaded up a very specific unconscious body in the back of their car. Time zones were funny like that, but there was nothing funny about the note of panic in the voice on the phone.

Ronan rolled over in bed, carefully extracting himself from his hook-up’s vice-like hold, and lumbered out to the living room. He grimaced at the phone, noting the time: way too early for this.

“Oliver--slow down, what the fuck is goin’ on? Are you dumpin’ a body?”

Ronan had known Oliver for years. Though he was a few years younger than Ronan, they were both members of the same not-pack for a long time. Ronan knew what the other man was capable of; he was a good kid willing to go to extraordinary lengths to help his friends. It took a lot to rile him up. Whatever had him this spooked, and potentially disposing of dead bodies, wasn’t going to be anything good.

“Ah, no, not exactly, someone else has that honor tonight.” Oliver said, not joking. “No, we’ve got a problem. It’s Travis. He might’ve killed someone.”

The air evaporated from Ronan’s lungs and he went cold.

“Travis...?” Every thought in his head came to a halt as he processed what Oliver actually said. “What d’you mean ‘might’ve’--Oliver, what happened?”

A horn blared in the background. Oliver swore and continued with a manic edge to his voice. “They found a body in the woods yesterday. Davenport told the packs it was Travis’ fault and now they want him to surrender himself to Davenport.”

Now it was Ronan’s turn to swear. “’Course Davenport did--what else do him and his pack do but cause trouble?”

“Right? But it’s working, he’s got the others riled up enough with it. Our friends are doing what they can to hold them back, but I don’t think it’s gonna matter.” Oliver went quiet on the line for a moment, and the rhythmic clicking of a blinker filled the silence. “Look, I know you’re off doin’ your own thing, but you’re the first person I could think of...”

“For...?” Ronan trailed off, but deep down he could guess what was coming next. “For what, Ollie?”

“...He didn’t do it, Ronan. You know how hard he’s worked to get where he is.” Oliver went quiet again. “Davenport wants him, and we need to get him somewhere Davenport can’t find him--at least until we can clear up this mess.”

Now it was Ronan’s turn to go quiet, pensive. He sighed and stared out the window at the sliver of silver in the sky. “Do you think Davenport knows... what he is?”

The crackle of static was the only response he received.

“Oliver?”

“--king hate magic, oh God,” Oliver groaned between a string of dry heaves. “Mal and Lexie are in the lion’s den looking for more intel on that, but... can he stay with you ‘til this blows over?”

The yes was on his tongue before Oliver finished his question. Ronan hadn’t seen Travis since he moved to Edgewood. So much had changed in that time... would they be able to pick up where they left off? Or would Ronan have to rebuild their almost-friendship from scratch all over again? 

Apprehension and longing settled and churned in equal parts in his stomach, but there was no way he was saying no.

“Yeah, ‘course. Where’re you at right now?”

“We just landed in, uh, Bridgeport, Ohio--teleportation spell. It’s taking us to an old motel, can you meet us there?”

“Uh, yeah, which motel?”

“Bedrock Motel,” Oliver’s voice was louder now as the sound of cars on the freeway began to fade in the background. “And no, I’m not kidding.”

Ronan snorted. He certainly wasn’t going to forget a name like that. “Alright man, I’ll see you guys when I get there.”

“Sounds good, see you soon.” And then the line went dead.

Ronan replayed the conversation in his head as he traced his path back to the apartment door and reclaimed his discarded clothes. Though he wished it was under better circumstances, thought of seeing Travis again lit a warm flame in his chest. Warm enough that he didn’t feel the least bit guilty about leaving behind the brunette still asleep in bed. 

He savored each inhale of the crisp, early morning air on the short walk to his car and pondered his next step.

Driving to Ohio would be roughly a twelve-hour drive, but with Ronan’s lead foot and uncanny ability to spot speed traps, he could maybe do it in ten. But time was of the essence, and in the time it would take Ronan to drive there, Davenport could be that much closer to tracking Travis down.

Thinking back to the call, Oliver mentioned he’d used a teleportation spell to get to Ohio, and right now that was sounding like the best bet. Fortunately, Ronan knew a witch that would take his calls no matter what time it was.

Ronan climbed in his car and hit number three on his speed dial. She picked up on the second ring.

“You son of a bitch,” Wisteria answered (in Spanish) with a snarl, but the exhaustion in her voice took most of the heat out of it. “I was almost asleep. What do you need?”

“Liar,” It was only one word, but it was all the teasing Ronan would allow himself for now. “I know it’s early and I know I’ll owe you big time for this, but it’s kind of an emergency. I need a lift to Bridgeport, Ohio right now.”

The silence on the line stretched longer than Ronan hoped it would. He strained to hear anything, but even with his enhanced hearing, all that answered was dead air. Despair began to prickle in his stomach and pressure built in his ears.

“Wisteria--?”

All at once, three things happened. Ronan’s stomach plummeted through the floor, the pressure in his ears skyrocketed, and with a murky POP!, Ronan was suddenly staring at a ‘WELCOME TO BRIDGEPORT’ sign through the windshield. Standing beside the sign, in all her five feet three inches of glory, was Wisteria Vasquez. 

[nancygduarteus]

How a Stroke Turned a 63-Year-Old Into a Rap Legend

Dr. Sherman Hershfield woke up one morning and was surprised to find himself behind the wheel of his car. Somewhere between his Beverly Hills apartment and his practice in the San Fernando Valley, the silver-haired physician had blacked out. Somehow, he’d avoided a crash, but this wasn’t the first time. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he admitted.

Apart from his frequent blackouts, Hershfield was in fine health for a man in his 50s. He was tall and lean, ran six miles a day, and was a strict vegetarian. “I believe a physician should provide exemplary motivation to patients,” he once wrote. “I don’t smoke and have cut out all alcohol.” Hershfield specialized in physical medicine and rehabilitation, and for decades had helped patients with brain injuries learn to walk again and rebuild their lives. Even with his experience, Hershfield didn’t know what was wrong inside his own head.

Perhaps the mystery blackouts were caused by stress, he wondered. Hershfield was the medical director of the rehab center at the San Bernardino Community Hospital, but he also ran a private practice 76 miles away in Winnetka, offering non-surgical spinal treatments. “Sometimes I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 a.m.,” he recalled, adding that the pressures had cost him his first marriage. At the hospital, Hershfield often slept in the doctor’s lounge, where colleagues nicknamed him “Dr. Columbo” after the disheveled television detective.

Not long after the blackouts started, Hershfield suffered a grand mal seizure—the type most people imagine when they think about seizures. He was driven to the emergency room, thrashing and writhing like a 6-feet-4-inch fish pulled out of the water. Concerned doctors at the UCLA Medical Center rushed him into an MRI machine, and, this being the late 1980s, wondered whether he might have pricked himself with a needle, and contracted AIDS. Instead, the scan revealed that his blackouts where actually a swarm of small strokes, and his illness was diagnosed as antiphospholipid syndrome. Hershfield’s immune system was mistakenly creating antibodies that made his blood more likely to clot. Those clots, if they entered his bloodstream and brain, could kill him at any moment.

Doctors prescribed blood-thinning medication and forced Hershfield to quit driving, but he was still fit to practice medicine. Like many survivors of stroke, his speech became slurred and he sometimes stuttered. His personality also seemed to change. He suddenly became obsessed with reading and writing poetry. Soon, Hershfield’s friends noticed another unusual side effect: He couldn’t stop speaking in rhyme. He finished everyday sentences with rhyming couplets, like “Now I have to ride the bus, it’s enough to make me cuss.” And curiously, whenever he rhymed, his speech impediments disappeared.

A STROKE or “brain attack” can happen to any of us at any time. One occurs every 40 seconds in the United States, and they can lead to permanent disability and extraordinary side effects. Some patients become hypersexual or compulsive gamblers. Others have even woken up speaking in a fake Chinese accent. “There was a famous guy in Italy who had what they called ‘Pinocchio syndrome,’” said Dr. Alice Flaherty, a joint associate professor of neurology and psychiatry at Harvard Medical School. “When he told a lie he would have a seizure. He was crippled as a businessman.”

One of Dr. Flaherty’s most famous cases was Tommy McHugh, a 51-year-old British man who suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage—a stroke caused by bleeding around the brain. Once a grizzled ex-con, McHugh’s stroke changed his entire personality. He became deeply philosophical, and spent 19 hours a day reading poetry, speaking in rhyme, painting, and drawing. He’d never been inside an art gallery before, he joked, “except to maybe steal something.”

For Hershfield, a love of poetry was also completely out of keeping with anything in his past. He was born in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1936, and while his mother was a concert pianist, he followed his father into medical school, graduating in 1960. In Flin Flon, a Canadian mining city, he mended the heads of injured hockey players, then became a resident at the University of Minnesota, before serving in the U.S. Army Medical Corps. In 1973, he arrived in Southern California and set up his practice, where he had little time for reading anything but medical journals.

His problems started during the medical malpractice crisis in the 1970s. Lawsuits against doctors became popular, and the cost of Hershfield’s liability insurance rose from $864 to $3,420. In protest, he quit working all but emergency cases, and took a job frying fish at Thousand Oaks Fish and Chips for $2 an hour. Newspapers across America wrote about the doctor who fried fish while wearing hospital scrubs, adding that Hershfield “looked like he was about to have four cod fillets wheeled into surgery.” He explained: “I’ve always been a person of high moral values. I’ve thought, what the hell do I want out of life? And it comes out, I want to be happy.”

Hershfield did return to medicine, but things went from bad to worse when his business partner and best friend started to abuse drugs. “He was an excellent surgeon, a handsome man who had everything going for him ... but he was unable to control his fears and constant bouts of withdrawal and depression, and he tried five times to take his life,” he recalled. Hershfield was there when his friend’s heart finally stopped, after six days on a respirator.

By 1987 he’d filed for bankruptcy. A year later he became the medical director at the rehab center, where he butted heads with management over his “odd” ideas, like opening a hospice where pets could stay with their dying owners. That was around the time the blackouts started.

In the 10 years following his stroke, Hershfield dedicated his free time to a Buddhist organization called Soka Gakkai International, where he loved to chant for hours. He had met his second wife there, Michiko, a beautiful Japanese divorcée who he impressed with his intellect, and his three medical certificates. Michiko told me that her husband “changed a lot,” following his stroke. “He used to like Japanese haiku poems, you know, five, seven, five.”

[Read: Can music be used as medicine?]

Hershfield also embraced his Jewish heritage, and volunteered at the Simon Wiesenthal Center, a Jewish global human rights organization. “I did the Holocaust in rhyme,” he recalled of the educational poem he’d perform on the bus. The city now sounded like a swinging rhythm section: Brakes hissed. Horns honked. Passengers rang the bell. As Hershfield recited his rhymes alone, he had become just another crazy person talking to himself on public transport. Then, one afternoon, as he waited at a bus stop in Hollywood, a man selling jewelry overheard him and suggested that he take his lyrics to Leimert Park.

“Where is Leimert Park?’” Hershfield asked. He had never been there.

Intrigued, he rode a bus headed into South Central, past Crenshaw’s Magic Johnson theater, the neighborhood’s megachurches, and liquor stores. At the foot of Baldwin Hills he found it—an area with one of the largest African-American populations in the western United States. If Leimert Park was 100 people, just one was white.

Since the 1960s, Leimert Park had been the center of African-American culture in Los Angeles—Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Ray Charles, and Richard Pryor had all lived within five miles of the place. To outsiders, it was known only as a hotspot during the Los Angeles riots in 1992. The jazz poet Kamau Daoud told me that locals still refer to the riot as “the rebellion.” The village would not quickly forget the four white police officers who beat the black motorist Rodney King half to death.

It was the very late 1990s when Hershfield stepped off the bus, dressed like a doctor who lived in Beverly Hills. He walked in polished shoes to the beat of the drum circle that gathered in the park, past the row of Afrocentric bookstores and shops selling colorful fabrics, where saxophone music leaked from every door and window. At 43rd and Leimert, he found a crowd of teenagers surrounding a community arts center called the “KAOS Network.” This had to be it: Spontaneous rap battles were breaking out, and dancers writhed on the sidewalk, seizurelike. At the entrance, a young man sized him up.

“Would you like to hear something?” Hershfield asked politely.

“Sure, what’s your name?” the man asked.

Hershfield looked at him.

“My name is Dr. Rapp.”

ESTABLISHED IN 1984 as a media-production center, KAOS Network was famous for “Project Blowed,” an open-mic workshop for up-and-coming rappers. Since 1995, the project had turned the dance floor into a living Venn diagram of performers from various gang-controlled neighborhoods, mostly African-American teenagers wearing baggy pants, Timberland boots, and caps pulled down just above the eyes.

“It was underground, powerful, strong, and scary for people if they weren’t ready, because it was really volatile,” explained the proprietor, Ben Caldwell, a 73-year-old African-American filmmaker with a tidy, graying beard. “I would have to take a deep breath every time, because it was a bunch of alpha males.” The project was a tough breeding ground for rappers, who hoped to “blow up,” like the underground performer Aceyalone, or more mainstream stars like Jurassic 5. But Hershfield knew nothing about any of this.

“He said he wanted to do a rhyme on the Holocaust,” Caldwell remembered. “I thought that was really insightful. I thought that it would be something good for the kids to hear.” This was unusual, but not against “da mutha f**ckin rulz” pinned to the door, that began: “PROJECT BLOWED IS PRESENTED FOR THE LOVE OF HIP-HOP ENTIRELY FOR BLACK PEOPLE.” The sign continued: “DO NOT GET VIOLENT BECAUSE THIS IS A BLACK-OWNED, BLACK-OPERATED BUSINESS.”

The entrance fee was $2 to perform, $4 to watch, and rappers were expected to “perform a polished piece of music,” wrote Jooyoung Lee in Blowin’ Up, a history of the club, adding: “The open mic is a lot like peer review.” Emcees with the skill to rap spontaneously—“freestyling”—enjoy the greatest respect. But when a rapper forgets his lines, stutters, or shows up unprepared, the crowd forces them offstage with a devastating chant:

“Please pass the mic!”

The DJ demanded Hershfield’s backing music. He handed over a cassette tape of Chopin. Piano music filled the room. Regulars in the audience, known as “Blowdians,” looked at each other.

“They all were going, ‘Uh hunh, uh hunh,’” Hershfield recalled, but they quickly tired of the classical music.

“Okay,” someone said. “Get rid of that music and let’s hear you rap.”

Alone on the stage, Hershfield gripped the mic, and began:

“God, this is a tough thing to write

The feeling I got in my heart tonight

Just to think of the Holocaust

So deep and sadly blue

And still so many people

Don’t think it’s true.”

The crowd was silent. Here was an old man, reading a poem.

“The first time he was up there, he wasn’t that successful,” Caldwell said. But out of respect, the audience didn’t chant him off. Project Blowed calls itself the longest-running open-mic session in the world, and they’d never seen anyone like Hershfield on stage. “First of all, he’s Caucasian around all these people of color,” said one regular, called Babu. “I thought he was some kind of spy.” Hershfield was also the oldest person in the room: “If you up in your mid-thirties and still ain’t got it,” a Blowdian called Trenseta would say, “Leave hip-hop alone, and go get you a little job at International House of Pancakes or some shit!” Hershfield was now 63, a dinosaur in rap years.

Clarence Williams / LA Times

As he emerged into the hot South Central night, Hershfield heard a voice from Fifth Street Dicks, the neighboring coffee shop: “If you can’t keep up with those kids, then you’d better do something else,” shouted Richard Fulton, a large man with graying dreadlocks. Fulton’s jazz cafe was a hotbed of African-American writers and artists, and he’d seen many beat poets try their luck in Leimert Park—none of them from 90210, America’s ritziest zip code. “At that time I thought I was rapping,” Hershfield later recalled. “I wasn’t rapping, I was just reading poetry. It didn’t have any beat. When you’re on rap street, you gotta have that beat.”

Undeterred, Hershfield put aside his Tchaikovsky records and listened to NWA and Run-DMC. He played rap music in the bath, Michiko told me. When she found out he was preparing for rap battles in South Central, she told him: “You’re crazy!” But she couldn’t stop him returning to Project Blowed every week, sometimes making the six-and-a-half mile journey from Beverly Hills on foot.

“Sherman’s leaving at 10 o’clock at night and going to Crenshaw,” she told her son, Scott. “He’s hanging out with kids and rapping.” Scott, who had transitioned from a teenaged professional skateboarder into a hip-hop DJ, was now in his 20s and was scoring regular gigs at Hollywood’s celebrity-filled clubs. When he saw his stepfather rapping at home, he felt embarrassed.

“Sherman, you’re kinda just rhyming, putting words together, but you know so many Latin words, you should rap about neurology, really get into the science of it ... that would be amazing,” he said. Scott encouraged his stepfather to be more like the hip-hop rappers he admired. “Even though I’m from the West Coast, most of the stuff I really liked was East Coast 90s hip-hop ... I was into KRS-One.”

In the mid-1980s, KRS-One had emerged from the Bronx as the emcee of Boogie Down Productions, with the seminal album Criminal Minded. As a solo artist he’d created one of hip-hop’s most enduring records, Sound of Da Police, and was now a leading rap scholar and lecturer. One evening in October 1999, Hershfield heard that KRS-One was speaking about rap history at an event for hip-hoppers in Hollywood, and decided to swing by. “Try to imagine a hip-hop gathering,” KRS-One told me, late last year. “You know, emcees from the hood, breakers, DJs, music is blasting. I’m giving you permission to stereotype. Then in walks this dude.” It was like Larry David had wandered into a Snoop Dogg music video.

During the Q&A, Hershfield grabbed the mic and started to tell his story.

He explained that he was getting his language back together after a stroke by listening to rap records. “One of which was one of my songs,” KRS-One recalled.

Hershfield couldn’t stop himself.

“I started to have a stroke,” he rapped. “Went broke.”

The room fell silent.

“I started to think and speak in rhyme. I can do it all the time. And I want to get to do the rap, and I won’t take any more of this crap.”

The crowd erupted.

When Hershfield rapped about his struggles, not history lessons, he inspired the audience.

“He got a standing ovation,” recalled KRS-One. He gave the doctor his telephone number and suggested they hang out.

[Read: The revenge of autobiographical rap]

“I didn’t know anything about him,” Hershfield recalled. “I just knew that he was in the same category as Tupac Shakur.” When Hershfield told his stepson about his new friend, Scott was stunned. “You know, you should really listen to his music and listen to his lyrics,” he told his stepfather. But inside, Scott was thinking: Let’s see how long this lasts. KRS-One?

A few days later, the rap icon arrived at Hershfield’s office. KRS-One gave the doctor a signed copy of his book, The Science of Rap. He too was fascinated with neurology, he said: “I was already talking about the concept of how rapping synthesizes those two hemispheres of the brain,” KRS-One told me. He asked Hershfield if he’d like to be part of an experiment, and offered him rap lessons.

“When you’re trying to teach someone to rap, you ask them to sing along with a song they might have heard,” KRS-One told me. He hit play on Rapper’s Delight by the Sugar Hill Gang. The song began:

“I said a hip-hop / Hippie to the hippie / The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop ...”

Then he pressed rewind and encouraged Hershfield to give it a try.

“He nailed it,” said KRS-One.

“He had the cadences and the rhythms,” he added. But the doctor needed to work on his delivery, breath control, and enunciation. And so an unlikely friendship blossomed between the Blastmaster and the Buddhist. They were both interested in spirituality: The rapper’s name, ‘KRS,’ came from the Hare Krishna volunteers he befriended in a youth spent on the streets of the Bronx. And just as Hershfield had lost his business partner to suicide, KRS-One had lost his right-hand man, DJ Scott La Rock, who was shot in 1987. The loss was life-changing for the rapper: his lyrics became more political and philosophical; he launched a movement called Stop the Violence.

To KRS-One, Hershfield was a pioneer of rap theory. “He was talking about neuroplasticity before I heard about it on PBS,” KRS-One recalled.

KRS-One suggested they write a book together, or record an album in New York.

He told the doctor: “I visualize you as revolutionizing hip-hop.”

HERSHFIELD RETURNED to Project Blowed, where he vowed to win over the crowd. The elder statesmen of Leimert Park took Hershfield under their wing, making sure he got time on the mic, and that he got home safe. “People respected him and he could work on his chops, work on his brain,” Caldwell told me. “It was interesting to see how well we all accepted him.” Caldwell encouraged Hershfield to experiment. “He wanted to do Jewish chants,” he recalled. “And I was like ‘That is so fucking tight.’”

The younger members of Project Blowed were also drawn to Hershfield. Up-and-coming rappers in South Central suffered from an “existential urgency,” Lee wrote in Blowin’ Up. Theirs was a race to “make it” in hip-hop, before their life was derailed by gang violence. Like them, Hershfield was rapping against the clock, unsure when the next seizure might strike.

Richard Fulton, the coffee shop owner, became especially close with Hershfield. Fulton was a cancer survivor and former drug addict, who had once pushed a shopping cart along Skid Row’s 5th Street. That was before he found God—and jazz. Against all odds, a reborn Fulton launched his coffee-and-music operation. His caffeine was strong and the jazz loud. Like Hershfield, Fulton’s second life was dominated by a love for music. His catchphrase was “Turn the music up.”

Hershfield and Fulton were kindred spirits, said Erin Kaplan, a journalist who frequented Leimert Park. Both men were enjoying “second chances,” she explained, and living “on borrowed time.” Hanging out at Dick’s, Hershfield brushed shoulders with beat poets, rappers, chess players, and jazz musicians. It was there he fell into the rhythm of Leimert Park.

Every week for two or three years, Hershfield climbed onstage at Project Blowed and gave his everything, sweat on his brow, steam on his glasses, fists pumping. Sometimes he electrified the crowd, other times: “Please pass the mic!” He learned to self-promote and name-check “Dr. Rapp” in his lyrics just like the pros; he wore customized T-shirts and learned to freestyle. He performed on the stage and in impromptu “ciphers” under street lamps, until the sun came up.

“He was tight,” the rapper Myka 9 told me, while he smoked in an alleyway before a performance in Culver City. “He had a little bit of an angular approach. He had flows, he had good lines that were thought out, I remember a couple punchlines that came off pretty cool.” Myka 9 recalled socializing with Hershfield at house parties in South Central, and described him as “a cult personality in his own right.”

At home, the doctor’s wife was worried. “I don’t understand why he goes to that area,” Michiko told me. Her husband was too generous and trusting, she added. “I bought him nice clothes, Italian-made suits, a couple times he came back with dirty clothes, he’d given the nice suit to somebody else.” With his designer threads and prescription pad, Hershfield was a mugger’s dream.

“I keep telling him it’s dangerous,” Michiko told me.

Hershfield insisted he was safe. These people were his friends, he said.

NOT EVERYONE IN the world of hip-hop was enthused by Hershfield. A letter arrived from a lawyer representing a different Dr. Rap, who advised him to find a new name or face legal action. Hershfield, who actually had a doctoral degree, rebranded to Dr. Flow, but it was too late. His reputation was spreading.

In early 2000, Hershfield attended a talk about violence and rap music at the California State University at Los Angeles. Sitting on the panel was one of Gangsta Rap’s pioneers, Ice-T, who argued that violence was an unavoidable part of rap culture. “I’m a person who deals with violence always in my music,” he told the audience. “Masculinity runs this world. The person who’s violent gets control. Peace gets nothing.”

Hershfield was infuriated.

“You can’t live by hate!” he yelled out, before trading comments with Ice-T in an ugly scene that required the moderator’s intervention.

Hershfield was appalled by gang violence and its needless killings. Internally, he was struggling with the fragility of his existence: He had survived a deadly stroke, and life was a precious gift.

No one was more devastated than Hershfield when Fifth Street Dick’s cancer returned. Hershfield was one of the many Leimert Park regulars who surrounded Fulton’s bedside. He found his friend unable to speak, the tumor in his throat so large that his tongue protruded from his mouth. Fulton could only communicate by writing notes, and knew his life was ebbing away. But Hershfield couldn’t accept it.

“If I can just get him to chant, he’ll recover,” Hershfield said, as decades of medical experience were drowned out by denial.

He started his Buddhist chant:

“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.”

Friends urged Hershfield to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. Fulton, 56, could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“We’re going to tap into his life force,” Hershfield insisted.

But on March 18, 2000, jazz filled Fulton’s room as he declined a final morphine shot, and instead told nurses in a note: “Turn the music up.”

Back at Project Blowed, Hershfield intensified his efforts to dominate the mic. But his double life soon became strained, as his two worlds splintered. “His friends in Beverly Hills did not approve of this at all,” said Kaplan, Hershfield’s journalist friend. “They were so shocked. Let’s just say none of his friends showed up at open-mic night.” By choosing rap nights instead of night shifts, Hershfield soon fell into another financial crisis. “I think he was more obsessed with rapping than he was going to work,” his stepson Scott told me. Sometimes, Michiko told me, the guys from Leimert Park would lend Hershfield money for the bus.

Soon, Hershfield’s voice became hoarse from shouting rhymes over African drums, and staying out all night. Then, during one particularly hot evening, everything went black. “Dr. Rapp had a seizure,” recalled Tasha Wiggins, who worked for KAOS Network. “Other rappers caught him. Everybody stopped what they were doing, trying to nurture Dr. Rapp.” As Hershfield lay unconscious on the floor, the crowd started chanting his name.

THOSE WHO HAVE been struck by the strange side effects of brain injuries often speak of their gratitude. Just before he died of cancer, Tommy McHugh, the British convict who became an artist, said his strokes were “the most wonderful thing that happened.” He added that they gave him “11 years of a magnificent adventure that nobody could have expected.” Dr. Flaherty described McHugh’s hemorrhage as “a crack that let the light in.” McHugh and Hershfield both experienced symptoms of what the physician and author Oliver Sacks called “sudden musicophilia,” an eruption of creativity following a brain injury or stroke. But for Hershfield, rhyming was no longer a symptom, but a cure.

It was as if one side of Hershfield’s brain that held the rhymes healed the broken side that had short-circuited. Brain scans on rappers carried out by the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders (NIDCD) discovered that during freestyle rapping, brain activity increased in the brain areas that engage motivation, language, mood, and action. Hershfield said rapping kept his seizures under control, and even after he collapsed that night in Leimert Park, he used hip-hop to regain his speech and return to the stage.

[Read: Mapping creativity in the brain]

Soon, Dr. Rapp’s notices at Project Blowed started improving.

“His name was on the lips of the multitudes,” recalled Ed Boyer, a Los Angeles Times journalist who first heard rumors about South Central’s rapping doctor in April of 2000. Boyer tracked down Hershfield to his office, and visited Project Blowed to hear him perform. “I’ve seen Dr. Rapp rock the whole house,” Tasha Wiggins told Boyer, as Hershfield climbed onto the stage. Another Project Blowed member, Gabriela Orozco, said, “Oh, I think I’m going to cry. I mean ... he’s doing it.”

As Dr. Rapp stepped into the spotlight and the DJ’s needle found the groove, he became lost in his rhymes:

“Me, I’m just a beginning medical intern of rap

Trying to express and open my trap ... ”

Hershfield’s stepson, Scott, remembers the morning he opened the Times and saw a photograph of Dr. Rapp, wearing an Adidas tracksuit, mid-flow, on the paper’s Metro pages. “The whole thing was so bizarre,” he said.

Dr. Rapp had finally “blown up.”

RADIO AND TELEVISION crews from Canada and England soon descended on Leimert Park looking for Hershfield. Ben Caldwell showed me footage from a Japanese television station, who filmed Hershfield waiting to take the mic. He looked like a retiree standing in line for an early bird dinner special. Then he laid down his rhymes, as the crowd bobbed their heads in appreciation. Afterwards Hershfield took a nap on a couch. “He did that quite regularly,” Caldwell sighed. “Everybody liked the doctor, right, even the hardcore gangster types,” he added. “They liked him for his chutzpah.”

Hershfield told reporters that Leimert Park had opened his eyes to a whole new world. “There are lots of misconceptions by white people about the area,” he said. “It’s very cultural with a lot of interesting places.” Project Blowed was “the Harvard of rap,” he said. “This is my foundation. I find it very beneficial.”

Though he never recorded an album with KRS-One, Hershfield owed his underground rap career to the Blastmaster. KRS-One, who now lives in Topanga Canyon, California, told me: “He mentioned one of my songs brought him back. He was in a coma, they were playing music for him to try and wake him up.” He added: “I’ve met a lot of people, but a few people I will never forget. [Hershfield] saying rap healed him ... that just stayed with me ... It’s part of my confidence in hip-hop.”

Instead of embarking on a world tour, Dr. Rapp continued to pay his dues at Project Blowed every week. Like a true underground star, he shunned mainstream success. He did appear in a documentary about Leimert Park, not as a novelty act, but as a regular member of the crew. “I can’t clearly tell you whether [rap] helped him,” said Michiko, “but I can tell you he was happy when he was doing rap music.” Hershfield represented Project Blowed until ill health forced him to quit both music and medicine. He died from cancer in Los Angeles, on March 29, 2013, aged 76.

Today, Project Blowed lives on, every third Tuesday at KAOS Network in Leimert Park. The area remains the “hippest corner in Los Angeles”—according to the recording on the club’s answering machine. But Leimert Park is now fighting a new battle, against soaring property prices and gentrification. The reason Hershfield was accepted at Project Blowed, said Caldwell, was that he arrived with an open mind, and he listened and learned. “That’s one wonderful thing I like most about black American communities,” he said. “As long as you don’t try to tell them how to do their own culture, you’re good.” Ever since Dr. Rapp’s days, performers from all races and backgrounds have jumped onstage, added Caldwell. But the moment they stutter or slur, it’s always the same:

“Please pass the mic.”

from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2019/01/doctor-rapp/579634/?utm_source=feed

[ionecoffman]

How a Stroke Turned a 63-Year-Old Into a Rap Legend

Dr. Sherman Hershfield woke up one morning and was surprised to find himself behind the wheel of his car. Somewhere between his Beverly Hills apartment and his practice in the San Fernando Valley, the silver-haired physician had blacked out. Somehow, he’d avoided a crash, but this wasn’t the first time. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he admitted.

Apart from his frequent blackouts, Hershfield was in fine health for a man in his 50s. He was tall and lean, ran six miles a day, and was a strict vegetarian. “I believe a physician should provide exemplary motivation to patients,” he once wrote. “I don’t smoke and have cut out all alcohol.” Hershfield specialized in physical medicine and rehabilitation, and for decades had helped patients with brain injuries learn to walk again and rebuild their lives. Even with his experience, Hershfield didn’t know what was wrong inside his own head.

Perhaps the mystery blackouts were caused by stress, he wondered. Hershfield was the medical director of the rehab center at the San Bernardino Community Hospital, but he also ran a private practice 76 miles away in Winnetka, offering non-surgical spinal treatments. “Sometimes I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 a.m.,” he recalled, adding that the pressures had cost him his first marriage. At the hospital, Hershfield often slept in the doctor’s lounge, where colleagues nicknamed him “Dr. Columbo” after the disheveled television detective.

Not long after the blackouts started, Hershfield suffered a grand mal seizure—the type most people imagine when they think about seizures. He was driven to the emergency room, thrashing and writhing like a 6-feet-4-inch fish pulled out of the water. Concerned doctors at the UCLA Medical Center rushed him into an MRI machine, and, this being the late 1980s, wondered whether he might have pricked himself with a needle, and contracted AIDS. Instead, the scan revealed that his blackouts where actually a swarm of small strokes, and his illness was diagnosed as antiphospholipid syndrome. Hershfield’s immune system was mistakenly creating antibodies that made his blood more likely to clot. Those clots, if they entered his bloodstream and brain, could kill him at any moment.

Doctors prescribed blood-thinning medication and forced Hershfield to quit driving, but he was still fit to practice medicine. Like many survivors of stroke, his speech became slurred and he sometimes stuttered. His personality also seemed to change. He suddenly became obsessed with reading and writing poetry. Soon, Hershfield’s friends noticed another unusual side effect: He couldn’t stop speaking in rhyme. He finished everyday sentences with rhyming couplets, like “Now I have to ride the bus, it’s enough to make me cuss.” And curiously, whenever he rhymed, his speech impediments disappeared.

A STROKE or “brain attack” can happen to any of us at any time. One occurs every 40 seconds in the United States, and they can lead to permanent disability and extraordinary side effects. Some patients become hypersexual or compulsive gamblers. Others have even woken up speaking in a fake Chinese accent. “There was a famous guy in Italy who had what they called ‘Pinocchio syndrome,’” said Dr. Alice Flaherty, a joint associate professor of neurology and psychiatry at Harvard Medical School. “When he told a lie he would have a seizure. He was crippled as a businessman.”

One of Dr. Flaherty’s most famous cases was Tommy McHugh, a 51-year-old British man who suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage—a stroke caused by bleeding around the brain. Once a grizzled ex-con, McHugh’s stroke changed his entire personality. He became deeply philosophical, and spent 19 hours a day reading poetry, speaking in rhyme, painting, and drawing. He’d never been inside an art gallery before, he joked, “except to maybe steal something.”

For Hershfield, a love of poetry was also completely out of keeping with anything in his past. He was born in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1936, and while his mother was a concert pianist, he followed his father into medical school, graduating in 1960. In Flin Flon, a Canadian mining city, he mended the heads of injured hockey players, then became a resident at the University of Minnesota, before serving in the U.S. Army Medical Corps. In 1973, he arrived in Southern California and set up his practice, where he had little time for reading anything but medical journals.

His problems started during the medical malpractice crisis in the 1970s. Lawsuits against doctors became popular, and the cost of Hershfield’s liability insurance rose from $864 to $3,420. In protest, he quit working all but emergency cases, and took a job frying fish at Thousand Oaks Fish and Chips for $2 an hour. Newspapers across America wrote about the doctor who fried fish while wearing hospital scrubs, adding that Hershfield “looked like he was about to have four cod fillets wheeled into surgery.” He explained: “I’ve always been a person of high moral values. I’ve thought, what the hell do I want out of life? And it comes out, I want to be happy.”

Hershfield did return to medicine, but things went from bad to worse when his business partner and best friend started to abuse drugs. “He was an excellent surgeon, a handsome man who had everything going for him ... but he was unable to control his fears and constant bouts of withdrawal and depression, and he tried five times to take his life,” he recalled. Hershfield was there when his friend’s heart finally stopped, after six days on a respirator.

By 1987 he’d filed for bankruptcy. A year later he became the medical director at the rehab center, where he butted heads with management over his “odd” ideas, like opening a hospice where pets could stay with their dying owners. That was around the time the blackouts started.

In the 10 years following his stroke, Hershfield dedicated his free time to a Buddhist organization called Soka Gakkai International, where he loved to chant for hours. He had met his second wife there, Michiko, a beautiful Japanese divorcée who he impressed with his intellect, and his three medical certificates. Michiko told me that her husband “changed a lot,” following his stroke. “He used to like Japanese haiku poems, you know, five, seven, five.”

[Read: Can music be used as medicine?]

Hershfield also embraced his Jewish heritage, and volunteered at the Simon Wiesenthal Center, a Jewish global human rights organization. “I did the Holocaust in rhyme,” he recalled of the educational poem he’d perform on the bus. The city now sounded like a swinging rhythm section: Brakes hissed. Horns honked. Passengers rang the bell. As Hershfield recited his rhymes alone, he had become just another crazy person talking to himself on public transport. Then, one afternoon, as he waited at a bus stop in Hollywood, a man selling jewelry overheard him and suggested that he take his lyrics to Leimert Park.

“Where is Leimert Park?’” Hershfield asked. He had never been there.

Intrigued, he rode a bus headed into South Central, past Crenshaw’s Magic Johnson theater, the neighborhood’s megachurches, and liquor stores. At the foot of Baldwin Hills he found it—an area with one of the largest African-American populations in the western United States. If Leimert Park was 100 people, just one was white.

Since the 1960s, Leimert Park had been the center of African-American culture in Los Angeles—Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Ray Charles, and Richard Pryor had all lived within five miles of the place. To outsiders, it was known only as a hotspot during the Los Angeles riots in 1992. The jazz poet Kamau Daoud told me that locals still refer to the riot as “the rebellion.” The village would not quickly forget the four white police officers who beat the black motorist Rodney King half to death.

It was the very late 1990s when Hershfield stepped off the bus, dressed like a doctor who lived in Beverly Hills. He walked in polished shoes to the beat of the drum circle that gathered in the park, past the row of Afrocentric bookstores and shops selling colorful fabrics, where saxophone music leaked from every door and window. At 43rd and Leimert, he found a crowd of teenagers surrounding a community arts center called the “KAOS Network.” This had to be it: Spontaneous rap battles were breaking out, and dancers writhed on the sidewalk, seizurelike. At the entrance, a young man sized him up.

“Would you like to hear something?” Hershfield asked politely.

“Sure, what’s your name?” the man asked.

Hershfield looked at him.

“My name is Dr. Rapp.”

ESTABLISHED IN 1984 as a media-production center, KAOS Network was famous for “Project Blowed,” an open-mic workshop for up-and-coming rappers. Since 1995, the project had turned the dance floor into a living Venn diagram of performers from various gang-controlled neighborhoods, mostly African-American teenagers wearing baggy pants, Timberland boots, and caps pulled down just above the eyes.

“It was underground, powerful, strong, and scary for people if they weren’t ready, because it was really volatile,” explained the proprietor, Ben Caldwell, a 73-year-old African-American filmmaker with a tidy, graying beard. “I would have to take a deep breath every time, because it was a bunch of alpha males.” The project was a tough breeding ground for rappers, who hoped to “blow up,” like the underground performer Aceyalone, or more mainstream stars like Jurassic 5. But Hershfield knew nothing about any of this.

“He said he wanted to do a rhyme on the Holocaust,” Caldwell remembered. “I thought that was really insightful. I thought that it would be something good for the kids to hear.” This was unusual, but not against “da mutha f**ckin rulz” pinned to the door, that began: “PROJECT BLOWED IS PRESENTED FOR THE LOVE OF HIP-HOP ENTIRELY FOR BLACK PEOPLE.” The sign continued: “DO NOT GET VIOLENT BECAUSE THIS IS A BLACK-OWNED, BLACK-OPERATED BUSINESS.”

The entrance fee was $2 to perform, $4 to watch, and rappers were expected to “perform a polished piece of music,” wrote Jooyoung Lee in Blowin’ Up, a history of the club, adding: “The open mic is a lot like peer review.” Emcees with the skill to rap spontaneously—“freestyling”—enjoy the greatest respect. But when a rapper forgets his lines, stutters, or shows up unprepared, the crowd forces them offstage with a devastating chant:

“Please pass the mic!”

The DJ demanded Hershfield’s backing music. He handed over a cassette tape of Chopin. Piano music filled the room. Regulars in the audience, known as “Blowdians,” looked at each other.

“They all were going, ‘Uh hunh, uh hunh,’” Hershfield recalled, but they quickly tired of the classical music.

“Okay,” someone said. “Get rid of that music and let’s hear you rap.”

Alone on the stage, Hershfield gripped the mic, and began:

“God, this is a tough thing to write

The feeling I got in my heart tonight

Just to think of the Holocaust

So deep and sadly blue

And still so many people

Don’t think it’s true.”

The crowd was silent. Here was an old man, reading a poem.

“The first time he was up there, he wasn’t that successful,” Caldwell said. But out of respect, the audience didn’t chant him off. Project Blowed calls itself the longest-running open-mic session in the world, and they’d never seen anyone like Hershfield on stage. “First of all, he’s Caucasian around all these people of color,” said one regular, called Babu. “I thought he was some kind of spy.” Hershfield was also the oldest person in the room: “If you up in your mid-thirties and still ain’t got it,” a Blowdian called Trenseta would say, “Leave hip-hop alone, and go get you a little job at International House of Pancakes or some shit!” Hershfield was now 63, a dinosaur in rap years.

Clarence Williams / LA Times

As he emerged into the hot South Central night, Hershfield heard a voice from Fifth Street Dicks, the neighboring coffee shop: “If you can’t keep up with those kids, then you’d better do something else,” shouted Richard Fulton, a large man with graying dreadlocks. Fulton’s jazz cafe was a hotbed of African-American writers and artists, and he’d seen many beat poets try their luck in Leimert Park—none of them from 90210, America’s ritziest zip code. “At that time I thought I was rapping,” Hershfield later recalled. “I wasn’t rapping, I was just reading poetry. It didn’t have any beat. When you’re on rap street, you gotta have that beat.”

Undeterred, Hershfield put aside his Tchaikovsky records and listened to NWA and Run-DMC. He played rap music in the bath, Michiko told me. When she found out he was preparing for rap battles in South Central, she told him: “You’re crazy!” But she couldn’t stop him returning to Project Blowed every week, sometimes making the six-and-a-half mile journey from Beverly Hills on foot.

“Sherman’s leaving at 10 o’clock at night and going to Crenshaw,” she told her son, Scott. “He’s hanging out with kids and rapping.” Scott, who had transitioned from a teenaged professional skateboarder into a hip-hop DJ, was now in his 20s and was scoring regular gigs at Hollywood’s celebrity-filled clubs. When he saw his stepfather rapping at home, he felt embarrassed.

“Sherman, you’re kinda just rhyming, putting words together, but you know so many Latin words, you should rap about neurology, really get into the science of it ... that would be amazing,” he said. Scott encouraged his stepfather to be more like the hip-hop rappers he admired. “Even though I’m from the West Coast, most of the stuff I really liked was East Coast 90s hip-hop ... I was into KRS-One.”

In the mid-1980s, KRS-One had emerged from the Bronx as the emcee of Boogie Down Productions, with the seminal album Criminal Minded. As a solo artist he’d created one of hip-hop’s most enduring records, Sound of Da Police, and was now a leading rap scholar and lecturer. One evening in October 1999, Hershfield heard that KRS-One was speaking about rap history at an event for hip-hoppers in Hollywood, and decided to swing by. “Try to imagine a hip-hop gathering,” KRS-One told me, late last year. “You know, emcees from the hood, breakers, DJs, music is blasting. I’m giving you permission to stereotype. Then in walks this dude.” It was like Larry David had wandered into a Snoop Dogg music video.

During the Q&A, Hershfield grabbed the mic and started to tell his story.

He explained that he was getting his language back together after a stroke by listening to rap records. “One of which was one of my songs,” KRS-One recalled.

Hershfield couldn’t stop himself.

“I started to have a stroke,” he rapped. “Went broke.”

The room fell silent.

“I started to think and speak in rhyme. I can do it all the time. And I want to get to do the rap, and I won’t take any more of this crap.”

The crowd erupted.

When Hershfield rapped about his struggles, not history lessons, he inspired the audience.

“He got a standing ovation,” recalled KRS-One. He gave the doctor his telephone number and suggested they hang out.

[Read: The revenge of autobiographical rap]

“I didn’t know anything about him,” Hershfield recalled. “I just knew that he was in the same category as Tupac Shakur.” When Hershfield told his stepson about his new friend, Scott was stunned. “You know, you should really listen to his music and listen to his lyrics,” he told his stepfather. But inside, Scott was thinking: Let’s see how long this lasts. KRS-One?

A few days later, the rap icon arrived at Hershfield’s office. KRS-One gave the doctor a signed copy of his book, The Science of Rap. He too was fascinated with neurology, he said: “I was already talking about the concept of how rapping synthesizes those two hemispheres of the brain,” KRS-One told me. He asked Hershfield if he’d like to be part of an experiment, and offered him rap lessons.

“When you’re trying to teach someone to rap, you ask them to sing along with a song they might have heard,” KRS-One told me. He hit play on Rapper’s Delight by the Sugar Hill Gang. The song began:

“I said a hip-hop / Hippie to the hippie / The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop ...”

Then he pressed rewind and encouraged Hershfield to give it a try.

“He nailed it,” said KRS-One.

“He had the cadences and the rhythms,” he added. But the doctor needed to work on his delivery, breath control, and enunciation. And so an unlikely friendship blossomed between the Blastmaster and the Buddhist. They were both interested in spirituality: The rapper’s name, ‘KRS,’ came from the Hare Krishna volunteers he befriended in a youth spent on the streets of the Bronx. And just as Hershfield had lost his business partner to suicide, KRS-One had lost his right-hand man, DJ Scott La Rock, who was shot in 1987. The loss was life-changing for the rapper: his lyrics became more political and philosophical; he launched a movement called Stop the Violence.

To KRS-One, Hershfield was a pioneer of rap theory. “He was talking about neuroplasticity before I heard about it on PBS,” KRS-One recalled.

KRS-One suggested they write a book together, or record an album in New York.

He told the doctor: “I visualize you as revolutionizing hip-hop.”

HERSHFIELD RETURNED to Project Blowed, where he vowed to win over the crowd. The elder statesmen of Leimert Park took Hershfield under their wing, making sure he got time on the mic, and that he got home safe. “People respected him and he could work on his chops, work on his brain,” Caldwell told me. “It was interesting to see how well we all accepted him.” Caldwell encouraged Hershfield to experiment. “He wanted to do Jewish chants,” he recalled. “And I was like ‘That is so fucking tight.’”

The younger members of Project Blowed were also drawn to Hershfield. Up-and-coming rappers in South Central suffered from an “existential urgency,” Lee wrote in Blowin’ Up. Theirs was a race to “make it” in hip-hop, before their life was derailed by gang violence. Like them, Hershfield was rapping against the clock, unsure when the next seizure might strike.

Richard Fulton, the coffee shop owner, became especially close with Hershfield. Fulton was a cancer survivor and former drug addict, who had once pushed a shopping cart along Skid Row’s 5th Street. That was before he found God—and jazz. Against all odds, a reborn Fulton launched his coffee-and-music operation. His caffeine was strong and the jazz loud. Like Hershfield, Fulton’s second life was dominated by a love for music. His catchphrase was “Turn the music up.”

Hershfield and Fulton were kindred spirits, said Erin Kaplan, a journalist who frequented Leimert Park. Both men were enjoying “second chances,” she explained, and living “on borrowed time.” Hanging out at Dick’s, Hershfield brushed shoulders with beat poets, rappers, chess players, and jazz musicians. It was there he fell into the rhythm of Leimert Park.

Every week for two or three years, Hershfield climbed onstage at Project Blowed and gave his everything, sweat on his brow, steam on his glasses, fists pumping. Sometimes he electrified the crowd, other times: “Please pass the mic!” He learned to self-promote and name-check “Dr. Rapp” in his lyrics just like the pros; he wore customized T-shirts and learned to freestyle. He performed on the stage and in impromptu “ciphers” under street lamps, until the sun came up.

“He was tight,” the rapper Myka 9 told me, while he smoked in an alleyway before a performance in Culver City. “He had a little bit of an angular approach. He had flows, he had good lines that were thought out, I remember a couple punchlines that came off pretty cool.” Myka 9 recalled socializing with Hershfield at house parties in South Central, and described him as “a cult personality in his own right.”

At home, the doctor’s wife was worried. “I don’t understand why he goes to that area,” Michiko told me. Her husband was too generous and trusting, she added. “I bought him nice clothes, Italian-made suits, a couple times he came back with dirty clothes, he’d given the nice suit to somebody else.” With his designer threads and prescription pad, Hershfield was a mugger’s dream.

“I keep telling him it’s dangerous,” Michiko told me.

Hershfield insisted he was safe. These people were his friends, he said.

NOT EVERYONE IN the world of hip-hop was enthused by Hershfield. A letter arrived from a lawyer representing a different Dr. Rap, who advised him to find a new name or face legal action. Hershfield, who actually had a doctoral degree, rebranded to Dr. Flow, but it was too late. His reputation was spreading.

In early 2000, Hershfield attended a talk about violence and rap music at the California State University at Los Angeles. Sitting on the panel was one of Gangsta Rap’s pioneers, Ice-T, who argued that violence was an unavoidable part of rap culture. “I’m a person who deals with violence always in my music,” he told the audience. “Masculinity runs this world. The person who’s violent gets control. Peace gets nothing.”

Hershfield was infuriated.

“You can’t live by hate!” he yelled out, before trading comments with Ice-T in an ugly scene that required the moderator’s intervention.

Hershfield was appalled by gang violence and its needless killings. Internally, he was struggling with the fragility of his existence: He had survived a deadly stroke, and life was a precious gift.

No one was more devastated than Hershfield when Fifth Street Dick’s cancer returned. Hershfield was one of the many Leimert Park regulars who surrounded Fulton’s bedside. He found his friend unable to speak, the tumor in his throat so large that his tongue protruded from his mouth. Fulton could only communicate by writing notes, and knew his life was ebbing away. But Hershfield couldn’t accept it.

“If I can just get him to chant, he’ll recover,” Hershfield said, as decades of medical experience were drowned out by denial.

He started his Buddhist chant:

“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.”

Friends urged Hershfield to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. Fulton, 56, could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“We’re going to tap into his life force,” Hershfield insisted.

But on March 18, 2000, jazz filled Fulton’s room as he declined a final morphine shot, and instead told nurses in a note: “Turn the music up.”

Back at Project Blowed, Hershfield intensified his efforts to dominate the mic. But his double life soon became strained, as his two worlds splintered. “His friends in Beverly Hills did not approve of this at all,” said Kaplan, Hershfield’s journalist friend. “They were so shocked. Let’s just say none of his friends showed up at open-mic night.” By choosing rap nights instead of night shifts, Hershfield soon fell into another financial crisis. “I think he was more obsessed with rapping than he was going to work,” his stepson Scott told me. Sometimes, Michiko told me, the guys from Leimert Park would lend Hershfield money for the bus.

Soon, Hershfield’s voice became hoarse from shouting rhymes over African drums, and staying out all night. Then, during one particularly hot evening, everything went black. “Dr. Rapp had a seizure,” recalled Tasha Wiggins, who worked for KAOS Network. “Other rappers caught him. Everybody stopped what they were doing, trying to nurture Dr. Rapp.” As Hershfield lay unconscious on the floor, the crowd started chanting his name.

THOSE WHO HAVE been struck by the strange side effects of brain injuries often speak of their gratitude. Just before he died of cancer, Tommy McHugh, the British convict who became an artist, said his strokes were “the most wonderful thing that happened.” He added that they gave him “11 years of a magnificent adventure that nobody could have expected.” Dr. Flaherty described McHugh’s hemorrhage as “a crack that let the light in.” McHugh and Hershfield both experienced symptoms of what the physician and author Oliver Sacks called “sudden musicophilia,” an eruption of creativity following a brain injury or stroke. But for Hershfield, rhyming was no longer a symptom, but a cure.

It was as if one side of Hershfield’s brain that held the rhymes healed the broken side that had short-circuited. Brain scans on rappers carried out by the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders (NIDCD) discovered that during freestyle rapping, brain activity increased in the brain areas that engage motivation, language, mood, and action. Hershfield said rapping kept his seizures under control, and even after he collapsed that night in Leimert Park, he used hip-hop to regain his speech and return to the stage.

[Read: Mapping creativity in the brain]

Soon, Dr. Rapp’s notices at Project Blowed started improving.

“His name was on the lips of the multitudes,” recalled Ed Boyer, a Los Angeles Times journalist who first heard rumors about South Central’s rapping doctor in April of 2000. Boyer tracked down Hershfield to his office, and visited Project Blowed to hear him perform. “I’ve seen Dr. Rapp rock the whole house,” Tasha Wiggins told Boyer, as Hershfield climbed onto the stage. Another Project Blowed member, Gabriela Orozco, said, “Oh, I think I’m going to cry. I mean ... he’s doing it.”

As Dr. Rapp stepped into the spotlight and the DJ’s needle found the groove, he became lost in his rhymes:

“Me, I’m just a beginning medical intern of rap

Trying to express and open my trap ... ”

Hershfield’s stepson, Scott, remembers the morning he opened the Times and saw a photograph of Dr. Rapp, wearing an Adidas tracksuit, mid-flow, on the paper’s Metro pages. “The whole thing was so bizarre,” he said.

Dr. Rapp had finally “blown up.”

RADIO AND TELEVISION crews from Canada and England soon descended on Leimert Park looking for Hershfield. Ben Caldwell showed me footage from a Japanese television station, who filmed Hershfield waiting to take the mic. He looked like a retiree standing in line for an early bird dinner special. Then he laid down his rhymes, as the crowd bobbed their heads in appreciation. Afterwards Hershfield took a nap on a couch. “He did that quite regularly,” Caldwell sighed. “Everybody liked the doctor, right, even the hardcore gangster types,” he added. “They liked him for his chutzpah.”

Hershfield told reporters that Leimert Park had opened his eyes to a whole new world. “There are lots of misconceptions by white people about the area,” he said. “It’s very cultural with a lot of interesting places.” Project Blowed was “the Harvard of rap,” he said. “This is my foundation. I find it very beneficial.”

Though he never recorded an album with KRS-One, Hershfield owed his underground rap career to the Blastmaster. KRS-One, who now lives in Topanga Canyon, California, told me: “He mentioned one of my songs brought him back. He was in a coma, they were playing music for him to try and wake him up.” He added: “I’ve met a lot of people, but a few people I will never forget. [Hershfield] saying rap healed him ... that just stayed with me ... It’s part of my confidence in hip-hop.”

Instead of embarking on a world tour, Dr. Rapp continued to pay his dues at Project Blowed every week. Like a true underground star, he shunned mainstream success. He did appear in a documentary about Leimert Park, not as a novelty act, but as a regular member of the crew. “I can’t clearly tell you whether [rap] helped him,” said Michiko, “but I can tell you he was happy when he was doing rap music.” Hershfield represented Project Blowed until ill health forced him to quit both music and medicine. He died from cancer in Los Angeles, on March 29, 2013, aged 76.

Today, Project Blowed lives on, every third Tuesday at KAOS Network in Leimert Park. The area remains the “hippest corner in Los Angeles”—according to the recording on the club’s answering machine. But Leimert Park is now fighting a new battle, against soaring property prices and gentrification. The reason Hershfield was accepted at Project Blowed, said Caldwell, was that he arrived with an open mind, and he listened and learned. “That’s one wonderful thing I like most about black American communities,” he said. “As long as you don’t try to tell them how to do their own culture, you’re good.” Ever since Dr. Rapp’s days, performers from all races and backgrounds have jumped onstage, added Caldwell. But the moment they stutter or slur, it’s always the same:

“Please pass the mic.”

Article source here:The Atlantic

[tj-van-heerden]

What is pleasing to God

1Sam 12:22 [WEB] For Yahweh will not forsake his people for his great name’s sake, because it has pleased Yahweh to make you a people for himself.

1Kgs 3:9, 10 9 Give your servant therefore an understanding heart to judge your people, that I may discern between good and evil; for who is able to judge this great people of yours?” 10 This request pleased the Lord, that Solomon had asked this thing.

1Chr 17:26, 27 26 Now, Yahweh, you are God, and have promised this good thing to your servant. 27 Now it has pleased you to bless the house of your servant, that it may continue forever before you; for you, Yahweh, have blessed, and it is blessed forever.”

1Chr 28:4 However Yahweh, the God of Israel, chose me out of all the house of my father to be king over Israel forever. For he has chosen Judah to be prince; and in the house of Judah, the house of my father; and among the sons of my father he took pleasure in me to make me king over all Israel.

Ezra 10:11 Now therefore make confession to Yahweh, the God of your fathers, and do his pleasure; and separate yourselves from the peoples of the land, and from the foreign women.”

Job 22:3 Is it any pleasure to the Almighty that you are righteous? Or does it benefit him that you make your ways perfect?

Ps 5:4 For you are not a God who has pleasure in wickedness. Evil can’t live with you.

Ps 35:27 Let those who favor my righteous cause shout for joy and be glad. Yes, let them say continually, “May Yahweh be magnified, who has pleasure in the prosperity of his servant!”

Ps 51:16, 17 16 For you don’t delight in sacrifice, or else I would give it. You have no pleasure in burnt offering. 17 The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit. O God, you will not despise a broken and contrite heart.

Ps 69:30, 31 30 I will praise the name of God with a song, and will magnify him with thanksgiving. 31 It will please Yahweh better than an ox, or a bull that has horns and hoofs.

Ps 103:21 Praise Yahweh, all you armies of his, you servants of his, who do his pleasure.

Ps 135:3 Praise Yah, for Yahweh is good. Sing praises to his name, for that is pleasant.

Ps 147:1 Praise Yah, for it is good to sing praises to our God; for it is pleasant and fitting to praise him.

Ps 147:11 Yahweh takes pleasure in those who fear him, in those who hope in his loving kindness.

Ps 149:4 For Yahweh takes pleasure in his people. He crowns the humble with salvation.

Prov 15:26 Yahweh detests the thoughts of the wicked, but the thoughts of the pure are pleasing.

Prov 16:7 When a man’s ways please Yahweh, he makes even his enemies to be at peace with him.

Eccl 2:26 For to the man who pleases him, God gives wisdom, knowledge, and joy; but to the sinner he gives travail, to gather and to heap up, that he may give to him who pleases God...

Eccl 7:26 I find more bitter than death the woman whose heart is snares and traps, whose hands are chains. Whoever pleases God shall escape from her; but the sinner will be ensnared by her.

Isa 42:21 It pleased Yahweh, for his righteousness’ sake, to magnify the law and make it honorable.

Isa 44:28 Who says of Cyrus, ‘He is my shepherd, and shall perform all my pleasure,’ even saying of Jerusalem, ‘She will be built;’ and of the temple, ‘Your foundation will be laid.’ ”

Isa 46:10 I declare the end from the beginning, and from ancient times things that are not yet done. I say: My counsel will stand, and I will do all that I please.

Isa 53:10 Yet it pleased Yahweh to bruise him. He has caused him to suffer. When you make his soul an offering for sin, he will see his offspring. He will prolong his days and Yahweh’s pleasure will prosper in his hand.

Isa 55:11 so is my word that goes out of my mouth: it will not return to me void, but it will accomplish that which I please, and it will prosper in the thing I sent it to do.

Ezek 18:23 Have I any pleasure in the death of the wicked?” says the Lord Yahweh; “and not rather that he should return from his way, and live?

Ezek 18:32 For I have no pleasure in the death of him who dies,” says the Lord Yahweh. “Therefore turn yourselves, and live!

Ezek 33:11 Tell them, ‘ “As I live,” says the Lord Yahweh, “I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked; but that the wicked turn from his way and live. Turn, turn from your evil ways! For why will you die, house of Israel?” ’

Hag 1:8 Go up to the mountain, bring wood, and build the house. I will take pleasure in it, and I will be glorified,” says Yahweh.

Mal 3:1-4 1 “Behold, I send my messenger, and he will prepare the way before me; and the Lord, whom you seek, will suddenly come to his temple; and the messenger of the covenant, whom you desire, behold, he comes!” says Yahweh of Armies. 2 “But who can endure the day of his coming? And who will stand when he appears? For he is like a refiner’s fire, and like launderers’ soap; 3 and he will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver, and he will purify the sons of Levi, and refine them as gold and silver; and they shall offer to Yahweh offerings in righteousness.

Matt 3:17 Behold, a voice out of the heavens said, “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.”

Matt 11:25, 26 25 At that time, Jesus answered, “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you hid these things from the wise and understanding, and revealed them to infants. 26  Yes, Father, for so it was well-pleasing in your sight.

Luke 10:21 In that same hour Jesus rejoiced in the Holy Spirit, and said, “I thank you, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, for so it was well-pleasing in your sight.”

Luke 12:32 Don’t be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the Kingdom.

John 8:29 He who sent me is with me. The Father hasn’t left me alone, for I always do the things that are pleasing to him.”

Rom 8:8 Those who are in the flesh can’t please God.

Rom 12:2 Don’t be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may prove what is the good, well-pleasing, and perfect will of God.

1Cor 1:21 For seeing that in the wisdom of God, the world through its wisdom didn’t know God, it was God’s good pleasure through the foolishness of the preaching to save those who believe.

1Cor 7:32 But I desire to have you to be free from cares. He who is unmarried is concerned for the things of the Lord, how he may please the Lord;

2Cor 5:9 Therefore also we make it our aim, whether at home or absent, to be well pleasing to him.

Gal 1:15-17 15 But when it was the good pleasure of God, who separated me from my mother’s womb and called me through his grace 16 to reveal his Son in me, that I might preach him among the Gentiles, I didn’t immediately confer with flesh and blood, 17 nor did I go up to Jerusalem to those who were apostles before me, but I went away into Arabia. Then I returned to Damascus.

Eph 1:5 having predestined us for adoption as children through Jesus Christ to himself, according to the good pleasure of his desire,

Eph 1:9 making known to us the mystery of his will, according to his good pleasure which he purposed in him

Eph 5:9, 10 9 for the fruit of the Spirit is in all goodness and righteousness and truth, 10 proving what is well pleasing to the Lord.

Phil 2:12, 13 12 So then, my beloved, even as you have always obeyed, not only in my presence, but now much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling. 13 For it is God who works in you both to will and to work, for his good pleasure.

Col 1:10 that you may walk worthily of the Lord, to please him in all respects, bearing fruit in every good work and increasing in the knowledge of God,

Col 1:18, 19 He is the head of the body, the assembly, who is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in all things he might have the preeminence. 19 For all the fullness was pleased to dwell in him,

Col 1:27 to whom God was pleased to make known what are the riches of the glory of this mystery among the Gentiles, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory.

Col 3:20 Children, obey your parents in all things, for this pleases the Lord.

1Thess 4:1 Finally then, brothers, we beg and exhort you in the Lord Jesus, that as you received from us how you ought to walk and to please God, that you abound more and more.

2Tim 2:3, 4 3 You therefore must endure hardship as a good soldier of Christ Jesus. 4 No soldier on duty entangles himself in the affairs of life, that he may please him who enrolled him as a soldier.

Heb 10:38 But the righteous will live by faith. If he shrinks back, my soul has no pleasure in him.”

Heb 11:5 By faith, Enoch was taken away, so that he wouldn’t see death, and he was not found, because God translated him. For he has had testimony given to him that before his translation he had been well pleasing to God.

Heb 13:16 But don’t forget to be doing good and sharing, for with such sacrifices God is well pleased.

Heb 13:20, 21 20 Now may the God of peace, who brought again from the dead the great shepherd of the sheep with the blood of an eternal covenant, our Lord Jesus, 21 make you complete in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is well pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be the glory forever and ever. Amen.

1John 3:22 so whatever we ask, we receive from him, because we keep his commandments and do the things that are pleasing in his sight.

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About the commandments of God 2 of 2

Ps 78:7 that they might set their hope in God, and not forget God’s deeds, but keep his commandments,

Ps 112:1 Praise Yah! Blessed is the man who fears Yahweh, who delights greatly in his commandments.

Ps 119:10 With my whole heart, I have sought you. Don’t let me wander from your commandments.

Ps 119:35 Direct me in the path of your commandments, for I delight in them.

Ps 119:47 I will delight myself in your commandments, because I love them.

Ps 119:73 Your hands have made me and formed me. Give me understanding, that I may learn your commandments.

Ps 147:15 He sends out his commandment to the earth. His word runs very swiftly.

Prov 3:1 My son, don’t forget my teaching; but let your heart keep my commandments:

Prov 4:4 He taught me, and said to me: “Let your heart retain my words. Keep my commandments, and live.

Prov 10:8 The wise in heart accept commandments, but a chattering fool will fall.

Prov 13:13 Whoever despises instruction will pay for it, but he who respects a command will be rewarded.

Eccl 12:13, 14 13 This is the end of the matter. All has been heard. Fear God and keep his commandments; for this is the whole duty of man. 14 For God will bring every work into judgment, with every hidden thing, whether it is good, or whether it is evil.

Isa 29:13 The Lord said, “Because this people draws near with their mouth and honors me with their lips, but they have removed their heart far from me, and their fear of me is a commandment of men which has been taught;

Isa 48:18 Oh that you had listened to my commandments! Then your peace would have been like a river and your righteousness like the waves of the sea.

Jer 7:23 but this thing I commanded them, saying, ‘Listen to my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people. Walk in all the way that I command you, that it may be well with you.’

Jer 11:1-4 1 The word that came to Jeremiah from Yahweh, saying, 2 “Hear the words of this covenant, and speak to the men of Judah, and to the inhabitants of Jerusalem; 3 and say to them, Yahweh, the God of Israel says: ‘Cursed is the man who doesn’t hear the words of this covenant, 4 which I commanded your fathers in the day that I brought them out of the land of Egypt, out of the iron furnace,’ saying, ‘Obey my voice, and do them, according to all which I command you; so you shall be my people, and I will be your God;

Jer 11:8 Yet they didn’t obey, nor turn their ear, but everyone walked in the stubbornness of their evil heart. Therefore I brought on them all the words of this covenant, which I commanded them to do, but they didn’t do them.’ ”

Jer 32:35 They built the high places of Baal, which are in the valley of the son of Hinnom, to cause their sons and their daughters to pass through fire to Molech, which I didn’t command them. It didn’t even come into my mind, that they should do this abomination, to cause Judah to sin.”

Lam 2:17 Yahweh has done that which he planned. He has fulfilled his word that he commanded in the days of old. He has thrown down, and has not pitied. He has caused the enemy to rejoice over you. He has exalted the horn of your adversaries.

Dan 9:4, 5 4 I prayed to Yahweh my God, and made confession, and said, “Oh, Lord, the great and dreadful God, who keeps covenant and loving kindness with those who love him and keep his commandments, 5 we have sinned, and have dealt perversely, and have done wickedly, and have rebelled, even turning aside from your precepts and from your ordinances.

Joel 2:11 Yahweh thunders his voice before his army; for his forces are very great; for he is strong who obeys his command; for the day of Yahweh is great and very awesome, and who can endure it?

Zech 1:6 But my words and my decrees, which I commanded my servants the prophets, didn’t they overtake your fathers? “Then they repented and said, ‘Just as Yahweh of Armies determined to do to us, according to our ways, and according to our practices, so he has dealt with us.’ ”

Mal 2:4-7 4 You will know that I have sent this commandment to you, that my covenant may be with Levi,” says Yahweh of Armies. 5 “My covenant was with him of life and peace; and I gave them to him that he might be reverent toward me; and he was reverent toward me, and stood in awe of my name. 6 The law of truth was in his mouth, and unrighteousness was not found in his lips. He walked with me in peace and uprightness, and turned many away from iniquity. 7 For the priest’s lips should keep knowledge, and they should seek the law at his mouth; for he is the messenger of Yahweh of Armies.

Matt 5:19 Whoever, therefore, shall break one of these least commandments, and teach others to do so, shall be called least in the Kingdom of Heaven; but whoever shall do and teach them shall be called great in the Kingdom of Heaven.

Matt 15:3 He answered them, “Why do you also disobey the commandment of God because of your tradition?

Matt 22:35-40 35 One of them, a lawyer, asked him a question, testing him. 36 “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the law?” 37 Jesus said to him, “ ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ 38  This is the first and great commandment. 39  A second likewise is this, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ 40  The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments.”

Matt 28:19, 20 Go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, 20  teaching them to observe all things that I commanded you. Behold, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” Amen.

Mark 7:7-9 7  But they worship me in vain, teaching as doctrines the commandments of men.’ 8  “For you set aside the commandment of God, and hold tightly to the tradition of men—the washing of pitchers and cups, and you do many other such things.” 9 He said to them, “Full well do you reject the commandment of God, that you may keep your tradition.

Mark 12:28-31 28 One of the scribes came, and heard them questioning together, and knowing that he had answered them well, asked him, “Which commandment is the greatest of all?” 29 Jesus answered, “The greatest is, ‘Hear, Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one: 30  you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.’ This is the first commandment. 31  The second is like this, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”

Luke 17:10 Even so you also, when you have done all the things that are commanded you, say, ‘We are unworthy servants. We have done our duty.’ ”

John 12:49, 50 49  For I spoke not from myself, but the Father who sent me, he gave me a commandment, what I should say, and what I should speak. 50  I know that his commandment is eternal life. The things therefore which I speak, even as the Father has said to me, so I speak.”

John 13:34 A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also love one another.

John 14:15 If you love me, keep my commandments.

John 14:21 One who has my commandments and keeps them, that person is one who loves me. One who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I will love him, and will reveal myself to him.”

John 15:10 If you keep my commandments, you will remain in my love; even as I have kept my Father’s commandments, and remain in his love.

John 15:12 “This is my commandment, that you love one another, even as I have loved you.

John 15:14 You are my friends, if you do whatever I command you.

John 15:17 “I command these things to you, that you may love one another.

Acts 10:33-35 33 Therefore I sent to you at once, and it was good of you to come. Now therefore we are all here present in the sight of God to hear all things that have been commanded you by God.” 34 Peter opened his mouth and said, “Truly I perceive that God doesn’t show favoritism; 35 but in every nation he who fears him and works righteousness is acceptable to him.

Acts 10:42 He commanded us to preach to the people and to testify that this is he who is appointed by God as the Judge of the living and the dead.

Acts 17:30, 31 30 The times of ignorance therefore God overlooked. But now he commands that all people everywhere should repent, 31 because he has appointed a day in which he will judge the world in righteousness by the man whom he has ordained; of which he has given assurance to all men, in that he has raised him from the dead.”

Rom 7:11 for sin, finding occasion through the commandment, deceived me, and through it killed me.

Rom 7:12 Therefore the law indeed is holy, and the commandment holy, and righteous, and good.

Rom 13:9 For the commandments, “You shall not commit adultery,” “You shall not murder,” “You shall not steal,” “You shall not covet,” and whatever other commandments there are, are all summed up in this saying, namely, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.��

1Cor 7:19 Circumcision is nothing, and uncircumcision is nothing, but the keeping of the commandments of God.

1Tim 6:13, 14 13 I command you before God, who gives life to all things, and before Christ Jesus, who before Pontius Pilate testified the good confession, 14 that you keep the commandment without spot, blameless, until the appearing of our Lord Jesus Christ,

2Tim 4:1-3 1 I command you therefore before God and the Lord Jesus Christ, who will judge the living and the dead at his appearing and his Kingdom: 2 preach the word; be urgent in season and out of season; reprove, rebuke, and exhort with all patience and teaching. 3 For the time will come when they will not listen to the sound doctrine, but having itching ears, will heap up for themselves teachers after their own lusts,

2Pet 2:20, 21 20 For if, after they have escaped the defilement of the world through the knowledge of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, they are again entangled in it and overcome, the last state has become worse for them than the first. 21 For it would be better for them not to have known the way of righteousness, than after knowing it, to turn back from the holy commandment delivered to them.

2Pet 3:2 that you should remember the words which were spoken before by the holy prophets, and the commandment of us, the apostles of the Lord and Savior:

1John 2:3, 4 3 This is how we know that we know him: if we keep his commandments. 4 One who says, “I know him,” and doesn’t keep his commandments, is a liar, and the truth isn’t in him.

1John 3:22 so whatever we ask, we receive from him, because we keep his commandments and do the things that are pleasing in his sight.

1John 3:23, 24 23 This is his commandment, that we should believe in the name of his Son, Jesus Christ, and love one another, even as he commanded. 24 He who keeps his commandments remains in him, and he in him. By this we know that he remains in us, by the Spirit which he gave us.

1John 4:21 This commandment we have from him, that he who loves God should also love his brother.

1John 5:2, 3 2 By this we know that we love the children of God, when we love God and keep his commandments. 3 For this is loving God, that we keep his commandments. His commandments are not grievous.

2John 1:5 Now I beg you, dear lady, not as though I wrote to you a new commandment, but that which we had from the beginning, that we love one another.

2John 1:6 This is love, that we should walk according to his commandments. This is the commandment, even as you heard from the beginning, that you should walk in it.

Rev 3:10 Because you kept my command to endure, I also will keep you from the hour of testing which is to come on the whole world, to test those who dwell on the earth.

Rev 12:17 The dragon grew angry with the woman, and went away to make war with the rest of her offspring, who keep God’s commandments and hold Jesus’ testimony.

Rev 14:9-12 9 Another angel, a third, followed them, saying with a great voice, “If anyone worships the beast and his image, and receives a mark on his forehead, or on his hand, 10 he also will drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is prepared unmixed in the cup of his anger. He will be tormented with fire and sulfur in the presence of the holy angels, and in the presence of the Lamb. 11 The smoke of their torment goes up forever and ever. They have no rest day and night, those who worship the beast and his image, and whoever receives the mark of his name. 12 Here is the perseverance of the saints, those who keep the commandments of God, and the faith of Jesus.”

Rev 22:14 Blessed are those who do his commandments,† that they may have the right to the tree of life, and may enter in by the gates into the city.